THIRTY-FOUR
Zoya Zakharova stepped off the elevator and into the lobby of the Adlon at eight thirty in the evening, dressed in an attractive blue dress and low heels. She carried a small purse over her shoulder, and her dark hair was down and flowing.
She moved through the light crowd with a pleasant smile on her face, but it was a ruse; her eyes darted left and right, worry filled her mind, and she was wholly unable to enjoy the beautiful surroundings because of the possibility that guns were pointed at her face right now.
She knew where to find Ennis. He’d called her from the lobby bar a half hour earlier, inviting her for a drink before dinner. She’d declined, said she was getting herself ready, but she imagined that although she’d forced him to drink alone, he would be drinking nonetheless.
He stood from the bar, a three-quarters-empty glass of beer in front of him, and greeted her warmly with a kiss on each cheek.
His tie was off, his collar open, and his light blue sport coat looked good on his fit frame. Zoya had examined his face carefully before they’d even greeted each other, searching for any hint of danger, but he looked like a man in control, like he’d regained some of the swagger he’d lost before his call earlier in the afternoon.
“Everything all right?” she asked.
He nodded. “For now I think we’re in the clear about all that earlier today. No word of extra monitoring on us from BfV.” He motioned towards the restaurant. “It’s a nice evening, I’ve asked for a table outside.”
Der’mo, she said to herself in Russian.
Shit.
Zoya hated eating dinner outdoors in busy areas; she always felt exposed doing so, but never more so than right now. But 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 was a chance he’d need to make entry on the hotel tonight, but he liked the casual clothing he was wearing because he felt it helped him fit in better sitting on a street corner bench.
He’d picked up a pair of dress shoes and some other odds and ends at a used clothing store west of Spandau during his SDR earlier in the day, and then he’d returned to his flat and slept like the dead for forty-five minutes before waking to prepare for this evening.
For now, though, he sat, watched, and fumed. He found himself angry at Zoya for a multitude of reasons. Angry that she sat outside tonight. This was a defensive logistical nightmare; there were vehicles and pedestrians and windows and rooftops and no way in hell to stop a determined attack on her.
The one thing he did have going for him, however, was that the crowd was large enough that anyone who acted would be doing so in front of hundreds of people, so if a potential murderer wanted to save his own skin, then this wouldn’t be the time to act.
But it would be the time to ID Anthem as their target, and a good time to begin surveillance on her that would lead, inevitably, to an assassination attempt.
He was angry that she downed her vodka in a single swig and called the waiter over again, apparently ordering another round for them both, and that she smiled and laughed while the man in the light blue sport coat gesticulated wildly, telling some story about something that pissed Court off even though he didn’t know this asshole and he didn’t have a clue about what he was saying.
Court rubbed more sweat off his face. He was sick, he was tired, his stomach hurt, and he was pissed off that he’d eaten dinner at Dunkin’ Donuts while the only other person on this earth who mattered to him was across the street having the time of her life.
He forced his eyes away from her and rescanned the entire street, almost willing that some asshole try him tonight, because he desperately wanted to punch somebody in the face.