“Heard anything?” Morris asked.

“Not yet.”

Five minutes from Domodedovo International Airport, Marcus pulled off the highway and turned onto Ilyushina Street. He parked the Lada in the rear lot of the Ramada. Morris checked the laptop. The files were done uploading. She pulled out the thumb drive and handed it back to Marcus. Then they quickly stuffed their weapons, ammo, radios, flak jackets, balaclavas, and other supplies into large duffel bags, shoved those in the trunk, locked the doors, and slipped into the building through a side door using a key card Morris had brought with her, per the extraction plan they’d jointly designed days earlier.

Once inside, the two headed directly for the restrooms off the lobby. There, each found a bag pre-positioned for them at the bottom of the trash bins. Each bag contained a change of clothes, a winter hat, coat, gloves, boots, a wig, glasses, a fake passport, and an airport ID, and in Marcus’s case, a fake mustache and goatee. Marcus washed the blood and sweat from his face and hands, then rewrapped his knee with fresh gauze and tape. He changed into the dark-blue coveralls and work boots, put on the rest of the disguise, and went back outside, where a Ramada shuttle bus, driven by one of Morris’s men, pulled up.

The shuttle drove them directly to the private aviation terminal on the far side of the field, opposite the commercial passenger terminals. Once there, the two disembarked and proceeded through security as if they were members of the ground crew arriving for their morning shift. A bleary-eyed security guard paid scant attention to either of them as they passed through the metal detectors. They weren’t carrying any weapons or explosives. They had no bags or other personal items to inspect. So they were waved through in fairly short order.

Heading to the flight line, they spotted the Gulfstream IV with the tail number they’d been given in advance, and climbed aboard, nodding to the actual ground crew members finishing their preflight preparations. Neither Marcus nor Morris drew any attention. As the early winter storm intensified, the crew was freezing and exhausted and eager to finish their shift and get home to their families.

On board, Morris stepped to the cockpit, knocked four times, and whispered a code word. A moment later the cockpit door opened, and two CIA officers dressed as pilots emerged and greeted them. Morris and the woman pilot headed to the two washrooms. Marcus and the man headed to the back of the plane, where they swapped clothes in the galley. Then the officer gave him a key to an airport security car parked near the door to the terminal.

“Is it covered in snow?” Marcus asked.

“Shouldn’t be too bad,” the officer replied. “We’ve brushed it down every fifteen minutes and turned over the engine twice. You should be good to go.”

“And the weapons?”

The officer handed over a Russian-made pistol. It was a newer and larger model than the one Marcus had given to Oleg, and it was, as he’d insisted, equipped with a silencer. The officer said there was also a submachine gun in a canvas bag on the floor of the vehicle he’d set aside for them and two other automatic rifles and plenty of ammunition under the seats in the cockpit, just in case.

The swap was soon complete. The CIA officers were now dressed as members of the ground crew. Morris was dressed as the lead pilot, as she was the only one of the two actually licensed and rated to fly a Gulfstream, particularly in weather like this. Marcus was dressed as her copilot. He’d earned his private pilot license when he was younger, but on single-engine prop planes, not jets, and certainly not a G4. Morris thanked her colleagues, as did Marcus, and they deplaned. Marcus raised the steps and locked the cabin door while Morris went to the cockpit to review their preflight checklist.

There was still no word from Oleg, and Marcus was getting worried. He’d expected something by now. Unspoken between him and Morris —but very much up in the air —was the question for which Marcus didn’t have an answer: How long would they wait before they had to cut Oleg loose and leave without him?

Oleg stared at the TV screen, his face pale and his hands trembling slightly.

He was no longer on offense.

Before Dmitri Nimkov could resume his questioning, the chief steward knocked twice. Luganov said he could enter, and soon they were being served cheese omelets, sweet rolls, fresh fruit, and steaming chai. The steward poured each man a cup. Luganov quickly grew impatient and waved him away, and he slipped out.

“Who was the girl?” Nimkov asked, standing over him.

At first Oleg was too shocked to respond.

“We’re going to find out soon enough,” Nimkov continued. “Don’t presume to waste the president’s patience or his goodwill.”

Still, Oleg could not find the words, so shocked was he by the tape he’d just seen.

“Did you find her on your own?” the FSB chief went on. “Or did Marcus Ryker provide her for you?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, Dmitri Dmitrovich,” Oleg finally responded.

“Surely you cannot deny you gave the slip to your security detail last Wednesday night,” Nimkov noted. “Surely you cannot deny you checked into the Hotel National. Or that you paid cash for your room and asked for a room that just happened to be next to a member of Senator Dayton’s delegation, can you?”

Oleg couldn’t bear to look at his father-in-law, but the contempt he had for Nimkov was reaching the boiling point.

“I believe you are actually acquainted with Special Agent Ryker, are you not?” Nimkov pressed, clearly relishing his role as interrogator. “You met him before, in Berlin.”

Oleg said nothing. The plan was falling apart before his eyes.

“Surely you do not deny this, do you, Oleg Stefanovich?”

Oleg began to panic.

“How can you?” the FSB chief continued, his confidence increasing, his voice growing angrier. “You sit there next to your leader, so smug, with such hubris and contempt, refusing to answer my questions. But I already know the answers. I have sworn affidavits from no fewer than five witnesses that you interrupted a meeting in the German Chancellery to introduce yourself to Mr. Ryker when he was working for the U.S. Secret Service. What conclusion should the president draw from this?”

Oleg could feel the pistol, warm against his flesh. But he could not reach for it. Not yet.

“My staff retrieved your written report from that trip. You make no mention of unauthorized, personal contact with a member of the American government. Yet this just so happens to be the very same person whom you allowed into a meeting with President Luganov in the hours leading up to a war. And it just so happens to be the person in the room next to yours at the Hotel National. Is the president to conclude this is merely happenstance?”

Oleg felt physically ill.

“And the woman? Tell us who she is,” Nimkov demanded. “It’s all on video, Oleg Stefanovich. Enough of your silence and stonewalling. Are you really going to sit there and tell us you’re not cheating on the daughter of His Excellency?”

Oleg was ready to respond, but Luganov —livid —cut him off. “Oleg Stefanovich, give me the little tart’s name and be done with it!” the president demanded, rising to his feet, his face beet red.

Just then Nimkov’s mobile phone rang. The FSB chief glanced at the president. The timing was terrible, but they were less than forty-eight hours from launching a war. Luganov nodded, and Nimkov answered it.

“Not now,” he replied to the voice at the other end. “Of course I understand, but he’s busy with a matter of national security. No, I will call you when I can.”

“Who is it?” Luganov snapped.

“It’s Agent Kovalev, sir,” Nimkov replied. “Miss Slatsky needs to see you. She says it’s urgent. What would you have him do?”

“She will wait,” Luganov said, as angry as Oleg had ever seen him. “And tell Pavel I will not be interrupted again. I will let him know when I am finished. Until then, I am not to be disturbed. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly, Your Excellency,” Nimkov replied, and he passed the message on.

Both men were now towering over Oleg, and Oleg could bear it no longer. He would answer their questions. He would tell them what they wanted to know. He had to. What other choice did he have?