Major Petrov was no longer sitting at the desk outside the tall double doors leading into Stepanov's office. He'd been replaced by another man, a Captain, whose name badge identified him as Chernyshevsky. Anya sat on an uncomfortable chair in the outer office, waiting for Stepanov's summons to enter. The doors opened, and General Kerensky emerged. Anya jumped up and came to attention.

  "At ease, Colonel."

  "Sir."

  Kerensky exited.

  "You can go in now, Colonel," Chernyshevsky said.

  "Thank you, Captain."

  Stepanov's office smelled of strong Russian tobacco. Kerensky was a heavy smoker. A cut glass ashtray on Stepanov's desk was filled with butts and ashes. Captain Chernyshevsky closed the doors behind her.

  "Sit down, Anya," Stepanov said.

  "Sir."

  "I asked you to come up here because I wanted to offer my condolences. I was sorry to hear about your mother."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "I'm told it was quick?"

  "Yes, sir. She collapsed in front of me."

  "That's terrible, my dear. It must have been very upsetting. Take some compassionate leave, if you wish."

  "That won't be necessary, sir. I prefer to keep working. It keeps my mind occupied. Besides, my unit is very busy at the moment."

  "Good, I was hoping you'd say that. You are about to get busier. The American aggression in Syria forces us to increase our state of readiness. It's more important than ever that things go smoothly with our logistical needs. Once this immediate unpleasantness has passed, I intend to move you into a position of more responsibility. Do you think you're ready for that?"

  "You're the best judge of that, sir. I am happy to serve in any capacity."

  "Good, good."

  Stepanov looked down at his nails then back up at her.

  "Perhaps we might have dinner tonight at my apartment."

  "I'd like that, Yuri."

  "I'll have Gennady pick you up at eight."

  "Yes, sir. I'll be ready."

  "Then I'll see you this evening."

  "Yes, sir."

  Anya rose and left the room.

  So, another evening of extravagant food, good wine, and bad sex lay in store for her. Stepanov was acting as if everything was normal. It seemed to prove he had decided Ivanov's suspicions were without merit, but she doubted his sincerity. How could he be sincere? He might think Ivanov had been overzealous by dragging her in for interrogation, but he had to wonder if there was any basis to the accusations. The only thing that had saved her was his anger about those awful recordings.

  Stepanov had been enraged by the invasion of his privacy. She didn't know where Colonel Ivanov was now, but she hoped it was somewhere unpleasant. If he hadn't stepped so far over the line, she'd probably be locked in a cell somewhere in GRU headquarters.

  Riding down on the elevator, Anya thought about what Stepanov had said. About raising the state of readiness. The importance of things going smoothly. It could only mean they expected the Americans to attack, or that they were going to start it themselves.

  The naval blockade was having an effect. Shortages of consumer goods were beginning to appear. People were starting to get angry. For the moment their anger was directed at the West, but it wouldn't take much to change that. Tarasov could not allow the populace to turn their anger toward him and his government. He needed to do something to break the blockade, and he needed to do it soon.

  Back in her office, Anya tried to focus on her work. By afternoon, she was becoming alarmed. Requests for logistical support and increased supplies were coming from all over. There was only one possible explanation. War was imminent.

  It was the excuse she needed to call Michael.

  Chapter 65

  Thorne booked a flight from Helsinki to Moscow. Anya's call came as he was about to leave for the airport.

  "We have to meet," she said.

  "Where and when?" Thorne said. "I'm coming to Moscow today."

  "The same place as last time. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock."

  She broke the connection. A horn sounded outside. His taxi was here.

  Riding to the airport, he thought about the call. It had lasted no more than ten seconds, good tradecraft. He smiled to himself. Anya was a fast learner.

  She'd sounded stressed. It figured. She'd survived being picked up by the GRU. That would stress anyone, but she hadn't called about that. This was something else. It had to be important.

  Carlson might get his answers after all.

  In Moscow, the guard in the booth took a long time looking at his passport. Standing off to the side were two big men in plain clothes, watching him.

  "Why are you here?"

  "Business."

  "What kind of business?"

  "Import and export. I buy goods here and in Finland for Europe and Canada."

  "Not America?"

  "I don't like Americans," Thorne said.

  The agent stamped the passport.

  "Enjoy your stay, Mister Jackson."

  "Thank you."

  As he walked toward the taxi rank, Thorne felt the eyes of the FSB men on the back of his neck. His scalp tingled. He resisted the urge to turn around and look. It wasn't paranoia. Something had changed since the last time he'd been here.

  The taxi reeked of garlic and stale cigarette smoke. The driver's accent was thick. Thorne guessed he was from somewhere east of the Caucasus. Moscow traffic moved at a crawl. It took more than an hour and a half to get from the airport to the Metropole Hotel, where he'd booked a room.

  The Metropole was a piece of Moscow history, built before the 1917 revolution. The Bolsheviks had taken it over to house their growing bureaucracy. It had been turned back to being a hotel in the 30s and left to decay into a seedy shadow of its former grandeur. It had finally been restored in the 80s, in an effort to bring in tourists and their foreign currency.

  Thorne liked the hotel's bizarre mix of architectural styles. As long as he had to be in Moscow, he figured he might as well stay someplace interesting. There was no point in trying to find a place where he wouldn't be watched. All foreigners were watched in Russia. If he tried to disappear, it would only raise suspicion.

  His room overlooked the Bolshoi Theater across the street. Ballet wasn't his thing, but looking at the classical façade of the famous building, he wondered what it was like to be a tourist in Moscow. If you wanted to go to a ballet, this was the place to do it. He'd see if he could get a ticket, just for the hell of it. They could probably arrange it at the desk downstairs.

  Carlson would blow a gasket when he saw a ballet ticket on the expense sheet. That alone made it a good idea. Besides, it was the kind of thing a Canadian businessman might do. It was good for his cover.

  He had dinner in the main dining room, an enormous hall with high ceilings and a domed glass roof. He picked up his ticket at the desk and crossed the street to the theater. The ballet was an incomprehensible three act opera about pearl fishermen, a priestess who was also a forbidden lover or possibly a witch, two men competing for her affection, a big fire, and the anger of the gods. Or was it the anger of a jealous lover? Thorne wasn't sure.

  As he filed out after the performance, he decided ballet still wasn't his thing.

  Summer was not far away, and the night was warm. He walked for a while, looking for anyone paying attention to him. He saw nothing unusual, but he couldn't shake the feeling something was off. He remembered the two hard-faced men at the airport.

  He'd have to be careful tomorrow when he went to meet Anya.

  An hour later he was back in his room. He drew the drapes across the window, muffling the sound of late-night traffic outside.

  Thorne sat in a chair and closed his eyes. Sleep had always been elusive when he was in the field. Over the years he'd learned to enter a resting state where he was neither asleep nor awake. In his mind's eye, he saw the park where he was going to meet Anya. He visualized the big Ferris wheel, the concessions, the benches, the paved walkways past the pond, the forest. He imagined himself meeting Anya. He imagined everything being calm and perfect.

  He was deep into the meditation when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Chapter 66

  As usual, Stepanov was asleep within minutes after sex. Dinner had been uneventful. Stepanov had kept the conversation light. Nothing further had been said about Colonel Ivanov. He'd made no mention of the blockade or the preparations Anya was overseeing, except to compliment her on her work.

  She got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. It was becoming a routine. Have sex, wait till Stepanov was passed out, take a shower to wash the stink of him away, dress, and go home. At least this time she knew there were no cameras watching.

  Or were there? She'd looked for the signs. A small dot in the corner of the ceiling, a tiny hole in the wall, something hidden in an overhead light. She didn't see any. She probably wouldn't, even if they were there. She couldn't know if Stepanov had decided to place cameras of his own, in case Ivanov had been right about her.

  She dried herself and dressed. Stepanov's snores vibrated through the room. She quietly closed the door to the bedroom and walked down the hall. She paused at the study. Light from a heavy brass lamp spilled over the desk. Stepanov's uniform jacket and holstered pistol hung on the back of the chair. His computer was on, ribbons of color making random patterns on the screen.

  She looked back down the hall at the closed door to the bedroom, then went into the study. She tapped the space bar and the screen cleared.

  A Level 7 security password was requested.

  Anya had been granted Level 7 clearance when she was assigned the planning for Operation EAGLE. But if she used her password, it would be saved on the remote server in the Ministry. There would be a digital trail showing she had accessed Stepanov's computer.

  Where she had no right to be.

  But there was no reason for anyone to look.

  She took a deep breath and entered her password. The screen cleared and showed several file folders on the desktop. She recognized all but one, ongoing operations like EAGLE. The exception was a file marked MEDUZA. She began reading. The first thing she saw was a list of submarine units, the same secret units she had discovered when she had looked at the document in Stepanov's briefcase.

  She scrolled to the next page. With growing alarm, she realized she was looking at a plan to launch a nuclear strike against America.

  "What are you doing, Anya?"

  Stepanov's voice startled her. She turned away from the screen and looked at him. He wore a white robe of thick, Turkish cotton. Her mind froze. She couldn't think of what to say.

  "Never mind," Stepanov said. "You are a great disappointment to me, my dear. I did not want to believe Colonel Ivanov's accusations. Now I see they are true. Tell me, who are you working for? Is it the Americans?"

  "Yuri, I'm not working for anyone."

  "Then why are you looking at my computer?"

  "I was curious, that's all. I'm sorry. I was leaving and I saw the screensaver was on. I wondered what you did when you were home and not on duty. I thought perhaps I'd see pictures of friends, family. I wanted to know more about you, who you are when you're not being the Deputy Minister of Defense."

  "You're not a very good liar, Anya."

  Stepanov's face turned dark. He stepped forward and grabbed her arm, hard.

  "Yuri, you're hurting me."

  "This is not hurting you. This is nothing. Soon you will understand that."

  "Let go!"

  "You are a traitor. I would have raised you high, but you have betrayed me and the Motherland."

  He released her arm and slapped her, hard. Anya stumbled backward into the chair and grabbed it as she went down, knocking over the lamp on the desk. She fell onto her back. The lamp landed on the floor next to her.

  Stepanov towered over her.

  "Bitch," he said.

  He turned his back and picked up the phone on his desk.

  Anya got to her knees. She had to stop him from making that call. She grasped the lamp in both hands, swung it in a high arc, and brought the heavy base down on Stepanov's head. It made a dull, thick sound.

  The shock of the blow vibrated up her arms. He grunted and dropped the phone. She swung the lamp again. This time, the sharp edge of the base sunk into his skull. She heard the hard crunch of bone breaking.

  Stepanov went down, falling sideways to the floor. His sphincter let go, filling the room with a foul stink. He lay on his side, eyes open.

  Blood spread out around him, a red flower blooming against the white robe.

  Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

  She looked down at the body, the blood. Suddenly, her stomach heaved. She bent over and vomited, retching until nothing came up but drool. For a moment, she was unable to think. Then her mind switched into gear.

  Did anyone hear? No one else lived on this floor except Stepanov. He'd said the apartment below was empty. Besides, these expensive apartments were built to shield their important occupants from unwelcome noise. The walls were thick, the insulation designed to keep out winter's Arctic cold.

  She listened for signs someone had heard. There was only silence. No voices. No shouts of alarm. No sirens in the distance.

  Stepanov's blood spread out over the floor. She'd never seen so much blood.

  Think!

  It was almost midnight. Stepanov usually got to the ministry around 7:30 in the morning. It was a half-hour drive from here. That meant she still had time until someone began to wonder where he was.

  It wouldn't take long for them to start looking for her when the body was discovered. The security guard in the lobby and Stepanov's driver both knew she was here. She'd be arrested.

  Michael. He will know what to do.

  She looked at the computer. She had to get the information to him. She remembered there was a box of USB drives in one of the desk drawers.

  She stepped around Stepanov's body and opened the drawer. She took out a drive, inserted it into the computer, and entered the command to copy the file. Then she took out her phone and dialed Michael's number.

  Chapter 67

  Thorne looked at the display. Anya. He made the connection.

  "I'm in big trouble, you have to help me."

  Her words came out in a rush.

  "Wait, slow down. What happened?"

  "You have to help me. He's dead."

  "Who's dead?"

  "Stepanov. I killed him."

  He could hear the fear in her voice.

  "Okay. You're all right, try to stay calm. Where are you now?"

  "In his apartment. I don't know what to do."

  "Where's the apartment?"

  "On Ostozhenka Street."

  "Where?"

  She gave him the address.

  "All right, listen. Stay where you are. I'll get there as soon as I can. Are there guards?"

  "There's a guard in the lobby."

  "Okay. Stay in the apartment. Don't go anywhere. I'll call when I'm outside."

  "All right."

  He hung up and entered the address in the GPS on his phone

  He was still dressed, except for his shoes. It was nearing midnight on Friday, and Moscow was known for its nightlife. Things were just starting to get warmed up in the city. No one would think it odd if he went out looking for distraction.

  A blown operation produced its own mindset. He began thinking about actions to take, possible scenarios. It didn't matter why Anya had killed Stepanov. There'd be time later to find out why. What mattered was that he had to get her out, first from Stepanov's apartment, then out of the country.

  His mind ticked over possibilities. He needed transportation. He couldn't take a cab to the apartment, pick her up, head to an airport. The cabs were all tracked by the FSB. Besides, a flight out of the country wasn't happening. There were few flights at this time of night, and even if there were, she might not have a passport. If she did, she probably didn't have it with her. Besides, a plane could be called back or met at its destination.

  He had to get her out of Moscow. He remembered his conversation with Jenna earlier in the day. Now speculation had turned into reality. As soon as Stepanov's body was discovered, the Russians would shut down all the obvious routes of escape. Like the cabs, rental vehicles were tracked by the FSB. A foreigner renting would be flagged immediately. He needed a car, but a rental was out.

  He'd have to steal one.

  He left everything in his room except his passports and money. It would take them a while to realize he was missing. He waited for the elevator. When it came, he took it to the lobby and left the hotel.

  Parking for guests at the Metropole was in a small, guarded lot. He wasn't going to find something there. He walked away from the broad intersection where the Metropole and Bolshoi faced each other. He kept walking until he found a street where people were allowed to park. He was in operational mode, paranoid, his adrenaline pumping. It made him feel alive. It was a part of the job he loved and hated at the same time, the feeling of walking the edge of the razor.

  The street felt clean. No one had followed him from the hotel. He turned a corner onto a residential block, looking for the right kind of car. He saw a white Lada parked in a shadowed area between streetlights, a car that wouldn't stand out. There were a lot of white Ladas in Russia. He took a pick from inside his wallet and worked the door lock. Thirty seconds later, he was inside the car. Thirty seconds after that, the engine started.

  I'm getting good at this.

  He headed for Stepanov's building. As he drove, he took out his phone and called Jenna. Moscow was seven hours ahead of the East Coast. It was late Friday afternoon in Washington. She'd still be in her office.

  "Mike. I was just thinking of you."

  "We have a problem. OPERA killed Stepanov."

  "What? Tell me you're not serious."

  "I wish. She's blown. I'm on my way to get her. Then I'm going to get her out of the country."

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know yet. When I do, I'll call."

  "Carlson is going to have a cow," Jenna said.