His days as an inside man were over.

“Did you get the information on the medical conference he’s supposedly attending?” he asked.

“They’ve posted a website on the Net,” said Erskine. “I downloaded the essentials. Take a look.”

Connor studied the cover sheet. “International Association of Internists-21st Annual Congress. What’s so important about a conference that it lures Ransom away from his beloved field hospital?”

“He’s a keynote speaker. He’s set to deliver a speech tomorrow morning.”

Connor found the schedule of events. “‘Treatment of Parasitic Diseases in Pediatric Patients.’ I think I’ll take a pass. Where’d they say he’s staying?”

“Dorchester Hotel.”

“Not bad,” said Connor, raising an eyebrow as he flipped through the pages. “How many men do we have over there?”

“In London? Four, but one of them is on leave.”

“Four? You’re kidding me.” Connor shook his head. London was the intelligence capital of Europe. A year ago, Division had boasted posh offices alongside the U.S. embassy in Grosvenor Square, with a staff of twenty full-time professionals and another twenty contract men on call. “Get that sonofabitch on leave back, and I mean now. Set up a twelve-hour rotation at Ransom’s hotel. Two men on, two men off. I want them on site and reporting back within the hour. And see what you can do about scaring up some more manpower. Get in touch with Berlin or Milan. They’ve got to have someone.”

“Sure thing.” Peter Erskine was thirty, pale, and runner lean, with black hair kept in place by a fistful of gel and shifty blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing. He was third-generation spook. Deerfield, Yale, a Fulbright scholar, and a Bonesman to boot. His grandfather had worked with Allen Dulles in Switzerland during the Second World War and his father had been George H. W Bush’s deputy director of operations when “Forty-one” had occupied the director’s chair at Langley in the mid-seventies. Erskine was the silk to Connor’s sandpaper. The glimpse of ermine to reassure visiting dignitaries from the Hill that Division could be trusted.

Connor dropped the papers on the desk. “So he comes all the way from deepest, darkest Africa just to deliver a speech about tropical parasites to a bunch of wealthy doctors. I don’t buy it. He must know that we’re keeping an eye on him. She’d have warned him of that. Why would he compromise himself? He’s there for another reason.”

“I checked with the conference organizers,” said Erskine. “Ransom was invited three months ago. They’re paying his plane fare and his hotel expenses.”

“No,” said Connor, crossing his arms over his barrel chest and glaring at his deputy. “It’s her.”

There was no need to mention a name. “Her” was Emma Ransom.

Connor walked to the window. Division’s offices had been moved to a nondescript office building in Tysons Corner, an “edge city” complex 15 miles southeast of Washington. It shared the building with the IRS and the Bureau of Weights and Measures. From his perch on the second floor, he looked across a forlorn stretch of Virginian asphalt and an auto repair shop. It wasn’t exactly the Lincoln Memorial and the Reflecting Pool.

“She’s there, Pete. It wasn’t his idea to go to some highfalutin conference in London. He hates that kind of thing. It was Emma’s doing.”

“With all due respect, sir, I can understand her wanting to see her husband, but why would she choose London? It’s the most heavily watched city on earth. They have over fifty thousand closed-circuit television cameras set up around the city, and those are just the ones belonging to the government. The average Joe gets his picture taken fifty times just walking along Oxford Street. It’d be like going into a shark tank with a bloody nose.”

“Sounds just like her,” said Connor.

It was Emma Ransom who’d blown the operation in Switzerland and all but brought down Division. She figured number one on Connor’s list of VIPs. There would be no going forward for Division or for Frank Connor until she was taken care of.

“What about Ransom’s phone?” he asked.

“His cell? The number we have on file is registered to Vodafone.”

Vodafone was the largest cellular phone carrier in Europe.

“We know anybody in their London office?”

“Not anymore.”

Connor barely managed to suppress an expletive. He was Irish and Catholic and still went to mass twice a week. If he no longer quite believed, he still prayed with the fervor of a new convert. He was a man who believed in covering his bets. “When’s Ransom’s return flight?”

“Three days from now.”

“Three days? So he’s keeping a day free.”

“Technically, yes, but…”

“But nothing. She’s contacted him. She wants a meet.”

“But why?” persisted Erskine. “She’d never risk a meet. Not there. Not now. Not after what happened in Italy in April. She knows we’ll spot her husband coming into the country. She’s better than that.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Connor placed his elbows on the table and cradled his meaty chin in his hands. His bloodshot brown eyes stared out the window, and when he spoke, it was as if he had forgotten that Erskine was in the room and was talking to himself. Rousing himself for the job to come. “We had a chance to take her out in Rome. We set the bait, we reeled her in, and then we muffed the job. Now, by the grace of God, we’ve been given another opportunity. She’s in London. She’s come to see her husband. I know it. And this time we’re going to get her.”

Connor placed two calls before going. The first went to an unsleeping suite of offices on the first floor of the Pentagon called the Defense Logistics Agency.

“I need a jet.”

“Sorry, Frank. No can do. You’re not on the list anymore.”

“Forget about the list. This one’s off the books.” Connor tucked the phone under his chin while he rummaged through his desk for a passport. Canada. Australia. Belgium. He scooped up a Namibian passport under his work name of Standish and checked that the visas were intact. “So?”

“Is this about her?”

“One-way to London,” Connor went on, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “I believe you have a Lear on standby for the secretary. He won’t be going anywhere today. The Saudis are going to press for an emergency meeting this morning. They want those F-22s bad.”

“How the hell did you know-?”

“Fueled and ready in an hour.”

“Frank, you’re not making this easy.”

Connor stopped what he was doing and stood up straight. “Don’t make me bring it up,” he said in the same easygoing voice. “Debts are so embarrassing.”

Silence filled the line for ten seconds. “I can’t give you the director’s bird, but there’s a Citation at Dulles that’s fueled up with a crew on standby. Only thing is, it’s on FlightAware, the FAA’s tracking list. You’ll be on the radar. That cause a problem?”

Connor considered this for a few moments. “No,” he said, dropping the Namibian passport and picking up an American passport, the only one bearing his real name. “No problem there.”

“Oh, and Frank…”

“Yeah?”

“I can throw in a flight attendant.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Connor, slipping on his jacket. “I’ll be traveling alone.”

The second call was placed on a secure line to a private number in England. Area code 207, for the center of London.

“It’s me,” he said when the party answered.

“Hello, Frank. Still handing out pink slips?”

“Finished for the moment. In fact, I’m calling to offer you a way back in… if you’re interested.”

“You know I am.”

“Have any plans for tonight?”

“Nothing I can’t break.”

“Good. There’s a cocktail reception I want you to go to. Dorchester Hotel. Six p.m. It’s for a bunch of doctors, so you’ll fit right in. Listen up.”