Court had no way of knowing if this was true, but he deemed it worth the risk because he needed a home base in London while he set up surveillance on Cassidy. He rented the place for a full month but was hoping to start eyeballing the solicitor’s office within a few hours and get what he needed here in London within a couple of days. A daylight infiltration of a building for the purposes of establishing a surveillance hide was, to put it mildly, suboptimal, but he liked his chances.

It was nothing he hadn’t done a hundred times in much less permissive environments than London, England.

By ten a.m. he stood alone in the little furnished flat. It was nicer than most places he stayed, but security-wise it was good enough. Down a narrow set of metal stairs, an iron gate led to a short passageway between the laundry room and the door to the flat, and the wooden door itself was well made and secure.

He judged the conditions suitable, if not ideal.

Soon he was out the door, heading on foot to the nearby neighborhood of Earl’s Court. He’d make his way up onto the roof of the building near Cassidy’s office and see what he could see. If he couldn’t get much good intel, he’d have to go ahead and perform a sneak-and-peek, but only through surveillance would he know the camera angles and force structure, if any, inside the building. This took time to do right, and Court was anxious to get started almost immediately.

He figured if the man was, in fact, somehow affiliated with elements in the underworld, then there was at least a fair chance he kept a pretty secure work environment.

He had a plan for this afternoon and tonight, but he was not ready to act just yet.

No, right now he needed some gear.

* * *

• • •

Zoya Zakharova rented a tiny flat in London’s West End, with a small supply of cash and a large supply of bullshit. Her story was that she’d lost her passport, she was a Croatian national who’d been told she’d have to wait up to three days for her embassy to get her the paperwork she needed to go back home, and she couldn’t afford anyplace else around.

The Pakistani couple who owned the small and poorly kept Soho building took pity on her, and they handed her the keys to a tiny attic room.

It was a fourth-floor walkup, dingy and dark with two bare lightbulbs illuminating the entire studio. There was no furniture, not even a chair or a table.

She put her bag down in the middle of the room, sighed, and turned back for the door.

She purchased a sleeping bag at an army surplus store in the Arch Gallery, along with eating utensils for one, an olive green cold-weather balaclava head and face covering, and a few other personal items. She stopped at a hardware store to pick up some tools, a home goods store for a towel and a washcloth and a thick rubber welcome mat, a sporting goods store for a yoga mat in a canvas case, and a food market for provisions on her way back to the flat.

Back inside she stacked her food on a moldy shelf in the kitchenette: a few bags of crackers, protein bars, canned tuna, and bottled water.

In the tiny and foul-smelling bathroom, she put her toothbrush and toothpaste on the rusty vanity and tossed the bath towel and the washcloth over a hanger.

She unfurled the sleeping bag in a small closet next to the bathroom door, changed into track pants and a sweatshirt, then sat down cross-legged in the closet with a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other. She scanned the Internet on her mobile phone as she alternately chewed and sipped water, looking at maps and satellite images, solidifying her plan of attack for the evening.

At four p.m. she climbed into her bag, pulled her .38 pistol close to her, and closed her eyes.

She was exhausted with the travel of the past two days, but still it was hard to sleep, because her mind continued to race with thoughts of her father.

* * *

• • •

After a call to Brewer and a two-hour wait, Court climbed out of the Tube at Clapham High Street Station and walked to a raised parking garage a block away. It was misting in advance of some real rain predicted later in the day, but Court just wore a gray T-shirt and jeans, and he walked with his backpack over one shoulder.

He made his way to the corner of the top level of the garage and found just a few cars parked there. The one man in sight stood next to a silver Volvo S60.

Court walked up to him in a relaxed fashion but with his arms out a little from his sides. The man was young, perhaps twenty-five, with red hair and a short beard. He was dressed in a black raincoat and dress slacks. He had a nervous look to him that caused Court to glance around the area to make sure there were no other dangers lurking about.

Sometimes, Court knew, people showed excessive nerves when they knew something was about to go down. Other times, however, especially with newer members to the intelligence game, some folks just couldn’t hide the trepidation of the moment and do their job in a cool and calm manner.

Court knew this kid was CIA, which meant they were ostensibly on the same side, but Court had had his own issues with CIA for a long time, and he would never let himself trust them again. Though he approached nonthreateningly, he had a plan to draw his weapon and put three rounds in this asshole’s face and neck if he saw any clear sign of threat.

Court passed the redhead by and walked to the wall of the rooftop parking space, then turned around with his back to the wall so he could see everything in front of him.

This done, he said, “You’re backwards.”

The young man cocked his head. “What’s that?”

“You parked your car with the nose against the wall. You can’t get out of here without putting it in reverse. Slower. Limited visibility.”

When the man said nothing, Court added, “Basic tradecraft, ace.”

The young man looked at his car, and his face fell a bit with the realization that this obviously seasoned asset was correct.

He now looked both nervous and annoyed.

Looking back to Court he said, “Yeah, well, you violated protocol, yourself. You’re supposed to be wearing a green shirt.”

“It’s at the cleaners.”

The young man didn’t appreciate the humor. He reached for his car door. “Well then, I guess it’s time to back my ass outta here.”

Court smiled and said, “Romeo, Papa, November, seventy-four, Tango, Alpha.”

The man stopped reaching for the door and stood back up.

“Alpha, Quebec, Uniform, eight, three, Yankee.”

Court raised an eyebrow. The man just stared back at him.

Court said, “Almost there, double-oh seven. You missed one.”

The young man’s eyes hazed over as he thought. Softly he said, “Alpha, Quebec, Uniform, eighty-three, Yankee . . . shit!”