“Well, somewhat to my astonishment, he’s sending in the Royal Marines at Sealand. It’s one of those outrageously flamboyant Brit military operations: The commander of the service is sailing a bunch of men over to the island in his yacht, and they’re taking a rubber dinghy ashore in the dead of night.”

“If somebody gets hurt, this could boomerang,” she said. “I wish you’d asked me. We could have come up with something.”

“Better to let the Brits do it. It’s on their soil, more or less, and they have the Official Secrets Act to cover their asses.”

“I wish we had that,” she said.

“No you don’t, and don’t you ever let anybody hear you say so. We’re for an open society and sunshine on government, remember?”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. You be sure and preach those virtues to Georgi Majorov at dinner.”

“Absolutely. You ready?”

“Don’t I look ready?”

AFTER THEY HAD seen off the last of their dinner guests, the two presidents and their first ladies repaired to the family quarters of the White House for coffee and brandy. Not that the Russian president needed a brandy, Kate reflected. He had drunk at least half a bottle of vodka at dinner, not bothering with the wine.

Ignoring his very pretty wife, Majorov took Kate’s arm and steered her toward a sofa. Will saw this and led Tatyana Majorov to the opposite sofa.

Kate and Majorov practically fell onto the sofa, laughing, while Kate managed to put another six inches of space between them. She didn’t want him getting grabby. When the steward had served the coffee and brandy and departed, Majorov raised his glass to Kate and polished off the vintage cognac in a gulp.

“So,” he said, in heavily accented but otherwise very serviceable English, “you are CIA.”

“I am CIA,” she agreed.

“I am KGB, you know. Pardon, I was KGB.”

“I know. Did you like the work?”

“I liked the travel,” he said. “ Paris, Stockholm, Vienna. I had all the good posts. Nobody likes to live in the USSR.”

“When were you in Stockholm?” she asked.

He gave her a sly look. “I know what you are thinking.” He chuckled.

“What am I thinking?” Kate asked.

“You are thinking, 'Is this the Russian agent who turned my friend Rawls?'”

Kate took a quick breath. That was exactly what she had been thinking. “You know about Rawls?”

“I know all about Rawls,” he said. “Yes, I am the spy who turned him.”

“Blackmailed him,” Kate corrected.

“Blackmail? So what? I turned him, doesn’t matter how.” He reached for the brandy decanter and poured himself a double. He hadn’t touched the coffee.

“How, exactly, did you do that?”

“Easy,” Majorov replied. “What you call 'Badger Game.'”

“And what is that?” she asked, knowing full well what the Badger Game was.

“You get your mark a girl. Rawls loved girls, the younger and prettier, the better.”

“Go on.”

“Then you photograph your mark and the girl in odd positions. Then you show your mark the photographs and offer him alternatives: Would he like to go home to Langley in disgrace, have wife take everything in divorce? Or would he prefer maybe to share a little bit information from time to time, maybe put some money in his pocket, maybe even continue to see the girl? Easy choice, eh?”

“Rawls made the stupid choice,” she said.

“Maybe, from your point of view. Not from my point of view.”

Kate looked him in the eye and shot the question. “Did Rawls give you Lewis Moore and his wife?” She watched his eyebrows go up.

“Ah,” Majorov said slyly, “this is state secret.”

“The state doesn’t exist anymore, how could it be a state secret? Who cares?”

Majorov shrugged. “You have the point,” he said. “ USSR is no more. All my good work all those years for nothing.”

“You fought the good fight,” Kate said. “Now tell me, did Rawls give you the Moores?”

Majorov shook his head gravely. “No. Rawls didn’t give.”

“Then how did your people know they would be where they were?”

A wicked grin spread over Majorov’s face. “Because I know everything the Moores do,” he said.

Kate looked at him closely. “You had them watched constantly?”

Majorov tapped his ear. “I had them listened constantly,” he said.

Kate gulped. “In the embassy?”

“In their house,” he said. “For two years, almost, we hear everything-sex, fight, yelling, love-everything.”

“And that’s how you knew they’d be there?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not from Rawls?”

“Rawls never give me any American agent. Couple Hungarians, a Pole or two, no Americans.”

“Why did you kill the Moores?”

“Because they wished to kill me. Lewis got off two shots first.”

“They weren’t supposed to be armed.”

Majorov shrugged. “'Supposed‘ means nothing. They both had pistols.“

“Rawls wasn’t there?”

“No Rawls.”

Kate sat back on the sofa with a big sigh.

“This is surprise?” Majorov asked.

“This is surprise,” Kate replied.

34

CARPENTER LEANED BACK in the navigator’s seat and sipped her Bovril. She had been sitting in the saloon of the forty-five-foot yacht, next to the Royal Marine sergeant with the blowpipe, but he had been too attentive, so she had moved to the navigation station, which she preferred anyway, since it held the charts, the radar repeater, and the chart plotter that combined all the inputs onto one screen, including the Global Positioning System readout.

On the display the yacht was a little boat-shaped wedge, and Sealand was just appearing on the edge of the twenty-mile range screen. There were other dots here and there- fishing boats and buoys, the odd merchant ship or foreign naval vessel. It was a little after 11 p.m., and the GPS gave their time en route to Sealand as 3.2 hours. They were averaging about six knots.

She polished off the Bovril, then poured a mug of steaming tea and added a large dollop of brandy to it. She slid back the hatch and stood on the companionway ladder. “Permission to come on deck?” she asked.

“Permission granted,” Sir Ewan called back. He gave the wheel a slight turn to take a wave, then got back on course.

Carpenter climbed the ladder, stepped into the cockpit, and closed the hatch behind her. She handed Sir Ewan the tea.

“Many thanks,” he said, sipping from the mug. “Ah, that’s a fine recipe.”

“Like me to take her for a while?” Carpenter asked.

“Good idea,” he said, stepping aside and letting her take the wheel. “I need to concentrate on this tea.” He gave her the course.

“We’re three point two hours out,” she said.

“That should put you ashore at the right moment, I should think.”

A dark form slithered from the foredeck into the cockpit. “All made fast, sir,” the marine said.

“Good man. Go below and get something hot in you.”

The man went below and closed the hatch.

Carpenter let the yacht settle onto her course, then looked ahead, waiting to acquire some night vision after the shaft of light from the hatch. She could see the navigation lights of a large merchantman a couple of miles off their port bow, a ship that had already crossed their course and that was of no further danger to them. She couldn’t see anything else nearby.

The night was pitch black, and all she could see around them was the foam from the short seas, illuminated by the nav lights. The North Sea was shallow and made short, steep waves. The anemometer was showing thirty to thirty-five knots, and the seas were a good five feet, making for an uncomfortable ride below. She was glad Roofer had taken the seasick pills; she didn’t want him lying useless in a bunk.

“She’s a nice boat,” Carpenter said. “The coal stove below is a good thing for a night like this.”

“Makes for a snug passage,” he replied. “You said it had been a while since you’d done a job like this. What was the last one?”