But Tom does enjoy playing the game.

  YURI: Out in the field again. You should try it sometime.

  TOM: I like a warm office. Comfortable. Food. Drink. No IEDs on the road.

  YURI: Coward.

  TOM: Realist. What’s going on?

  Tom had met Yuri four years ago, when he was on assignment in northern Syria’s grinding, six-sided civil war, embedded with a Kurdish peshmerga fighting force. Yuri—Tom wasn’t sure if that was the man’s real name—claimed to be a Ukrainian journalist working for the Qatar-based Al Jazeera network, which wasn’t a popular group among the Kurds.

  But Tom, remembering his childhood of always being picked last in the schoolyard for soccer or touch football, had befriended him, sharing some of his water and rations even though he was pretty sure Yuri was working for the intelligence service of Russia or Ukraine.

  YURI: Something heavy. Interested?

  He quickly types back.

  Very. Go on.

  Back in Syria, when it came time for the two of them to return to their respective countries, Yuri had pulled him aside and said, “Look. Thanks for your help. I know I’m not working for the Times, like you do, but it’s the best I can do. I am a good reporter, a good journalist…and sometimes, when I find stories my editors won’t let me touch, I pass on to you. Okay?”

  Tom had said, “Sure,” and now here he was. Even now he still isn’t sure if Yuri is passing along news tips out of whatever journalist ethics he possesses or because he’s using Tom for Yuri’s paymasters. But each time Yuri has sent Tom something, it has been of value.

  He waits, staring at the iMessage screen.

  Has the screen frozen?

  Did Yuri change his mind?

  Then the message pops up.

  YURI: You know I got sources with FSB. Hate them but we take care of each other.

  Tom thinks, FSB. The Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, the bastard offspring of the KGB, which was begotten from the MVD, which in turn was begotten from the NKVD, and from there Lenin’s Cheka, which even had its roots in the czar’s Okhrana. A legacy of spying, spreading disinformation and fake news, and sometimes shooting their enemies in the back of their head.

  TOM: I know. Go.

  Pause.

  Pause.

  YURI: There is something stirring. Something big. Something aimed at you.

  TOM: Me?

  YURI: You, meaning Europe. Or US of A.

  TOM: What is it?

  YURI: Don’t know. But there’s been lots of traffic jams. My sources say one thing, one thing only.

  Tom knows what Yuri is saying when he mentions traffic jams. He’s not talking about the Queens-Midtown Tunnel at rush hour. No, he means an increase in intelligence traffic, also known as chatter. The easiest explanation he got for chatter had come from Amy, back when they were first dating. She had said, “If killer A is communicating with killer B and you can’t read what they’re saying, but you know they send two emails a week, that’s a pattern. If those two emails increase to twenty, or two hundred, or two thousand, even if you still don’t know what they’re saying, you know they’re talking about something important, something big.”

  That had been the case, Tom recalls, pre-9/11. There had been increases in chatter and message traffic, but nothing that could be deciphered or analyzed to point to a particular target.

  All that existed were the indications that something bad was coming, and the usual government idiocy that meant the CIA couldn’t talk to the FBI, and both agencies ignoring warnings from their respective agents in the field.

  TOM: Can’t you tell me any more? I’m getting the same whispers from this side of the world.

  YURI: Not now. But my FSB guys are certain: something bad, something bad is coming.

  TOM: Great.

  YURI: Piece of advice?

  TOM: Would love some advice.

  Pause.

  Pause.

  YURI: Get out of New York.

  Chapter 20

  THE PAIN in his side, in his skull, and in his legs grows harsher and more demanding with every step, but Jeremy is determined not to show Amy how hurt he is. He’s also determined to keep a distance between them, especially after telling her about Rashad Hussain. That part was true indeed, but as for his offer to let her help him…well, as he knew from experience, sometimes bad things had to happen for the greater good.

  Amy is down on one knee in front of him in a narrow trash-filled and urine-smelling alleyway, looking at a two-story concrete building on a street lined with two-story buildings, utility wires crisscrossing overhead, satellite dishes on top of the flat roofs. Dented and beaten-up sedans from half a dozen different automotive brands—old trade-ins from everywhere in Europe, dumped here for one more resale—crowd the street. A dog is barking somewhere. A solitary light on a utility pole at the other end of the street flickers into life as the dusk grows deeper.

  She turns to him, H&K MP5 hidden under her coat, SIG Sauer pistol in her hand, and whispers, “Is this it?”

  He squats down beside her, gritting his teeth at the pain. “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The shutters,” he explains. “The only one in the street with yellow shutters.”

  “Okay,” she replies. “What now?”

  Here goes, he thinks. “Amy…I’m knackered. Can you help?”

  “Sure.”

  Jeremy says, “The house with the yellow shutters. It has the Renault parked in front, missing the rear windscreen. Go across, knock on the door. Ask for Nassim. Tell him Ricky is here. Needs help. He’ll know what to do. I’ll stay here…”

  “Ricky?”

  “That’s how he knows me.”

  Amy says, “I don’t like leaving you behind. We’ve got a lot to do with Rashad and we can’t afford to be split up.”

  “It’s only ten meters or so. I’ll be fine. I’ll lie doggo here with the trash and wait for the two of you to come back.”

  She seems to think this through, then whispers, “Very good. Nassim. Don’t stray…Ricky.”

  He makes a point of leaning against the brick wall of the alley. “Wouldn’t dare.”

  Amy doesn’t say anything more, just does her job—which is to briskly walk across the street to the parked Renault, dodging a few potholes along the way. When she’s out of sight, Jeremy turns and limps as fast as he can to the other end of the alley.

  It’s near noon and Tom decides to take his lunch outside on this pleasant day in May. The elevator is crowded and makes one more stop as it descends, and a young man in a work uniform steps in, carrying a leather satchel over his shoulder and a wide utility belt around his thin waist, wearing tan work boots and blue chinos. He’s dark-skinned, with faint stubble on his face and thick eyebrows, and he has a work ID attached to his dungaree shirt:

  MIKE P.

  Tom doesn’t like how his fellow passengers step away to make room for the utility worker. There’s a difference between giving someone enough room to come aboard and another thing to back away because you’re afraid you’ll smell him or get dirt on your thousand-dollar suit or two-thousand-dollar outfit.

  There are knowing smirks among the high-powered passengers, and Tom feels a slow burn start inside him. He grew up in Virginia, and not the pricey and wealthy counties near the District of Columbia that serve as suckerfish around the federal government. No, he had grown up in a small town near the Kentucky border, and he knew from a young age there was no shame in working with one’s hands to make a living. Scholarships and writing prizes had gotten Tom out of the rural life, and years of trying to soften his southern accent had worked to eliminate most prejudice, but he still finds that the way blue-collar workers get treated pisses him off.

  The young man stares straight at the display, then the elevator stops, the doors sliding open.

  The man named Mike walks off. As the doors close, one man murmurs to his friend, “Hey, I didn’t know ISIS was hiring here, did you?”

  A couple of slight giggles and Tom can’t get away fast enough from these people, his supposed peers in upscale Manhattan.

  After getting off the elevator, Mike Patel walks with no apparent guilt or fear to the end of the pretty and wealthy corridor, to a plain gray door with a small black sensor lock to one side. He slides his identity pass over the lock and a little green light comes on, then the door clicks open. Mike walks in and carefully closes the door behind him. Somewhere in the security systems that keep watch in this enormous building, some computer somewhere recorded that he, MIKE PATEL, an employee of Chrome HVAC Systems and a lifelong resident of New York State, had entered this equipment bay.

  As he goes through another door and into a long corridor filled with circuit boxes, blinking lights, gray cabinets, and conduits, he reflects that the computer recording was two-thirds correct. His name is in fact Mike Patel, and he is an employee of Chrome HVAC Systems. But he is also a British citizen from Manchester, here illegally and serving a second employer.

  Who that is doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that a young woman had asked him months ago back in Manchester if he was tired of being on the dole, tired of no future, tired of skinheads spitting on him and calling him “dirty Paki.”

  Mike kneels down, places his workbag on the clean concrete floor, and remembers.

  Yes to all three questions.

  He opens the workbag, takes out a black box with attached wires and alligator clips, and with practiced ease—in his months working here, Mike has done this at least a hundred times—he secures the box in a hidden area behind an access panel.

  What does the black box do?

  Nothing, for now.

  But he knows what it will do in a very short time, and the thought of those smirking figures on the elevator getting their due justice—well, that is a wonderful thought indeed.

  Chapter 21

  JEREMY MOVES as best and as quickly as he can, knowing the few minutes standing and talking to Amy back there have caused his joints and muscles to stiffen, but he has to get on with it. Eventually Amy will find her way home, being the smart and capable woman she is.

  But right now Jeremy is out in the open as night is falling, and he wants to get to Nassim’s place as quickly as he can, which—unfortunately for Amy—is not at the house back there, the one near the battered Renault sedan.

  His mission is key and he’s going to complete it on his own.

  He stops at the other end of the alley, looks up and down. There’s a small plaza to the right with some shops that are open, and luckily for him, Nassim is on the other end, away from the few lights and the number of villagers milling around.

  Jeremy takes a breath, starts out, and—

  Something heavy slams into his back, hammering him to the dirty concrete and a puddle, and a sharp blade is stuck to his throat.

  Tom gets a thick pulled-pork BBQ sandwich from Hudson Eats on Vesey Street, and is trying to enjoy his early lunch while sitting out in the warm May sun.

  The sandwich tastes off, and he knows why. He’s warm so he shrugs off his coat and rolls up his sleeves, trying to ignore the old burn scar on his left forearm that brings back dark memories of the time he was in danger, along with Denise, and how Amy put it all on the line to rescue them.

  Something is stirring out there, and he knows it. He just knows it. It remains tantalizingly and hauntingly just out of reach, like trying to re-create a previous night’s dream.

  Another bite of the sandwich. Another squirt of BBQ sauce lands on his napkins, keeping his shirt and necktie clean. A tiny success.

  A bit of shade flicks across his view, and he looks up as his boss, Dylan Roper, sits down next to him. At first he thought it might be one of the folks doing surveillance on him, but that would have been too funny.

  “Hey,” Dylan says. “Am I paying you to have lunch?”

  “You are at the moment,” Tom says.

  Dylan is prickly, abrasive—an acquired taste. He’s pudgy and short with thin blond hair, a wide face, and slightly bulging blue eyes that express constant aggravation with the world around him. He’s wearing his warm-weather uniform: a blue seersucker suit with a white dress shirt and a tiny red bow tie.

  “Tell me you’re working on something,” Dylan says.

  “I am.”

  “Tell me it’s earth-shattering, amazing, and most importantly will give us incredible clicks on our home page.”

  “How does two out of three sound?” Tom asks.

  Dylan turns like a junkyard dog hearing someone climb over a chain-link fence. “That wasn’t a goddamn joke, Cornwall,” he snaps. “I wasn’t asking you to make a joke. I was as serious as a heart attack. I’ve got my entire savings, stock portfolio, and two mortgages tied up in Criterion. Do you?”

  Tom feels a flash of anger, knowing he has confronted worse men than Dylan—the scar tissue on his forearm is a daily reminder—and despite his boss, he does love working for Criterion.

  But he doesn’t like bullies.

  “If you’ve got a problem, tell me,” Tom says. “Otherwise, don’t treat me like a Columbia J-School intern.”

  Dylan stares and seems to back down a bit, then says, “All right. Good point. The thing is, Tom, our news stream has been thin this past week.”

  Tom says, “The story about the California governor didn’t do it?”

  Dylan says, “A politician with a sex scandal? That’s not really news. Call that a standing head, a recurring story. Just rearrange the names, party affiliation, sex, or species, and it’s a constant. No, I need a story with some meat, some strength—something only you can produce.”

  Tom considers that and says, “I am working on something.”

  Dylan smiles. “M’man. What is it?”

  “No details right now,” Tom slowly says. “But if it goes the way I think it will, the story will be huge.”

  “Guaranteed?”

  Tom shakes his head. “Can’t guarantee, but I’ll know better in a day. Maybe two.”

  Dylan gets up. “All right. Do what you need, run up any expenses that are necessary, but I’m relying on you to come up with something that will make the world and my investors sit up and take notice.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Tom says, not liking being forced into a trap like this.

  “Tom,” he snaps again. “Get your ass back to work. And show me your best.”

  Dylan strides across the plaza, and Tom takes his napkins and quietly crushes up the rest of his lunch. It seems like his anger is brightening the burn tissue on his forearm as he stands up and walks off as well, the twin reflecting pools a couple of blocks away but very much on his mind.

  Get out of New York, Yuri had warned him.

  No.

  He is going to work this story, right here, no matter what.

  Chapter 22

  HITTING SOMEONE from behind isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies. Especially if your target is an experienced ex-SAS trooper attuned to his surroundings. But I have the advantage of being in better shape, coming at him by surprise, and being one pissed-off team leader.

  I slam into Jeremy and drop him to the smelly wet ground of the alley. Because I want to make my message explicit, I draw my Ka-Bar knife and press it against his right carotid artery.

  “Jeremy,” I harshly whisper, “you’re doing a rotten job improving Anglo-American relations.”

  He grunts and moves under me, and I push the knife in just a bit harder. I hope I’m drawing blood, because that’s the only way I’m going to get his attention.

  “You’re screwing with me,” I go on, “and I only allow one man in my life to do that.”

  “Amy…get off, damn you.”

  “Only if we reach an understanding,” I whisper. “No more keeping me out of the loop, no more trying to leave me behind. We’re in this together. I want your vow that the nonsense is over.”

  “The nonsense is over,” he says. “You have my personal word. You will be at my side throughout the duration of this mission.”

  I almost get up, but quickly say, “And I’m the one who determines when the mission is completed, correct?”

  “Christ, you’re heavier than you look,” Jeremy says. “Yes, you’ll make that determination. Now will you get me up? I think my face is in a pile of dog shit.”

  “All right,” I say, keeping my voice low, looking down the trash-filled alley. “Where to now?”

  He coughs, and in the dim light he really does look like crap. But I don’t feel bad. He tried to dump me and got what was coming to him.

  He wipes an arm across his face. “We go see Nassim.”

  “Oh,” I say. “So the mysterious Nassim exists. And who lives in the place with the yellow shutters?”

  “His cousin Ali,” Jeremy says.

  He steps out of the alley and I join him in the narrow street, the sounds of radios and televisions coming out from the dark homes, dogs barking, some folks talking loudly or shouting. Across the street, two men huddle in a doorway, smoking; they give us a long, unfriendly look as we quickly stroll by.

  Jeremy says, “This part of Lebanon is mostly Maronite Christian. They don’t like outsiders. Those types are usually Hezbollah or smugglers.”

  “Thanks for the commentary,” I say, staying close behind him. “Then let’s get inside and make them feel better.”

  We jog down to the right, to an even narrower street, where Jeremy finds a recessed doorway with a little grilled window set near the top of a heavy wooden door. He stands by one side of the door and I stand by the other.

  Jeremy hits the door twice with his fist and calls out a quick phrase in Arabic.

  Something slides aside from the top grill, letting a little beam of light shine out.

  A man’s voice replies from inside, the Arabic muffled.

  Jeremy replies, louder this time and a bit more frantic.