And it had been clear to Hightower that Renfro was worried about everyone around him: the MILF looking at pie pans, the eggheaded doofus who sat in the massage chair, the well-dressed gay couple who argued playfully over the purchase of an espresso machine.

Renfro thought they were all watching him, because Renfro was wired tight, scared shitless, and guilty as hell.

Zack was sure of it. And he couldn’t wait to get back on the man tomorrow and turn up the heat.

* * *

• • •

Feodor Zakharov, aka David Mars, didn’t sleep much at the most relaxed of times, but in the past few weeks, as the “D-Day” of his plot loomed, he spent more and more of his overnight hours researching, checking contacts, and poring over satellite images and Five Eyes personnel files and every other thing he could think of to better arm himself, for both offensive and defensive measures.

Defensively, he knew his operation had been kept tight, but some force out of his control had intervened, and now he could take nothing for granted.

Offensively, he knew from his career there was always some new piece of intelligence to learn that could help him with his mission: in this case the efficacy of the attack.

Tonight he read through a guest list hacked from one of the hotels that would be housing spillover attendees to the conference, and he worked to match names up to Five Eyes agencies and determine the best time of day to stage the attack for maximum damage.

When his encrypted line rang, he snatched it up. It was Fox with all the details of the events at Terry Cassidy’s office and the school a few blocks away. Mars closed his eyes as he listened, at once furious with his men and worried about Zoya’s well-being, but he responded in a measured tone.

“Unfortunate, Mr. Fox.”

“Yes, sir. We could not anticipate the sniper who—”

Mars got another call. He switched lines without telling Fox. “Who’s calling?”

The reply was delivered in a frantic tone. “It’s me. It’s Barnacle.”

Mars shut his eyes. Mr. CIA again. For a trained intelligence agent this man was jumpy and reckless. He’d all but outlived his worth, although Mars had one final use for the American, so he’d have to placate him now.

“How can I help you?”

“They’re on to me. I’m being tailed.”

Mars cocked his head. “You’re sure of it?”

“I’ve been with the Agency for decades.”

“You are in Support. You aren’t exactly George Smiley.”

The comment hung in the air for a moment. “I’ve worked the other end. I’ve been to the Farm. Obviously I can tell when there’s overt surveillance on me.”

“Overt?”

“Well . . . a lead tail who is making himself seen. I might have seen others who were low profile.”

Mars said, “You’ll be here in no time. You’ll be fine.”

“You don’t think CIA would tail me in London? They will. They’ll pick me up, too, if they have enough evidence.”

“What evidence can they possibly have?”

“The fucking banker talked, obviously!”

In response to the American’s tone, Mars said, “Barnacle,” in a low and threatening voice.

“Sorry. It’s just that—”

Mars interrupted. “The banker didn’t know your identity. Whatever they have, it’s not from Dirk Visser. If you are, in fact, being tailed, it’s simply because you are in the small cluster of those who had advance knowledge of all the operations that were compromised. This is nothing more than an attempt to panic you.”

“Well . . . if you’re wrong, I’m fucked.”

“Very true, mate. So . . . let’s just assume I’m right, because I am. Go on about your life for a couple more days, because your life is about to change for the better.”

Mars hung up the phone and began dialing Fox back for more information. He wasn’t worried about Barnacle. If the CIA did ferret out the proof that Mars’s man in the Agency was, in fact, the mole, Barnacle did not have much information about Mars beyond the sound of his voice.

Mars had other issues that were of much more concern. First and foremost was Dr. Won’s progress on the weapon for the attack in Scotland, days away, but a close second was the fact that he’d learned that his beloved daughter was back from the dead, running around with guns and knives, with an unknown agenda. He worried about what she was up to, and who was pulling her strings, and this made it difficult to focus on anything else.

CHAPTER 34

   On the way to Court’s flat Zoya pulled up in front of an all-night market next to the Baron’s Court Tube station. She went in and bought several small bags of supplies, including food, a bottle of cheap vodka, a six-pack of beer, three large bags of ice, and some lemons.

She returned in under five minutes and they drove around the corner, leaving the car near the station to throw off the police, and they continued the rest of the way on foot, with Court’s arm over Zoya’s shoulder and his staggering further impeding their progress.

Zoya helped Court descend the iron stairs, and then she took the keys from him to open the door. The West Kensington basement flat was dark until Zoya flipped on a couple of lamps, and then she immediately went to the bathroom to dump all the ice she’d bought into the tub. She closed the stopper and turned on the cold water. She went to the kitchen, looked in the freezer, and found some ice trays, and these she threw into the tub without cracking the cubes out of them.

While this was going on Court sat in the darkened den, holding a cold bottle of beer to his face. His lips were swollen, blood still drained from his nostrils, his left eye was puffed closed, and his jaw, chin, and left cheekbone were gray from bruising.

“Ready,” Zoya announced from the bathroom.

Court stepped in; she helped him take off his shirt, and he could barely raise his arms to do so, and then she knelt and untied his shoes. He unbuttoned his pants and let them fall to the floor, sat on the edge of the tub, and slowly and painfully removed his socks.

He wore boxer briefs; his abdomen and ribs were splotched with purple and gray bruising, and he still kept the cold beer to his face, alternating between his mouth, his jaw, and his left eye.

He started to get into the ice bath, but Zoya said, “You’re leaving your underwear on?”

Court winced as he lifted a leg and then winced again when he plunged his foot into the water. “I’m shy,” he joked.

“You weren’t shy in Thailand.”