She didn’t run into many men who were six foot nine, so she identified him instantly. It was the monster who always shadowed Fox, the man who had beaten poor Court so badly.
Twice.
The gray van just drove on to the south, while Zoya drove on to the north.
But not for long. Once the van rounded a turn behind her Zoya slammed on her brakes, turned her little car around, and took off in pursuit.
She didn’t know if her father was in the vehicle, but she sure as hell did know that these men were part of his crew, so she decided to follow them.
* * *
• • •
The tail lasted less than ten minutes before they entered the beautiful little town of Fort Augustus, on the southern bank of Loch Ness, and here Zoya saw the commercial van pull to the side of the road. She herself stopped, pulled out her binoculars, and focused them on the scene just in time to watch her father, wearing a crisp suit and tie, step out of the side of the vehicle.
Alone.
The van drove off, leaving him there.
Zoya couldn’t believe her eyes. He was less than fifty meters away, unguarded, and she could walk right up to him, drive right up to him, run him the fuck down if she wanted.
But for a few precious seconds, she froze.
Could she really do it? She had been so certain until this moment. But now, when the fantasy met the reality in front of her, she hesitated.
Slowly she shifted the Nissan into gear, but just then a taxi pulled up next to her father, and he climbed in.
She muttered softly, “Kagogo cherta?” What the hell?
She drove off, tailing the taxi.
* * *
• • •
General Feodor Zakharov took a deep breath to calm himself as his taxi pulled up to the guard shack in front of Castle Enrick. There were a few cars ahead in the line; each driver and each passenger had their documentation checked out by both Scottish military in full combat uniforms and men and women in civilian attire, no doubt Metropolitan police or even MI5, British domestic intelligence.
The taxi driver looked in the rearview mirror. “I take it you’ve got your papers to get in ’ere. Been ferrying people back and forth from hotels and B&Bs in Fort Augustus and Inverness to this big government conference, and the blokes here at the gate are all business.”
Zakharov was using his David Mars legend. “Don’t worry, old boy, I’ll zip right in. They’ll be quite happy to have me.”
They inched their way to the front of the queue, and then a young Scottish soldier looked in on the taxi driver, who said, “Evenin’, mate. This gent is here for the conference.”
Zakharov rolled his window down, and the soldier reached out a hand. “Papers, sir.”
“Listen carefully, lad. Inside that building is a woman named Suzanne Brewer. She’s a Yank. I am here to see her, and she will quite like to see me.”
“You got papers?”
He pulled out his passport and handed it over. The man looked at it. “No, sir. You need a special pass to get into the conference.”
“That passport says ‘David Mars.’ Be a good lad and go tap that name into your computer, and see what pops up.”
The young soldier stepped over to a man in a suit and tie and talked to him a moment while showing him the passport, and then the man looked in on the taxi. After some hesitation, he stepped into the guard shack.
The driver said, “How ’bout you settle the fare and get out here, mate?”
Mars handed the man the fare in cash with a healthy tip, then opened his car door.
He didn’t need to stand up, because soldiers rushed him, grabbed him, pushed him onto the ground, and put guns to his back.
Lying there on the drive next to the astonished cabbie looking down on him out his window, Zakharov said, “Suzanne Brewer. CIA. If someone could be so kind as to call her, I’d appreciate it very much indeed.”
CHAPTER 61
Suzanne Brewer sat at the opening night formal dinner, sipping chardonnay and looking at her phone, held down below the table so as not to make obvious the fact that she was not paying attention to the man speaking. The director of the New Zealand Security Intelligence Service was giving a talk about the benefits of cooperation, and the four hundred guests in attendance were eating salmon or filet and trying to stay awake.
An Englishman with the site security detachment knelt down next to her at the table. “Ms. Brewer, is it?”
“That’s right.”
“We have a situation at the front gate. Could you come with me, please?”
“I don’t have anything to do with security here. You need to find someone who—”
“You’ve been requested personally, ma’am.”
She flashed a glance at Hanley, seated at another table and no less bored, and then she followed the younger man out through the tables and into the hallway.
Once there, he stopped and turned to her. “There is a man we’ve taken into custody trying to get in to see you. He has no credentials. Only a UK passport.”
“What’s his name?”
“David Mars. He’s showing up on a brand-new watch list that was—”
Brewer spun away and ran back into the banquet hall in the direction of Matt Hanley.
* * *
• • •
Court Gentry had slept five hours that afternoon and early evening but finally woke when the meds began to wear off and the pain in his hand began to flare up. He dressed quickly in Aaronson’s suit; it was a little big for him but he made it work, struggled mightily to tie his tie with one good hand and just the fingertips of the other, and he put his badge lanyard around his neck. He left his room and went to the lobby in front of the closed doors of the grand hall. A black tie affair was going on inside; he expected that a couple of Ground Branch men would be inside watching over Hanley, and he started to head that way.
“Hey, Six. Have you checked this place out?”
Court turned to find Hightower, also dressed in a suit and tie, coming up the hall from the main doors.
“The castle? No, not really.”
“There’s an armory, a dungeon down below, three really swanky libraries. It’s pretty sweet.”
“It’s good to be king,” Court said, but he didn’t really care about the old building. He was more concerned about where Zoya was and what she was doing, but he knew he had to be here, ready to kit up and climb back in the Direct Action Penetrator as soon as there was any sighting of Zakharov.