She waited for him to say something, and when he did not she shrugged and turned it off. She controlled the aircraft with the yoke now, her eyes constantly scanning gauges.

When Kravchenko did not speak for a full minute, Zoya began to worry that the man was going mute again, but finally he said, “Too fast. Too high.”

Zoya reduced throttle and increased her descent. “Teamwork, Arkady. I love it. I’m feeling a little less crazy already.”

The sixty-year-old Russian gave her no more trouble; he talked her down to a safe landing, then complained about her too-slow application of reverse thrust and her too-fast application of the brakes. Soon they began taxiing towards the fixed-base operator where the immigration and customs ramp was located.

Zoya told Kravchenko to use his foot pedals to taxi the plane, then she climbed out of her seat and cut his hands free with her knife.

She knelt down behind him, holding the pistol, muzzle down, with a hand resting on her thigh. “Now . . . two things you will not do. You will not notify local authorities about me. If you do, it will become evident to them very quickly that you are an agent for Russian intelligence.”

From the look on his face she could tell he would comply with this. He didn’t need the aggravation.

“And two,” she continued. “You will not notify anyone at Yasenevo. Right now you are nodding your head in agreement, while inside you are planning on ratting me out. But again, you won’t. You have no idea what’s going on here. It’s big, bigger than you can imagine. This means the second you tell SVR you transported me from the U.S. to Europe, you will become one big, fat, loose end to a complicated situation that they will want to sweep under the rug.”

She patted him on the head with the muzzle of the pistol. “Nobody wants to get swept under the rug, do they?”

Zoya Zakharova stood, slipped the pistol into her backpack, and opened the door to the aircraft. She leapt to the taxiway and sprinted off into the rain.

Kravchenko climbed out of his seat and shut it, lest the customs and immigration people here at Luton find it odd that the aircraft had flown from America with an open hatch. Cursing all the way, he continued taxiing to the ramp.

* * *

• • •

Suzanne Brewer found herself where she didn’t want to be: back in front of Matt Hanley’s desk, watching him read something, waiting for him to address her. She didn’t know what he wanted, specifically, but was certain it was information on one or all of the crises she was dealing with at the moment.

When Hanley put his reading material down, he looked up at her. “How you doin’?”

“Working all three situations with Poison Apple, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Busy time,” Hanley said, and this caused Brewer to cock her head.

“Indeed, sir.” When he said nothing she added, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“You’re gonna hate it.”

Brewer groaned inwardly. I already do.

Hanley said, “I need you to go to the Five Eyes in Scotland.”

The Programs and Plans officer didn’t even try to hide her eye roll. “Seriously? It’s a couple of days away, Matt. And my workload at present is off the charts. I am completely snowed under with—”

“You can work Poison Apple from over there. We’ll be at the embassy in London and then we’ll have access to the SCIF at the venue in Scotland. I just need you there making an appearance.”

“Can I ask why?”

“It’s getting around the office that I have you working on something sub rosa, and that’s not terribly sub rosa, is it? If I keep you cooped up in your office all the time, without having you out and around the others in your pay grade, then it’s just going to bring more scrutiny down on you, and me, and the initiatives we’re working on.”

Brewer said, “But I have a war room down on three working the Anthem hunt here in the States. I can’t just shut it down and go to Scotland.”

“You can and you will. You won’t find Anthem if she doesn’t want to be found. She’s probably halfway back to Moscow by now or, who knows, maybe she’s on her way back to Southern California where she went to college so she can meet up with a long-lost boyfriend.”

“That seems incredibly unlikely considering what we know about—”

“The point, Suzanne, is that the minute Zakharova slipped the noose around Great Falls, she was in the wind, and she is one hell of an asset who can stay off grid as long as she wants.” He smiled a little. “Remind you of someone else we both know?”

“An equally insubordinate singleton who also contributes to my ulcer? Yes, someone comes to mind.”

“Look,” Hanley said, leaning closer over his big desk in a way that was intimidating, though Brewer didn’t think he meant it menacingly. “Our best assessment is that Zoya ran from the safe house because people came to kill her and we couldn’t protect her. We failed her, not the other way around. She doesn’t trust us now, but I’m hoping at some point she’ll reach out to us, and we can get her back in the fold.”

“You are very optimistic, Matt.”

“Or just desperate. I’m not sure which.”

It was silent for several seconds. Then Hanley said, “I’m going over in one of the jets. You’ll fly with me, the director, Renfro, a couple of assistants, and the director’s security detail. I’m also bringing Jenner and his crew over as my security.”

Brewer knew that Walter Jenner ran the Special Activities Division’s best paramilitary operations team. She said, “There are six guys in Jenner’s team, and you’re the DDO. Do you really think that’s enough?”

Hanley smiled a little. “It’s enough to protect me, anyway, so stay close and you’ll be fine.”

Brewer was furious that Hanley was now adding more to her plate. She excused herself to go back to work, because it was going to be an even rougher day than she’d envisioned.

CHAPTER 23

   Court climbed out of the Tube station at West Kensington and found himself in the middle of one of London’s many ethnically diverse neighborhoods. It was also an area with a lot of hotels, which meant tourists, and good access to two Tube stations: Baron’s Court and West Kensington.

He saw a sign for a basement flat and walked the street to check it out from a tactical standpoint; then with a burner phone he’d bought in Nottingham he called the number on the sign. Within an hour he was in a leasing office a mile away, signing papers, proffering a CIA passport Brewer had insisted was firewalled from any alias database at Langley and set up only for him.