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The vibration continues.
From his pocket he takes out an MI6-issued combination earbud and microphone, which he places in his left ear, the one farthest from Amy.
He answers the call.
“Windsor.”
Jeremy instantly recognizes the voice at the other end. “Is your mission proceeding?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are we certain Rashad Hussain will be there?”
“Quite certain,” he says.
“And is that American woman still with you?”
He waits just a moment too long. The voice returns, louder and more demanding.
“I said is that American woman still with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get rid of her,” the voice says. “Tonight. No excuses, no exceptions. Understood?”
The rear interior of the car is barely illuminated by the iPhone screen, and Jeremy can just make out her shape. The woman who saved his life twice yesterday—is she looking in his direction, or out the window at the darkness?
“Yes, sir,” he says. “Understood.”
He disconnects the call and Amy says, “Important?”
“Somewhat,” he says. “My boss, wanting to know if everything is proceeding on track.”
With a light tone in her voice Amy asks, “And anything else?”
He doesn’t bother agonizing over what he says next. “Yes. He wants me to get rid of you. It seems that besides the CIA smoking you, you aren’t welcome by my folks to come along.”
“Nice to be popular,” Amy says. “So when are you dumping me? Tonight? Later?”
He turns to look out at the dark landscape speeding by, recalling all they’ve experienced over the past few days.
“Never,” he says.
Chapter39
IN THEpassenger seat of the dark blue Fiat Doblò Cargo van, Rashad Hussain says, “My watch says ten more minutes. How about yours?”
Behind the steering wheel, Marcel Koussa looks at his wrist. “Mine says nine.”
“We’ll go with ten, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
The interior of the van is dark. Like Marcel, Rashad has on a set of night-vision goggles—Russian-made gear that was stolen off the secret battlefields of eastern Ukraine. Though he imagines he hears voices behind him, he ignores them and continues to look through the windshield.
They are parked among low brush and saplings at the end of a stretch of cracked pavement belonging to an abandoned runway from after World War II, waiting for a private propeller-driven aircraft to arrive. Earlier Marcel had walked both sides of the bumpy-but-still-usable runway, putting down infrared lights that will be visible only from the sky by their pilot from Kazakhstan.
“Tell me, Marcel, have you ever been to America?”
