An hour later, their teeth were chattering. Tempest spoke through clenched teeth. “Son of a bitch. I told you. Chaucer, I told you!”

  Chaucer said, “Wait for it.”

  Tempest was at the end of her patience. “Wait for it? You’ve been saying that for an hour. Ten miles in every direction. There’s nothing out here. They left us to die!”

  Chaucer took deep breaths, trying to regulate himself. He said again, “Wait for it.”

  This was Tempest’s last straw. “What the hell do you mean, wait for it? Is your brain broke? We’re both gonna die out here⁠—”

  Suddenly, less than one hundred yards away, the conning tower of a Los Angeles-class submarine pierced the flat ocean.

  A surfacing alarm broke the silence.

  Tempest’s jaw dropped. She looked at the submarine, then back at Chaucer, then back at the submarine. “You son of a bitch. You knew? You knew!”

  Chaucer smiled. “I hoped.”

  Tempest said, “I’m gonna take a warm shower, and then I’m gonna beat the crap outta you.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Chaban got the call at 9 p.m. London time.

  Moments later, Anya van Mier finished delivering her after-action report on the Tongata incident. “Tongata was ultimately compromised, and the witnesses escaped. We are all very sorry for the lapse in security. We hope this does not compromise anyone in Operations.”

  Chaban had many questions for Anya, but he only asked one to start. “The intruders. You’re certain they were Malcolm Chaucer and Tempest MacLaren?”

  “Yes, sir. We’re certain.”

  Both of them were names Chaban was familiar with. His path had even crossed Tempest MacLaren’s once before, though she would never know it. And as for Malcolm Chaucer, even if only a few people could identify him by sight, far fewer in his profession did not know the name. Chaban did not just know the name Malcolm Chaucer. Chaban had been following his career as closely as anyone on Earth over the last decade. He doubted anyone on the planet knew as much about Chaucer as he did.

  Chaban also knew that Chaucer and Tempest were involved in another Venture operation last year, one that went poorly for the organization. The specifics of that operation were far above his pay grade, but he knew that his operation was fast-tracked as a result. He asked, “Are they freelancers?”

  Anya said, “We’re working to find that out. They may have a connection to Praxis.”

  “Is this blowback from the affair in Brazil?”

  “I—don’t know what that is, sir.” She hated the answer even as it left her lips. It sounded weak.

  Chaban stared out a window at the lit-up London Eye, pulsing like the heartbeat of London itself. “Burn it. Burn Olana to the ground. Every Venture operative they’ve seen, burn them with it. And I want a full briefing on Chaucer and MacLaren.”

  “Yes, sir. Already efforting that, sir.”

  Chaban ended the call and wondered if this was the start of something, or the end of something.

  Just over twenty-four hours later, Chaucer and Tempest were back at Praxis. It was Tempest’s first time, and she was far less impressed than Chaucer had been.

  She leaned over as the SUV drove into the false garage and whispered to Chaucer, “A little rinky-dink, don’t you think?”

  Chaucer tilted his head. “I thought it was pretty clean. Pretty elegant.”

  Tempest looked out the window at the underground structure. “Looks like an organization for mole people.”

  Chaucer laughed. One way of looking at it, it really did.

  In Room 301, Coombs was waiting for them at the door, eager as ever. His body was vibrating with the energy of a man who had information to share.

  Chaucer did the introduction. “Tempest, Coombs. Coombs, Tempest.”

  Coombs reached out to shake her hand. “Ms. MacLaren, big fan. Huge fan. Well, I mean, not if you’re coming for me. Ha. Humor. Breaks the ice, eases tension. I’m gonna stop narrating my inner monologue now. A lot has happened since your escape. Olana burned to the ground. Just Olana, not Tongata—though there are things happening at the resort. But that private island? Burned. Gone. It made Australian news. Sydney so far, not Melbourne, but they’re always a little stodgy.”

  Tempest shot Chaucer a look. A look that said, What’s with this guy?

  Chaucer kept the conversation going. “Casualties?”

  That took the wind out of Coombs’s sails. Coombs lowered his head and said, “Seven dead, supposedly caught in the fire. We figure anyone you got a look at, they killed. They’re efficient bastards. Oh, and, uh, one hotel guest—Betsy Clark?”

  Tempest frowned. Chaucer thought back to the rosy-cheeked woman and her infectious positivity. She shouldn’t have been involved in any of this. She sure as hell shouldn’t have been killed in any of this. “Why? Why her? What did they want with her?”

  Coombs scratched his head. “There we ran into a…gray area.”

  Tempest asked, “Gray area?”

  “It means he doesn’t know,” said Guerra.

  Tempest and Chaucer spun to see Guerra approaching from the opposite direction. Chaucer noticed her walk had a little extra swagger to it, and when Tempest turned to face her, she squared her body and stood up straighter. It was like two lionesses sizing up the competition.

  They regarded each other coolly and acknowledged each other with a nod.

  Again, Chaucer was left to the introductions. “Tempest, this is Guerra. I think I mentioned her.”

  Guerra said, “Coombs has a hard time saying ‘I don’t know,’ so I’ll say it for him. We spent the last twenty-four hours looking into every biographical detail, every personal connection, every bit of information we could find on Betsy Clark of London, England, and we found absolutely nothing of any intelligence value or interest. So we’re kinda hoping you could fill in some details.”

  “Details?”

  Guerra said, “You mentioned a communications room at Olana, a feed of some kind.”

  Tempest shook her head. “We were in there for like five seconds, in an unknown facility full of hostiles. If you think we stayed there to commit anything to memory, you’ve got another thing⁠—”

  Chaucer closed his eyes. “It was communications to London. It was authorizing codes to be sent. Regarding two operations. The first operation was called Wildfire. There were three names that scrolled up on the screen, related to that op. It never got to the second op before we left.”

  Coombs’s eyes went wide, fascinated. “Well, would you—would you feel comfortable sharing those names?”

  Tempest said, “Don’t be an idiot. There were three names for a split second. There’s no way—” Tempest glanced over at Chaucer, who was staring at her. “You really did get those names, didn’t you?”

  Chaucer shrugged and listed off the three names connected to Operation Wildfire. “Aleks Sorokin, Kirill Federov, and Raisa Kuzmina.”

  Tempest shook her head. “You’re all a bunch of freaks, you know that, don’t you?”

  CHAPTER 27

  At five a.m. Chaban met with his local team. His second in command, a slight Lebanese operative named Tarik Saad said, “They’re here.”

  Chaban knew exactly who ‘they’ referred to. “Details.”

  “Flew commercial. BA. Landed at Heathrow, four-thirty a.m. They’re heading through passport control as we speak. We have more than a few people there if you want us to take care of it.”

  Chaban frowned. He knew Saad would not understand his next order, and he was not interested in explaining it to him. In truth, there was only one person who would understand his current motivations, and he had just landed at Heathrow.

  “No. Put Ade on them. I want a report on each location they visit.”

  Saad and the ‘team’ were professionals. Experts at being nameless, faceless, forgettable. A couple of them shared a quick glance, but that was all. Saad said, “It will be done.”

  Chaban knew there was a chance this was a miscalculation. Ade was his best surveillance man. He was quite possibly the Venture’s best. A Nigerian who seemed to be part bloodhound, and who had a knack for blending in unnoticed. He had successfully tracked many intelligence operatives, but these two were no ordinary quarry. Things could escalate quickly, and Chaban knew he had to come up with a plan fast.

  He left his team and got back on his phone. He dialed a number he knew by heart and set plans in motion.

  “Operations manager, Chaban. I need to speak with the CTO. I need a swarm. Here in London. Today. Details to follow.”

  Chaucer and Tempest reached the Heathrow cab stand in good order. They had both slept on the plane with little difficulty, happy simply to be on a commercial airliner with a professional pilot.

  A cab marshal held a cab for them when it was their turn in the queue, and Tempest waved it past, going to the second in line. The cab marshal was about to object, but seeing Tempest’s glare, thought better of it.

  Once inside the cab, Chaucer asked, “A little early to be paranoid, isn’t it?”

  “Never take the first thing you’re offered. That’s a rule for life.”

  Chaucer thought about it for a long moment and saw the wisdom in it. “Tyler?”

  Tempest shot Chaucer an amused glance. “Maybe sometimes the first thing works out. Just don’t count on it.”

  The cabbie reached the exit to Heathrow. With a thick Pakistani accent, he asked, “Where to, sir? Ma’am?”

  “East London,” said Tempest.

  The Pakistani cabbie looked uncomfortable. “It’s a big area, ma’am.”

  “Then give us a tour. We’ll tell you where we want to be let out.”

  The cabbie shrugged and drove on. He looked like he had been doing it long enough that he’d had far weirder requests.

  The landscape changed twice: first from the low-lying suburbs around Heathrow, then to the stone and glass of London proper, then to the old stone of East London. East London sat low in the shadow of those buildings, crouching like a panther ready to strike.

  They got out of the cab in Stratford, the smell of curry and tandoori spices wafting over them. The streets were loud. Merchants arguing with vendors, immigrants of every stripe grabbing breakfast inside cafes, arguing about the events of the day.

  Chaucer started off in the direction they meant to go, but Tempest put a hand to his chest.

  Chaucer said, “Really?”

  Tempest hugged him. At first Chaucer thought it was genuine, but in actuality she used the opportunity to talk into his ear, “We’ve got an enemy that could be anybody. We’ve got an enemy who could be watching us right now. And we would have no way of knowing. Yeah, maybe I’m paranoid. Or maybe, just maybe, our situation justifies treating everyone as the enemy. So let’s just wait until our cab is out of sight before we choose another direction.”

  Chaucer squeezed her tighter, his way of agreeing. He gave her a kiss. “You’re amazing. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Yeah, but most of those guys are dead.”

  Chaucer released her and looked out on the street, cabs everywhere. “Cabs are a nightmare.”

  Tempest nodded, knowing it to be true. If someone were following them from Heathrow, it would be the easiest thing in the world to get into another anonymous cab and follow them to this neck of the woods. There were five cabs on this road right at this moment, any of which could be surveilling them.

  Their cab rounded a corner six blocks ahead and disappeared from sight.

  Tempest nodded to Chaucer, and the two of them headed off down a side street.

  Ade paid the driver in cash and got out of his cab. For a moment, Tempest looked right at him, and he thought he had been made. But she quickly moved on, taking in the rest of the street, paying particular attention to the other cabs.

  She was good. He relished the challenge. He took inventory of what she could have seen. A little more than a head in a cab. Unlikely to get much in the way of facial features in the morning light.

  Nonetheless, Ade pulled a Kangol cap from his bag and put it on to change the appearance of his profile. Then he flipped his reversible jacket to the other side, changing color from tan to black. He waited until his prey was over a block away before he started off after them.

  The flat belonging to one Betsy Clark was in a long, tightly bunched row on a narrow street. A century ago, it would have housed married factory workers; now it was a refuge for everyone from deadbeats to dropouts to thrifty inner-city workers looking to save money on lodging.

  Betsy’s particular sliver of the street had recently been repainted. The paint was still muted in grays and whites, perhaps not to draw thieves’ attention, perhaps simply to blend in and not be ostentatious. It was a very British trait.

  It told them something more about Betsy Clark. She was someone who took pride in her home, who cared to look after it, and made sure it was welcoming.

  Chaucer knocked on the door. Tempest scanned the street.

  As they waited, Chaucer asked, “Anything?”

  “There’s a guy in a street-sweeper uniform at the end of the street. No crew. Just him.”

  “You think it’s surveillance?”

  Tempest shrugged. “Just a little off. Maybe. Maybe not.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Betsy Clark’s door opened, as they suspected it would. The Praxis research showed she lived with one Bertrand Harris, and Bertrand Harris managed a shop in Piccadilly that wouldn’t open for three hours.

  Bertrand Harris was a jolly man in a somber mood. His round, rosy-cheeked face looked designed for a smile, even though it was clear he had been crying for some time.

  After introductions and a bit of awkwardness, Chaucer and Tempest were invited in for tea. He poured them both hot cups of tea—from tea bags, with no shame. He offered milk and sugar; both guests declined. Then he sat down.

  Both Tempest and Chaucer sensed he was ready to talk, formalities out of the way.

  Chaucer began, “You said your last name is Harris?”

  Bertrand nodded. “Yes, sir. Betsy and I were…we weren’t exactly to be married, but everyone knew it was only a matter of time. Not a formal engagement yet. I had meant to get on getting that ring. I should’ve gotten her that ring.”

  Fingers fidgeting, eyes darting low right. Breathing shallow, accelerating. Bertrand Harris was exactly who he said he was—a widower in all but name. A man in the early stages of grief. Denial, most likely.

  Chaucer continued, “And Betsy’s family?”

  “Her dad died when she was young. Her mom—lung cancer five years back. Her brother’s coming down from Manchester for the memorial. He’s got three kids and has to get some things arranged, but he’ll be down, probably by the weekend. Her sister’s taking it the worst, I think. She’s overseas. Won’t be able to make it back. She’s—particularly bereft. I’m sure you can understand.”

  Chaucer probed carefully. “What do they do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Bertrand shook his head, trying to clear his brain fog a bit. “Her sister, Lorna’s the assistant manager of a bank. Her brother Tim’s a solicitor. You have to understand. Everyone loved Betsy. Everyone.”

  Bertrand nodded toward the solarium at the back of the house. A dining room table was covered in flowers—twenty arrangements at least, all a somber white.

  He said, “Yeah, well, that tells you all you need to know about that.”

  Tempest chimed in, “What can you tell me about Betsy’s job?”

  Pupils sharpened. A hitch in the breath. Tension in the arms. Bertrand’s near-hypnotic state was over, snapped by Tempest. Chaucer made no outward sign, but he was regretting having brought her.

  Bertrand asked, “I’m sorry, I—I’m not sure I quite get why you’re asking these questions. You said you had something to do with insurance?”

  Tempest looked over at Chaucer. Her jaw tensed enough for him to know she realized she’d made a mistake.

  Chaucer said nothing. It was Tempest’s job to do the lying.

  Tempest spoke again when she realized Chaucer wouldn’t. “So sorry. I thought you’d been told. We’re investigators for one of the other victim’s families. What happened at that resort should never have occurred. The family—and, well, Betsy’s family—they deserve compensation. But more importantly, they deserve answers.”

  Bertrand stalled a bit, trying to figure it out. “And—you were asking about her work?”

  Tempest’s jaw went slack. She didn’t know where to go from here.

  Chaucer knew he had to intervene. He chose a statement that was utterly true, if misleading. “It’s just for our files. If you’d like us to come back at another time⁠—”

  Bertrand said, “No. No. Somebody needs to be held to account. Account. Ha. That was Betsy’s job. She was an accountant. Certified public accountant. She probably did the taxes for half the people on this street.”

  Chaucer asked, “So mostly personal accounts? Did she have any bigger accounts?”

  “No. Just personal. There were bigger outfits that wanted to hire her, but she always said their rates were robbing people blind. She was a good woman. She—she should have had a ring.”

  Ade crouched outside, in the perfect hide. He was in the basement stoop across the street, no clear line of sight of the building opposite, but above him an apartment window was tilted out, letting in fresh air, and the angle gave him a perfect reflective surface to see everything transpiring across the street.

  His phone buzzed silently. Ade saw the number and picked it up on the first ring. He knew the number by heart, even though it had never called him before. The boss man never called a spotter himself. “Yes, sir.”

  Those were the only words Ade spoke. Chaban gave him instructions for two long minutes—specific, detailed, impossible to mistake or misinterpret. And yet the instructions left Ade with a million questions.