Meanwhile, he still had a business to run and, most important of all, a false-flag operation to organize. Vermulen had persuaded himself that if he was right about the threat from Islamist terrorism, then it would be inexcusable to sit back and do nothing. Even if his actions were questionable, they were better than the alternative.

His plans were beginning to form now. He was going to take a couple of months off from the business. If anyone asked, he’d tell them he was taking a break by traveling around Europe, combining a spell of R & R with the opportunity to make new contacts. He would not mention, however, that the contacts were those required to procure a nuclear bomb. His itinerary would take him to Amsterdam, Vienna, Venice, and Rome, to start with. After that, he’d see how things panned out. Natalia could book him transportation and hotels as he needed them.

And then a thought struck him. If he was in Europe and she was back in D.C. it would always be tricky keeping in touch and ensuring that everything ran smoothly. It would really be much more efficient if she was with him, right there on the spot, looking after him day to day. Obviously he couldn’t tell her who the people he was meeting really were, and he’d have to send her home well before the final phase of the operation. In the meantime, though, they’d be thrown together in some of the world’s most romantic cities. If nothing happened then, it never would.

Vermulen could simply have ordered Natalia to accompany him, but that wasn’t the best way to go if he wanted her to feel good about him. He’d be asking her to spend several weeks away from home, on call 24/7, with only him for company. If she didn’t want to do that voluntarily, he wasn’t going to gain anything by forcing her.

When he asked her to come into his office, his heart was pounding. He felt like a nervous kid summoning up the courage to ask for a prom-night date.

As always, Natalia looked poised and imperturbable as she awaited his instructions.

Vermulen reminded himself that he was a decorated combat veteran who had faced enemy fire on three separate continents and had commanded thousands of fighting men. How tough could it be to face one beautiful woman?

“As you know,” he said, adopting what he hoped was a relaxed but businesslike air, “I will be spending some time in Europe this spring. I need a break, need to get away-it’s been a tough few years.”

“Of course,” she said. “I quite understand.”

“Good… good… Anyway, as you know, I will be doing some business while I’m away, taking meetings and so forth, so there’ll be a fair amount of administration required, which would best be handled on the spot. I was wondering, therefore, whether you would be willing to accompany me on the trip. It would be in a purely professional capacity, of course, and I would compensate you financially for the loss of weekends and free time while you were away. Does that sound, ah… agreeable to you?”

She looked at him for a moment, frowning slightly.

“Do you want me to arrange separate tickets for myself, coach class?”

“Oh, no, that wouldn’t be right. You can travel first class, like me.”

She seemed surprised.

“That’s very kind, sir, thank you. And accommodation?”

“We’d stay at the same hotels. So, are you interested?”

She thought for a second.

“I will have to change some personal arrangements. And I would need to arrange for someone to cover for me here while I am away. But that should be possible, so, yes, I would be happy to travel with you, sir.”

“Outstanding,” said Kurt Vermulen.

That evening, Alix Petrova met the FSB agent who was her Washington handler on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

“The assignment is proceeding as planned,” she said. “Vermulen is clearly infatuated. He has asked me to go with him on a trip to Europe. He is telling everyone, including me, that he is taking an extended vacation, but I am certain that there is more to it than that.”

She handed over a plain white envelope.

“The itinerary for the first three weeks is in there, including flight numbers and hotels. It should not be difficult to arrange meetings and drops at any of the places we will be visiting.”

“Excellent,” said her handler. “So, what is he like, this General Vermulen?”

“If you want to know,” she replied, “he is a very fine man. I like him, which only makes me despise myself even more for what I am doing to him.”

The handler raised an eyebrow.

“I think I will leave that last observation out of my report to the deputy director.”

“No,” said Alix, “please don’t. It will make her happy to think that I am suffering.”

A week later, Kurt Vermulen was in Amsterdam. He’d given the woman he knew as Natalia Morley the day off. Now he was standing on a piece of scrubland down by the docks, where weeds grew between the boats pulled up onto the shore, and an old barge rusted in the water at the end of the plot. He was about to put a face to a name he’d known for a decade or more, an old Defense Intelligence Agency case file transformed into a live human being.

A car turned off the road, drove past him, and pulled up about fifteen yards beyond. A thin man in a black suit, lank hair falling over the collar, emerged, smoking a cigarette. He threw the stub onto the damp, gravelly earth and crushed it with his heel, immediately lit another, then walked toward Vermulen. They didn’t bother to shake hands.

“Jonny Koolhaas?” asked Vermulen.

The man shrugged. He angled his head and blew a plume of smoke into the air, away from Vermulen, still looking at him from the corner of his eye.

“So what do you want?”

“A supplier of untraceable weapons and equipment, accessible at short notice. I’ll need pistols, submachine guns, grenades, plastique. Nothing fancy. Also vehicles. Untraceable, of course.”

“And why would a respectable American officer want all that?”

There was a glint of amusement in Koolhaas’s eye. It always pleased him to watch upright, law-abiding citizens having to trade in his criminal world.

“Well, perhaps you will tell me when it is over,” he said, when Vermulen had not answered. “But yes, I can arrange for those goods to be available at any time.”

“That’s good. Does your network cover Eastern Europe?”

“I have associates in the East, yes.”

“How about the former Yugoslavia?”

Koolhaas stubbed out the cigarette.

“Possibly, yes.”

The following day, Vermulen transferred the first installment of Koolhaas’s payment to an account in the Dutch Antilles. Natalia Morley had accompanied him to the bank, where he made the transfer.

He took her arm as they walked away.

She didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he was making progress.

Another three days had passed, and they were taking their places in the magnificent white-and-gold horseshoe of boxes that rings the auditorium of the State Opera House, Vienna. The performance that night was Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Vermulen, however, hadn’t come for the music.

Vienna was the city where Pavel Novak conducted his business, trading people, weapons, and information. It was no coincidence at all that Vermulen and Alix happened to bump into Novak and his wife, Ludmilla, in the bar before the performance. After introductions had been made, while the ladies were complimenting each other on their dresses, Novak stepped close to Vermulen and spoke into his ear, the way you do when you’re middle-aged and it’s getting harder to make out what someone’s saying over a background roar of conversation. Or when you’re passing on secrets about weapons of mass destruction.

“The sale of documents has been confirmed. The vendor is a Georgian, Bagrat Baladze. He is paranoid, out of his depth. He refuses to put his goods in a bank, insists on having them in his possession at all times. He is also terrified that another, bigger gangster will find out what he has and take it from him. So I have arranged for him to go into hiding at a series of locations while the sale is arranged. In four weeks’ time, he will arrive at a converted farmhouse in the South of France. That will be your best opportunity. I will give you exact details nearer the time…”