“Pretty clever if you ask me,” MoMo replied. “Probably the last place anyone searching for national security information would ever look.”

  Amir plugged it into his laptop’s USB adapter and logged into his work account. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

  “You can use your Sirocco program to break it, right?”

  “As long as we do it before Sirocco becomes fully sentient and destroys all of humanity,” Amir joked, playing upon the public fear of his company’s new large-language-model chatbot.

  Capable of self-improvement, Sirocco was revolutionary in the AI field. It possessed the ability to evolve on its own, independent of humans. Getting “smarter” solely by being asked questions was no longer its modus operandi. Sirocco now actively sought out information, broadening its intelligence.

  Where it was really making strides was in math—one of the biggest weaknesses in AI models. And one of the ultimate puzzles to be solved with math was encryption. It was rumored that Amir’s company had cracked the global gold standard: AES-192 encryption.

  It was a feat that even the biggest supercomputers could never achieve. Now, with a laptop and access to the right software, it might be banged out in a matter of moments.

  “You’re lucky,” Amir stated. “Whoever encrypted this key fob was good, really good, but he wasn’t perfect.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He didn’t anticipate me, and Sirocco, cracking his flash drive.”

  Turning his laptop around, he showed MoMo what he had done. “We’re in.”

  CHAPTER 43

  “Jesus, MoMo,” Brunelle exclaimed as she looked at her screen. “What the hell did you unlock?”

  “Pretty messed-up, right?”

  Normally, she wouldn’t have allowed anyone from work to come to her apartment, but MoMo had insisted. Emphatically. And now she understood why. He had done so with very good reason.

  “Has anyone else seen these?” she asked.

  “Only my friend Amir. But he’s okay. He used to be with ANSSI.”

  Brunelle immediately reached for her phone. “Auberge 71322,” she said when her call was answered. “I need a button and fade from the following location.”

  Looking at MoMo, she stated, “Give me the name, address, and a physical description of your friend.”

  Unnerved, but understanding the urgency, MoMo complied.

  “Do you know if he’s armed?”

  MoMo shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Full tactical team,” Brunelle said into her phone. “They have priority. Make sure we get his laptop and any digital storage devices. I don’t care how messy it gets. If anyone steps in your way, flatten them.”

  MoMo was aghast. Brunelle didn’t care. “He accessed his company cloud?” she asked. “While in control of the flash drive?”

  “Yes,” the young man admitted, “but I didn’t think this was going to—”

  Brunelle cut him off as she continued to relay information over the phone. “We’re also going to need to do a full lockdown on the subject’s place of business. Shut off the power and kill their generators. I want all internet access disabled. This is going to be a political firestorm, so call in every single one of our lawyers. I’ll be in the command center as soon as I can get there.”

  “Don’t do this,” MoMo implored. “I grew up with Amir. He’s a good person.”

  “He could be a great person for all I care. Right now, none of that matters. All I’m concerned with is containing what may have leapt out of the Pandora’s box you just opened.”

  “Wasn’t opening it my job?”

  “For fuck’s sake, MoMo,” Brunelle replied. “Your job was to unlock it. Not to read through all of it. You know that. Opening it was my job.”

  He was ashamed. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I’d hit a wall on the flash drive and thought that this might help move us forward.”

  “It’s a huge breakthrough,” she said, softening her tone. “But in the future, things need to be contained within DGSI. When sensitive material escapes into the wild, recovery efforts can get quite feral.”

  “Will Amir be okay?” he asked. “He was only doing me a favor. He didn’t intend to do anything wrong.”

  Brunelle was about to respond when she heard the sharp chirp chirp of a police Klaxon downstairs announcing that her ride had arrived.

  “Your friend’s going to be fine,” she ended up saying. Gathering what she needed, she herded MoMo toward the door.

  “What about me?” he asked as she kept pushing him toward the stairwell.

  “Keep your mouth shut. Don’t touch your phone until I call you. And if you reach out to your friend Amir and tell him we’re coming,” Brunelle warned, “I’ll kill you myself.”

  CHAPTER 44

  EZE

  Someone could have dropped an atom bomb on the driveway behind him and Harvath would have kept on walking into the villa, and heading straight for the bar. Right now all he cared about was Sølvi and a glass of bourbon. Everyone else, especially his blackmailers at the CIA, could go fuck themselves.

  As he passed the library, Nicholas looked up from his desk, but even the dogs seemed to know better than to engage. Something about Harvath had changed. He had brought a piece of the operation back with him. A bad piece.

  Hitting the bar, Harvath grabbed the first bottle he saw, snatched up a glass, and headed out to the terrace.

  Not long after, Sølvi came up from the basement debriefing room and, realizing that he was home, followed him outside.

  As she passed the library, Nicholas caught her attention and tried to wave her off. “He needs space,” the little man said.

  Sølvi smiled, ignored his advice, and kept walking. Stepping out onto the terrace, she found Harvath on one of the chaise lounges and sat down next to him.

  The greatest thing about their relationship was that most of the time they didn’t need words. With a look, they could tell what the other was thinking. That said, this wasn’t one of those times. The moment required a modicum of communication.

  “Should I be concerned that you went right for the bourbon instead of the champagne?” she asked.

  Head back, eyes closed, he took a sip of his drink and replied, “I think I’m out.”

  “Of what?”

  “Everything.”

  Interesting, she thought.

  Nudging him for his glass, she took a long, slow sip and allowed her fingers to linger over his as she handed it back.

  “What about the name Grechko has for you? The last person supposedly responsible for your wife’s murder?”

  Taking another sip of his drink, he replied, “Maybe I’ll give it to Johnson. It was his idea, after all, to go after Tsybulsky. And he was right. It was a good idea. Not to mention that Johnson’s like the Terminator. We may make fun of how much stuff he breaks in the process, but he never stops until his target has been flatlined.”

  Sølvi didn’t doubt it. Johnson was intense. He was the axe murderer of the group. No matter how many times you thought he was down, he always got back up. To this day, she still couldn’t believe that he was married to a lovely woman who worked in a children’s bookstore.

  The idea that she was putting books in innocent little hands while he was out putting bullets in bad guys’ heads was a circle that took a little work to square. Nevertheless, they were very happy together.

  Which brought Sølvi back to Harvath. Outsourcing a job like this, regardless of how competent Johnson was, didn’t sound like him. He had sworn to make every person pay for his wife’s murder. Now, with one name left, he was going to walk away? No, that definitely didn’t sound like him.

  “You’re not really going to give this to Johnson,” she said.

  “Of course not,” Harvath responded. “I’ll crawl into the darkest cave in the coldest, most remote corner of Siberia if I have to. Believe me, I am going to find this guy and I am going to take him apart. I’d just like a couple of days off before I do. Even my eyelids feel like sandpaper.”

  Stress, anger, exhaustion… it was all there. And rightfully so. He’d been through a lot.

  There was also his sense of humor, which she was grateful to see. It was an important part of how he healed and processed things.

  “You mentioned Tsybulsky,” she said, changing the subject. “Ready to fill me in?”

  Opening his eyes, Harvath picked up his phone and checked his flight-tracker app. The private jet that was returning the commandos to England was only minutes away from leaving French airspace. “Just about,” he replied, standing up. “Where’s Grechko? You’re both going to want to see this.”

  “We’re taking a break from his debrief,” she answered. “I think he’s in the kitchen getting something to eat.”

  “Perfect. Let’s get Nicholas and that bottle of champagne. We’re about to have reason to celebrate.”

  CHAPTER 45

  As Harvath opened a bottle of Ruinart Blanc de Blancs and filled four glasses, Nicholas had his laptop on the counter and kept refreshing a Telegram account called Stratkom ZSU. It was a Ukrainian military channel, approved by the army high command, that was known for breaking news about successful military operations, especially when they could include spectacular video. And in this particular instance, they really did have some spectacular video.

  The understanding with the Ukrainians was that they wouldn’t publish the Tsybulsky story until the jet with their commandos had successfully left France. Once it had, the post went live.

  Grechko was floored. He’d had no idea what Harvath and his team were planning. Right up until this moment he had believed that they were going to fake Inessa’s disappearance and help smuggle her back to Norway.

  “My God,” he stated. “Tsybulsky’s dead?”

  Harvath raised his glass and clinked it against the defector’s. “Problem solved. Congratulations.”

  Sølvi nodded approvingly at Harvath. “Well done,” she stated, clinking glasses with him.

  “Don’t look at me,” he replied, smiling. “From what I’m hearing, it was the Ukrainians.”

  “Carried out just off the coast of Monaco. Very clever,” said Grechko. “The principality provides little to no support to Ukraine and is quite limited in conducting any sort of investigation. You averted an international incident and gave the Ukrainians a very high-profile win.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Harvath responded, taking another sip of his champagne. “But I will say this—I hope the Norwegians are paying you a lot of money. From the little bit I saw, Inessa has excellent, and expensive, taste.”

  The Russian grinned from ear to ear. “It doesn’t matter. Now that Tsybulsky’s dead, she’s rich.”

  “She’s in his will?”

  “No. In order to avoid sanctions, he put all of his foreign holdings in Inessa’s name.”

  Now all of the shell companies out of Cyprus that Holidae Hayes had found made sense. “Please tell her I’m sorry about the boat,” said Harvath.

  Grechko laughed. “I’m sure it’s insured.”

  “So the estate on Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat is hers too?” Sølvi asked.

  “Plus the chalet in Switzerland, and the flat in London, and a penthouse in New York City. She’s going to need a team of accountants to sort it all out, but she’ll have no problem affording them. Her life has just taken a dramatic turn.”

  “To the perfect crime,” said Nicholas, raising his glass. “Za zda-ró-vye.”

  “Za zda-ró-vye,” they all replied.

  * * *

  When Nicholas excused himself to go walk the dogs, Harvath topped off their glasses and suggested that Grechko join him and Sølvi on the terrace. He wanted to get this next piece of business finished.

  They took seats around a glass table and, without wasting time on small talk, Harvath got right to the point.

  “I believe you have a name and a location for me,” he said.

  Grechko took a long, slow sip of his champagne. “I assume you’re familiar with a unit of Russian military intelligence referred to only by a number. 29155?”

  Harvath nodded. “I am.”

  “Their missions include assassinations, sabotage, and other covert activities—like interfering in elections and fomenting riots—aimed at destabilizing foreign countries, particularly those in Europe. They were responsible for the poisoning and attempted murder of Sergei Skripal and his daughter, Yulia, in the UK. Skripal was a former GRU officer who had become a double agent for MI6.”

  “They used a nerve agent,” said Harvath. “Novichok.”

  “Correct. They used that same nerve agent on Alexei Navalny. They’ve also used a radioactive material called polonium-210. This is in addition to all the other tools of the dark arts—guns, knives, garrote wires, rooftops, and open windows. They can be highly sophisticated and also downright brutish. They can also be sloppy. And that’s where the name I have for you comes in.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Perhaps it was a product of being based in Europe and being so far away from Moscow, but the unit got careless. Several members were caught on CCTV footage. Several more didn’t change cell phones often enough, which allowed their movements to be tracked. Missions had to be scrapped. Assignments were abandoned. The powers that be back at the GRU were not only angry, but also embarrassed, which only made them more angry. They decided to send in a man named Colonel Ivan Kapralov.

  “Kapralov had served with Spetsnaz GRU in both the Second Chechen War and the Russo-Ukraine War. In both actions, he tortured, maimed, and killed a lot of people. Men, women, children, the elderly—you name it. For his service, he was awarded Hero of the Russian Federation.

  “He was loathed within the GRU. His fellow intelligence officers wanted him out of the building and as far away from them as possible. As he had earned ‘preferred status’ from the Kremlin, he was put in charge of unit 29155, and sent off to Europe. When it came time to prepare the operation to snatch you from the United States and bring you back to Russia, Colonel Kapralov was put in charge of selecting the team and drawing up the mission plan. He authored the rules of engagement, which called for any witnesses to be killed.”

  “Including my wife,” responded Harvath, his jaw tight.

  Grechko nodded.

  “Where do I find him?”

  “They’re based near Paris. Six of them in a safehouse. The location changes every couple of months.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  The Russian shook his head. “No,” he replied. “But I have the next-best thing.”

  CHAPTER 46

  MCLEAN, VIRGINIA

  As her workday had begun so early, Maggie had no problem leaving the office a little before five o’clock.

  Per Holidae Hayes, Scot Harvath’s operation had been a success. Arkady Tsybulsky was dead.

  There would be tons of Russian media reports to sift through and analyze—the most important of which would be clipped and waiting for her in the morning. Her overnight team was more than capable of handling the surge without her. If anything rose to the level of needing her personal attention, they knew where to find her.

  Driving home, she parked the old Volvo in the garage, changed clothes, and hopped on her bicycle. She needed to pick up a few things for dinner and a brisk bike ride was the perfect way to clear out some of the cobwebs.

  In order to avoid rush-hour traffic, she stuck to the side streets. It added a little time to her journey, but not much. She was happy for the additional physical activity.

  As she pedaled, she allowed her mind to wander. There were so many things that she and Paul had been forced to put on hold or cancel since the Belarus situation had popped up—a literary festival on Nantucket, the opening of a favorite chef’s new restaurant in Nashville, use of a friend’s cottage in upstate New York…

  None of them were devastating losses and they both understood the demands of her job. In times of crisis, she needed to be not just available, but also physically present. She was the leader of Russia House. That, as Paul liked to joke, was why she got paid the “big” bucks.

  In all fairness, the bucks weren’t that big, which was what made Paul’s joke all the more amusing. Quite frankly, if not for her grandmother’s disciplined investing and subsequent largesse, Maggie and Paul would never have been able to afford the kind of lifestyle they enjoyed. Their house and the large parcel it sat on were easily worth several million dollars.

  That wasn’t to say that having to cancel plans didn’t come with a sting. It did. And even though he would never admit it, Maggie was certain that the sting was felt even more acutely by Paul. Travel was in his blood. He absolutely loved it. The bigger the trips, the better.

  But the little trips had their place as well. They were escapes. Worlds away from their lives as civil servants, the sojourns functioned as release valves, allowing them to blow off steam and just be themselves. That was particularly important for Paul, who worked “in” a department rather than over one, like Maggie.

  She knew that being so incredibly bright made it difficult for him to take orders from people who were less intelligent. Not that Paul ever complained. He didn’t. Not once. He was an absolute stoic. But when she listened to stories about his day, she could read between the lines. It was as if she could almost hear him say it.

  If she had to put a word on it, the trips were a reward. They were a reminder that they didn’t live to work. They worked to live. And considering how many people she knew in D.C. who came home and did a swan dive right into their liquor cabinet, there were much less healthy ways than travel to deal with a job that you might not be in love with.

  So, if at the moment they couldn’t travel, she was determined to double down on the other things they loved and still could engage in. Chief among them was food. More to the point, it was cooking—either together, or for each other.

  Paul had cooked her a fabulous breakfast this morning, only to have it be interrupted by Maggie’s office. She was determined to make it up to him. To that end, she planned to make one of Paul’s favorite dishes: Paella de Marisco.