Sam Hudson looked at the clock. The second hand ticked forward: 10:05 p.m.
“How do you know we can trust this guy?” the young man behind him asked.
“I don’t,” Sam said, and stepped closer to the window.
That was intelligence work: waiting half the night in a bland corporate apartment in Geneva, not sure if your date for the evening was going to kiss you or kill you.
A rhythmic scratching drew his attention, and he turned to face the other man, Eric Finlay. All wiry muscle with sharp features, Fin was on his first overseas tour as a deep-cover officer. He was picking at the cardboard package of a Toblerone with his thumbnail.
Sam eyed the candy, and Finlay glanced at it, then held it up, offering it to his partner, who only shook his head slowly. No.
Finlay looked at his thumb. “Sorry,” he said.
“It’s all right, Fin.”
Sam watched his charge, studying the smile lines around the eyes. Fin was the kind of guy you want to tell your best stories to. It made him a good case officer. But now his face was grave.
The nerves were out of character but understandable. This was a crash meeting, and they hadn’t cleared it with headquarters. There was no time, and HQs had been shooting down or slow-walking every approach in Europe—you can’t get in trouble for doing nothing, was the bureaucratic code—so Sam had gone ahead on his own. People were dying. He couldn’t afford to wait.
Tonight they were pitching a potential source, a man who went by the name Alex Clarke. Sam believed that was a cover but had little on the target’s true identity. Clarke moved money for a holding company called Gemini GmbH that Sam suspected of being a front for a foreign intelligence service, likely Russia’s or one of its proxies’.
Sam had linked Gemini to illicit flows of cash that connected to a series of murders in the United States and the United Kingdom—the victims all bankers and intelligence sources. The killer, he believed, was a legendary deep-cover operator known as Konstantin. Alex Clarke was the way into his network.
“But Clarke could be Russian intel?” Finlay asked.
“If we’re lucky. He’s ready to turn.”
Fin checked the clock. Clarke was supposed to have been here by nine thirty. No call. No text. No answer when Sam rang him.
“And if someone got to him? Or he’s setting us up?”
“If you have a bad feeling, you can step out and keep watch up the street. I wanted you to be here for the pitch, but I understand.”
“He’s worth the risk?”
“Absolutely,” Sam said. “But you know me.”
“Trust your instincts.”
“Right. We’ve been trying to get inside this network for decades. It’s fine if you want out, Fin. But this is the real game, and you’re ready. You’ve earned it. I wouldn’t have brought you otherwise.”
Fin was the best new officer Sam had seen in years. He wanted to show him how the dance went, and the only way to learn was to be in the room with the target. Real human espionage was a dying art in the age of drones and the all-powerful NSA, and he had a duty to pass it on. Someone had taken a chance on Sam once too. If it made the job harder tonight, so be it.
“I trust you,” Fin said, almost casually, his confidence coming back.
Sam went back to the window so he could watch the main street. The clock’s ticking, hard and sharp, was the only sound. He peered out at the countless unlit buildings. Looking over the steep roofs and dormers of Old Town, he had a narrow view of the Mont Blanc range, still white in summer, jagged against the stars. He never quite trusted Geneva, despite its carefully tended gardens and postcard-perfect cobblestoned squares. There was always a complicit feeling about these Swiss cities where Europe kept its secrets, so formal with their quiet luxuries and hidden wealth.
Tick. Tock.
A shadow lengthened on the street below. A woman in a white blouse passed by and then disappeared around a corner.
“Did they have a place with a louder clock?” Finlay asked.
“We couldn’t afford it.”
“I’ll go—”
Three hard knocks at the door.
Sam smiled. He moved past Fin, tapping his shoulder with the side of his fist. “It’s on,” he said, his voice low, and went to the peephole.
Alex Clarke stood just outside, looking slightly downward, not crowding the entrance. He was six feet tall with dark hair swept back. Sam opened the door. Clarke’s eyes, large and blue, met his. The face was so calm and full of understanding that Sam had almost checked the man’s collar the first time they met. There was something priest-like about him.
“Alex,” Sam said as he let him in and shook his hand.
Alex clapped him on the arm. “Great to see you, man.”
“You remember Thomas, right?” Sam said, gesturing toward Finlay. Thomas was an alias. Both men used cover identities in their work with Clarke.
“Of course.” Alex gave Fin’s hand a pump.
Sam was operating undercover as a tech consultant for private financial markets. Alex claimed to be an investment adviser and ran with the hundred-millionaire-and-up crowd: horse auctions in Saudi and summers on the Med. It gave him an excuse to go anywhere, see anyone, and say little—a good front.
Sam had spent months slowly getting close to him, starting with drinks and dinners at investment conferences. Looking at him now, Sam couldn’t help but be impressed by the quality of his cover. Alex spoke in unaccented, idiomatic American English and had the manners nailed, right down to the bro half-hug, yet there was no record of him ever entering or living in the United States. He had come back clean on a search through all the U.S. and partner intel databases. It was some of the strongest identity work Sam had ever seen.
This evening they would head to the Bar des Bergues, a wood-paneled jewel box inside the Four Seasons overlooking the lake. That was the story, at least, but Sam doubted they would make it out of this apartment. He was going to turn Alex in this room.
Something was off, though, as Clarke strolled past the windows, seeming to admire the view. His eyes were moving too fast, subtly scanning Fin and Sam for weapons. The relaxation was forced, with a tightness showing in the shoulders.
Fin looked to Sam; he saw it too. Alex could simply be a moneyman in over his head, a go-between who was terrified about the gravity of what he was about to give up and just wanted to sell his secrets and get out. Or he could be a foreign intelligence officer calculating a way to leverage Sam, to turn him and sway him to treason. Or he could be one of the killers.
Sam liked the game, liked playing it against someone as skilled as Clarke. But there was no safety net here. He and Fin were operating under nonofficial cover, commonly called deep cover, which meant they were on their own with no diplomatic immunity and no backup.
“What are you drinking?” Sam asked as he opened the refrigerator.
“I’m good,” Clarke replied, the tone clipped, a military succinctness. There was an urgency in Alex’s posture, something lethal, the training showing now. This wasn’t the same man Sam knew from those hotel bars.
Sam shut the fridge. “Held up in traffic?”
Alex cocked his head as if to say, C’mon, man. No bullshit small talk this time.
“I need to speak with you one on one,” Alex said, then looked to Fin. Sam felt the night accelerating, his heart pumping a steady beat against his breastbone. This was it.
“He has my absolute trust,” Sam said.
“He must be good. I thought you always worked alone. Couldn’t let anyone slow you down.” Alex’s gaze was cool, measuring. That was the closest he’d ever come to calling out Sam as CIA. “You should go,” Alex said to Finlay. “It’s for your own sake.”
Fin looked at Sam, the kid doing a good job hiding his nerves, and Sam gave him a nod.
“I could use some air,” Fin said with an easy expression on his face. He walked close to Sam and paused by his side. “It’s fine,” Sam said. “I’ve got it.” Then, turned slightly so that Alex couldn’t see, he mouthed, Keep your distance, to Fin.
The young officer walked out. As the door clicked shut behind him, Alex took a step to his left, between Sam and the exit. His face was pale. It looked like fear, but Sam kept his eyes on Alex’s hands.
“I know you’re onto these killings,” Alex said. “I know what you want. I can give him to you.”
“And who’s that?”
“Konstantin.”
