“No,” said Belyakov. “The old place.”

“The old place? How much vodka have you drunk tonight?”

“The old place.”

Mars hesitated. Then said, “All right. Seven a.m.?”

“Yes. That will work.” Belyakov hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes under his glasses.

CHAPTER 26

   St. James’s Park was a major tourist attraction in central London, and right in the center of it was a bit of espionage history. The Tin and Stone Bridge had been used by British intelligence officers to meet local contacts for years, and the placid area with good sight lines meant it was also a common meeting place for others looking for quiet, candid conversations.

At seven a.m. there weren’t many tourists out, but a few men and women walked through the park on their way to work.

Russian billionaire oligarch Vladimir Belyakov arrived at the Tin and Stone Bridge first, holding his umbrella above him to keep his tailored business suit and raincoat dry. He sat on a green park bench, looked to his two security men who stood closer to the pond in front of him, and continued scanning in all directions.

Light rain trickled from the hoods of their open raincoats.

Belyakov himself scanned the area to make sure no one was around in eavesdropping distance, and then he spent the next moments thinking about what he was going to say.

Well before he’d decided on a suitable script, he saw David Mars walking across the bridge. There were three men with him, including that British beast Jon Hines looming behind, and the younger man with the goatee and the Savile Row suit walking next to Mars. The third man, Belyakov assumed, was one of the security officers who accompanied Mars wherever he went.

Vladimir Belyakov focused on the one called Fox. He had no idea of the man’s real name but was well aware that he was tied to Russian organized crime, and as erudite and dapper as he appeared, he no doubt dealt a lot of death and woe to those who got in his way.

Mars’s Israeli bodyguard, Fox, and Fox’s British giant and bodyguard held back twenty yards or so, while Mars walked all the way up to the bench and sat down next to the short, balding sixty-five-year-old. The men did not greet each other; instead they just looked out towards the narrow pond in front of them.

Mars spoke first. He sounded annoyed. Rushed, as if he had other places to be. “This bench, this bridge. It’s always bad news when we meet here. Usually I am the one needing something from you. But now . . . dammit, Vladi, I’ve got a lot on my plate. What the hell couldn’t be handled via our encrypted phones?”

“I needed to be face-to-face with you for this.”

Belyakov balanced his umbrella against his shoulder and turned to face Mars, which was hardly the protocol for a clandestine meet.

Mars saw this in his peripheral vision. “Vladi, turn back around, damn you.”

The Russian oligarch ignored him and kept looking his way. “What I’m about to tell you will be difficult to hear, David. Someone broke into my house last night. Held a knife to my throat. A gun to my head.”

Still looking ahead, still annoyed about Belyakov’s pivot to face him, Mars said, “Someone? Who?”

“Someone who knows the name Feodor Zakharov.”

Mars sat back on the bench slowly. He blew out a sigh. “A woman?” he asked.

“Da. How did you know?”

Mars turned fully to Belyakov now, his own umbrella low and the rain dampening his dark hair and his coat. He was giving up on the tradecraft, because his partner in this meet had already done so. “I’ve been looking for a woman who knows. She was in America two nights ago. She either told the CIA, or they told her. This must be her. What did she look like?”

“David . . .” Belyakov spoke through a dry throat. “I am—”

Mars looked in the Russian’s eyes now, any last vestige of protocol gone. “You recognized her, didn’t you? You know who she is.”

“I do. David . . . it was . . . it was Zoya.”

David Mars blinked once, hard, then grunted angrily. “What the fuck were you and your hooker drinking last night, Vladi? You know as well as I do that Zoya was killed by the Americans four months ago in Thailand.”

Belyakov shook his head. “Apparently the Thailand story was disinformation. She’s not dead. Far from. I swear.”

David Mars looked away, out through the rain to the swans in the pond, swimming languidly. His eyes were unfixed, but quickly they began filling with tears.

From twenty yards away Fox stared at him, but Mars ignored the younger man.

His voice broke a little as he spoke. “Is there any way you could have been mistaken? Or that this was some sort of a trick by the Americans?”

Vladimir Belyakov pointed to a long, shallow cut on his thick neck. “She was close enough to do this to me. She was in my face for five, ten minutes. Of course I know Zoya when I see her. Even after all these years.”

Mars wiped tears away with his shirtsleeve. “Did she . . . did she seem all right? Is she hurt?”

“Same old Zoya. Somehow she broke into my Belgravia home that I spent millions to secure. She had to be a world-class operative . . . a gymnast even, to get through my security. I’d say she’s as healthy as ever.”

David Mars wiped away more tears now, and he smiled. After several seconds he spoke hoarsely. “My beautiful . . . beautiful . . . little Zoyushka. She is alive.”

Belyakov put a hand on Mars’s shoulder and switched to Russian. “Da.” He spoke softly now. “Da, Feodor Ivanovich, your precious daughter is alive and well.”

The man who had called himself David Mars for the last fourteen years let his umbrella drop into the path, then put his face in his hands and wept openly.

* * *

• • •

   It was a full minute before he got hold of himself, and Belyakov just sat there the entire time, averting his eyes from his old friend’s emotion and watching the ducks and swans.

Fox, Hines, and Mars’s bodyguard had taken up positions around the bench, but they all stole glances at the last scene they ever thought they’d set eyes on. David Mars broken down in tears.

Finally Mars wiped his eyes with a handkerchief, picked his umbrella back up, and covered himself with it, although he was all but soaked now. He said, “What . . . what was she doing there? With you?”

“She wanted me to tell her about you.”

“What about me?”

“She knows you’re alive, Feo.”

“But . . . how?”