Transfer complete.

  Anastasia disconnects the cable and stands, looking once more at the passport photo on the screen. “You’re out of time, Jen Yates.”

  She closes the lid and carries it with her to the office.

  Sander and Renat are where she left them. Vardis is still on the sofa, wrists cuffed behind him, sweat darkening his shirt. His right knee is swelling above the point where she struck him; he’s trying not to show how much it hurts.

  “Listen …” he says, his voice softer than she remembers. “I’ll work for you. I can print passports, checks, other high-security documents⁠—”

  “Let’s introduce him to Remi and the others,” she tells Sander.

  Renat hauls Vardis to his feet. The large man attempts to resist, but his cuffed hands, bad knee, and the weight of two people on him end it fast. They frogmarch him out the door and toward their cruiser.

  Once they’re outside, Anastasia pulls out her phone and opens the specialized messaging app to forward the information to Sabine. She hits send, and the message vanishes into the encrypted network.

  Anastasia pockets her phone and takes one last look around the office. Everything is still. The Diletta hums in the back room, oblivious. She exits and doesn’t bother with the door.

  Zoetermeer, Netherlands

  An hour after receiving Anastasia’s message, Sabine keys into her office, flips on the lights, and lowers the blinds. She sits at her desk and logs in, eager to put a face to the name Sarah Price. A notification blinks in the corner of her screen: Warrant Authorized.

  The Terrorism Investigation Board granted her request. The full weight of the AIVD’s security apparatus is now at her fingertips. She accesses the intelligence database and types “Sarah Price” into the search bar.

  The system processes for a fraction of a second before the screen floods with red.

  HIGH PRIORITY ALERT. IDENTITY MATCH CONFIRMED.

  A dossier opens. A photograph fills the screen.

  Sabine’s breath catches as she recognizes the face. She has admired it a thousand times since hearing of Victor Orlov’s death in London. And now, she’s in the Netherlands working on a legal visa.

  Sabine leans back in her chair, a cold, hard grin spreading across her face.

  This isn’t just an American spy. This is the woman who put a bullet in Anastasia Orlov’s twin brother. And now, she is something far more valuable: bait.

  Anastasia wants Jen Yates. She is hunting her with a desperation that Sabine can smell through the encrypted texts. If Sabine arrests Jen, Anastasia will come for her. She won’t be able to help herself. And when she does, Sabine will be waiting.

  She turns back to the screen and opens the case file for Sarah Price. Under the “Source of Intelligence” field, she hesitates, unable to mention Anastasia. She types: Source: HUMINT Analysis/Cross-Reference with Marina Sokolova. It’s a lie, but it’s close enough to the truth to hold up in court. She saves the file, burying her trail.

  Sabine grabs her phone and calls Frederick.

  “I’m sorry to call you so late, sir, but the warrant paid off,” she says, voice trembling with feigned urgency. “I found Marina Sokolova. She’s an unregistered officer working with the Central Intelligence Agency.”

  “Are you serious?” Frederick asks, his shock evident.

  “I’m afraid it gets worse.” Sabine grins as she stares at her computer screen, and Sarah Price’s work visa. “She’s working at NoordWind, sir. The Americans have access to our power grid …”

  Sixty-Five

  Langley, Virginia

  There’s nothing quite like the thrill of a high-performance sports car. But for Gabriella Martinez, her Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG is more than just a status symbol or a reward for decades of service to the United States.

  It’s a tool.

  And she is pushing her tool to its absolute limit as she speeds down the George Washington Memorial Highway. Triple-digit numbers glow on her speedometer. The engine hums out a raspy 671-horsepower tune. At eight o’clock at night, traffic is light, but other motorists are present. All focus, she weaves through traffic like it’s standing still. But she is responding to the national security crisis unfolding in the Netherlands.

  Jen and her hard drive are at the epicenter. The photograph of Gerard LeMatt and Anastasia Orlov is just the surface; underneath, Jen has exposed her entire operation. Her alias, Sarah Price. Her Dutch work visa. The NoordWind infiltration.

  For Martinez, the subtext is screaming: Find me.

  NoordWind is a sensitive target, and if she is close to the Founders’ technology, she is in extreme danger. The drive, and its contents, are like a cavalry call—a prayer for rapid reinforcements.

  But that’s where Jen’s plan goes off the rails.

  Jen counted on her cover holding. Martinez should have accessed the drive later in her mission—perhaps after Jen’s memorial.

  Had Martinez found the drive under those circumstances, without the agency breathing down her neck, she would have buried it. Watched from the sidelines, silently maneuvering resources to clear her path.

  But the secrecy Jen needed is long gone. The agency is already spinning up a scorched-earth campaign to rip Jen out of the Netherlands, and Martinez is powerless to stop it. The Founders’ technology is a critical target, but her superiors consider it worthless compared to a NATO ally.

  Then there’s the last file. Access codes for Deadlock. It chills Martinez to the bone. Jen isn’t just asking for backup; she’s handing them a head start on the cleanup because she doesn’t expect to survive long enough to do it herself.

  Martinez exits the interstate. Apexes the curve, feels the steering wheel stutter as her tires tug against the asphalt. She straightens out on the private road leading to Langley’s campus, which is glowing in the distance.

  She tests the AMG’s zero-to-sixty on the strip of asphalt between her and the guard shack. The engine screams. The speedometer clips seventy. Orange-hot ceramic brakes slow the Benz as she approaches the gate, and the guard emerges, rifle in hand.

  Martinez drops her window. Her badge is hanging from a lanyard around her neck, and she flashes it without giving him the chance to read it. “Open the gate! Now!”

  The guard nods. “You got it, Ms. Martinez.”

  Bollards drop into the asphalt as the gate rises. Martinez enters the campus and veers left, toward the executive entrance. The two-lane road swoops through a curtain of Virginia pines before reaching the entrance. Langley keeps a row of spots open by the entrance for officers responding to emergencies. She parks, kills the engine, and runs toward the door.

  A bronze statue looms over her as she nears the entrance. The man is Nathan Hale, America’s first spy, who was hanged by the British during the Revolutionary War. His memory is a service. One that sharpens every officer who enters Langley, reminding them that their actions have dire consequences. She forces herself to stare at the statue, determined to stop Jen from enduring the same fate.

  Martinez enters the lobby. Crosses the iconic marble floor, complete with an agency seal. Sloane and Andrew are passing through security. Their clothes are fresh. Their faces are heavy, a sign of the long hours. Woody is waiting on the other side, his face a scowl. A sign of things to come, she thinks. She expects a full-court press. Given the contents of Jen’s hard drive and the hour, they won’t be happy.

  She passes through security, listening as Woody questions Andrew and Sloane about the drive.

  Woody leads them to the elevator. Presses the down button. They’re going to the Compartmentalized Operations Section, the place where Langley’s secrets are buried. The ride is silent, but Woody keeps his eyes on Martinez.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “My apartment,” Martinez replies. “In a pile of trash the OIG left behind.”

  “You’re so inconvenienced. Is that it, Ms. Martinez?” Woody asks. “Am I reading you right?”

  Martinez shuts her mouth. Best not to make the incoming lashing worse. Besides, she’s here to help Jen, and her suggestions may not land well. Best to keep him pliable. Instead, she focuses on the key details. “Do you have Jen’s location yet, sir?”

  Woody only nods, leaving Martinez to wonder what is happening. She follows Woody off the elevator, and after passing through another security screening area, they enter an operations suite.

  Martinez counts a dozen analysts working inside. The night crew. Shift three. Sum total, fifty people are using the world’s most advanced technology to find Jen. Since learning Jen’s cover identity, they’re moving at warp speed.

  They have her apartment in Groningen. The Beemer she purchased. Aliases she used, including Marina Sokolova. The agency is also missing some surveillance equipment, but they’ve been unable to find it.

  “Screen this before connecting it to our network.” Woody passes the drive to an analyst.

  “You’ve got great timing,” Deborah says. “We are about to get a look at your rogue officer.”

  “Drone is on station, ma’am.”

  “Show me.”

  The analyst tosses the ISR feed onto the center screen. Martinez’s jaw sinks. The viewfinder is wide on a vessel in the middle of the North Sea. The sun is just rising. A rich red hue reflects on the surface of the water.

  Incredible.

  When Martinez found out about NoordWind, she thought Jen would be operating in a data center. Maybe the company’s headquarters. Somewhere, anywhere, on shore. Hell, a job as a janitor wouldn’t have surprised Martinez, so long as it came with access to computers.

  “Far and wide, Ms. Martinez,” Woody says.

  A green line sprouts from the superstructure of the ship. The drone’s technology is doing its job. Text appears below the line: Sarah Price. Jen’s cellphone number is beside it.

  Anne offers a target analysis. “Ms. Yates is on the second level of the Stormvogel, Mrs. Willcox.”

  “Un-fucking-real,” Deborah says. “How are we supposed to extract her without alerting the Dutch?”

  “We don’t need to,” Andrew says. “She left us access codes. We can get into Deadlock.”

  Deborah turns. Glares at Andrew. “News you should have mentioned earlier, Mr. Xiao. Will it allow you to shut it down?”

  “Unsure … but we’ll be able to see what she’s doing,” Andrew replies.

  An urgent alert consumes the screen. The AIVD just placed Jen Yates at the top of Europe’s most wanted list. They know where she is. What she’s doing. NoordWind will soon know too. They’ll coordinate with the Dutch authorities and help arrest Jen.

  “That party was short-lived. Lock it down and get our asset back to Ramstein,” Deborah snaps.

  “Wait,” Martinez says. “Interpol will see that alert, Ms. Willcox. That means the Russian government will, too.”

  “Your point, Ms. Martinez?”

  “This isn’t over,” Martinez replies. “They will come for Jen, if they aren’t already.”

  Deborah frowns and points to a nearby conference room. “You three, timeout. We’ll call if we need you.” She nods at Woody. “Let’s huddle up and start on our political cover.”

  Sixty-Six

  Vodka is a wonderful sleep aid. It’s six-thirty in the morning, and Jen is in her cabin, wide awake after a solid nine hours of sleep.

  Katrien is gone, leaving Jen fifteen minutes of privacy to prepare for the day. After five minutes, she’s already wearing her work clothes. With her feet hanging off the side of her berth, she starts her early breakfast. She skips the go-pill, opting instead for a couple of aspirin and a quick swig of children’s nausea medicine.

  Deadlock’s health is her priority. The malware is working within the wind park and its servers. Those tasks will reduce the stability of Verdantis’s system. It could cause computers to crash. Turbines could stop spinning. Electricity will stop flowing to customers, and blackouts will follow. If those events occur, authorities will start investigating, and they won’t stop until they have her surrounded. She can’t allow that to happen.

  After removing her laptop from the trunk, she sits in the cabin’s reclining chair. Her check-up starts with the NoordWerk personnel tracking application. She grabs her work phone. Opens the application and accesses her administrative account.

  Pieter’s phone is her target, and as she accesses his messages, guilt is gnawing at her. These are amazing people, she thinks. But thoughts like that have no place in her work, and she compartmentalizes them, storing them deep in her subconscious. Complete the mission, she reminds herself as she reads through his messages.

  Pieter’s messages are simple. The wind park’s managers back in Eemshaven aren’t reporting any anomalies. They haven’t notified him of any system intrusions either. A solid first step.

  She boots her laptop and opens Deadlock’s interface.

  “Whoa,” she mutters.

  When she ended her session last night, she ordered Deadlock to map the wind park. The malware is moving much faster than she expected. It’s already inside of twenty-two turbines, around ten percent of the entire park. The spread will speed up as more infected sensors communicate with healthy equipment. A real virus.

  At this rate, she expects to be finished in a week, which will give her time to analyze the findings and conduct a search for the Founders’ quantum computer before returning to shore. The wind park’s control system is also healthy—a major bonus. She won’t need to slow or augment Deadlock as it works.

  A message from Terrance is waiting, too. She opens it and finds a list of demands in exchange for his help. It’s all nonsense: home-cooked biscuits from her mother in Texas; six months of hand-polishing the wheels of his chair; a pair of wooden clogs—which makes her snort.

  The message also contains a piece of pixel art—an assembly of squares reminiscent of an old arcade game, like Pac-Man. It’s an image of a kraken tearing through the Verdantis Wind Park. Storm clouds collect above the kraken’s head, while lightning cracks at its back. Heaving whitecaps carry turbines that the monster has torn from their bases. Electricity arcs and rushes through one of the kraken’s tentacles as it rips a turbine from its base. As it separates, a golden glow emerges from the foundation. A quantum computer revealing itself.

  It reminds Jen of the mission she undertook in Beijing. She experienced a close call, and Terrance created a similar image to mend her spirits. Today, she doesn’t need any mending, but it puts a smile on her face. He’s healing. Even though he’s thousands of miles away, he’s still working by her side.

  The message’s timestamp is another positive sign. Terrance sent it five hours ago. Anything is possible, but she doubts the FBI kicked in the door of their safe house within that time frame. Terrance and Hastings are safe, a gigantic relief.

  Jen pecks out a brief reply: Be seeing you boys soon. Keep your heads down in the meantime.

  She slams the laptop shut before Terrance or Hastings can reply. She doesn’t have time for a conversation. Or the emotional capacity. She isn’t in immediate danger, but this undertaking has been psychologically taxing. She left her team behind in Ukraine, and she still doesn’t know if they’re alright. If Deadlock gets out of hand, hundreds of thousands of innocent people could lose electricity—that includes hospitals and emergency services. Her actions will have personal consequences too. The agency is going to flay her. And if the Dutch catch her, she’s going to spend a sizable chunk of her life in a cell.

  Just focus on the mission, she reminds herself as she stows her computer in its weatherproof sleeve. She places it in her trunk and triple-checks the lock. Before stepping into the hallway, she grabs her wet-weather jacket and throws it on.

  Her nose leads her to the mess hall. Breakfast is up, and it looks delicious. She grabs a plate and loads it up with sausage, bacon, and scrambled eggs.

  The chef cocks his brow before she can step off. He nods at a fruit cup at the end of the buffet. “Ahem.”

  “Ahem your damn self,” Jen replies. “Do I look like a Californian to you?”

  “Take the fruit,” he says. “Or I’m not cooking anymore bacon for the rest of the voyage.”

  A credible threat, Jen thinks. And she’s reluctant to risk one of her dietary staples. She loads the fruit cup onto the plate. Offers a tight smile. “You’re determined … I’ll give you that.”

  “I’m watching.”

  Jen smirks. “I like my bacon crispy, so you know.”

  After the duel with the chef ends, Jen turns and gets a wave from Katrien. She’s sitting with Pieter and James. They left a seat open for her. She approaches the table but doesn’t sit. Instead, she looks under her chair. Around the table. “Just wanted to make sure you didn’t put any tacks in my seat.”

  “Impossible, Sarah,” Katrien replies. “We’re all about safety here.”

  Jen picks up the fruit cup and sighs before chowing it down. “I can tell.”

  “Strange,” James says. “You act like it’s going to kill you.”

  “A lot of things want to kill me,” Jen replies. “You’d be surprised.”

  “Everyone! I have an announcement!”

  Jen looks up from her plate to find the captain standing in the center of the mess hall. He raises his hands above his head, clapping. When the mess hall goes silent, he starts. “We have a serious low-pressure system approaching us from the northeast. It’s tracking south-southwest, and we’ll start seeing the weather deteriorate over the next six to eight hours. Forecasters also expect gale force winds of thirty-five miles an hour. Gusts will reach forty-five. Wave heights should peak around six meters. We consider these conditions severe, and we expect them to last until tomorrow morning.”

  “Captain,” Pieter says. “Would you like our teams to remain on board while the storm passes?”