The voice was American English. Soft and rushed. “Mr. Black? It’s me. It’s Barnacle.”

The man in bed sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I am in Europe, as you well know, which means it is the bloody middle of the night here. If this is about the matter we discussed yesterday, I assure you that—”

“No, it’s not about that. Something’s happened.”

“I told you to calm down and—”

“You’ll want to hear this.”

The man in bed yawned. “Go on, then.”

“Some time back you had me flag a list of files in our system, with orders to contact you immediately if they were ever accessed, updated, or shared with other intelligence or law enforcement agencies.”

The man in bed sat up quickly, and he pressed the phone tighter against his ear. “I did, indeed. Something’s come up?”

“Yes, sir. Forty pages were printed out this evening at six twenty-eight local time, about an hour ago. It’s one of the personality files you asked me to monitor.”

“There are dozens of personalities on our watch list. Which file was accessed?”

“A man named Zakharov. General Feodor Ivanovich Zakharov. He was the head of GRU, killed in Dagestan over ten years ago.”

The man in Notting Hill rubbed his thick beard, grabbed a pen and notepad from his nightstand, and stormed towards the balcony off his bedroom to suck in some cool night air. “I recall the name. I don’t believe you’ve reported that this particular file has been accessed since you and I began our partnership.”

“No one has pulled it in years . . . until tonight.”

“Who printed the file?”

“The login belongs to Suzanne Brewer. She’s in Programs and Plans, but is basically working under Matt Hanley, deputy director of Operations. She’s involved in some off-book activities, working on a sub rosa project called Poison Apple; certainly nothing I have access to.”

“Interesting.” Barnacle was a code name, just as Mr. Black was. Black was David Mars, and Barnacle was the name used for Mars’s inside man at the CIA. A man who had begun selling information about code-worded operations to the highest bidder. Chinese, Iranians . . . and David Mars.

Barnacle added, “It gets even more interesting. This file wasn’t printed out at Langley. It was printed out at an outside SCIF. That’s a Sensitive Compartmented Information Facil—”

Mars answered in a bark. He was wide awake and engaged now. “I know what a bloody SCIF is! Where is it?”

“Yes, of course. Uh . . . we have a safe house in Great Falls, Virginia. Twenty minutes up the Georgetown Pike from Langley. We use it for long-term debriefs and high-value detainee holding, mostly. There’s a vault on-site and it was printed there. I checked . . . The safe house is operational now, medium-sized security staff—indicates a guest who has been deemed moderate risk, either of flight or of external threat.”

The man in London breathed into the phone slowly.

When he did not respond, the American said, “Mr. Black?”

Mars asked, “Can you find out who’s being held there now?”

The man on the other end of the line was emphatic in his answer. “No. No way. If it involves Hanley and Brewer I’m sure it’s one of their coded programs, possibly Poison Apple, which, apparently, is director-level sanctioned. And even if I tried to poke around a little, they’d suspect me. I’m hanging on by a damn thread as it is.”

“I understand. Don’t compromise yourself.” A pause. “You’ve done well, Barnacle.”

“Thank you.” The man passed on the address of the safe house, and Mars wrote it down on the pad.

The American changed the subject. “What about . . . what about the other thing?”

“You needn’t worry about it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s being dealt with. Tonight, in fact. Relax, mate. We have a plan. Stick with it. Five more days and you’re out.”

“I can’t wait another five days! Every time the door to my office opens I expect it to be counterintel. Every time I see headlights behind me I think I’m getting tailed by the FBI. Every single glance I get from a colleague here at the Agency makes me think the walls are closing in. I have to run!”

Mars’s voice lowered an octave. “Watch your tone with me, old boy.”

“Yes . . . of course. Sorry, it’s just that—”

“The only safe way to extract you will happen next week, here in the UK. Just keep your bloody wits about you for a few days and you’ll be safe and set. I have to ring off.”

The man who called himself Black hung up the phone and leaned forward against the balcony railing. He looked down at Portobello Road, quiet at this time of night. After a moment of contemplation, he nodded to himself and dialed another number.

When it was answered he spoke again. “Fox? It’s me.”

A younger-sounding man with a British accent said, “Sir?”

“We need a team assembled. Tonight.”

“We . . . we have a team on the way now to—”

“Another team. Not here in the UK. In the States.”

“In the United States? Tonight?”

“Has to be. A location in Virginia, just outside Washington, D.C. Can you get it done?”

“What’s the task?”

“I need a complete facility wipeout, so get men who have the mettle for that sort of thing. It’s an Agency safe house.”

“You’re serious, sir?”

Mars did not reply.

“You’ve never ordered a wipeout in the States. Hell . . . you’ve never ordered a wipeout in Western Europe, either. But tonight . . . first at Ternhill and now in Virginia . . . both in the same night?”

“We are days away from our objective, Fox. You can expect an increase in all activity over the next week.”

With a pause the man said, “Yes. I understand.”

Mars looked back out onto Portobello Road, his eyes narrowed with determination. “We must protect our retributive strike from all threats, no matter what.”

* * *

• • •

Zoya Zakharova read through each page of the file on her father’s death slowly while Suzanne Brewer sipped her tea and looked on.

After five minutes of this, the American interrupted the quiet. “I have to ask. Are there some suspicions you have about what happened that you haven’t revealed to us?”