“Impossible,” he remarked to himself.

Cloud knew the United States would never sacrifice men as part of a deception. They would not allow three soldiers to die at a dacha. This was not in their DNA. Russia, China, for that matter almost any country but the United States, would sacrifice men. But not America.

“Oh, no,” he said to himself as a tingling sensation arose from his spine.

He arrived at the conclusion he was after: he was playing chess against an opponent who played by a different set of rules. Tonight, he’d fallen victim to the lowest of rule violations in the game of chess, a move done by children: the United States had placed an extra piece on the board. And not just a pawn or a rook. The abduction had been the work of a knight—bold, reckless, and violent.

“Interesting,” said Sascha.

Sascha’s words brought him back.

“What is it?”

“Saint Petersburg Metro,” said Sascha. “All points bulletin.”

Cloud read the document:

** FLASH: URGENT **

Possible mult homicide at rail yard

Kolpinsky Rayon km 554.7

Two dead

** SUSPECT AT LARGE **

“Where is Kolpinsky Rayon?” asked Cloud.

Sascha brought up a map of Saint Petersburg. The town was several miles downstream from Saint Petersburg, then inland, in the direction of Moscow.

“Now is the time to release Andreas’s identity,” said Cloud.

53

TOSNO, RUSSIA

They drove for several miles away from the rail yard. Dewey remained in the backseat, keeping the gun pressed to the officer’s neck. When they came to a small town, Dewey ordered the Russian to pull into the parking lot of a decrepit-looking strip mall, empty at this late hour.

“Behind the building,” Dewey ordered.

The policeman pulled in back of the building and parked next to a large black Dumpster.

“Get out,” said Dewey.

The officer got out as Dewey climbed from the back of the car, keeping the gun aimed at him.

“Give me the belt,” said Dewey. “Hurry up.”

The Russian unhooked his weapons belt and tossed it to Dewey, who threw it in the cruiser.

“Empty your pockets.”

The policeman had a wad of cash as well as a cell phone. Dewey pocketed the cash, then put the phone on the front seat of the cruiser.

Dewey stepped toward him.

“You saved your own life tonight by not doing something stupid. Don’t start now. I’m going to knock you out. When you wake up, you’ll be inside that Dumpster. Your head will hurt, but you’ll live.”

“May I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Did you abduct her?”

Dewey ignored his question, then slammed the Russian’s head with the butt of the pistol, a trained, precisely targeted strike that caused him to crumble to the ground, unconscious.

Dewey flex-cuffed the policeman’s wrists and ankles. He ripped part of his shirt off and tied it around his head and through his mouth, gagging him. Dewey lifted him over his shoulder, fireman style. He stepped to the Dumpster and dropped him in. The body made a clanging noise as it tumbled to the bottom.

By now, they knew the two dead men at the rail yard were policemen. A search for the officer’s car would be under way.

Dewey climbed back in the police car and tore away from the mall, driving without headlights. A few miles down the road, he saw a minuscule black object in the sky, directly in front of him, flying low. A moment later, he heard the dull rhythm of chopper blades slashing the air. He jacked the wheel left and barreled into a parking lot next to an apartment building. The chopper grew louder as Dewey gunned the sedan hard, streaking across the crowded parking lot. He aimed for an empty space, then slammed his brakes, sliding the last few feet as he came to a hard stop.

Clutching the gun in his right hand, the door handle in his left, Dewey listened from the car as the helicopter roared overhead, then was gone.

He stepped from the police cruiser to a white station wagon. With the butt of the gun, he smashed the rear window, then unlocked the car. He tossed the weapons belt onto the front seat.

He popped the trunk on the police cruiser. Inside sat a canvas duffel bag. He ransacked the bag and found a set of civilian clothes. He pulled out a pair of pants and a plaid short-sleeved button-down, changed, and left the police uniform in the trunk. The clothing was slightly baggy, but it didn’t rub against the gash near his knee.

At the bottom of the duffel, he found another cell phone, which he guessed was the officer’s personal phone.

He hotwired the station wagon in less than half a minute. He gunned the car toward the main road.

Dewey needed time, the time to settle things down and get away from the immediate vicinity of Saint Petersburg and the rail yard. He was in a rapidly escalating mess. He needed to make contact with Langley. The problem was, he was being hunted by FSB, one of the most notoriously hard-hitting law enforcement agencies in the world.

It had to be.

Get away. That’s your top priority.

He turned on the phone and went to the map application. He was near a town called Lyuban. Moscow was east. He studied the route, then exited the map application and dialed Langley.

After several rings, a high-pitched monotone could be heard. Dewey punched in a code and a woman came on the line.

“Signal.”

“TS 2294 dash 6.”

“Hold, please.”

A few seconds later, Dewey heard a click, then a voice.

“Where are you?”

It was Calibrisi.

“Running. Do we know where he is?”

“Not yet.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“You need to get to the safe house in Moscow. There’s food, weapons, and you can take a shower. There’s another operator waiting at the safe house as well as a case officer. Bill is sending in more men.”

“Who’s the operator?”

“His name is Maybank. He’s injured.”

Dewey glanced down at his pants. He could see red from the wound, which was continuing to bleed.

“How close are we on the intel?” asked Dewey.

“We’re working on it,” said Calibrisi. “NSA, Pentagon, Langley—everything is focused on this right now. But—”

“What?”

“It’s a needle in a haystack. This guy is an unknown. A ghost.”

“FSB is going to be tracking me,” said Dewey. “If I’m the only able-bodied operator over here, that’s a problem.”

“I’m working on other options,” said Calibrisi, quieter. “NonAgency resources.”

“Israel?”

“No,” said Calibrisi. “Someone outside official channels. I’ll tell you more when you get to the safe house.”

54

DIRECTOR’S OFFICE

CIA

Calibrisi hung up with Dewey, then dropped the cell phone to the floor and stepped on it, smashing it to pieces. He removed another disposable cell phone from his desk and dialed a number in London.

“Gansevoort PLC,” came the soft, clipped British accent of a woman. “How may I direct your call?”

“I’ve been in a car accident on Ratcliffe Highway,” said Calibrisi.

“Hold, please.”

A moment later, another woman came on the line.

“Director’s office. How may I help you?”

“Natalie, it’s Hector Calibrisi.”

“Hello, Hector. Let me get him for you.”

As Calibrisi waited, a tall man with glasses appeared outside the glass door to his office. It was Ted Wendell, the Agency’s chief technology officer. Wendell was spearheading the effort to determine how Cloud had hacked into Langley’s network infrastructure—and to sanitize it.

Calibrisi held up his hand, telling Wendell to wait.

“Hector,” came the aristocratic English accent of MI6’s Cambridge-educated director, Derek Chalmers. “How are you?”

“Not so good.”

“Did you have a little too much vodka, Hector?” asked Chalmers.

Calibrisi was momentarily quiet.