“We are now live,” said Polk. “I have control.”

“Roger, control,” came a voice of a woman on speaker.

“Protocol.”

“Roger, protocol is on-screen ‘IVY,’ over.”

“Alpha 344K dash 6T,” said Polk.

“Roger Alpha 344K dash 6T. Hold for shadow.”

*   *   *

Johnny Maybank heard the buzzing noise, then felt it at his wrist. The wrist phone had five distinctive beeping patterns. This one, a dull monotone, was a call out from one of Langley’s mission theaters. It meant a live operation was under way and Maybank was being pulled in.

Maybank lay in the darkness of his Moscow apartment, giving himself one extra second, then he practically jumped from the bed. As he charged across the room to the bathroom, he typed a code into his wrist phone.

“Maybank,” he said.

“Control 344K. Go commo.”

Next to the sink, Maybank found a small pill bottle, flipped it open, and removed a transparent object the size of a Tic Tac—his earbud. He peeled a strip of covering from the adhesive on the side of the object, then stuck it in his ear.

“Commo, affirmative,” he said.

“You have Mission Theater Targa, control leader Polk,” said the woman.

“Roger.”

“Morning, Johnny, it’s Bill.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, reaching for a pair of cutoff shorts that were clumped up on the floor.

“The photograph you’re about to see is a Russian computer hacker known as Cloud,” said Polk. “He’s also a terrorist, running a live, high-target operation inside the U.S.”

Looking at his wrist, he saw a photograph of a Caucasian with blond, curly hair.

“The target is less than one mile from you,” said Polk. “His coordinates will be punched into the GPS on your wrist. He is moving, could be guarded, and should be considered very dangerous. You are to take whatever actions necessary to capture him and prepare for in-theater real-time interrogation. Do not kill him; we need him alive.”

“Roger, Bill.”

“We’re gonna try and get some backup, Johnny, but don’t count on it. Now get moving. Out.”

*   *   *

Maybank stepped out the front door of the building and broke into a hard run. He had on orange Puma running shoes, no socks, cutoff khaki shorts, a T-shirt, and a blue windbreaker. He sprinted down a side street until he reached Prospekt Vernadskogo, then went right. He charged along the sidewalk for more than a mile, checking his wrist, whose small map guided his movements. Maybank, who’d played football at the University of Texas, was running at a 4:30 pace.

When Maybank’s wrist PDA told him he was within ten feet of the cell phone, he stopped. There was only one store within ten feet, a small coffee shop. He caught his breath for a minute, then opened the door and stepped inside.

A dozen tables were filled with students, looking at their computers, talking on phones, reading, and sipping drinks. He scanned for the man with the blond Afro. He wasn’t there. He checked the restroom, then went behind the counter. Nothing. Maybank could have imagined almost any one of the customers in the restaurant being a terrorist. Half were Middle Eastern, the others a mix of long-haired Russians.

He got in line, studying the GPS signal. According to his wrist device, Cloud was within four feet of him. He reached his hand to his ear.

“Target isn’t here.”

“Are you sure?” asked Polk.

“Yeah.”

“Control,” said Polk, “I need you to dial that tracker cell.”

“Roger, NCS.”

“You ready, John?”

Maybank stepped toward the counter, reaching his right hand into the windbreaker. He found the butt of his SIG Sauer P226. He felt the suppressor sticking into the side of his torso.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Go, control,” said Polk.

“Roger, NCS. In five, four, three, two, one…”

“May I help you?” asked a girl behind the counter, in Russian, as Maybank heard the low ring of a cell phone behind him.

“Espresso, please,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

A tall, thin, young-looking man was holding the phone, his eyes darting about. He was Middle Eastern, his face covered in a beard and mustache, his skin olive.

Maybank watched as the man lifted the ringing phone to his ear.

“Someone answered it,” said Maybank. “Arab.”

“We need a photo.”

Maybank removed his hand from his windbreaker, then nonchalantly hit a button on his wrist, taking a photo of the man answering the phone.

*   *   *

Inside Targa, the photograph shot up on one of the screens.

A crosshatch of red grid lines spread across the man’s features as CIA facial recognition software quickly synthesized his face into a precise block of metadata, or code, then pushed it across a whole library of CIA, FBI, NSA, Interpol, and other databases. In less than one minute, the screen burst into a profile sheet, with a series of photos of the same individual along with a biography:

Interpol Flash: Terror Stk: Wanted Dead or Alive

ALERT:

AL QAEDA [LEVEL 2 COMBATANT]

WANTED:

AL-MEDI, Zhia

CIT:

Chechnya, RUSSIA

DOB:

26/02/85

HOME:

Grozny, Chechnya

LKS:

LAST KNOWN SIGHTING: 11/01/12—Damascus, Syria

I case L87-34-00K

ACTIONS:

Madrid, Spain + [CTU FILE WAW45] 11/3/2004 + Madrid train bombings

191 casualties: Al-Medi believed tertiary

to Atocha Station attack

Riyadh, Saudi Arabia + [CTU FILE S09U] 12/5/2003 + U.S. embassy compound bombing

36 casualties: Al-Medi driver of pre-fuel truck from Lebanon (later converted by Al-Houri into bomb) Khobar Towers (U.S. DOD—67T el-forte)

Polk tapped his ear.

“Johnny, his name is Al-Medi,” said Polk. “He’s AQ with a laundry list of hostiles. Be very careful. He could be wearing some sort of suicide vest. Also, do not let him reach for his mouth; we don’t want him munching a cyanide pill before we can grill him. We need him alive.”

“Roger that, Bill.”

Polk pointed at a separate green light on the screen.

“Highlight it,” he said.

The analyst moved the cursor above the second green light, then double-clicked. The face of a female agent appeared. She was black, with closely cropped hair.

SAD:

55007 ZEBRA

PDS:

BRAGA, CHRISTINA CATHCART

DOB:

09/03/88, Los Angeles, CA

REW:

Recruit: RUS language desk

Juilliard (2002–4) Ballet/modern dance

Yale University, Russian Studies

(D.Phil 2009) summa cum laude

“She’s your best option?” asked Calibrisi.

Polk paused an extra half second, studying the Moscow grid on the wall.

“She’s our only option.”

He tapped his earbud.

“Control.”

“Roger, NCS.”

“55007 Zebra,” he said.

“Hold, NCS.”

*   *   *

Christy Braga was typing into her laptop in her third-story office at the U.S. embassy when her wrist phone made two small beeps. She stood up, shut the door, then hit a button on the side of the watch.

“Go commo,” came the voice of Polk. “We’re live.”