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Director Morrison’s Office, CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

 

National Clandestine Service Chief Leif Morrison grabbed his phone, the call his aide had announced, unexpected. “Petra! What can I do for you?”

“There’s something I think you need to know that might assist you in the apprehension of Mr. Kozhin and his people.”

Morrison bit his tongue, deciding he wanted to hear what she was about to say, rather than inform her that Kozhin had been captured only moments ago, and that the Il-80 was just about to land in Goose Bay, Labrador.

“What’s that?”

“In the past several weeks, General Gorokhin arranged for a number of diplomatic passports.”

Morrison’s mouth opened slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “So that’s how they plan on getting away with it. Diplomatic immunity.”

“Exactly.”

“And is your government going to honor these documents?”

“You know the Kremlin never tolerates the abuse of its citizens beyond its borders.”

Morrison frowned. “You didn’t answer my question, Petra.”

She sighed. “Even I’m surprised by the answer, my friend.”