“And where are you from, Irina?”

“I am from the Russian Federation.”

Something flashed in the man’s eyes now, Zoya saw clearly. It wasn’t fear; it was more like confusion.

“May I inquire as to where you heard about my company?”

She leaned back in her chair a little. “I’ll cut right to the chase. I was sent by Yasenevo.”

The pilot stared back at her.

Yasenevo was a district in southwestern Moscow, and it was also the location of the headquarters of SVR, Russian foreign intelligence.

It was clear the man knew this, because he blanched slightly.

As she’d expected, he said, “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Kolya Aslanov sent me. I know this is outside the norm, but we are in a critical and immediate need of your . . . service.”

Now he squinted at her. “Kolya? You are on such friendly terms with Nikolai Aslanov, SVR’s deputy operations chief, that you call him by his diminutive?” He looked her over. “The Americans know who Aslanov is. How do I know you are not FBI? That this isn’t some sort of setup?”

Zoya smiled coolly. “You just confirmed that you work with Russian intelligence, Arkady. If this were a setup, my team would have your face in the carpet and a knee in your back already. But look around; it’s still just you and me.”

Zoya’s utter calm and confidence was a put-on. She had to sell the fact that she was working for Russian intelligence although she was all alone, operating without a net.

The man hesitated. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

She switched effortlessly to Russian.

“All right. For starters, your name is not Arthur Kravchek, it’s Arkady Kravchenko. You are Ukrainian, not Polish; you flew MiG-29s in the Soviet Air Force, were recruited into the SVR as a foreign contract agent in the nineties, then emigrated to the U.S. twenty years ago for the express purpose of ferrying goods and personnel covertly for Russian intelligence. Your charter company was set up by us, and you have been moderately successful in your aboveboard endeavors here in the U.S. Five years ago you were arrested for transporting heroin from New Mexico to Chicago, but your lawyers got you off on a technicality. SVR dropped you for risking exposure, but”—she leaned forward—“we still own you, Arkady.”

Kravchenko remained on guard. “Tell me . . . who was my handler at Yasenevo?”

“Aslanov himself, in the old days. Then, when he was promoted, Yuri Popov took you.”

The sixty-year-old Russian nodded slowly. “Fine, you’re SVR, and Aslanov sent you.”

Zoya fought a sigh of relief. She remembered Kravchenko from an operation she’d been on early in her career, and she knew Aslanov had run him and other pilots in the United States, Europe, and Asia before Popov took over in the role. She’d also heard about Kravchenko’s drug charges. The fact that SVR had fired him was a guess but an educated one. She couldn’t imagine they would face exposure with an agent moonlighting as a drug mule.

Zoya had come because she needed to get out of the country, and she knew there was no chance in hell he, or anyone, would agree to fly her if they were aware she didn’t have any money or any papers, she had no Russian support, and she was now a fugitive from the Americans.

“So,” he asked. “What is it that you want?”

“I want to get on your plane, and I want you to fly me to London.”

Arkady made a face. “How the hell am I going to do that? My Sovereign has older engines, and not nearly the range. Five thousand kilometers to an empty tank. London is well over six thousand, seven depending on the weather and the route I can get approved.”

Zoya flashed a disappointed smile. “Don’t take me for a fool. We will conduct a ferry flight. Shorter hops. We can stop in Newfoundland or Greenland or Iceland or Scotland. They have airports, last I checked.”

He turned and looked at a map over his shoulder but did not study it for any length of time. He turned back and shook his head. “No. I’m too old for this shit.”

“Yasenevo is counting on you. And you really don’t want to disappoint them.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Zoya’s smile now was pleasant, belying the words that came next. “Not just yet, no.”

His face, demeanor, and tone remained defiant, but he said, “When do you want to leave?”

“Tonight.”

He laughed angrily. “For fuck’s sake, woman, I have a charter to San Diego in the morning.”

“Cancel it.”

As she had hoped, the man’s defiance seemed to dwindle. After an audible groan he mumbled, “I regret ever working for you people.”

“A lot of people say that once they have taken SVR money, contacts, and connections to set up their civilian careers.”

A new thought popped into his head and he raised a finger. “This flight will be sixteen, eighteen hours at a minimum, with all the stops necessary. I don’t have a copilot.”

“An aircraft the size of your Sovereign does not require a copilot.”

“But . . . you can’t expect me to fly all the way nonstop. Go and find someone with a longer-range plane.”

Zoya countered with, “You don’t have to fly nonstop. I’ll take over when you need breaks.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re a pilot?”

“Yes.”

“Multiengine rated?”

“Nyet.” She smiled. “But I’m a quick learner.”

“How many hours of flight time?”

“One hundred, give or take.”

He sneered at this. “In singles. You aren’t nearly qualified enough to—”

Zoya said, “I can watch over autopilot for you while you rest.”

The man said nothing for almost a minute. Then, “Seventy-five thousand dollars. Half in advance.”

“Forty thousand. Nothing in advance.”

“You’re a crazy bitch, aren’t you?”

“I’m just someone with the full weight of the Kremlin behind me, so I know I can set these terms. The round-trip flight will cost you less than ten thousand. Thirty thousand profit for a day of flying is a good deal for you. Plus, Yasenevo will be in your debt. We know you’ve been having money troubles.”

Zoya knew nothing of the sort, but she was playing a hunch looking at the man’s disheveled office and expensive aircraft, an aircraft she was certain he didn’t own outright.