“This is all very strange.”

Staughton left the door and put a file on the desk in front of Barnes.

“What’s that?” he asked, abandoning his restful position and bending over the report.

“The content of the CD.”

There were a few dozen pages inside the folder. A considerable pile.

“So much?” he protested.

“And I’ve selected only the most important.”

Barnes turned the pages with no desire to read them.

“Make a summary,” he ordered Staughton.

“I can’t.”

Barnes raised his eyes in amazement.

“Why can’t you?”

“This is confidential information. There are people in the room not authorized to hear or read it,” he explained with authority, resorting to the laws that guide the agency and looking at Herbert.

“Okay, let’s read this carefully,” Littel confirmed. “Regarding the refusal to let us fly over and land…”

“We could try the diplomatic route,” Barnes suggested.

“No. They know something. They’re going to tie our hands and end up denying the authorization.”

“While we lose any trace of the woman and the others. They must already have them in custody,” Barnes said in a circumspect tone.

“But something intrigues me.”

“What?”

“He’s left a trail of bread crumbs so we can follow him. Why?”

“He hasn’t left the bread crumbs for us,” Herbert asserted.

“For who, then?” Barnes asked with no patience for the colleague butting in.

“For the mole.”

“The mole again?” Barnes shouted with irritation.

“There’s a mole among us,” Herbert insisted.

“Then leave me in peace,” Barnes answered, indicating the subject was closed. I’m not going to let you bring this up again, his tone suggested.

“We have a problem, gentlemen. We can’t enter Russia,” Barnes announced in a loud voice. “What do we do? Anyone have a suggestion?”

There was silence for a few moments. No one said anything.

“Think what this is costing the taxpayers. Everybody out,” Barnes ordered. “Out of my sight.”

Obviously the order didn’t pertain to Littel, since he remained in the same position he’d been in for a long time, seated, legs crossed.

The rest left the office silently, depressed, tired. It was the downside of this work. When you did well, no one appreciated it or said a word of encouragement, but if things went badly, the finger was pointed and the criticism never ended. In a short time only Littel and Barnes remained.

“We’re screwed,” the fat man said.

“No,” Littel considered. “We have people in Russia. We don’t need to go there personally.”

With a triumphant smile Littel went to the satellite phone on Barnes’s desk and dialed several numbers. He waited for the connection to be established, and the shining in his eyes redoubled when he heard a response. He placed the call over the loudspeaker.

“Colonel Garrison. It’s a pleasure to hear you.”

“The pleasure is mine.”

“Are you where we agreed?”

“I’m having a coffee precisely in Red Square.”

“Perfect. Start the operation.”

“I’ve already started it, my friend. I’ve already started it.”

A year later the same fear has returned, panic, and the feeling of impotence. She remembered the abandoned warehouse in New York, the heavy chains that hung from the ceiling to which they fastened her wrists, along with the others. Rafael, who wouldn’t be quiet, trying to draw the torture to him, away from her father and the old priest. What was his name? Marius Ferris. That was it. She hadn’t thought of the pleasant old man, fragile, mistrustful, chained up the same way she was. Nor had she thought of their captors, Barnes and company, but who really dealt the cards was the man in the Armani suit, and the dark, icy stare, a killer without conscience, and his helper, a Pole of the same type. In charge of everyone, incontestable, untouchable, cruel, JC, the same person with whom she now collaborated and who, a year ago, wanted them all dead. There were no absolute truths, only the moment.

Inside the door of the Russian souvenir shop, she’d had a sudden impulse to call Simon to see how he was doing. Matrioskas, eggs imitating Fabergé creations, paintings, jars, ballpoints, postcards, jewelry, everything you could associate with a country. It’s unnecessary to add that not one of the offerings caught Sarah’s eye. She felt too tired, too worried, in a foreign country, in an exciting city, showy, but not at this moment for her. If she could have chosen, she’d have preferred to be at her parents’ estate in Trindade, without roads, flight, and persecution.

Instead of that, she heard a male voice behind her, very close to her ear. She could almost hear his breathing.

“Little Sarah Monteiro.” It was not a question. “Do me the favor of crossing the street and going into the barbershop. Calm and relaxed. Don’t try anything stupid. If you do, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Her heart almost jumped out of her mouth. No matter how many times we go through situations like that, nothing prepares us. Her first reaction had been a useless attempt to turn around and put a face on the voice of her captor, but he wouldn’t permit it.

“No, no, no. Look straight ahead. We don’t want to be run over, right?”

He mixed a certain pleasure and sense of responsibility in his words. He spoke English with a heavy accent. Russian, probably.

“Who are you?” the journalist asked when she’d recovered her faculties.

“That’s not important. Let’s go. Hurry.”

They crossed the street in the middle of traffic, making some cars honk in protest. At some moment Sarah had mentioned stopping, but something circular and cold poked her in the ribs and convinced her of the contrary.

A dissonant voice woke up the radio the man had fastened to his belt. He brought it to his mouth and answered something in Russian. The bright sun had faded as Sarah and the unknown man entered the barbershop. Her eyes were slow in adapting to the new conditions. Several barbers dressed in black were cutting hair. If she’d had doubts, they’d dissipated since Sarah could see she was really in a barbershop. Again she felt the cold barrel pushing her forward. No one looked at her, even with so many mirrors. The customers concentrated on their newspapers or admired their own faces reflected in the mirror, or watched the plasma televisions set above each mirror in front of every barber chair. All of them were indifferent to Sarah Monteiro and the man shoving her. In the back she saw an elevator. To the left, stairs going down.

“Go down the stairs,” the man ordered.

Step by step she went down into the deep darkness. She felt danger. She saw nothing. She only felt the cylinder stuck in her ribs. Was he going to kill her? But why? Who was he? It had been stupid to stay in the street alone. Where were Rafael and Phelps?

“Wait,” the man ordered her again. “Put these on.”

He gave her something she couldn’t identify immediately.

“What is it?”

“Goggles. Put them on.”

What you don’t see, you don’t know. She followed his order and immediately understood why the object had seemed strange. They were, in fact, night vision goggles. The flight of stairs ended there. Another step and she would have walked into the wall. A greenish image made everything clearer. A landing supported another flight of steps that descended lower into the Russian earth. A new landing, a new flight of stairs, with many slippery steps.

“What is this place?” Sarah asked with more fear than she wanted to show.

“The stairway to hell. Isn’t it pretty?” the other responded sarcastically.

Sarah regretted asking. What was certain was that in all the way they’d come there was no lamp, light, or even a candle or place for it. The place had really been designed to have no light. A shiver ran up her spine.