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Zoya looked away without responding.
“Two hours ago you were telling me you were scared that I was bored and wanted to get back into the field. You said it like it could ruin us. Now you’ve done a one-eighty, and you’re the one that wants to go back out.”
“I…If it were anyone else asking…”
“My answer is no, Zoya, and I really hope yours is, too. I know Lancer. I worked with him. I’ve really got no desire to get on the man’s bad side. If you haven’t noticed, we aren’t exactly in the best operational shape of our lives. Either of us.”
She cocked her head. “You worked with the assassin?”
“Years ago. Trust me…Lancer sucks.” Court added, “To him, collateral damage is a feature of his work, not a glitch.”
“So I just let this guy find and kill Uncle Slava?”
Court leaned back in his chair. “He’s not your uncle! And he’s not mine, either.” He stood up suddenly. “We should have bugged out two hours ago. I’m leaving town as soon as I have the cover of darkness. You need to figure out what you want to do.”
As he headed off the balcony and into the flat, Zoya called out for him.
“I love you.”
“Then you will listen to me. If just this once. Let’s just keep running.”
The sky opened up, Court went inside, and Zoya just sat there looking up into the black clouds as it rained down, unaware of the unblinking eye above looking right back at her.
SIX
At Tactical Operations Center Gama in Singapore, the Norwegian director turned away from the large monitor showing the apartment balcony from above, and towards a technician from South Africa. “Still nothing on the male?”
“He’s a ghost, sir.”
Martina Sommer, the forty-three-year-old German communications specialist known here in the room as “Fourteen,” called out, “Sir, the weather has started. Forecast says four or five hours of gusting winds and precipitation. Suggest we contact the on-scene wrangler and have him pull aerial coverage.”
Before he could acknowledge her request, the director heard a beep on his laptop, and he looked down at it. “It’s the boss. Stand by.”
Words popped up in the instant message box soon after.
This is Cyrus. Be advised, the Mexico City tasking is on hold. Cyrus is now designating Genrich, Borislava I, as target Gama 17, and Zakharova, Zoya F, as target Gama 18. Tasking asset “Lancer” into AO. Local support en route.
Lars typed a response quickly on his keyboard.
Understood. Be advised; halting ISR mission over Panajachel until weather clears.
ISR was intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance, the quadcopters beaming images of the area. The expected afternoon rains and wind could easily send the devices crashing to the ground, so an immediate recall was warranted.
Cyrus replied.
Unfortunate, but understand conditions not conducive to ISR at this time. Resume coverage at earliest possible opportunity.
The director finished his instant message conversation, then stood up and addressed his team. “Physical assets are moving in.” He turned to Martina. “Fourteen. Contact the wrangler in Panajachel and have him recall all drones. I want them charged and ready for when Lancer and his team arrive. We will be providing eyes for the assault force.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman replied.
•••
Just after relaying the order to the drone pilot in Guatemala, Martina Sommer took off her headset, dropped it onto the desk in front of her, and ran her fingers through her thick copper red hair. She rubbed the dark circles under her eyes, closed her eyes a moment, and wondered how the fuck her life had managed to come to this.
What was she doing here?
A wanted Russian spy is a target, a Russian businessman is a target, a Russian engineer is a target. Fine. Someone is killing Russians. But what about the American Defense Department employee in California or the Japanese artificial intelligence expert in Osaka? And what about the hits in Sydney and Bangkok, and the other assassinations they had planned? None of these targets are, or were, Russian.
