Years ago he’d accompanied a UN team on a mine-clearing operation in Angola. He’d paid close attention as the engineers had located the mines, cleared the dirt, then carefully unscrewed the base plates. They were Russian antipersonnel mines, and each time the engineers had disarmed them simply by snipping the yellow wire connecting the pressure pad to the detonator. But Emma’s bomb had none of those things. No yellow wire, no pressure pad, and no detonator.

His eyes rose to the pool. The water had descended a full 2 meters from the lip of the tile. At most, another 2 meters of water covered the tips of the fuel rods. The blue glow radiated stronger, more malignant than ever.

He looked back at the bomb.

:45.

Jonathan removed the scissors from the body of the knife. He probed each wire, unsure what would happen if he cut any of them. Detonators functioned by delivering a charge to a blasting cap, which in turn ignited the explosive, resulting in a blast. The idea was to cut the wire that delivered that initial charge, thus rendering the blasting cap inert. He didn’t know if cutting any of them would result in an instantaneous detonation.

:20

He placed the scissors around the blue wire, then changed his mind and positioned them around the red wire.

:10

He snipped, but the wire did not cut. He pressed harder, but still the blades did not penetrate the plastic sheathing.

:05

Using both hands, he tried again, harnessing all his strength in his fingers. The wire began to give. He watched as the numbers ticked down, pressing the scissors harder still until the hard metal cut into his fingers. He glimpsed a filament of copper and mustered a final effort.

:00

The scissors sliced through the wire.

Jonathan collapsed on his haunches, staring at the LED’s glaring red digits, at the black metallic box that had not exploded. Or had he in fact beaten the clock? He was too lightheaded to know either way.

He looked at the pool. The crystal-clear water had descended below the level of the titanium holding racks to the very tips of the fuel rods. As if sensing the presence of oxygen, the rods appeared to pulsate.

And there the water stopped.

The water level fell below the jagged hole made by the first bomb. Thirty centimeters, no more, remained above the uranium rods, but 30 centimeters was enough. No more water could escape the cooling pond.

The door through which Emma had fled opened. Colonel Graves and DCI Ford entered the building, followed by a dozen commandos and the plant manager. Jonathan counted at least ten machine guns pointed directly at him and decided it might be wise to stay where he was.

Graves took in Jonathan and his bloody hands and the partially dismantled bomb situated between his knees. Then he extended a hand and helped Jonathan to his feet. “We saw everything from the monitors in the reactor control room.”

“I thought I could talk her out of it,” said Jonathan.

Graves considered this, but offered no comment.

Kate Ford stepped forward, put an arm across Jonathan’s back, and guided him toward the exit. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said.

Jonathan halted. “Where is she?” he asked.

Graves looked at Ford, then back at him, and Jonathan braced himself for the news. But Graves just shook his head. “We haven’t found her yet. But don’t worry. We’re searching the complex. She can’t have gotten far.”

Jonathan nodded. She was gone, and they all knew it. He looked over his shoulder at the gaping hole torn out of the wall of the stainless steel pool. “It wasn’t low enough,” he said, almost to himself. “The water never exposed the rods.”

“What’s that?” asked Graves. “Didn’t catch what you said.”

But Jonathan didn’t answer. Suddenly he felt too tired to explain.

“Let’s go,” said Kate. “We have a plane to catch back to London.”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Jonathan.

“Hell, no,” said Graves. “If you think this clears you of anything, you’re sorely mistaken.”

76

One hour later, Sir Anthony Allam, director general of MI5, picked up the phone and called Frank Connor. “Your girl just turned up.”

“Where?”

“The La Reine nuclear power plant in Normandy. She tried to bring off some kind of incident to paralyze the country’s nuclear grid. Wanted to blow the place to the high heavens. Damn near succeeded, too.”

“Do you have her in custody?”

“No,” said Allam. “She escaped.”

“Dammit,” said Connor.

“The French police have issued a nationwide alert for her arrest. Interpol is cooperating as well.”

“Little good it’ll do them. She’s a ghost, that one. They’ll never find her.”

“Perhaps,” said Allam. “But we do know that she was working for Sergei Shvets of the FSB. Turns out she was Russian, but then, you must have known that all along.”

“Of course I knew. I brought her into the fold eight years ago. Hard to believe she went back to them.” Connor sighed. “The whole thing is my fault. If only my men hadn’t botched the job in Rome. I don’t like leaving a mess.”

“French intelligence has Shvets in custody. Apparently he was supervising the operation himself. We managed to track him to a safe house in Paris and nabbed him there. We’re keeping the news quiet until the prime minister speaks to the Kremlin.”

“I wouldn’t give two nickels for his chances back home.”

“Be that as it may,” continued Allam, “your actions these past days in London have been nothing short of disgraceful.”

“Emma Ransom betrayed Division,” said Connor. “I did what needed to be done. My apologies if I stepped on any toes. You don’t have to worry any longer. I’m flying out tonight.”

“Safe travels. I’ll let you know how things turn out in France.” Allam paused, staring at the clock on his wall. He’d been on an unscrambled line for over two minutes now. He hoped it would suffice. “Oh, Frank, any idea where she might have gone?”

“Who knows? Like I said, she’s a ghost.”

Frank Connor hung up the phone. The connection wasn’t bad, considering he was kilometers from the nearest tower. A wave lifted the schooner and he grabbed at the wheel to steady himself. One hand for the boat, his father had taught him. The cardinal rule of sailing. Off the port bow, the coast of France was still visible, and, far off in the haze, La Reine ’s massive white dome.

“So,” he said, handing Emma Ransom a towel. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet,” she answered, drying her hair. “It all depends on what happens now, doesn’t it?”

Connor patted her on the back. “Yes, Lara, I suppose it does.”

“My name is Emma,” she said. “Emma Ransom.”

Connor nodded. He knew better than to argue. It was natural for agents to grow emotional at the end of an assignment, and this one had been tougher than most. “You won’t try to reach him.”

Emma looked at Connor, then quickly away. “No, I won’t.”

“He can never know.”

“I understand.”

Connor smiled, and said some words about duty and country and the price that they in their profession had to pay. They were trite, and he’d said the same things a hundred times before, but still he believed them. Every word.

Emma Ransom shook her head and gazed at the distant shoreline. “Hey, Frank, shut up and drive the boat.”