His first assignment was Romania. The Agency wasn't the diplomatic service. Spouses didn't follow their partners on postings overseas. The day before he was set to leave, he came home to an empty house and a note. The note said she was sorry. It ended with the name of her lawyer.

  Ashley had been Thorne's first real love. After her, he'd closed down.

  Until he'd gotten involved with Jenna.

  It was an unlikely combination, the two of them. She was part of senior administration. He was a tool to be used and discarded if necessary. It wasn't the kind of pairing looked on with favor in the closed culture of Langley. One of the things Thorne liked about Jenna was that she didn't give a shit about any of that.

  She'd called it off over a year ago.

  Back at the house, he drank some water, stretched, cooled down. Five kilometers was enough to get the burn going. Not long enough to wear him out, but he could feel his legs complaining. Like it or not, he was getting older. Five years ago, a run like that would have barely broken a sweat.

  It was time to shower, put on his work face, and head in.

  Thorne drove to Langley, parked his Jeep in the outer lot, and went into the old headquarters building. His office was big enough for a desk and a couple of chairs. There was no window. Windows were for people higher up on the totem pole.

  When he wasn't in the field, he was supposed to report in daily. There wasn't much for him to do except paperwork. There was always paperwork. He'd wait for the next assignment and stay current with the daily threat assessments. Sometimes he attended presentations by the analysts. Waiting for an assignment was part of the job he didn't like much. He wanted the freedom of the field, away from the rules of headquarters.

  He logged onto his computer and checked his messages. There was a reminder to make an appointment for his annual polygraph. A notice that the Saturday volleyball game was canceled. He'd never figured out who had put his name on that list. The next message was from Jenna telling him to contact her when he got in.

  He called her on one of the internal lines, hoping she wasn't already in a meeting.

  "Olmstead."

  "It's me. I got your message."

  "Michael. Something's happening in Syria. Come up to my office and I'll show you what we've got. I want your take on it."

  "Now?"

  "Yes."

  "On my way."

  Thorne rose, logged off his computer, and left the room. The door closed and locked behind him.

  Jenna's PA looked up from her desk as Thorne came in. Her name was Shelley. Thorne was never quite sure what she thought about him. It would not have surprised him if she knew all about his affair with her boss.

  Shelley gave him a calculated look.

  "She's waiting for you. Go on in."

  "Thanks."

  "She has a meeting in fifteen minutes."

  "I'll bear it in mind."

  Jenna was behind her desk, watching a monitor mounted on the wall. She swiveled toward him as he came in and indicated a chair.

  "Take a seat. I want you to see something."

  Her voice was all business.

  Thorne sat down. Jenna nodded at the monitor.

  "I'm going to show you some satellite shots from Syria. The first section is from a recent pass over Latakia and the Russian airbase there."

  "Khmeimim?"

  "Yup."

  She clicked on a remote. The footage began to run. Satellite photography had come a long way in the last few years. It was possible to make out tiny details on a uniform from a hundred and eighty miles up. It was no problem at all to determine if someone needed a shave or a haircut, or capture a face for the database. A newspaper or letter could be read with ease. Markings on military equipment were a snap.

  Michael watched as two enormous Antonov AN-22 cargo transports came in to land. The AN-22 had first appeared in the 60s, during the heyday of the Soviet Union. It was powered by four gigantic turbo fan engines, and was still one of the largest transport planes in the world. Puffs of smoke came from the wheels as the planes touched down. They slowed, taxiing past rows of fighter aircraft marked with the red star of the Federation, lined up neatly in their revetments.

  "Shiny new planes. Looks like a squadron of SU-35's," Thorne said.

  "Those are 'S' types," Jenna said. "They've begun reinforcing what was already a large contingent of front-line aircraft."

  The Sukhoi SU-35S was a single seat, dual purpose, fighter/bomber. It was a formidable weapon, one of the best planes of its type in the world.

  "What's in the transports?"

  "Keep watching."

  The Antonovs lumbered to a stop near a cluster of buildings set off from the main terminals. The tailgates dropped. For a few minutes not much happened, then vehicles began rolling out of the planes.

  "Armored personnel carriers," Thorne said.

  "BTR-82A carriers, to be exact. About two thirds of them are carrying 30 mm cannons. The rest are making do with heavy machine guns."

  "I don't see any unit markings."

  "The markings have been obscured. But not well enough. Those are elements of the 12th Motorized Brigade. Keep watching."

  A tank rolled down a ramp, followed by another.

  "Hell, those are T-14 Armatas. That's their main battle tank."

  "That's right," Jenna said.

  "What are those big boxes coming out of the plane on the end?"

  "We're not sure. They could be construction materials."

  "Construction materials? What are they building?"

  "An airbase. For that we need to watch a different pass."

  Jenna clicked her remote. The scene shifted from the airbase on the coast of Syria to somewhere inland.

  "This is near Deir-ez-Zor. The Russians began about three weeks ago. They're almost finished with the runway. You can see where they've laid it out. It's big enough to handle those Antonovs. Once it's complete, they can bring supplies directly there instead of overland from Khmeimim. They've built fighter revetments. They haven't even bothered to camouflage them."

  "Probably figured it wasn't worth the trouble," Thorne said. "They know we can see everything they're doing."

  He studied the photographs.

  There were long, orderly rows of large tents. Open latrines had been dug, a roof erected to shield them from the sun. More buildings were going up. Men were everywhere on the site, engaged in multiple tasks. They all wore desert camouflage uniforms. One good-sized building had been erected.

  "That building must be base HQ," Thorne said. "You can see radio masts and a satellite dish."

  "That's what we think."

  "Reminds me of Afghanistan," Thorne said. "Twelve man tents. Do we know what unit that is?"

  "Analysis says they're from the 22nd Special Purposes Brigade."

  "Spetsnaz? What are they doing there?"

  "That's the question, isn't it?" Jenna said.

  "The 22nd is a counterterrorism unit," Thorne said. "They're serious players. Those are the guys that went into that theater in Moscow and gassed the whole place to take down the Chechens holding everyone hostage. There's nothing in Syria that should interest them."

  "That may be, but there they are. It looks like they've moved almost half the brigade. That's around two thousand men."

  "And now the Russians are adding a motorized brigade? If they bring everyone up to full strength, that's around nine or ten thousand combat troops."

  "We've also spotted an engineer's battalion."

  "Moscow wouldn't put front line troops out there unless they plan to use them. Adding a motorized brigade means they expect serious action. The only people with forces in the region are the Kurds."

  "Don't forget our people. We have about five hundred Rangers there."

  "What do you think they're up to?"

  "We think Tarasov is getting ready to go after the oilfields. There's nothing else of any value in the region. The Kurds are sitting right on top of big reserves."

  "We aren't going to sit on our ass while Russia grabs Syria's oil. You think he'll risk a war with us?"

  "Tarasov is a nationalist and a fanatic. Campbell is untested. He may assume we'll back off if he starts something. He could even be right. "

  "Are you serious?"

  "As far as the president is concerned, confidence is not high."

  "Shit, Jenna. We can't let Moscow get control of that oil."

  "No." Jenna looked at her watch. "Which is why you and I are now going to meet with Carlson."

  Chapter 10

  Carlson's office looked out over the Virginia countryside and a parking lot filled with cars. The windows were made of a composite that could turn away a fifty-caliber round. If someone tried to listen in by focusing an electronic beam on one of the windows, they would be disappointed. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to sit out in the parking lot with a laser, spying on Langley's leaders.

  Two chairs were placed in front of Carlson's enormous desk.

  Carlson nodded at them. "Mike, Jenna. Take a seat."

  Thorne's inner alarms went off. Whenever Carlson called him by his first name, he wanted something. Whatever he wanted usually meant trouble.

  Carlson looked at Jenna. "Have you briefed him?"

  "We went over the satellite footage together."

  "What did you think, Mike?"

  "The Russians are going to make trouble. That base is close to the oil fields," Thorne said.

  Carlson nodded. "Too close. The DCI thinks that's why they're there. To go after the oil."

  "That would explain the troop buildup. But why now?"

  "Sevim is about to invade Syria and chew up the Kurds. Once that starts, they'll be fully occupied with fighting the Turks. The fields will be lightly defended."

  "Making them easy pickings for the Russians," Jenna said.

  "Are we going to do anything about it?" Thorne asked.

  "Military options are being discussed," Carlson said. "The problem is that we need more information. That's where you come in. Someone has to take a look at what we can't see on the satellites."

  Thorne looked at him.

  "You want me to go to Syria?"

  "That's right."

  "What am I supposed to do there?"

  Jenna looked uncomfortable.

  "The president and the Joint Chiefs want more intelligence about Russian intentions. Your job is to get it."

  "You have to be kidding me," Thorne said. "It doesn't take a military genius to see what their intentions are. You don't drop first line combat troops into the middle of the Syrian desert if you're not going to start an offensive. The only logical objective is the oil. What else could it be?"

  "That's what we want you to find out," Carlson said. "When Director Kramer meets with the president, she needs to know we have solid intelligence on what the Russians plan to do. That means eyes and ears on the ground. That's you. You speak fluent Arabic and Russian. There's no one better to do this. We have a low-level asset in Latakia who works at Khmeimim. He'll find a way to get you onto that base. He won't be expecting you. You'll have to look him up and talk to him."

  "You don't have a way to contact him, tell him I'm coming?"

  "He's not James Bond, Thorne. He doesn't have a secret radio. He's not a trained agent, only a patriotic local who hates the regime. There's no way to get in touch with him except a direct meeting."

  "You expect me to find out exactly what the Russians are going to do."

  "That's right. Once you're on the base, keep your ears open."

  "I suppose you wouldn't mind if I could grab a copy of their battle plan."

  "That would be a good result."

  "I was joking, Lewis."

  "It would still be a good result. I'll leave it up to you and Jenna to take care of the details. I want you there within the next couple of days. Don't turn this into another Turkey."

  "Is that it?"

  "Do you have any questions?"

  "You have any answers?"

  Carlson sighed. "Jenna, get him out of here."

  As they were walking down the hall, Jenna turned to him.

  "You can't resist, can you? You have to poke the bear."

  "He pisses me off."

  "It's his nature. I don't think he can help it."

  "You heard that crack about Turkey. He still thinks I chickened out."

  "If he really thought that, he wouldn't send you to Syria. Whatever else he is, he's dedicated to getting results. He knows you're the best person for this. You are, you know."

  "Maybe."

  "No maybe about it, Mike. Let's go back to my office. Like Lewis said, we need to work out the details."

  Chapter 11

  It was the end of the working day in Moscow. Anya Volkova was putting the finishing touches on her latest report to General Stepanov. She'd made sure Stepanov had been kept current on EAGLE, as he'd requested. For the moment, she'd put aside her doubts about the operation and what it might mean for the future.

  It hadn't been easy, but she'd managed to ensure an unimpeded stream of supplies moving through the pipeline to Syria. It had been a major challenge to ship the enormous quantity of things needed in the field, getting them stockpiled and ready to load as space became available in the transports.

  Her first priority had been getting all the materials needed to construct the base delivered in the right amounts at the right time. She'd had to solve the problem of how much fuel would be needed for all the various needs and where it would come from. There were requirements for the combat brigades, the engineers, and supporting aircraft.

  Then she'd had to estimate what would be needed once EAGLE got underway. Anya researched historical operations, factored in an increase, then added twenty percent. The surest way to demotion and disgrace was for the tanks and armored carriers to run out of fuel when the troops were engaged in the field. The drain on national resources was going to create civilian shortages, but there was nothing she could do about that.

  She figured out how the fuel would be transported and stored. At that point she ran into a major problem. The bureaucrats who oversaw the daily production and distribution of aviation fuel, gasoline, and diesel in the Federation had resisted diverting the large amounts required from domestic and foreign consumption. That had been the only time she'd been forced to go to Stepanov and ask him to assert his authority.

  That had solved the problem.

  She signed the report. A tap on her computer keyboard sent it upstairs. It was almost time to quit for the day.

  Her phone rang.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Volkova."

  "Colonel, General Stepanov requires your presence."

  Major Petrov's voice was an unwelcome intrusion.

  "Very well. I'm on my way." She disconnected.

  Now what?

  As she rode the elevator up to the top floor, she went over everything in her mind. Had she forgotten some critical element? Had there been a complaint from Syria? Had something happened? Had someone interfered with her carefully orchestrated plans? Why else would Stepanov want to see her this late in the day?

  As usual, Major Petrov was waiting when she stepped out of the elevator.

  "Follow me, please, Colonel."

  They came to the double doors of Stepanov's office. Petrov knocked and opened the door.

  "Lieutenant Colonel Volkova, sir."

  Petrov stood aside and watched her enter. Anya felt his eyes on her. She'd be damned if she'd give him the satisfaction of turning around to give him one of her withering looks.

  Pointing to a chair to the side of his desk, Stepanov said, "Take a seat, Colonel."

  "Yes, sir."

  She sat on the edge of the chair, back straight, at attention.

  "At ease, Colonel. Relax. You're not here to be reprimanded."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

  Anya softened her stiff posture, a little.

  "I have been paying close attention to reports on the status of EAGLE," Stepanov said. "I am pleased with your work."

  Anya didn't know what she'd expected, but it wasn't this. General Stepanov was not known for handing out compliments.

  "Thank you, sir."

  Stepanov looked at his watch. "It's after working hours."

  He opened a drawer on the side of his desk and took out a bottle of vodka with a green label and two glasses.

  "Please, join me in a drink."

  Anya's father had been a heavy drinker. It hadn't made her a fan of vodka, Russia's unofficial national beverage. But you didn't turn down the offer of a drink from one of the men who stood behind the presidential throne.

  "Of course, sir. Thank you."

  She took the proffered glass and raised it with his.

  "To the success of our operation," Stepanov said.

  Our operation?

  "Success," Anya said.

  They drank. The liquid was smooth and fiery at the same time.

  He refilled his glass and held the bottle out toward her.

  "Another, Colonel."

  It wasn't a question. The ability to drink vodka in Russia was a national strength and a national curse. Anya had learned long ago how to hold her liquor. It was part of the game a woman had to play to show she belonged in the masculine culture of the Army. She watched him fill the glass, wondering if he was testing her, wondering if she was expected to match him drink for drink. She would never be able to do it. She could already feel the effects of the first one.

  Thankfully, Stepanov settled back in his chair and sipped from his glass instead of throwing it back all at once.

  "Tell me, Colonel, do you enjoy your work?"

  "Yes, sir, I do. It provides satisfaction when things go as they should."

  "And when they don't?"

  "Then I try to improve my understanding of the problem so that it won't happen again."

  Stepanov nodded. "That is a sensible approach, the approach of a leader. No one leads without making mistakes. Are you comfortable with the added responsibility this assignment has brought to you?"

  "I wouldn't say I was comfortable, sir. It's much too complex for comfort. I would say that I feel challenged, in a good way."

  "An honest answer. Had you said you were comfortable, I would have wondered if I had made a mistake by giving it to you."