CIA SAFE HOUSE, MOSCOW —28 SEPTEMBER

The darker the night, the brighter the stars;

The deeper the grief, the closer is God.

Marcus woke before dawn to the crash of thunder and pouring rain and a line from Dostoyevsky echoing in his head. Despite the miserable weather, he desperately needed some fresh air and some time alone with God. There was still no answer from Langley about his extraction plan. All he could do was wait. And pray.

So he dressed in sweats and running shoes, put on his wristwatch, and wrote a note to let Morris know where he was going and how long he’d be gone. Then he headed to the bathroom, intending to leave the note on the mirror for when she awoke. But there was already a note waiting for him. Morris had gone out for a run nearly thirty minutes earlier.

Marcus grabbed the satphone and stuffed it in his pocket, then headed downstairs and onto the street. The only illumination came from the streetlamps, but they would do. There was no traffic.

He decided to head north, making sure to carefully note landmarks along the way so he could find his way back when he was done. It was cold and getting colder. He could see his breath and soon felt the sting of the elements against his face. As the temperature dropped, this mess would become a freezing rain, and he fully expected snow flurries would be coming soon. He made a mental note to check the weather forecast when he got back and factor it into the contingency plans they were making. Then he cleared his thoughts, choosing to listen only to the sound of his feet pounding and splashing along the wet pavement and the gurgling of the rainwater flowing into the storm drains and sewers along the route.

It was time to start a new chapter, he told himself. He’d been stuck for too long. Maybe Pete was right. He’d been battling depression, and he’d been losing. How much longer could he go on like that? Elena was gone. Lars was gone. They weren’t coming back. They’d loved the Lord. They were safe with him now. They weren’t suffering. Only Marcus was. Years were going by. How much suffering was enough?

Marcus couldn’t say why God had taken them. After much study of the Scriptures and many counseling sessions with Pastor Emerson, he no longer worried that God was punishing him for the years he’d let his work with the Secret Service dominate his life and distract him from his family. If he had sinned, he knew God had forgiven him. But the truth was he still struggled to forgive himself. He’d always thought there would be more time. He’d been wrong. He’d been dead wrong, and he was going to have to live with that regret in some shape or form for the rest of his days.

But he realized as he ran through the dark, rainy Moscow streets that he could no longer let his regrets paralyze him. The night had been dark, yet hadn’t that made the stars all the brighter? His grief had been deep, but hadn’t it driven him closer to the Lord? And though he couldn’t have articulated it at that moment to anyone, Marcus couldn’t shake the sense that he was being swept along by a plan known only by the Lord. It was time to stop resisting. He had no idea where the Good Shepherd was about to lead. But he was ready to follow.

Oleg walked down to his office, shut the door, and sat for several minutes.

He closed his eyes, trying to slow his swirling thoughts, trying to steady his churning emotions.

Suddenly he saw himself back in that pitch-black room, alone and disoriented.

The great hall —once so glorious and grand, so elegant, even opulent with its archways and paintings and chandeliers and circular staircase —now ablaze, shrouded in smoke. His eyes stinging. His lungs screaming for oxygen. His skin crackling in the blistering heat from the flames racing through the structure, greedily consuming everything in their path. Walls collapsing. Ceiling beams crashing to the floor. No path of escape. No sound but bloodcurdling screams. And Marina, his beloved Marina. Suffocating. Burning. And nothing he could do to save her.

The same vision he had experienced so vividly the night before he had proposed, the night before he had been drafted into the president’s service, now consumed him all over again. Only this time he understood it. The great hall was the great country in which he had been born and raised. Luganov was leading Mother Russia into a terrible and tragic fire from which neither he nor Marina could escape. How vast would be the cost in lives and fortunes. How powerless he felt, even here at the power center of all Russia.

Oleg opened his eyes. He knew what he had to do. It began with calling Marcus Ryker. But since that was impossible from inside the walls of the Kremlin, he steeled himself to do the work to which he had been assigned, to go through the day without anyone suspecting his thoughts or intents until the time was right to make his move.

Opening his notebook, Oleg stared at the page containing all the assignments his father-in-law had given him. He started working through them one by one.

His first call was home to Marina. No, he would not be coming home tonight. There was far too much to do, as there would be for the next few days. But there was good news, he assured her. The war clouds were lifting. The storm had passed. What’s more, her father had insisted that they take a break and fly off to Monte Carlo that weekend.

Marina, as expected, was elated. She didn’t have to be asked twice to make all the arrangements. She even suggested she take Vasily to stay with her mother, now living in exile, as it were, in a small dacha outside St. Petersburg.

“An excellent idea,” Oleg said. “And your mother —how is she?”

“She is very scared,” Marina confided. “She doesn’t want to be so close to the Baltics if war is coming. She wants to come back to stay with us.”

“When did you talk with her last?”

“Just yesterday.”

“Call her the moment we get off the line,” Oleg said. “Tell her everything’s going to be fine. Tell her not to worry about the Baltics. Better yet, take Vasily and go see her tonight.”

“Tonight? But what about you?”

“I told you, sweetheart, I am swamped with work,” Oleg said. “Your father needs me at his side. But I will feel better —and so will he —if you and Vasily are safe with your mother, comforting her and letting her know everything will be all right.”

The next call Oleg made was to his parents. He told them the exact opposite. The crisis with NATO could spin out of control at any moment, he told them. It might be best not to be in Moscow for the next few weeks.

“Are things really that bad?” his father asked.

“Let me put it this way,” Oleg replied. “I just got off the phone with Marina and told her to book tickets to leave the country immediately. She was beside herself, but what else can I do? I just want you all to be safe.”

Oleg’s mother began to cry. “Should I call Marina?” she asked.

“No —I told her not to take any calls right now from anyone but me. I told her to keep the lines open. I expect her and Vasily to be heading to the airport in the next few hours. I really think you should do the same.”

“And go where?” asked his father.

“What about Hong Kong?” Oleg replied. “I’d join you myself if I could. Look, I’ve got to go. Things are very tense around here and moving fast. Please don’t tell anyone I called. And definitely don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Just head to the airport and book your flight on the way. Don’t worry about the house. I’ll send someone over to keep an eye on things. In fact, if I get a chance, I’ll go over there myself.”

“You’re a good son, Oleg Stefanovich,” his father said, his voice trembling. “You’ll let us know when it’s safe to return?”

“Of course,” Oleg replied. “Hopefully, it will not be long.”

He told them he loved them and hung up. Then he opened the contact files on his computer and pulled up the personal mobile number of the German foreign minister.