It was a fair deal. It’s over. Time for a new contract.”
They were sitting in the back seat of Irlov’s Honda Pilot. Not exactly a Lambo, but then Brian supposed he wasn’t exactly James Bond. He reached for the door handle—
“No more treats until you do right.”
“I tell you as a friend. Don’t do this. The bill, it will be yours.”
“Kill me. Who’s gonna chirp about OAKLEAF then?”
“No one said anything about killing you, Brian.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Brian gave Irlov a quick two-fingers-to-the-forehead salute and stepped out. He felt about ten feet tall as he walked through the parking lot. Sooner or later they’d come back. What was a couple million dollars to the Kremlin?
* * *
The fall and winter passed with no word from Irlov. Not a threat, not a plea. Nothing. The spring too. Brian kept piling up information. He wanted to have a whole buffet for Irlov when they finally met again, let the SVR know what it had missed all those months.
After a year, Brian found himself growing nervous. He’d expected something, at least a flutter. Maybe he ought to contact the man himself. He still had the emergency codes.
But first they had this twentieth-anniversary trip to Europe.
* * *
Just as Irlov warned, the bill had come due. Higher than Brian had ever imagined.
As soon as Rebecca had mentioned the couple in Paris, he’d known. No way would Kira disappear on her own. She was too steady to go home with some random guy. If she did she would tell Tony. Maybe not Brian or Rebecca. But Tony. Tony was the family’s goofy good-luck charm, the one who could always make them laugh even if he wasn’t always in on the joke.
If Tony didn’t know where she was, then she was gone.
Why? This operation was expensive and risky. Why not just pay Brian? But Irlov was making a point. Brian had insulted the man. He’d taken Russian money and walked.
Had he really thought the SVR would just go away? So stupid, so arrogant.
And they’d waited… and waited… and hit him in the most painful way possible.
Irlov had to know Kira and Tony were the only two people in the world he cared about. He’d bragged about Kira getting into Tufts, about Tony’s first date. Meanwhile he’d joked about Rebecca—he’d once been late for a meeting because of a nasty accident on the Beltway and told Irlov, Too bad it wasn’t Becks. Irlov had smirked. And listened. No doubt the Russians had a file on his motivations, his weaknesses. Subject cares for his children, shows little interest in his wife.
How had he deluded himself into believing these people were his partners?
* * *
He’d bought a burner two nights before, while he was casing the Gothic Quarter bars. He’d called and texted Irlov a dozen times. He’d even found a public phone and called the Russian Embassy in Washington directly, a huge operational mistake. “I need to talk to Feodor Irlov.”
“Who?” a Russian woman said.
“Please—” But she’d already hung up.
The hours passed. Irlov didn’t call. Or text. Or email. The man was letting him twist, making his point.
Meanwhile Rebecca raced from police station to club to apartment with her mad-dog efficiency. Brian wanted to tell her to stop, that she had no chance of finding Kira. But then he’d have to tell her the truth. A truth she’d never understand.
Because everything that had happened was Rebecca’s fault. She was the one who’d taken away his manhood, who’d made him turn to the Russians.
Her fault. Not his.
Anyway, he believed Irlov would give him a chance to win Kira’s freedom before the Russians did anything permanent. So he waited.
Now he couldn’t wait any longer.
He lay beside Rebecca in bed in the apartment, Barcelona mostly quiet now, only an occasional distant shout. For once Rebecca was sleeping badly, grumbling and turning.
Maybe he could point Rebecca the right way without giving up his involvement. Maybe he should try Irlov again. Maybe—
No. He had to tell her. As soon as he did, everything would change. Someone senior would make a quiet call, Let the girl go, she’s not your problem. The FBI director. Maybe even the president.
Kira would be safe. And Brian would spend the rest of his life in prison.
“Becks.” A whisper. He would have to work his way up to it. “I have to tell you something—”
* * *
Beside him the burner buzzed.
A text, one line. 0630 AM. Ten minutes. Brian pulled on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, crept out