“About nine, if I remember correctly.”

“Do you recall what he looked like?”

The Dutch woman proceeded to describe a man approximately five feet ten inches in height, with dark hair and eyes.

“Was he Irish?”

“I couldn’t say. His accent was rather hard to place.”

Katerina placed a credit card on the desk. “I’ll only need the room for a few hours.”

The woman swiped the credit card and then handed over a key. “Do you need any help with your bag?”

“I can manage, thank you.”

Katerina climbed the stairs to the second floor. Her room was at the end of a hallway lined with floral wallpaper and prints of bucolic canal scenes and Dutch landscapes. There were no security cameras visible, so she ran her hand around the door frame before inserting the key into the lock. She left her bag at the foot of the bed and searched the interior of the room for hidden cameras or listening devices. The air smelled of lime and stale cigarettes. It was a singularly male aroma.

She opened the bathroom window to dispel the odor, returned to the bedroom, and picked up the envelope she had been given by the girl at reception. She checked the seal to make certain it hadn’t been tampered with and then tore away the flap. Inside was a single sheet of paper, neatly folded in thirds. On it, in block lettering, was a brief explanation for Quinn’s absence. “You bastard,” whispered Katerina. Then she burned the note in the bathroom sink.

Alexei Rozanov had ordered Katerina to proceed to the target country with no communication between herself and Moscow Center. The note, however, changed everything. It stated that Quinn would not be traveling with her as planned. Instead, he would meet her at the next stop on their itinerary, a small seaside hotel on England’s Norfolk Coast. Under the SVR’s strict operational rules, Katerina could not continue without the approval of her controller. And the only way to obtain that approval was to risk a contact.

She fished her phone from her handbag and composed a brief e-mail to an address with a German-based domain. The address was an SVR front that automatically encrypted the e-mail and forwarded it through a circuitous route of nodes and servers to Moscow Center. Alexei’s reply arrived ten minutes later. It was blandly worded but clear in its intentions. She was to play it Quinn’s way, at least for now.

By then, it was a few minutes after noon. Katerina reclined on the bed and dozed intermittently until half past three, when she checked out of the hotel and took a taxi to the P&O Ferries terminal. The Pride of Rotterdam, a 705-foot ferry capable of carrying 250 cars and more than a thousand passengers, was in the process of boarding. The SVR had reserved first-class accommodations for Katerina under the name Gertrude Berger. She left her suitcase in her assigned cabin, locked the door, and went upstairs to one of the bars. It was already packed with passengers, many of whom were in search of a little warm company to ease the loneliness of the ten-hour overnight passage. Katerina ordered a glass of wine and took a table on the vessel’s port side.

It did not take long for the men in the bar to notice the attractive young woman sitting alone with no company other than her phone. Eventually, one came over, two drinks in hand, and asked in English whether he could join her. Katerina could tell by his accent he was German. He was in his mid-forties, thinning hair, well dressed. It was possible he was employed by one of the European security services. Nevertheless, she reckoned it was better to fence with him over a drink than to give him the cold shoulder. She accepted the glass of wine and with a glance invited him to sit.

As it turned out, he worked as an account manager for a firm in Bremen that manufactured high-quality machine tools—not exciting work, he said, but stable. It seemed his firm did a great deal of business in the north of England, which explained his presence on the Rotterdam-to-Hull ferry. He preferred the ferry to airplanes because it gave him much-needed time away from his marriage, which, not surprisingly, was in a less than optimal state. For two hours Katerina flirted with him in her impeccable German, occasionally delving into such arcane matters as deflation in the euro zone or the debt crisis in Greece. The businessman was obviously smitten. His only disappointment came at the end of the evening when she declined his offer to return to his cabin.

“I’d be careful if I were you,” he said, rising slowly in defeat. “It seems you have a secret admirer.”

“Who?”

He nodded toward the opposite side of the bar, where a man sat alone at a table. “He’s been staring at you since the minute I sat down.”

“Really?”

“Know him?”

“No,” she said. “I’ve never seen him before.”

The German man moved off in search of a more promising target. Katerina rose and went outside to the empty observation deck to smoke a cigarette. Quinn joined her a moment later.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked.

“A salesman with hopes of glory.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure.” She turned to look at him. He wore a businessman’s gray suit, a tan raincoat, and black-rimmed spectacles that seemed to alter the shape of his face. The transformation was remarkable. Even Katerina scarcely recognized him. It was no wonder he had managed to survive all these years.

“Why weren’t you at the hotel?” she asked.

“You’re a smart girl. You tell me.”

She turned to face the sea again. “You weren’t there,” she said after a moment of thought, “because you were afraid Alexei was going to kill you.”

“And why would I be afraid of that?”

“Because he’s refusing to pay you the money he owes you. And you’re convinced the second phase of the operation is actually a plot to get rid of you so there will be no links between you and the SVR.”

“Is it?”

“Get a grip, Quinn.”

His gaze was moving over her, back and forth, up and down. “Are you armed?” he asked finally.

“No.”

“Mind if I check for myself?”

Before she could answer, he had pulled her close in a seemingly romantic embrace and was running a hand over her body. It took him only a second or two to find the Makarov pistol concealed beneath her sweater. He slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he opened her handbag and plucked out the mobile phone. He powered it on and searched through the e-mail in-box.

“You’re wasting your time,” she said.

“When was your last contact with Alexei?”

“Midday.”

“What were his instructions?”

“Proceed as planned.”

“Who was the man who bought you a drink in the bar?”

“I told you—”

“Was he SVR?”

“You’re paranoid.”

“True,” said Quinn. “Which is why I’m still alive.”

He powered down the phone and, smiling, held it out to her. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent it hurtling toward the sea.

“You bastard,” said Katerina.

“Luck of the Irish,” said Quinn.

Quinn’s cabin was on the same level as Katerina’s, a few doors closer to the prow. He forced her inside and immediately dumped out the contents of her handbag on the bed. There was nothing outwardly electronic, only a wallet containing her German passport and credit cards and a bit of makeup. There was also a suppressor for the Makarov. Quinn slipped it into his pocket and instructed Katerina to remove her clothing.

“In your dreams,” she said.

“It’s not as if I haven’t seen you—”

“The only reason I ever slept with you is because Alexei ordered me to.”

“He ordered me to do the same thing. Now take off your clothes.” When she remained motionless, Quinn screwed the suppressor into the end of the Makarov’s barrel and pointed it at her face. “Let’s start with the coat, shall we?”