Ennis was insistent, and she knew that the way to play him for intel tonight without him realizing he was getting played was to allow him to think he was taking the lead, so she went where he led her, allowed him to pull out her chair for her and to even order a bottle of wine to share, a 2016 Pape Clément white from Bordeaux.
But before the waiter could leave to retrieve the wine, Zoya said, “Two glasses of vodka, on ice, please. A twist for the gentleman. Beluga Gold Line if you have it.”
“Very well, madam.”
Ennis smiled, gave a little whistle and a wink. “It’s been a rough day, but tonight is definitely looking up.”
Zoya smiled back at him. She had used alcohol to loosen tongues in the past, and as she had an ironclad constitution when it came to booze, she felt it was worth a shot to try to ply Ennis with a drink or two more before they even started on the bottle of wine.
He’d been nervous earlier in the day, but she could read him now. He was confident, content. The liquor and the beautiful surroundings and the company would open him up, she was certain.
While they waited for their drinks, Ennis talked about Berlin a moment, and she listened politely before finally interrupting. She was playing a role tonight, something she could do as well as any actress on any stage, and right now she wanted to convey vulnerability to Ennis, because she had the impression he got off on it.
“I have to ask, Ric.” She looked around, her trepidation not part of the act. “You’re certain no one from Shrike has been in touch with Russian authorities about me?”
He shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. You are totally safe.” He leaned forward now, their shoulders almost touching. “Trust me. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
Zoya affected a little smile while the waiter put down the two drinks. She fought like hell to keep from swiveling her head in all directions, or diving under the table.
Somebody was out here, watching her, right now.
She could feel it.
* * *
• • •
Court Gentry sat on a bench in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts on Unter den Linden and drank black coffee. The two donuts he’d downed for added quick energy were already rumbling in his stomach; he regretted eating them, but that was not where his focus lay at present.
His eyes were locked on a café across the street, some forty yards away. More specifically, they were locked on Zoya Zakharova, except when he surveyed his surroundings to make sure no one was taking an interest in him, or when sweat from his forehead dripped down into his eyes.
The man she was with was good-looking; he appeared confident by his mannerisms, and though Court was no expert on romance, he was an expert on body language, and it was clear enough the man was totally captivated by his dinner companion.
The man Brewer had identified as Ric Ennis leaned in her direction; his legs were pointed towards her under the table. Zoya did have her face and upper torso turned toward him, but under the table Court saw that her legs were directed straight ahead and not at Ennis at her left. This was a cue that he was more in tune with her than she was with him.
Still, Court watched her smile and nod passionately at the American man’s long oratories, touch her hand to her chest a few times as she seemed to laugh.
He turned away from the scene. He had a job to do, and it didn’t involve watching the woman he loved out on a date. It involved watching for anyone else watching her. He told himself the woman across the street wasn’t Zoya; she was Anthem, a Poison Apple asset in the field who needed a first-rate countersurveillance operative keeping watch over her, because there were credible—no, almost certain—threats against her.
It was still early dusk; full darkness wouldn’t take place until around ten fifteen p.m. Court had binoculars in his backpack, but he wasn’t going to pull them here. He was in the process of running countersurveillance for someone else; he didn’t have the ability to do much countersurveillance for himself, but he could, at the very least, try to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb.
He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, but inside the backpack was his dark blue business suit, carefully folded. Court figured there