
# Pipeline

By Katrina Morris

Copyright 2019

Katrina Morris

All rights reserved

No part of this e-book may be reproduced in any form other than that in which it was purchased and without the written permission of the author. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Thank you:

**Tony and Alexa:** Thanks for inspiring and motivating me. And for making me laugh almost every day. I love you both so much!

**Notre Dame friends, Air Force friends, LHS friends, and family:** Thanks for supporting me all these years. A special shout out to journalists Kara & Steve for their dedication to discovering and sharing truth. And Carleigh & Kathy, the last two words of the story are for you.

**Lockton friends:** Being surrounded by incredibly talented people each day is hands down the best part of my job. Thank you for encouraging my side-gig!

# Chapter 1

Matt O'Connor reclined in the boardroom chair, his gaze fixed on his supervisor across the table. "The Azeris will do it, Jim, if they believe we have their backs."

Jim leaned in to ask the question. "But _do_ we have their backs, Agent O'Connor?"

A smile spread across Matt's face, erupting into a confident laugh. "Of course we do, Jim. Tension between Russia and Turkey is at an all-time high, the perfect opportunity for Azerbaijan to gain a footing in European energy markets. This is Baku's chance, and they know it; they just need us to convince Moscow to keep out."

Jim tapped his fingers on the large oak table. "Polkov will not like this."

"Agreed," Matt said. "But the only question that matters is this: what will he do about it?"

Jim scoffed. "That's an easy one: he'll punish the Azeris by sending Russian arms to the Armenians in Nagorno-Karabakh."

Matt thought about that for a moment. "True, but we could send weapons to Baku to keep the Armenians under tabs. Or if it's not us, the Israelis would be glad to serve as the supplier."

Jim reclined in the chair, his hands cradling the back of his neck. "Yes, and then what, Matt? Polkov is doubly mad, because now Moscow is losing a foothold in the European energy game, and the U.S. - or Israel- is arming Baku to fight the Russian-favored Armenians. We're poking a bear, Matt. We don't need this right now."

Matt shook his head. "It's now or never, Jim. The Europeans want to know if we're in or not. Europe's dependence on Russian natural gas is unhealthy, and if we do this right, we breathe new life into the European economy."

Matt noticed a glimmer in Jim's eyes, an acknowledgment that his words had merit. His pitch was working.

Jim sat forward. "Very well, Agent O'Connor. Polkov will be at the summit in Berlin in April. I'll let him know that we support this deal for the economic benefits it would bring, and that we don't want any trouble in the Caucasuses over it."

"Thanks, Jim."

Jim looked at Matt critically. "We must convince the Azeris that Russia will turn a blind eye to the pipeline project. The Azeris know we won't go to war with Moscow over this, so we have to assure Baku that this project will proceed without opposition from Russia."

Matt nodded confidently. "You speak to Polkov next week, and I'll figure out what we can use as leverage to keep Moscow at bay."

The men exited the board room together into the carpeted hallway. As they parted ways, Jim looked at his subordinate with uncertainty. Matt picked up on it. "Trust me, Jim," he said, with a confident smile. "Have I ever let you down before?"

"No," he admitted. "You always seem to know what you're doing." Jim Davidson sighed. "Best of luck, Agent O'Connor."

# Chapter 2

It was February 2017, and construction of the Azeri-Bulgarian pipeline had been underway for about a month. Matt had secured his leverage, and Russian President Vladimir Polkov was unhappy but stuck.

Things had taken a turn for the worse, though. Nobody—not even the most politically savvy analysts in the CIA—had expected Lukas Bradshaw to win the seat of U.S. President.

The nation was still reeling from the effects of the election. Bradshaw's comments caused many to wonder how a businessman with right-wing political tendencies could lead a nation once revered for justice, freedom, and equality.

Almost everybody Matt knew—both inside and outside the CIA- was surprised by the election's outcome. Who are these people, he wondered, who supported Lukas Bradshaw's ascent? Matt wondered what it meant anymore to be an American, knowing that so many of his compatriots' values were dissimilar to his own.

He sighed. Matt's father, a retired military officer, used to advise, "Even if you don't respect the person, Matt, respect the position." The election was over, and it was time to tune out Bradshaw's ugliness. It was time to carry on. 

# Chapter 3

The shakeup in American politics had spooked the Azeris. Matt had heard rumblings from Baku that Bradshaw, who publicly touted Polkov's autocratic leadership style, would tolerate a violent response from Russia in retribution for construction of the pipeline. The Azeris were feeling hopeless, as if the dangerous investment they had just made might prove a disaster.

Matt made plans to go to Bulgaria to oversee construction of the pipeline himself, to reassure the Bulgarians and the Azeris that the U.S. was still stable and strong, and that no matter how radical Bradshaw's politics seemed, that there were still intelligent and resourceful Americans in government positions to carry the torch responsibly.

Before heading to Dulles to catch his flight to Frankfurt, Matt took the Metro to meet Jim in Tysons Corner. This would be the final opportunity for the pair to ensure they had thought of everything.

Matt hurried from the Metro to the pub. The cold air in his lungs reminded him that Bulgaria's climate was just about the same as DC's, and the gloves and hat he donned today would serve him well in his next few weeks on assignment.

Matt spotted Jim in a small booth at the rear of the pub. Just like a CIA agent, Matt thought, to be sitting with his back at the far end of the wall, observing all who enter.

# Chapter 4

Jim stood as Matt approached. "You ready?" Jim asked, gesturing for Matt to take a seat across from him in the booth.

On the table, a Guinness with an articulate design carved in the froth caught his attention. "You know I don't even like this sludge, Jim."

"You don't have to like it, Agent O'Connor. You just have to drink it."

Matt shook his head, offering a slight smile. "Cheers," he said, carefully raising his full glass to meet Jim's.

"Cheers," Jim echoed quietly. Matt detected a melancholy tone in his supervisor's voice. "What's up?" he asked.

Jim paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. "It's different now," he said.

"I know, Jim."

"Everything we've been working toward..."

Matt interrupted. "Politics don't matter, Jim. They never have before, and they still don't matter now."

"I don't know," he said dejectedly. "It seems as if all of our rules of engagement—the order that keeps us civilized- are coming unglued."

Matt refused to believe that an American president could wreak such havoc on the system. "It's rhetoric, Jim; it's just political posturing. We've got this. We just keep Bradshaw in the dark, and we operate as we always have, and everything will work out as planned."

"What about the Azeris?" Jim asked. "What if Moscow uses this moment of American weakness to strike? Polkov knows Bradshaw won't fight the Kremlin, Matt."

"If Moscow acts as an aggressor, we'll figure it out, Jim. We always do."

"We won't go to war with Moscow to protect Baku, Matt, and you know it."

"You're right," he admitted.

Jim leaned in, his arms crossed in front of him on the table. "If we lose this pipeline, we lose the credibility we've built supporting underdog states against Moscow. First it's Azerbaijan, and then whom do we let down next?"

Matt took a long sip of the Irish dry stout and shook his head. "Jim, forget about all of this. Nobody's losing anything yet. All of this Bradshaw fanfare is just smoke and mirrors."

Jim wasn't convinced. "I'd like to believe you. It's just difficult to witness a commander-in-chief who treats everything like it's a game."

"I know it, Jim, but we're better than Bradshaw. We have to press on." Matt finished his Guinness quickly, and stood.

Jim remained seated. He shook his head.

Matt had known Jim a long time: Jim had saved Matt's life three times in the tumultuous months in Kosovo preceding the NATO air raids in 1999. Jim was always the level-headed, confident agent who could muster ingenious contingency plans for any imaginable situation.

He looks worn, Matt thought. Is he tiring of this business? Or had things truly changed with Bradshaw at the helm?

"I'll send a report," Matt promised. "It'll be void of many details, with just enough information to document my activity for intelligence resource watchdog purposes."

Jim stood slowly, extending his hand. "Goodbye, Agent O'Connor."

Matt smiled and returned the handshake, his grip intentionally a little stronger than normal, a subtle signal to Jim that he had it all under control.

As he walked down the street toward the Metro station, Matt told himself that if he just kept moving, it would all work out. He believed in what he did, and good always triumphed over evil.

Maybe not always, he thought, but at least mostly. He sighed. Mostly.

# Chapter 5

Jason Silverstone read the first two sentences of the intelligence report a few times to ensure he had missed no details. "Pipeline construction has begun. Actors in place in Buhovo," the source wrote.

Pipeline? And where the hell was Buhovo? Silverstone did a quick Internet search to discover Buhovo was a suburb of Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria.

He searched around more for information on the Internet about a pipeline in Buhovo, but he found nothing. Something about this vague intelligence report bothered him.

Silverstone stepped out of his office to query his top analyst, Carine Winters, about the report.

"What is this?" Silverstone demanded of Carine, a mix of belligerence and irritation in his voice. He tossed the piece of paper onto Carine's desk.

Carine moved her gaze from the work she was doing to what Silverstone had thrown at her. She was glad to review the paper, because it gave her the opportunity to avoid looking Silverstone in the eyes. The absence of brightness in his gaze bothered her.

In the short time Carine had worked for Silverstone, she sensed that his sole purpose was to seek failure in others. Carine wondered how somebody could spend precious time and energy seeking out the worst instead of creating solutions.

When she could make no sense of this, she decided her intuition about Silverstone must be incorrect, and that there had to be more to the wiry, high-strung supervisor than what Carine could see.

Silverstone had been appointed to supervise the southeastern European analytics team in the State Department's Bureau of Intelligence and Research. His intelligence experience was limited, and his team knew it; he was a product of Lukas Bradshaw's paranoid plan to deploy supporters of his camp within all facets of government.

Silverstone had done little in his initial four weeks to instill confidence with his team in his abilities to lead. He seemed to trust no one, and he continually questioned his analysts' work.

It was taking a toll on the team. Carine was uncertain about what she could do about it, except to continue to encourage her colleagues to press on.

With her fingertips Carine pulled the paper closer to review the information. She knew that Silverstone was easily excitable because he didn't have the experience to discern important information from dismissible details.

And so Silverstone spent much of his day interrupting his hard-working analysts, demanding they attend to reports he believed were urgent, which usually turned out to be insignificant.

This was different, though. Carine scanned the report and recognized the CIA codename "Osprey." She felt her heartbeat quicken, a flutter she had not felt in a long time. She leaned in closer to study the paper.

# Chapter 6

Could it really be Osprey? She started to smile, but then she stopped herself, because she did not want to give Silverstone the pleasure of knowing he might have been onto something interesting. She breathed deeply to settle her quickened pulse.

Osprey was a long-standing CIA operative who had made a name for himself during the Kosovo conflict of 1999, feeding information back to the Beltway about the rag-tag insurgent Kosovo Liberation Army and its young, bloodthirsty leaders.

Although Osprey's reports were dismissed by American politicians who had manipulated the situation in Kosovo to secure NATO's place in a post-Cold War world, many in the intelligence community respected Osprey's honest and accurate analysis.

Carine had not seen a report from Osprey in years; in fact, the rumor was that after Osprey's work in Kosovo was so blatantly disregarded, he had become disgruntled with American politics and had called it quits as an operative.

But now, twenty years later, he was back. And he had written a report that troubled Silverstone, something having to do with a natural gas pipeline in Bulgaria.

Carine sighed to cover up her interest. "I'll look into it, Jason, after I finish this report I'm working on."

"Everything else can wait, Carine," he ordered.

"What's your concern, Jason?" she asked, her light brown eyes meeting his. Why was this so important to him?

"There's nothing in open source news about a pipeline under construction in Bulgaria. If this is happening, President Bradshaw will want to know about this."

"I don't think this information demands the President's attention, Jason," Carine said lightly. "We don't even know if it's credible."

"That's why I've come to you with this, Carine. Sort this out. Find out everything you know about this pipeline. And if it turns out to be nothing, fine. The CIA has carte blanche to do whatever it wants, without regard to American interests. President Bradshaw wants to stop this, and we're the ones to help do that."

Carine had her own thoughts about Bradshaw, but she kept those to herself. "All right, Jason. I'll do a little digging on my own, and then I'll touch base with our energy analysts to see what they have cooking over there."

Carine glanced at Silverstone's eyes, dark pools that gave no hint of an accompanying soul, and then she turned back to her computer screen. She hoped Silverstone had not noticed the flush in her cheeks, or her more rapid speech, side effects of the adrenaline rush she was feeling.

Knowing that Osprey was still an active operative excited her. If the pipeline project involved Osprey, then Silverstone was correct: this must be important. She berated herself for these feelings of giddiness, as there was work to do, and no time to waste.

# Chapter 7

"Osprey? Are you for real, Carine?" Josie asked her eyes wide in disbelief. Josie had muttered the words quietly, yet Carine felt nervous that someone might overhear their conversation, and the last thing she wanted was to attract attention in the Georgetown bar. Josie, on the other hand, enjoyed being noticed. She twirled a few curls of her long brown hair, her green eyes sparkling.

"I know what you're thinking, Josie."

Josie grinned. "You still like him."

Carine smiled, sipping her beer. "I can't help it. We're talking about Osprey."

"Yes, yes, I remember." Josie laughed. "Gorgeous and smart, funny and heroic. You glimpsed your knight in shining armor twenty years ago in Pristina, and you've never recovered."

Carine's cheeks reddened in embarrassment. What Josie had said was true; Osprey probably hadn't thought of her once these last twenty years, yet she had kept him alive in her mind the entire time.

"So what's with the reminiscing?" Josie asked, tilting her head. "Not that I mind thinking back to those times when we were younger and crazier."

Carine could hardly contain her excitement. She leaned in to share the news with her good friend. "Osprey's resurfaced, Josie. He's in Bulgaria."

"Bulgaria?" Josie drummed her fingers on the table. It was happy hour, and although it was crowded and loud in the bar, Carine could still pick up the precise tap-tap-tap of Josie's beat as her friend digested the information.

"I give up," Josie said. "What's going on in Bulgaria, Carine? What do you know?"

"That's why I called you. Osprey reports that construction of a natural gas pipeline in Buhovo, a suburb of Sofia, has started. I can't find any open source or classified information to corroborate the report. I told Silverstone I'd check with our experts, which is easy to do when your best friend from college is the State Department's top energy analyst."

"I'm flattered you consider me an expert, Carine," she quipped, smirking. "So how did you get ahold of this report?"

"Silverstone printed it out, tossed it at me, and asked me to look into it. Do you know anything about construction of a pipeline in Bulgaria?"

Josie shrugged her shoulders. "There's talk daily from Moscow about new opportunities to transport gas through Eastern Europe, Greece and Turkey to Western Europe. It's very tough to sift through what might happen, and what's just pie in the sky."

She continued, "Russia transports a lot of its natural gas through Bulgaria, but I don't recall seeing any recent reports indicating Moscow plans to add onto existing pipeline or create new pipeline there."

She drummed her fingertips on the high table again. "Do you have any more details?"

Carine shook her head. "The report was very vague. In fact, had Osprey not written it, I would have dismissed it immediately."

Josie asked, "Why do you think your boss so interested in this report?"

"Silverstone said he thought this natural gas pipeline would interest President Bradshaw."

Their cheerful server swung by their table. "Here's a refill on drinks, courtesy of the gentlemen at that back table."

Josie glanced at the two men at the back table. She smiled, waved, and mouthed a 'thank you.'"

"Are they cute?" Carine asked curiously.

Josie shot her friend a disapproving glance. "Why don't you turn around and look for yourself?"

"No, thanks," Carine said. "I'm not interested."

"Of course you're not. Nobody compares to Osprey," Josie teased.

Carine felt her cheeks redden. "Can we get back to our conversation, please?"

The two had been friends long enough for Josie to know that Carine was tiring of being teased about her long-standing infatuation with Osprey.

"Sure," Josie offered kindly.

# Chapter 8

Carine leaned in. "Josie, why would President Bradshaw be interested in an intelligence report about construction of a natural gas pipeline in Bulgaria?" she asked.

Josie smiled. "The last time Bradshaw was in Moscow, he met with Alexey Mendev, Gazkov's Chairman of the Board."

"What's Gazkov?" Carine asked.

"The Russian gas giant Gazkov owns about seventeen percent of the world's natural gas reserves. Forty percent of Europe's natural gas imports come from Gazkov alone."

"So what's Bradshaw's connection?" Carine asked.

Josie shrugged. "We're not sure. Bradshaw owns SB Energy, a small corporation headquartered in Montana, but it's a fairly insignificant domestic operation. A few of our analysts started to probe deeper into what transpired in that meeting between Bradshaw and Mendev until the Bureau's director got word that our department was investigating the President's engagement."

"Oops," Carine said. "Then what happened?"

"About a month ago we were all pulled into a conference room for a gentle reminder that our job is to identify threats to U.S. security, not to get involved in the President's personal business. Two of the analysts involved in the inquiry were fired for misconduct."

"Wow," Carine said. "That's harsh."

"It's a different world, my friend," Josie remarked, unsmiling. "Most American leaders have personal investments overseas, but what's different with Bradshaw is that he blatantly puts his business interests above what's best for the United States. It wouldn't surprise me if he's commissioned your supervisor to keep a lookout on all energy-related intelligence matters so he can attempt to profit from insider information."

Carine looked puzzled. "So you mean that if Bradshaw knew the Russians were building another natural gas pipeline through Bulgarian to Europe, he might work to capitalize on this information for personal gain?"

Josie nodded somberly. "I wouldn't put it past him."

"So you think he's using national intelligence resources to build personal wealth?" Carine asked, frowning. "That's quite a conspiracy theory."

"Perhaps," Josie admitted. "I hope I'm wrong," she added. The friends were silent for a moment, reflecting upon the current state of American politics.

Carine broke the silence. "Thanks for meeting me, Josie. I guess if our State Department's energy analysts don't know of anything transpiring in Bulgaria, then that report of Osprey's may be insignificant."

Josie chuckled. "That's not true. By the time we find out what's happening, others have made millions on closed-door deals."

Carine noticed Josie glancing around the bar, settling her gaze on the two men who had financed their drinks. Carine wasn't interested in mingling. "I have to go," she told Josie.

Josie shot Carine another disapproving look. "You're chasing a dream, Carine. There are real men right here, right now."

Carine smiled as she stood. "It's late, and we're not as young as we used to be."

Josie stood. "Or as fun as we used to be," she added dejectedly as they left the pub.

At the nearby Metro station, Carine hopped on the train to Dupont Circle. She sunk down in the seat, feeling a little more alive than she had in a while, just knowing Osprey was out there somewhere.

# Chapter 9

Back in the office the next day Carine wasted no time getting her meeting with Jason out of the way. She entered Silverstone's office before stopping at her own desk to log into her computer.

"Jason, yesterday I met with an energy analyst, and she doesn't know of any pipeline through Bulgaria. I think it's a dead end."

"Okay, thanks," Silverstone said. He took the news more calmly than she had expected. She loitered a moment longer, and Silverstone looked up from his paperwork. "Why are you still here?" he asked.

His response surprised her. "I had expected a different reaction from you."

Silverstone shrugged. "What did you want me to say? You're our best analyst, and you uncovered nothing. Short of heading over the Langley to meet with Osprey ourselves, there's nothing more to do."

His face lit up. "Wait a second, that's a great idea. Why don't we head over to Langley to speak to Osprey?" He rubbed his hands together, delighted with himself.

Although she wanted to see Osprey again, she didn't want to be in the presence of Silverstone when the reunion occurred. "Is this a good use of our time?" she asked. Her heartbeat quickened, hoping he'd give up the idea.

"Consider it a high national priority, Carine. This is exactly what President Bradshaw would want us to do."

Carine shrugged, feigning apathy. This should be interesting, she thought.

# Chapter 10

Jim met them in the lobby. "Mr. Silverstone and Ms. Winters, welcome to Langley."

Silverstone's glance darted to the left and to the right. "Mr. Davidson," he asked meekly, "Should we meet somewhere more private for this conversation?"

Jim laughed. This is CIA headquarters, Mr. Silverstone. You don't get much more secure than in our lobby."

Carine grinned. She liked Jim Davidson's authenticity.

Jim escorted his two guests into a small meeting room off the lobby, offering them seats at the circular table. "I'm Osprey's supervisor," he said. "What would you like to know?"

"You're very direct," Silverstone remarked.

"Why beat around the bush?"

"That's an interesting position for a member of a clandestine organization, Mr. Davidson."

Jim replied calmly, "We have standards of conduct here, Mr. Silverstone, and a code of ethics paramount to the success of our mission." Carine thought to herself, these two men in this meeting could not be more different.

Jim continued, "Mr. Silverstone, what brings you and Ms. Winters to Langley?"

"We want to know more about the gas pipeline under construction in Bulgaria," Silverstone said.

"What would you like to know?"

"Details about the project," Silverstone barked.

"Okay, fire away with your questions," Jim offered politely.

"Where does the natural gas originate?" Silverstone asked.

Jim hesitated, weighing what to say next. He answered evenly, "The gas originates in Azerbaijan."

"Azerbaijan?" Carine muttered. "Not Russia?"

Silverstone looked at Carine, who was staring at Jim. Carine noticed that for the first time in their meeting, Jim appeared uncomfortable.

# Chapter 11

"Why aren't the Russians opposing the pipeline, Mr. Davidson?" she asked. "This project would hurt them economically, challenging their exports to Western Europe."

Jim took a deep breath. "I don't know the answer to your question, Ms. Winters, but none of our intelligence reports to-date indicate the Russians are angry about the project, or that they're planning to seek retribution."

"Why aren't we more concerned about this?" Silverstone demanded. "This is a matter of great national security. The President needs to know."

Jim said calmly, "I assure you, Mr. Silverstone, that the Russians are fine with this. We have no intelligence to suggest otherwise, and our agents in Moscow with footholds in the Kremlin concur."

Silverstone sneered. "That's the trouble with you people: you think you know more than everybody else."

Carine interrupted. "They do, Jason. They're the CIA."

"They don't know everything," Silverstone asserted, the tone and volume of his voice rising. "This is the problem with our government today: we trust intelligence agencies to give decision makers all the details, but the intelligence agencies withhold information when they think it's not important. They shouldn't have the power to decide what's important or not. How do they know?"

"Mr. Silverstone," Jim asked calmly, "what do you propose as an alternative process? Our intelligence analysts review all the information as it comes in, and they work to put together, like a puzzle, the pieces that might make an important story. While one individual report may not seem important, when married to another report, perhaps there's an issue to watch."

Jim continued. "It happens the other way, too. A sensational single source report arrives, and our analysts take efforts to corroborate that report. We gather additional information related to the report to validate or discredit the initial information. Thousands of analysts across different agencies follow this process because it works."

"What if you miss something important that the President needs to know about?" Silverstone demanded.

"Mr. Silverstone, we have many eyes reviewing and evaluating information, and there's lots of redundancy built into our system. It would be information overload- and a poor use of the Commander-in-Chief's time—to share all the raw intelligence we collect."

Silverstone crossed his arms and faced Carine. "Do you believe this?"

Carine nodded. "I absolutely do, Jason. While the system's not perfect, it works."

Silverstone shook his head. "There should be more oversight. The President needs to know everything to make the best decisions for our country."

"Everything?" she asked. "Isn't that what we're paid to do, to sort through all the details?"

"We're done here," Silverstone said, standing. "You don't think this information about the pipeline is important, but I do. A pipeline from Azerbaijan to Western Europe threatens Russia economically. Moscow is our ally. We need to let the President know about this."

Silverstone's persistence was grating on Carine. "There's nothing the President needs to do, Jason. The pipeline..."

Silverstone barked, "I said we're done here. Let's go, Carine."

As she and Silverstone walked through the parking lot to Silverstone's Mercedes, she felt compelled to glance back for a moment.

Jim was still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching them through the glass door. She felt a twinge of embarrassment as Silverstone's affiliate. She offered Jim a weak, polite smile, hoping he had seen this signal of hers, this beacon indicating she was not at all like Jason Silverstone.

As Silverstone drove them back to their office, she fixed her gaze out the passenger side window, glimpsing the Washington Monument. The tallest obelisk in the world was her favorite structure in this busy city. She liked how it peeked through the buildings, straight and tall and proud, a striking giant.

Silverstone's angry voice interrupted her thoughts. "That Davidson is in for a big surprise. When President Bradshaw hears about what happened, it wouldn't surprise me if they shut down that damned agency completely."

# Chapter 12

"He's running a few minutes behind, Mr. Silverstone."

Running a hand through his greying hair, Silas Silverstone chuckled at the young White House aide. "He runs the free world, honey. He's allowed to be late."

The aide looked at the elder Silverstone with disdain. "Yes, sir," she said coldly.

The junior Silverstone–Jason- could hardly contain his excitement at having this opportunity to speak to Lukas Bradshaw himself. Finally, he thought, my time has come. _So what if I'm here with my dad?_

Jason Silverstone knew others believed the only reason he had acquired his position at the State Department was because of his father's close allegiance to Bradshaw. People gossiped that in exchange for Silas's continued loyalty to Bradshaw, the junior Silverstone had been bequeathed a mid-level job he was ill-qualified to perform.

He knew that's what people said, but he did not accept this as truth. Jason Silverstone believed he had been appointed to report any information that Bradshaw's political opponents within the State Department might try to withhold. Bradshaw trusted very few, Silas had told his son at the start.

"The President will see you now," the aide reported. The father and son team entered the Oval Office.

The room was smaller and more elegant than what Jason had expected. He enjoyed the moment, taking a deep breath, readying himself for the engagement. Few Americans were privileged to meet with Lukas Bradshaw, to have time on the President's calendar.

"Mr. President," Jason offered too boldly and too loudly, a step ahead of his father, toward Bradshaw sitting behind his desk.

"Keep your distance, son," Bradshaw warned. "It's flu season, and I need to minimize my engagement with the public. I can't afford to be sick right now." Jason smiled politely while Silas guffawed.

"You have two minutes, Silas." Disappointment washed over Jason. As he observed the exchange between his father and Bradshaw, he felt irrelevant.

"Jason discovered the Azeris are building a gas pipeline through Bulgaria to Europe," Silas reported

"That's impossible," Bradshaw scoffed. "Moscow would never allow this. And we would never agree to this."

"That's what I thought, Lukas, but Langley's confirmed it. The CIA is in the little town in Bulgaria overseeing production of the Azeri pipeline as we speak. You need to call Langley and tell them to stand down."

Bradshaw frowned. "Don't tell me what to do, Silas. I know what to do."

"Then do it," Silas scolded. "Take care of this immediately. I don't have to remind you that a project like this jeopardizes SB Energy's plans to transport Russian gas across the Black Sea to Greece. I know you're busy playing President, Silas, but while you're preoccupied, there are others of us who still care deeply about protecting our business interests."

Silas continued. "Do the right thing, Lukas. Shut down this Azeri pipeline project immediately."

Bradshaw and the elder Silverstone glared at each other, fixed in a power struggle. Jason took advantage of the silence to launch an idea of his own. "You know," he said, "I've been wondering something." The elder men broke their staring contest to offer Jason bewildered looks.

He took a deep breath and continued. "The Russians have spies all over Eastern Europe: they have spooks on the ground, and cameras in the air, and telephones tapped. They must know this project is underway. They're too smart not to know. So why aren't they protesting?"

Bradshaw said, "The boy's onto something here." He drummed his fingers on his Oval Office desk for a few seconds. "Silas, go to Moscow and see if all is well with Gazkov, and that the Russians are still on board with SB Energy's plan to transport Russian gas under the sea to Greece. We can't afford to blow things with the Russians right now."

Silas shook his head. "You're skirting the issue, Lukas. We need to stop this project right now. Call the CIA."

Lukas sneered. "I'll tell you one more time, Silas: I won't tolerate you telling me what to do. I'll handle the CIA, and I'll get this pipeline project canceled, but I'll do it my way."

"Very well, Mr. President," Silas said, presenting a sloppy, patronizing salute. The Silverstone duo left the Oval Office. "Have a good day, honey," Silas offered the aide on their way out.

Turning to Jason, Silas barked happily, "Get your bags packed, son. Looks like we have a few appointments to make in Moscow."

Jason was elated. He wasn't irrelevant after all.

# Chapter 13

"Benjamin, I've got a problem."

"I figured that, Mr. President. You never phone me just to say hello."

It was only noon Eastern time- 10:00 a.m. Mountain time- and Lukas thought his old high school buddy sounded intoxicated.

"I need you to go to Bulgaria," Bradshaw ordered.

"I don't like South America. Too many people speaking Spanish everywhere."

"No, not Bolivia. Bulgaria, in eastern Europe."

"I've never even heard of this place. Do they speak English there?"

"No, they speak Bulgarian."

"Then how is this going to work? I'm good, Lukas, but how quickly do you expect me to learn a foreign language so I can blend in to do your dirty work overseas?"

"Just figure it out, Benjamin. Don't you have a team of people to manage your logistics?"

"Yeah, I do, Lukas. I have an excellent team of people committed to the American way. Never doubt that, man. America will prevail because of people like us."

"Good," Bradshaw said. "Write this down."

"Hold on, old buddy. I need to grab a pen and paper." Bradshaw heard shuffling in the background, and then it sounded as if a few things had been knocked off a table. "Okay, I'm ready," Bradshaw's friend announced.

"Fly to Sofia and then get to a suburb called Buhovo, by train or car or whatever, I don't care."

"Where do you want me to go? Rugovo?"

"No, Buhovo. That's B-U-H-O-V-O."

"Okay, got it, boss. What do you want me to do in B-U-H-O-V-O?"

Benjamin Zerow was beginning to annoy Bradshaw. They might have been friends since childhood, but there were still times as adults when Bradshaw fantasized about knocking his old crony down to the ground to pummel him, like he used to do when they were scrappy boys.

"I want you to blow up a natural gas pipeline that's being constructed there. Leave no trace of the pipeline ever having existed at the site."

"That's a tall order, amigo," Zerow remarked. "How do you expect there to be no trace?"

"Figure it out," Bradshaw barked. "Do what you need to do to make it look like a huge accident."

"Okay, Lukas. I'm writing this down: 'Make it seem like a huge accident.'"

"This isn't funny, Benjamin. This is important."

"Of course it is, Lukas."

"I have to go."

"What, not even a 'thank you for blowing up this pipeline for me'?" Zerow quipped.

"You'll get your thanks when the job is done."

"Eye, eye, Captain."

Zerow hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair for a moment. Zerow never asked Bradshaw about Lukas's projects; he never asked the "why" of anything. It was better that way, he thought, to just do the job they commissioned him to do.

He found himself a slight bit curious about this pipeline, though. Most of Bradshaw's jobs involved threats to Lukas Bradshaw's business interests. This time, though, was it possible that blowing up the pipeline was in America's best interests? Could this be a matter of national importance?

It was time to rally his troops.

# Chapter 14

Benjamin Zerow never tired of the view of the Clark Fork River from the compound's back porch. The cabin was high enough above the river that, looking down, Zerow could watch the waves crest as the water twisted and turned downstream.

The river was narrower here than at other points along its path through Montana and Idaho, and more mighty as the waves squeezed through a tighter space. This river was powerful, Zerow thought, but also graceful. His eyes skimmed across the water to the forest of pines coated in snow spreading for miles on the far side of the Clark Fork.

He loved this land. He had grown up in nearby Noxon, a town comprising about fifty families. Most of the people he knew as a child had remained here today, carrying on the same responsibilities their parents had in construction, agriculture, forestry, and fishing. This was the good land.

Like Zerow, many of his friends had left Noxon when they turned eighteen to serve proudly in the U.S. armed forces. And like Zerow, many of these same friends had eventually returned to Noxon, disenfranchised by what they had experienced, realizing that the American values they cherished so dearly were not the universal truth they had so naively believed permeated large and small cities alike across this great nation.

Like himself, many of Zerow's friends had returned to Montana not only disappointed but also listless. Manual labor was literally backbreaking in Noxon and the environs, and Zerow witnessed frustration and hopelessness among his brothers returning from service that translated most commonly into destructive behaviors like alcohol abuse and domestic violence.

Fifteen years ago he had married Melissa, his childhood sweetheart, and he had shared with her his dream to make America great again. He knew he could trust Melissa, because she wasn't attractive, which he found reassuring. He knew she would never have an opportunity to cheat on him.

Zerow breathed in the crisp Montana air as he watched the movement of the river. It was a frigid February, and he was outside on the patio dressed in only a flannel shirt and jeans. This cold, he thought, was a proper punishment for the fleeting image that came to his mind, a desire he vowed to suppress. He shook his head, physically attempting to remove those thoughts. It was time to go back inside, to get ready for the meeting.

He turned to retreat. He caught a glance of Melissa working in the kitchen, and a twinge of guilt coursed through him. Shake it off, Benjamin, he told himself. Now, more than ever, is the time to remain focused.

# Chapter 15

The group assembled around the long farmhouse table in the room adjoining the kitchen. The sun was setting, and Melissa had arranged a row of candles down the table's center, creating a medieval ambiance for the meeting.

Zerow watched the seductive dance of the flames as he practiced what he would say to his disciples to kick off the meeting. He sat at the head of the table, the position of honor and control.

This was his clan, he thought contentedly. They believed in the cause, and they believed in him. He had finally pulled together a group who would make a difference, who could return America to greatness once again.

Zerow's five disciples each had fire in their bellies, and they were reckless, unpredictable. They had to be, Zerow reasoned, to do the things they came together to do.

Zerow kicked off the meeting with a prayer. "Lord Jesus," he called, "we come together to do your work, for a pure Earth, for a better tomorrow. As you do each day, keep us safe and show us the way." He paused, looking up at his people, their heads bowed in reverence. "Amen," he said.

"Amen," the group responded.

Melissa appeared from the kitchen with six beer steins and a few bowls of pretzels. Zerow sat back, taking in the scene. He looked out the window at the falling snow and the mountains across the Clark Fork, and then his glance returned to the setting interior, the blazing fire in the stone fireplace, the candles aglow on the table, his disciples among him.

Melissa retreated into the kitchen, which meant it was time to get down to business. "We're headed to Eastern Europe to blow up a natural gas pipeline," Zerow announced. "It needs to look like an accident."

Agatha pulled out her laptop. "Put that away," Zerow ordered.

Narrowing her steel-blue eyes, Agatha shot Zerow a look of annoyance. "Why do you have such a problem with harnessing the power of the Internet to help us plan our missions, Benjamin?"

"Put it away, Agatha," he said solidly. She was ruining this experience for him, this connection he was making in his mind between what they were about to do, and missions virtuous teams throughout the centuries had undertaken.

Agatha shook her head, her blond braid moving slightly in defiance of her leader. "I don't understand what you're afraid of, Benjamin." She took a long sip from the beer stein in front of her.

Zerow did not appreciate being challenged by a subordinate—much less, a woman- in front of his team. "I'm not afraid of anything, Agatha. The government can track everything you do on that thing. You need to be more careful."

Agatha scowled. "I'm not stupid enough to compromise everything we're working for. My value to our group is logistics coordination, right? So let me do my job."

"Settle down, Agatha," piped up Billy, a weathered old guy with a long beard and a wide gut. "You didn't even give Benjamin a chance to give us the mission details." Zerow considered Billy his closest confidant, and he appreciated his right hand man speaking up to support him.

"Here's what we know," Zerow said. He retrieved and unwrapped from his breast pocket a piece of wrinkled paper containing the notes he had taken from his conversation earlier in the day with Bradshaw.

"Our target is a natural gas pipeline in a small town in Bulgaria. We'll fly to Sofia, rent a van, and then drive to the nearby town of Buhovo to blow up the pipeline," Zerow said.

Joey, a thirty-year-old unemployed Marine veteran, spoke. "So we'll need airline tickets and passports, and a reasonable cover if this tow. Six Americans in a small town in central Europe will not go unnoticed."

Martin, a veteran Army Ranger, offered, "It might take us a few days to figure out where we can get fertilizer and a few other ingredients for the explosives."

"And I'm guessing we may need to scrounge around in different places to gather the supplies, to avoid raising suspicion," Silas, an auto mechanic who lived his whole life in Noxon, suggested.

"What else do you know?" Agatha asked. "Who's building the pipeline, and why must the pipeline be destroyed?"

"You're just going to have to trust me, babe," Zerow offered. "The call came from Bradshaw."

"President Bradshaw?" Agatha looked surprised.

"I've done a lot of work for him in the past. He knows my team is the best."

"Bradshaw," Agatha muttered, tapping her fingers.

Zerow ignored Agatha, focusing his gaze on the other four men. "Everybody knows his specific role on our team. Do your homework, and we'll meet back here tomorrow at the same time to finalize plans."

The crew rose from the table. Agatha left first, followed by Silas, Martin, and Joey.

Billy lingered behind to speak to Zerow. "I don't trust her."

Zerow sighed. "We need her, Billy. And as much as I don't like to admit this, she's right that we should utilize the Internet to gain information to improve our operations."

Billy frowned. "Something doesn't feel right with her."

"She proved herself in the Mendez raid last month. She's one of us."

Billy lowered his voice. "Do you think your judgment might be impaired by your feelings for her?"

Zerow narrowed his eyes. "Shut up, Billy. I don't know what you think is going on, but you better shut up."

Billy put his hands up defensively. "You might not be seeing things objectively, man. That's all I'm saying." He sighed. "I'll see you tomorrow."

# Chapter 16

Zerow drove the pickup into town, the snow crunching beneath the tires. It was dark, and everything was quiet, except those tires of his on the newly fallen snow.

He thought about Agatha. She was trustworthy, wasn't she? Agatha had proved herself in the last three of their missions, particularly in the recent Mendez raid. One of the teenagers in Noxon told Melissa that Roberta and Mateo Mendez, a couple in their forties who had recently moved to Noxon, were selling marijuana to a handful of junior high and high school kids in town.

Zerow remembered the anger he had felt when Melissa shared with him the news. They were right not to trust Mexicans, because here they were in Noxon, tempting innocent kids with drugs.

He remembered how angry Agatha had been about this, too, when he told her what was going on. He had visited Agatha at her apartment on a Saturday evening to share with her the news. She had asked Zerow for permission to take care of the Mendez problem herself.

The next morning Ellen Thompson, who lived two houses down from Roberta and Mateo Mendez, had confided in Melissa as they were leaving church that she had heard gunshots at the Mendez house the night prior. Nobody knew exactly what had happened, except that both Mateo and Roberta were gone, leaving behind a significant pool of blood in the family room.

When Zerow visited Agatha at her apartment the following day, he noticed her bruises immediately. At first she didn't want to tell him what happened. She was ashamed, she had said. He held her closely, stroking her hair, and finally she agreed to tell him what had happened.

She had gone to the Mendez residence that night intending to steal their marijuana supply. Mateo had seen her coming, and he had knocked her out before she could pull off her plan. He saw an opportunity to take advantage of an unconscious woman just as an intoxicated Roberta returned home from the tavern around the corner.

Thinking Mateo was cheating on her, Roberta shot Mateo dead before he had a chance to explain the situation. Roberta had dragged Mateo and Agatha into the backseat of their Buick with plans to flee Noxon, but she had been so upset and drunk that she only made it about half a mile outside of town before accidentally slamming the Buick into a tree, killing herself.

Agatha, limp on the floor in the backseat of the old Buick, had survived the crash. She woke a few hours later, Mateo's lifeless body next to hers. She scrambled out of the vehicle and made her way back home to treat her wounds.

As Agatha confessed her story, Zerow remembered how tight he had held her that Sunday afternoon. Would he allow her to continue to be part of the team, after such a botched job, she had asked him, her blue eyes filled with tears.

He kissed her. He knew at that moment it was the wrong thing to do, that she was vulnerable, and he was cheating on Melissa. She lay there in his arms for a little while. He was glad she had survived Mateo's attack, and for one brief moment, he wished he were not married to Melissa so that he could stay here all night, holding Agatha.

Zerow snapped back to the present, narrowing his eyes. What did Billy think was going on, anyway? How could he possibly suspect anything?

He parked the pickup on the road, across from Agatha's apartment.

# Chapter 17

As he crossed the street, he glimpsed her through a small break in the curtains in her front window. She was sitting on her couch in the first-floor apartment working on her laptop.

He knocked on her door. She looked up, surprised by the disturbance. "Just a minute," she called out. He watched her quickly shut her laptop, stowing it under her couch.

She flipped on the porch light and peeked out the window, recognizing him on her front stoop.

He watched her eyes. Did she look nervous to see him? Was Billy right?

"Hey," he said quietly.

"What are you doing here?" she asked cautiously.

"Can't I stop in to check on a teammate?" he said casually.

"What do you want, Benjamin?"

"Can I come in?"

She hesitated for a moment long enough for him to believe Billy might be right, that she was deceiving them. "Of course," she whispered. She backed away from him, providing him space to enter.

"What were you working on?" he asked her.

"What do you mean?"

"I saw you on your laptop. What were you doing?"

"What do you mean, you saw me?" she asked brashly. "Are you watching me?"

"Do I need to?" Could my instincts about her have been wrong, he wondered.

"I was researching a few things to prepare for our meeting tomorrow," she said calmly.

"And what did you find?"

They stood in the foyer, her body unmoving and tense. "I don't think we should speak about it here," she said. "I'll bring my computer and my notes to our meeting tomorrow."

"You seem on edge, Agatha. What's up?" He resolved to sort out their trust issue tonight.

She looked him straight in the eyes and took a deep breath. "Okay, fine. No secrets. Come in and make yourself comfortable," she invited, gesturing toward the couch. She detoured to the small kitchen, returning shortly with two bottles of Michelob in her hand.

She joined him on the couch. "Melissa approached me before the meeting tonight. She threatened me."

He had not expected this. His pulse quickened, and his face felt hot. "What did she say?"

"She said she was onto me, and that I was here to take you from her. She said she could see it in the way I looked at you, that I wanted you. She said the devil sent here me, to test the strength of your marriage. She told Billy to keep an eye on me."

Billy's comments made perfect sense now, he realized.

"What did you tell her?" he asked quietly. He had hoped she had said nothing to Melissa about the kiss.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I told Melissa she was mistaken. I told her I had been sent here, but not by the devil; rather, by God himself. And I was here not to steal you away from Melissa, but to work for America's rebirth. I advised her that if she felt her marriage to be in jeopardy, that the fault was hers, and that God has more important plans for me."

He had been wrong about Agatha Tamarind. He took a few sips of the Michelob, relieved that he had not been revealed. Everything was back in order.

But then Agatha smiled, and, emboldened, she said, "You can thank me later for putting your wife in her place."

In one smooth sweep, he placed the Michelob bottle on the table, raised his hand to her face, and delivered a powerful slap across her left cheek. "You think you're so smart, Agatha," he sneered. "You think you're above it all, don't you? If I had any sense, I'd kill you right now."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you dedicated to our cause, Ben? Sometimes I get the sense that you enjoy being in control more than you value our mission. And you drink your days away when you should be training and planning and preparing."

He grabbed her by her wrists. "Shut up. Agatha. You don't know me, and you don't know what I'm capable of doing."

Her voice was calm, her gaze intensely fixed on his. "Go home and lay with your wife. We regroup tomorrow to pull together the plan." She snapped her arms free from his grasp.

His eyes narrowed. "If you're a wolf in sheep's clothes, it'll be over for you in a split second."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Ben," she said, her voice controlled, her face unsmiling.

He stood up and made his way to the door. Turning to face her, wanting the last word, he said, "Watch yourself, Agatha."

She approached the closed door to lock it. She stood behind the barrier for a moment, relishing an exhale. She hoped he had not noticed that she was shaking. She was still alive, she thought, and that's what mattered. Her mission could continue.

# Chapter 18

Jim re-read the FBI alert message a few times to ensure he had it right. "Benjamin Zerow's paramilitary group is headed to Bulgaria to blow up a natural gas pipeline. Departure time and other details to be determined. Standby for more information."

_Benjamin Zerow_ , Jim thought. _It couldn't be. The boyhood friend of President Lukas Bradshaw?_

Jim knew he had to get this information to Matt, but he wasn't sure how to send the message securely. Two days ago Bradshaw had announced in a press briefing that he was putting special provisions in place to ensure the White House knew of every covert operation on the CIA's radar, an effort to keep the CIA in "moral" check.

Jim needed somebody with no affiliation to the CIA he could trust, someone who could deliver this urgent message to Matt. It took him a few moments to think of anyone who could take on this assignment.

Carine Winters came to mind. Jim had checked Carine's background after his meeting with her and Silverstone a few days ago and discovered her service record to be impeccable. She was a quiet analyst with a handful of friends, the last person anybody would suspect to be involved in covert operations.

He sensed Carine could be trusted, but could her persuade her to help? _At this point_ , he thought, _she's our best bet_.

# Chapter 19

He dialed her desk phone at the State Department. She picked it up on the second ring.

"Ms. Winters, this is Jim Davidson. Would you be willing to meet me tomorrow morning for coffee?"

There was silence for a moment. "Yes, sir," she responded, her heart beating quickly.

"Where can we meet that's convenient for you? And what time is best?" he asked.

There was yet another pause. "How about Coffee Arrabiata in Dupont Circle, at seven o'clock?"

"That's perfect, Carine, thank you. I'm looking forward to seeing you then."

She heard the click on the other end of the line. Jim Davidson wasn't a conversationalist, she mused. What was this meeting about? Could it have something to do with Osprey?

She could hardly wait to find out.

# Chapter 20

It was early enough on Saturday morning that Jim knew he could secure a decent parking spot in Dupont Circle near the coffee shop. The frigid wind blasted him as he stepped out of his reliable old BMW onto the street.

Matt used to tease Jim that he should work on gaining some weight so he wasn't always so darned cold all the time. Maybe he was right, Jim mused. He smiled, thinking of Matt and of all the hours they spent together surveying suspects from Jim's BMW while they shot the bull, sometimes about items of complete unimportance, sometimes about matters deeply personal.

Jim had arrived early at Coffee Arrabiata to nab the corner table. This was his habit, his practice. When Carine arrived, she spotted him immediately, the only other customer in the place. A server appeared to take their order.

"I'll take a cappuccino," Carine said. "Make that two, please," Jim added. They settled into the bright orange plastic chairs while the barista prepared their coffee.

"I need your help, Carine," Jim whispered. "Lukas Bradshaw has all eyes on the CIA right now. I must get an important message to Osprey. If I give you the details, could you relay the information to him?"

Jim thought he noticed Carine blush. "What is it, Carine?" he asked.

"Why me?" she asked.

"Nobody's watching you," Jim said pointedly.

"I don't know whether to be offended by that comment, or flattered to be chosen for your mission," she remarked.

"I would be tremendously grateful for your help, Carine."

She nodded. "What's the message, and how should I transmit it?"

"Benjamin Zerow is headed to Bulgaria to blow up the pipeline in Buhovo."

"Who is Benjamin Zerow?"

"He's the leader of a right-wing paramilitary group in Montana."

"How did you find out about the group's plans?" she asked.

"There's an FBI operative working undercover in Zerow's faction."

"Why would an American paramilitary organization want to blow up a pipeline being built by Azerbaijan?"

Jim sighed, weighing how much to share with Carine. "The operative said the mission directive came from Lukas Bradshaw himself. Bradshaw has much to gain in stymying this project, as his energy company is working on a deal with the Russians to run a new pipeline through Turkey. Azerbaijan's pipeline through Bulgaria challenges Russia's monopoly on natural gas distribution into Europe."

"Wow," Carine muttered. "This is big."

"Yes, it is," Jim confirmed, "and it's urgent that Osprey knows what to expect so he can protect the pipeline...."

"And himself," Carine added hastily. She would let nothing happen to Osprey, not on her on watch.

Jim tipped his head. His brow furrowed. "Do you know Osprey?" he asked her.

She turned her eyes downward. "Not really." Jim was looking at her curiously. She added, "I met him once, a long time ago, in Kosovo."

He offered, "Ah, you were both in Pristina together."

He had read her file and already knew that she had been in Kosovo in 1998. What he did not know was that she and Matt had already met. She could not have known him very well, he surmised, as she referred to him only by his codename.

She smiled, eager to share her story with Jim Davidson over coffee.

# Chapter 21

"It was fall 1998, before the OSCE- the Organization of Security and Cooperation in Europe- observers were evacuated from Kosovo, when things were peaceful between the Serb police and the rebel Kosovar Liberation Army.

"I met Osprey when a few of us OSCE observers were out at a local pub one night. He told us he was working with the OSCE, but we recognized that there was something different about him, that there was more to his story. As he spoke, I remember thinking he seemed a perfect mix of a community-building politician and a professional soldier, and that he was likely CIA.

"That night he warned us that war was near, and that while the OSCE was doing important work, that we would soon be evacuated to safety.

"We didn't see him again until early January 1999. He showed up at our apartment in the middle of the night, instructing us to leave immediately, to take only what we could easily carry on foot. He led us across the street into an alley, and when I glanced back behind us, I saw a few Serb military police entering our apartment complex.

"My OSCE friends and I never found out what the police were doing at our building that night. We wondered what would have happened to us if Osprey had not arrived when he did. Were the police after us? Would we have remained unharmed if we had stayed? Had Osprey saved us?"

"That night Osprey led us through the streets of Pristina on foot to a CIA safe house. We stayed there for a few hours glued to CNN, listening to the reports of the massacre of women and children in Racak at the hands of Serb police. The report was unbelievable to us, as we observers had witnessed the ceasefire between the police and the rebels.

"Osprey advised us that it was only a matter of weeks before NATO would capitalize upon news of the Racak massacre to conduct an air campaign over Kosovo."

Carine looked squarely at Jim. "Osprey was right, Mr. Davidson, about the events that would unfold in Kosovo. All of his intelligence reports made more sense than anything CNN—guided by NATO—was pushing. We were feeling peace in Kosovo, and then Racak happened, and Osprey wrote about how the facts of Racak were blurred."

"We still don't know exactly what happened twenty years ago, Ms. Winters," Jim commented.

She shook her head, and then she sipped some of the beautifully sculpted froth from the surface of her cappuccino. "People deserve to know," she said.

# Chapter 22

She continued to share with Jim her memories from 1999. "As I read Osprey's analyses, and as I doubted the media's reports, it became clearer what was happening: NATO needed a post-Cold War _raison d'être_. In escalating the Kosovo conflict, NATO had crafted a scenario to justify its existence. I wouldn't have believed this explanation myself, had I not seen this war aim explicitly noted on the State Department's website at the time, and had I had not heard the words from the Secretary of State's mouth herself."

Carine continued. "Somehow we had convinced ourselves that this war had to happen, that what we were doing would save more lives in the long run. But today Kosovo is less stable than ever, the mafia profiting from an extensive sex and drug trafficking network." Carine's eyes welled with tears. "Kosovo is worse off today because of our actions, Mr. Davidson."

Jim didn't know what to say. He had aided the KLA for a short period before the CIA realized that the insurgents were not a force that could be turned into an arm of democracy, before they realized the KLA would never be an agent of positive change for the region.

He pushed those thoughts away, knowing the best thing he could do for himself—how he always protected himself—was to move on, to not dwell in the past.

Carine continued. "And then the posts from Osprey ceased. I wondered if the outcome of the war had ruined him, or perhaps the CIA had killed him. I fantasized about him running away, being so fed up with the corrupt system, with politicians who skewed the truth for their personal gain. And now Osprey's in Bulgaria, overseeing a pipeline being constructed by Azerbaijan to challenge Russia's dominance in the natural gas market."

She continued, "It's very curious to me, Mr. Davidson. Where has Osprey been, all these years in between? Was he plagued and embittered by Kosovo, as I had been?"

Jim offered, "Osprey faced the same moral struggle you did, and he had left the agency temporarily because of it. When he returned, he did it on his own terms, only agreeing to missions aligned with his own moral values."

Jim smiled. "He is still the hero you remember from twenty years ago."

# Chapter 23

Carine was silent for a moment, considering this new information Jim had provided about Osprey, and then she snapped back to the present. "What needs to happen?" she asked.

"Bradshaw has tapped all of our correspondence, including messages to Osprey's phone. I'm here, Carine, to ask you to relay a message in person to Osprey, and then to return home immediately. To keep Osprey safe, nobody can know that you tipped him off to Zerow's plans. Can you do this?"

Her heart skipped with the prospect of seeing Osprey again after all these years. She nodded once, offering Jim a determined gaze, signaling she was up to the challenge, that she could handle the mission.

"I can get you on a flight to Frankfurt this evening, returning in three days. Go home and pack, and then call Silverstone and tell him your grandmother passed away, and that you'll be out of the office the next few days attending to family matters."

She shook her head. "Silverstone is out of the office himself. He's gone to Moscow."

Jim looked concerned. "Moscow? Why?"

Carine said, "On Thursday Silverstone met with President Bradshaw to brief him on the pipeline. Silverstone said Bradshaw was sending him to Moscow to ensure the Russians are content."

"Tell Osprey all of this when you see him," Jim urged.

Carine cocked her head, a question on her mind. "Mr. Davidson," she asked, "why aren't the Russians opposing this project?"

"I really don't know," he said, and then he added, "but Osprey does."

It was only after they had parted ways, when Carine was walking back to her apartment, that the importance of what she was about to do hit her. She was being commissioned by a CIA agent to take a message to another CIA agent halfway across the globe. It seemed like a simple enough task, and she hoped it would be uneventful, but she suspected "uneventful" was hardly ever the case with Osprey.

# Chapter 24

She was tired, her thoughts dull and fuzzy. She had plenty of time on the flight from Dulles to Frankfurt to think about what it would be like to see Osprey again. She constructed dozens of different scenarios in her mind, most of them foolish. She knew when she saw him that she would behave exactly as she had the last time they were together, too shy to provide him a hint of her feelings.

On the two-hour connecting flight from Frankfurt to Sofia, she fought off fatigue to review the instructions Jim had provided on how to find Osprey, and then she spent time memorizing a few basic Bulgarian phrases, like " _To Buhovo, please_ ," to secure a taxi at the Sofia airport.

Jim had given her enough Bulgarian leva to pay for transportation, lodging, and food. She was nervous about carrying a large amount of cash, so Jim had given her a few contraptions- a leg wallet, a belt wallet, and a wrist wallet- to help her with this.

The taxi driver at the Sofia airport, a man with greying hair and a cheerful disposition, spoke flawless English, which was a great relief to Carine. He confirmed it would be about thirty minutes to Buhovo, and that she could sit back and enjoy the sights of Sofia they passed along the way.

Carine knew she was missing the highlights of the capital on the drive, as the airport was on the eastern side of Sofia, and Buhovo was even farther east, away from the city center.

It was a cold, dreary day and the buildings they passed along the A-2 road leaving Sofia looked worn. Two-story concrete homes peppered the sides of the road, with farms sprawling to the north and to the south. Most of the houses and parked cars and small trucks looked weathered, and Carine wondered, if it were summer, with the sun shining, and with people out and about, if perhaps this place would have felt differently.

The road itself was in disrepair, the concrete cracked and laden with potholes. She felt a pang of nervousness, a brief feeling that this place could be unsafe, and for a moment she regretted this trip, chastising herself for her foolishness to be traveling alone to a small town nestled at the foot of the Western Balkan Mountains.

The taxi driver caught her glance. "It's different here than in America, isn't it?" he asked.

She looked up and saw him watching her in the rear-view mirror. "Yes, it is," she admitted.

"Most people only speak Bulgarian in Buhovo, but you don't have to be afraid. People in Buhovo are glad when visitors arrive; it gives them more fodder for gossip."

She smiled. "Can you tell I'm a little nervous?"

"I would be, too, if I were in your shoes. I grew up in Buhovo and know most of the people in town. It's a safe place," he assured her.

"Thanks," she said, reminding herself she could be brave.

# Chapter 25

The Balkan Mountains sprawled to the north and to the east. Carine thought to herself how lucky she was to be here, experiencing Bulgaria, a country she had studied from afar for many years as southeastern European intelligence analyst with the State Department. She thought about how Serbia was fewer than a hundred miles away, that she was so close to all of those towns whose names were so familiar to her twenty years ago when war raged in nearby Kosovo.

"Are you staying at the Hotel Tivoli in Buhovo?" the driver asked.

"How did you know?" Carine replied, surprised.

The driver laughed. "It's the only place in town."

"Is it nice?"

The driver smiled. "It's adequate. The place reeks of cigarette smoke, and tourists report that the rooms could be cleaner. The woman who runs the place, Stella, makes up for her broken English by showering guests with treats from the bakery down the street."

Carine smiled. The road was narrowing, and they were climbing in elevation slowly and steadily. "You speak perfect English," she noted.

"My father worked in the uranium mines in Buhovo most of his life. He and my mother wanted me to have more than what they had, and so shortly after the Berlin Wall fell, they sent me to London to live with their cousin who had defected from the Soviet Union many years prior. He worked in a café, and he got me a job there, too, washing dishes. For five years, I lived and worked in London.

"Then my father died. The news wasn't surprising; nearly every man who had worked in the uranium mines had eventually become sick and died. I returned home to take care of my mother. I was eighteen then, which meant it was time for me to fulfill the mandatory Bulgarian two-year military service requirement. Because I spoke English so well, I found an excellent job in Sofia.

"Back in 1997, Bulgaria was working desperately to convince NATO to let them into the western military alliance. Moscow opposed our bid for NATO membership, and at the time, Russia still exuded significant political and economic control over Bulgaria.

"I worked as a military liaison to NATO for many years. Bulgaria was finally accepted into NATO in 2004. Shortly thereafter the Bulgarian military faced a significant reduction in force, and I was out of work.

"Because I owned an automobile, I was able to get a job with the biggest taxi outfit in Sofia. It's all worked out really well for me. I love the freedom and flexibility I have in my life right now."

Carine commented, "I like your spirit. Capitalism suits you."

The driver laughed. "Look around, and it's easy to see this isn't London or America, because the money doesn't exist for development in our country." He softly added, "But we Bulgarians are proud, and we're resilient. This is a good place to be."

# Chapter 26

Carine peered past the passenger seat out the windshield. Was this Buhovo? If so, there wasn't much to the town, only a few concrete homes and small storefronts on either side of the road. She could see more buildings about a mile ahead.

The sun was setting. Jim had advised Carine to rest for the evening, to wait until daylight to walk the two-mile trek to the site of pipeline construction east of the town at the foot of the mountains.

The taxi driver stopped in front of the hotel. Overgrown plants encroached upon the thick steps of the large, concrete building. The electric "Hotel Tivoli" sign looked as if it had not glowed in ten years. Carine felt a chill run through her body as she contemplated the safety of this establishment.

Recognizing that this was it, that there was no alternative, she exhaled, reassuring herself that the dilapidated building was just that: worn, and nothing else. It wasn't haunted, and it would be acceptable for one night. She thought of Osprey, and the idea of seeing him in the morning boosted her confidence.

"How long will you be in Buhovo?" the driver asked as she pulled a stack of leva from the pouch around her neck. The driver seemed trustworthy, she thought, and she could see no reason not to share with him her travel plans. "Just one night," she said.

"One night?" he asked. "Are you returning to Sofia tomorrow?"

"Yes," she said. "I have a flight to Frankfurt to catch tomorrow evening."

"What a quick trip," he remarked. "Are you here about the pipeline?"

He caught her off guard. _How did he know?_

He picked up on her hesitancy. "The pipeline is what everybody in Buhovo is talking about right now. My mother lives here, and she said the rumor is that the pipeline will bring wealth and respect back to Bulgaria, that finally we can pull ourselves out from under Russia's thumb. I don't know if that's true, but that's what people are saying."

Carine said nothing. She suddenly felt very vulnerable, sitting here in the inquisitive driver's automobile outside of what looked like an abandoned hotel.

He continued, "Why did you not want to tell me you were here for the pipeline? Are you an American spy or something?" The driver brandished a smart smile.

She laughed too forcefully, a little too loudly. "No, no," she said. "It's just that I didn't realize the pipeline project was public knowledge."

"It's obvious something big is happening when huge trucks carry large steel pipes down the main street of your sleepy little hometown."

She laughed. "Yes, I suppose it couldn't be a secret."

He looked right at her. She felt his eyes examining her, as if his gaze could bore through her skull, reading her thoughts. "What are you doing here for only one day?"

"I'm just delivering a message to one of the American construction workers, that's all."

"Does your mobile phone not work?"

She sighed. "It's not that simple."

"Okay, Mrs. American spy," the driver teased. "Could I come back tomorrow to pick you up to take you back to airport in Sofia?"

"Yes, please," she said. She was relieved that he had given up asking her additional questions about what she was doing in Buhovo. "How about at fourteen hundred hours?"

She handed the driver fifty leva, about double the actual cost of the fair.

"This is too much," he said.

"You're a good driver," she remarked.

She stepped out of the backseat of the Škoda, her backpack in hand. She peered up at the Hotel Tivoli. _There's no getting around it_ , she thought. _This hotel is creepy._

# Chapter 27

Falling asleep in the creaky, cold hotel wasn't as difficult as she expected, thanks to her exhaustion. It was morning, and she saw the grey day peeking through a slit in the ten-foot velvet curtains. _Today is the day you see Osprey again, after all these years_ , she reminded herself.

Jim had intimated that Carine should be able to easily track down Osprey at the site of the pipeline construction, deliver the message, and return to Sofia that afternoon.

She stretched her arms and legs. Convincing herself that time was of the essence, and also that the chance of a hot, satisfying shower was very slim at the Hotel Tivoli, she redressed in yesterday's clothes, brushed her teeth, and set off to find Osprey.

She had memorized the route Jim instructed her to take to the construction site. She walked a quarter of a mile through the main road in town, and then she veered off on a gravel road marked with a small dilapidated sign displaying the Bulgarian word for "mines" with an arrow pointing east. She felt a wave of relief that she was on the right track. The gravel path stretched through a desolate field, and she caught herself wishing for trees to better protect her from the piercing wind.

The Balkan Mountains loomed in front of her. She estimated that she had about three-quarters of a mile to go before the construction site would appear. She watched carefully her footing on the uneven ground, so focused that she did not notice him approach.

# Chapter 28

He seemed to pop out of nowhere off the right side of the path.

"Zdraveyte, moga li da Vi pomogna s neshto?" the man asked quietly. He was wearing khaki pants and a thick olive green sweater.

She didn't understand his question. She tried with difficulty to remember the Bulgarian phrase Jim had suggested she memorize in case she ran across anybody in Buhovo on her way to the construction site.

"Tursya americanski," she said.

In flawless English, he asked, "Isn't this a little off the beaten path for an American?"

His eyes! How had she not recognized him sooner?

"Osprey?" she asked incredulously.

She berated herself for thinking she would meet a person who looked exactly the same as he had twenty years ago. He had more lines around his blue eyes and a few grey hairs in his short light brown hair. He looked thinner than she had remembered, yet still strong and tall, exuding a confidence that made her feel both weak and energized at the same time.

His brow furrowed as he scrutinized her closely. "You're familiar to me, but I can't place how we know each other," he admitted.

_I'm familiar to him._ She was delighted with the way their reunion was going. "My name is Carine Winters. You evacuated me and two of my OSCE colleagues from our apartment building in advance of a police raid in Kosovo in 1998."

His expression darkened as his thoughts returned to the past. He nodded. "I remember now." He looked around. "What are you doing here?"

"Jim Davidson sent me."

"What is your connection to Jim?" he asked warily.

"My supervisor at the State Department had questions about the pipeline report you issued. We went to Langley to ask you questions, and we met Mr. Davidson."

"Why is your supervisor interested in the pipeline?"

"He thought the President would want to know about the project." She added quickly, "But Mr. Davidson and I tried to convince him that this was a nonissue."

"Does the President know about the pipeline?" he asked.

She nodded. "Mr. Davidson sent me to tell you that Benjamin Zerow's militia is coming here to blow up the pipeline."

"From Montana?" he asked incredulously.

She nodded.

"Was there anything else in the message? Any details about how they planned to do it, or when?"

Carine shook her head. She desperately did not want this moment to end, but there was nothing more to tell him. "That's it."

He smiled slowly. "This was a long way for you to come to deliver this message in person. Thank you."

She blushed, relishing his attention. "I'm glad to do it."

He turned to walk down the hill, from where he had come when she had not noticed him before. "Wait," she said. He stopped to look back up at her. "There's one more thing. Take my e-mail address to relay necessary information outside of regular channels. Mr. Davidson said he can get a cryptologist engaged if you send coded messages."

She offered him the small yellow sticky note on which was scribbled her Gmail account, and he stepped back up the hill to take the note from her.

She wished there was more to say. Would it be another twenty years before she saw him again?

# Chapter 29

As she headed back through Buhovo to the Hotel Tivoli to pick up her bag, she caught herself noticing little details about the town she had missed on the way to deliver the message to Osprey. At the Tivoli she retrieved her backpack and checked out of the hotel, but it was only noon, and she still had two hours before the taxi driver would return to Buhovo to take her to the airport in Sofia.

She walked back down to the main road through Buhovo and spotted a restaurant she had not noticed earlier that morning. Her stomach rumbled. Lunch would be a good way to pass a few hours while she waited for her ride.

She opened the glass door to the weathered building, and at first she didn't notice anybody in the small space. Then she spotted him, a man in his thirties eating lunch at a small table near the windows.

A woman erupted from the kitchen, speaking to Carine in Bulgarian. She assumed the woman had asked her something like "Lunch for one?" or "How can I help you?" She smiled to herself, thinking that all around the world, people who worked in restaurants probably all said just about the same thing when a new customer entered the premises.

Carine nodded. The woman realized then that Carine didn't understand her, and possibly didn't understand Bulgarian, so she used gestures to guide Carine to a table near the man near the window.

The man was watching her. "Hello," he offered.

Carine was not surprised that the man had offered a greeting in English; it was easy to see that she was not from around here.

"Hi," she responded politely, taking a seat at the next table. She looked at the menu the woman had provided, realizing with embarrassment that it was written in Bulgarian Cyrillic, which she could not read.

The man seemed to pick up on this. "Have you ever had musaka?"

Carine nodded. Her grandmother used to make this traditional Bulgarian dish made of potatoes, egg, minced pork meat, and cheese, covered in thick Bulgarian yogurt.

"It's excellent here," the man offered.

"Thank you," Carine said.

The man looked down at his plate uncomfortably and then back up at Carine again. "Would you like to join me for lunch?" he asked.

Carine smiled and nodded, moving her backpack and her coat to the open seat across from the man.

He stood to shake her hand. "My name is Pyotr."

"Pleased to meet you, Pyotr. I'm Carine."

They sat down and the server reappeared, and Carine ordered in as best Bulgarian as she could a serving of musaka and a Kamenitsa beer.

She looked closely at Pyotr, noticing his cropped dark brown hair. She liked the long, angular shape of his face, his strong cheekbones, and his dark eyes. He seemed out of place here in Buhovo, in this crumbling little town.

He watched her examine him. "What are you doing here in Buhovo?" he asked.

He sure was direct, she thought. _What should I tell him?_

She thought of a tactic she had learned in interrogation training when she was with the OSCE. As much as you can, her instructor advised, try to turn the conversation around by asking the interrogator benign questions to make it a conversation. You do this, the instructor had suggested, to emphasize your humanity, because it's tremendously more difficult to shoot somebody you care about.

She wasn't a captive, but she also wasn't sure she wanted to share with Pyotr what she was doing in Buhovo.

"Pyotr, may I ask you a question first?"

"Sure," he said.

Wow, the technique had worked! She smiled. "What are you doing here in Buhovo?" she asked him.

"That was my question to you." A smile spread across his face. Carine wondered if he knew what she was trying to do. "I'm a cop," he said.

Carine mirrored Pyotr's smile. "You don't look like a Buhovo police officer."

"Why not?" Pytor asked.

Carine blushed. "Well, I suppose you look more cosmopolitan."

He smiled. "I'm from Sofia. I'm here checking on a project."

"The pipeline?" she asked.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you know about the pipeline. Is this why you're here, too?"

She nodded. The server returned with the mousaka and Kamenitsa. "Bon appetite," Pyotr offered. Carine took a large bite of the mousaka, chased by the refreshing beer.

Pyotr smiled. "You look like you haven't eaten in a while."

"I guess that's true," she said, realizing that she had not had a thing to eat since yesterday afternoon.

"What are you doing here, Carine?"

He seemed very interested in her. Was he more than just a regular cop? Perhaps he was a Bulgarian intelligence agent with the State Intelligence Agency, the Bulgarian equivalent to the CIA?

She said, "My friend is working on the pipeline. I came for a brief visit, to see if he needs anything." Jim had advised her to be as truthful as possible when meeting people, without telling too much, to keep from getting mixed up in lies.

Pyotr was watching her closely. She wondered if she had said too much. "Are you Russian?" she asked him.

She didn't know why she had asked him this, for as soon as the words had come out of her mouth, she realized it was a foolish question. Even if he were Russian, did she expect him to answer her truthfully?

"Nyet," he said, and then he smiled widely.

Her eyes grew wide. "Did you just say 'no' in Russian?"

"Da," he said, laughing.

A puzzled grin spread across her face. "So is that the Russian 'da' for 'yes', or the Bulgarian 'da' for 'yes'?"

He leaned in. "I'm not Russian, Carine. I'm Bulgarian. That's the truth."

His face was close to hers, and his intense gaze caused her heart to skip a few beats. "I believe you," she said breathlessly.

"What made you ask me if I were Russian?" he asked.

"I was going to tell you that the Americans are here to reassure the Bulgarians and Azeris that we support this project. That seemed like a rude thing to say if you were Russian."

He smiled and sipped his water. "Da," he said. "That would have been rude."

She liked Pyotr. She had just spent a few minutes with the love of her life, and now she was having lunch with a stunning, charming Bulgarian law enforcement officer. This adventure was turning out to be more interesting than she had expected.

Suddenly Pyotr's smile disappeared, and he stood. "I'm sorry, Carine, I must go."

He threw a handful of leva onto the table to cover the cost of his meal, and then he exited the restaurant. But not through the front door like a regular customer would; he went through the kitchen.

Carine sat there, confused. What did she say that could have angered him so?

As she was thinking this, she caught sight of a group of people walking down the sidewalk toward the restaurant. She peered to get a closer look at the group. There was one woman in the group of six who looked as tough as the men. Carine noticed the woman carried a backpack similar to her own.

Americans, she thought. The backpack gave it away. As she watched the group pass by the café, she realized she knew these people. Her heart leaped into her throat; it was a band of five men and a woman! The color drained from her face. She didn't think Zerow would be here so quickly. She had to warn Osprey.

# Chapter 30

Her gaze darted from left to right, ahead and even behind her as she rushed quickly back to the field where she had stumbled into Osprey earlier. She did not want to run into Zerow and his group here in the desolate field; she was no match against a band of mercenaries.

She navigated across the field and down the hill where Osprey had surfaced earlier. The descent was steep, but the hillside was grassy, which helped her secure her footing as she ambled downward.

She spied the construction site down in the ravine. She saw some men digging, and others fitting pipe together. For a moment she forgot about the danger, relishing the site of the production before her eyes.

She spotted Osprey. She noticed he had caught sight of her, too. She continued her descent down the steep hill as he climbed to meet her.

"Carine, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"Zerow and his team are here."

"How do you know?"

"Well, I...," she stammered a minute. "There were six of them: five men and a woman. The woman was carrying a backpack."

He asked, "Did you notice anything else about them?"

"One of the five men had short, light hair- maybe blonde or grey- and light eyes. The other four men had darker hair, and beards. The woman with the backpack had blonde, braided hair. She looked sharp and attentive."

"She's the agent," he said.

"How do you know?"

He shook his head. "It's just a hunch. It's unusual to see women as active participants in right-wing, white supremacist paramilitary groups. Even if a woman harbored similar political views or values, she would typically be shunned by male leaders."

"Will you contact the agent?" Carine asked.

He shook his head. "She can't afford to be exposed; her aim is to remain undercover as long as possible to continue to gather intelligence on the group's motives and activities. She'll approach me if she wants to pass on information."

"What are you going to do, Osprey? They're here already," she anxiously reminded him.

"There's nothing to do now except to watch their moves, to determine when and how they plan to blow up the pipeline. I'll figure out a way to thwart their plans." His thoughts were so clear, his plans so simple, Carine thought. He made it sound easy.

"I want to stay and help," she offered.

"It's too risky, Carine. Go back and share with Jim what you know. I'll send a report soon."

"I don't want to leave," she asserted. "I can help you."

He could see in her eyes that there was more here, that she was holding back, but they didn't have the luxury of time right now for this conversation. "I can't save you two times, Carine," he said.

"But maybe I could save _you_ this time," she offered.

"Maybe next time," he said politely. He looked up. "Don't turn around. Somebody's watching us on the top of the hill, behind you."

He provided her additional instructions. "Keep going down the hill, to the bottom, to the site of the pipeline. Find Josef, the foreman, and ask him to take you on his scooter back to town. And then tell Jim what happened. I'll write soon," he whispered.

She didn't want to leave him, but she had no choice. She followed his instructions, moving quickly and carefully toward the pipeline. She found the courage to glance back at the top of the hill to get a glimpse of the person Osprey had seen, but when she did, both Osprey and the mysterious person at the top of the hill were gone.

# Chapter 31

Elle Larsen rubbed her eyes, looking forward to getting to bed early tonight. She was in for a busy day tomorrow and needed some rest. She turned on the old TV in her Sofia apartment to catch the local news before bed.

She knew this was an unnecessary ritual, flipping on the television and selecting a channel to feed her information. The Internet had made this entire process obsolete, she reminded herself. But then she smiled, recognizing Elisaveta Vannetovich, the cheerful and witty anchorwoman who spent many years as a CNN Breaking News anchorwoman before returning to her hometown Sofia to report local news.

This is why people still watch the news, she reasoned: for Elisaveta, for the local connection, for familiar faces. Elle's command of the Bulgarian language wasn't perfect, another reason reviewing British Sky News or BBC would have made more sense.

She leaned in, her eyes glued to the television. This wasn't the typical nightly news she had become accustomed to viewing in the short time she had been in Sofia.

Video footage of a tremendous fire loomed behind a courageous reporter. Elle picked out only a few details before concluding that if she wanted to understand what was happening, she would have to consult the Intranet.

Reuters had already picked up the story. "A large explosion occurred thirty minutes east of Sofia at around twenty hundred hours this evening. The cause of the explosion is unknown. Some analysts theorize that World War II explosives near the site of an old uranium mine may have triggered the explosion."

Elle read the article a second time to ensure she had collected the pertinent details. While it was entirely possible that old munitions could have triggered an explosion, she flipped the TV back on to catch another view of the smoldering scene. The devastated area in the valley seemed too significant to have been caused by old munitions, she thought. Something seemed off.

She knew about explosions from her experience as a young journalist covering the Kosovo War of 1999. Back then it was the sound of a gun discharging, or a bomb being dropped out of a NATO warplane, and it always meant that death was a possibility. Almost twenty years later, loud bangs still rattled her.

It was difficult to shake that fear, she thought. How could any soldier walk away from war without post-traumatic stress syndrome? She still woke up in a cold sweat every once in a while, even though so much time had passed.

This explosion in the nearby town of Buhovo was unusual- it was too large. She canceled her interviews for the following day, sending e-mails conveying regret that she was being called to cover the Buhovo fire at the last minute. She packed an overnight bag quickly and once outside, hailed a taxi.

A quick thought occurred to her, that perhaps it wasn't wise to be traveling alone at night to a place she had never been. Would the taxi driver wait for her while she investigated, she wondered? Or perhaps there was a place she could stay in the little town of Buhovo?

She breathed deeply, calming herself. She had made it through Kosovo unscathed, at least on the surface. She could arrive, rent a room, and do some investigating. This is what reporters do, she reminded herself. She had to go; she had to know what happened.

# Chapter 32

The driver dropped her off in the center of town. Her command of Bulgarian was good but not great, and she sensed that their language barrier caused the driver discomfort. She paid the driver and tipped him well, and she noticed that he looked grateful, perhaps not as much about the tip, but more in relief of being able to get away, to flee the awkwardness of being trapped in an auto with a foreign woman.

She smelled the Opel's fumes as the driver sped away. She looked around, knowing exactly where she needed to go. Straight ahead, beckoning her eastward toward the mountains, was the large smoke plume.

Despite the efforts of firefighters, the fire still burned brightly, flames shooting high into the air. There was so much smoke, she noticed. As she hurried past the town into the field preceding the fire, a question crossed her mind: was she safe here?

She breathed deeply to shrug off her fears. She descended the hill, feeling the warmth of the fire emanate upward toward her position.

She had been so fixated on the fire that she had not noticed the man until he was very close to her. She was startled at first, and then she recognized by his clothing that he was a firefighter. He had brown eyes and dark hair, his skin marked by soot.

In Bulgarian he cautioned, "Madam, please stay back, for your own safety."

She looked into the firefighter's eyes. She would not permit herself to fear the man or the fire. "I'm a reporter, here for the story," she stated in the best Bulgarian she could muster.

He looked directly at her. "It's just a fire, madam; there's nothing to see here. We'll have the flames extinguished in a few hours, and that's the extent of your story," he concluded, matter-of-factly.

She felt that he was wrong, that there was more here, but she also suspected that there was no progress to be made this evening, and that she could root around the site in the morning- in the daylight- much more productively.

Elle asked, "Is there a place to stay the night here in Buhovo?"

He nodded. "Hotel Tivoli, on the west side of town."

"Merci," she said, offering a word of thanks in Bulgarian. She turned and ascended back up the hill, away from the fire.

When she got to the top, she looked back down at the scene below. She made out the figure of the firefighter returning to his work, putting out the fire. She watched the flames dance rhythmically with no sign of stopping. She noticed the thick smoke that appeared black even against the darkness of the evening.

There was a story here, she knew; she could feel it. She'd retire for the evening and then get to work as soon as the sun was up in the morning.

# Chapter 33

"You're here to see the fire, are you?" the woman asked.

Elle nodded. She had trekked about a mile from the top of the hill, down the main street in Buhovo, and had followed her gut to the proper road to the Hotel Tivoli. There had been no signs, and Elle had relied solely on the firefighter's description of the hotel having been on the west side of the town.

That cold evening she had not run into a single person on the street, and she might have considered the whole town deserted had it not been for the glimmers of electric light that dotted most of the homes she passed, light emanating from televisions or computers or reading lamps. As she rounded the curve of the feeder street that led her farther west of town, she caught sight of the Hotel Tivoli, and admittedly her instincts instructed her to run away. The Tivoli was decrepit. This traveler's pit stop had seen better days.

The worn lobby smelled intensely of cigarettes, and the lighting was poor. Elle thought for a moment that she should just leave, that perhaps she could find somebody in this small town to drive her back to Sofia. But here she was, already inside the lobby, and albeit dark and a little foreboding, it was warmer than being outside on the dark street.

The woman at the reception desk looked at Elle with a dispassionate stare. Her face was puffy, with blotchy skin and crow's feet wrinkles around her eyes. Elle wondered how old the woman was; she thought she could be anywhere from thirty to fifty.

"You're here to see the fire, are you?" the woman asked again. Scoffing, she added, "The only guests we get nowadays are people wanting to see the bad things that happen here."

"What do you mean?" Elle asked in Bulgarian.

"It's a shame about that explosion that happened tonight. And before that, it was the uranium poisoning. We're cursed here."

"Uranium poisoning?" Elle asked.

"Yes," the woman offered solemnly. "There's a mine on the east side of town. During World War II, Bulgaria provided uranium to the German army- the Bundestag- from our own hills. The only problem was that nobody realized the long-term environmental effect of such a partnership with the Nazis. Most of the people who've lived in Buhovo all of their lives suffer from some ailment traced to uranium poisoning, either from the heavy metals leached into our water supply, or from our tainted air. Only bad things happen here," the woman concluded with an air of defeat.

"I see," was all Elle had said, and the woman leaned forward, peering at her a little more intently, surprised that the visitor had not offered an apology or condolence; rather, all she had offered was an acknowledgement.

The woman turned around on her swivel chair, grabbed a key from the wall of pegs behind her, and then swiveled back with a key in hand. "Number six," the attendant said decidedly. She pointed with a stubby index finger toward a closed door. "The stairwell is over there."

# Chapter 34

The cold, grey morning peeked through a slight crevice in the thick velvet curtains. It had been difficult for Elle to fall asleep; she had seemed to notice every little creak in the old hotel, and every mutter of human beings in the building.

The room was frigid, and she recalled how the night before she had deliberated whether to climb under the heavy blankets that smelled so strongly of cigarettes, or to suffer the cold. She went with the blankets, willing herself not to inspect the sheets, convincing herself that she should not think about people who had been in this room before she had, that she was only here for the night, and that she would enjoy a long, hot shower back at her apartment in Sofia the following day.

As she lay there breathing in the cold air in the room at dawn, she wondered when she had fallen asleep the night prior. She suspected that it had happened out of pure exhaustion, that her heightened senses about the creepiness and dirtiness of the hotel had succumbed to sleep.

Enough musing, she thought to herself; the sun was just rising, and she wanted to get an early start. She pulled the heavy covers off of her fully clothed body; she had not even removed her jacket. Only her leather boots sat dutifully next to the bed. She laced her boots taut, used the toilet, brushed her teeth and hair, and then grabbed her bag, ready to go.

The mile hike back to the top of the valley above the explosion site seemed much shorter than what she had remembered the evening prior. This morning was cold, as most mornings had been since she had arrived in Bulgaria. She smiled, thinking she was glad to have grown up in Chicago, to know how to dress in layers.

Her eyes glanced down the valley to where the fire had burned brightly the night before. She saw only a few men among charred remains and no sign of the powerful, heated fury from last night.

She noticed him first because he did not look at all Bulgarian, and it was evident that he was the person in charge: he directed others with ease. His face was streaked with smoke as if he had been present in the valley since the explosion last night. As she took a few swift steps down the hill to get a better look at him, she felt her heartbeat quicken. She checked her senses. She wasn't afraid; it was something else: she felt a heightened alertness that she could not readily explain.

His gaze met hers, and she caught her breath. He didn't smile; rather, he watched her intently. He seemed to be looking for clues to her identity. She continued to move toward him.

He was now within her reach. "Elle Larsen," she offered, extending her hand.

# Chapter 35

He remained motionless. "This is an odd place for an American to be," he remarked quietly, unsmiling.

She dropped her hand. "I'm a journalist doing a story in Sofia. I saw the explosion on the news last night, and I came here to see things for myself."

"This was quite a bonfire, wasn't it, Ms. Larsen?"

She paused. "I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't offer it." His gaze remained locked with hers.

She breathed deeply, reminding herself what she was here to do. "What's happened here?" she asked, calming herself with a renewed sense of purpose.

"An old Nazi munitions cache exploded." He furrowed his brow. "But that isn't news to you, is it? It's all over the media right now. Isn't that what prompted you to come here?"

She shook her head. "The explosion was too big. Something else happened."

"Why do you think this?" he asked curiously.

"I don't think it; I know it. A munitions blast isn't this big," Elle said.

"How do you know, Ms. Larsen? Are you an explosives expert?"

She shook her head. "Not an expert," she admitted. "But I know more than I would care to. I've covered a few wars in my time as a journalist."

"Hmm," he said. He seemed interested, but he didn't ask questions. He was looking at her closely. She was used to being examined, but this seemed different.

Matt O'Connor also felt different, but he attributed this to fatigue. He studied her. She was tall, thin and fit, with intelligent, sparkling green eyes. A grey wool hat capped her long brown hair.

Stop staring, he told himself. He looked up, gesturing with his hands. "Look around. Investigate away."

She looked at him quizzically. "Who are you?"

"My name's Matt." _Why did I tell her my real name?_ It must be the exhaustion kicking in, he thought, of having been on high alert since the explosion happened.

She shrugged. "Okay, Matt, I get it. You have no intention of telling me anything. I'm industrious, though. You can bet on that." She turned to walk away, closing the conversation before he could say anything further. After a few meters, she looked back at him. He was still standing there, watching her. She had a sense that this would not be their last encounter.

# Chapter 36

At the bottom of the ravine everything was black, covered in soot from the explosion. Elle looked around at a handful of men clearing debris.

She moved closer to the workers, hoping to get a closer look at what the men were cleaning up, what had been damaged in the explosion. She approached a thin man with dark eyes adorned with wire-rimmed glasses. He watched her as if he were in a daze. "Excuse me," Elle asked. "Are you from Buhovo?"

He looked at her, confused. He said nothing.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Let me try again in Bulgarian. 'Ot tuk li si?'"

She looked him straight in the eyes, sensing that something was amiss. Was he in a state of shock? "Are you okay?" she asked quietly, reverting to English out of habit.

He snapped out of his stupor. "Yes," he replied, in accented English. He shook his head. "It's just difficult to see all of your hopes and dreams destroyed so quickly." He added in a whisper, "So violently."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

The man sighed. "I'm not supposed to speak of it, but what's the harm now?"

She knew she had been onto something. The man looked up, his face suddenly devoid of the emotion he had portrayed only moments before. Elle looked behind her and noticed Matt approaching.

"It's nothing," the man shrugged, his eyes locked with Matt's. She frowned, sensing that Matt would stymy her opportunity to get a lead on this story.

"She's a reporter, Josef," Matt stated. "Think about what's at stake here."

"Yes, sir," he said, his eyes down turned. "Excuse me, please," he said, shuffling away quickly.

She watched the man as he left, and then she turned back to Matt. "He's not Bulgarian," she said. "Maybe he's from Iran, Turkmenistan, or perhaps Armenia. And he became silent when he saw you. What was going on here, before the blast?"

"We're just cleaning things up now, Ms. Larsen. What happened before doesn't really matter now, does it?"

She said, "It just seems strange that a mysterious American is here in Buhovo cleaning up an equally mysterious explosion."

He crossed his arms. "Ms. Larsen, your situation is mysterious, too. What's an American reporter doing in Sofia, anyway?"

She stiffened. She wasn't used to being questioned; usually it was she who did the questioning. "I'm writing a piece on Bulgaria's support to NATO in the 1999 Kosovo conflict."

He looked at her quizzically, his posture softening. "Kosovo in 1999? Are there that many people out there interested in such history?"

"Maybe not," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "This project is less about writing a blockbuster story and more about tying up loose ends."

He smiled, a warm, genuine grin, and Elle wondered what he was thinking. He asked quietly, "Are you planning to root around Buhovo for a while investigating today?"

She nodded. "My interviews in Sofia can wait."

"How about meeting me for dinner this evening? There's only one restaurant here in the center of town." He looked down at his boots and then back up at her again. "I'd like to hear more about this Kosovo thing."

Had he just asked her to dinner? She still had many things to ask him, but she could hold her questions until they met again. "How about 6:00?"

"Looking forward to it," he replied. He bowed his head slightly and offered a wave before turning around, making his way back to the other workers.

# Chapter 37

Matt O'Connor was unaccustomed to weariness, but he felt it now. He sat down for a moment on a wood stump, feeling his body sink, heavy with exhaustion. He tried to shake the feeling of defeat but found this difficult to do. Everything had changed in only twenty-four hours.

He thought regretfully about how he had failed to stop Zerow from blowing up the pipeline, and then he reflected bitterly on the larger issue at hand: that the President of the United States was corrupt, worried more about his investments in Russian gas than he was about securing a more stable economic future for Western Europe.

He thought about how he'd let the Azeris down, how he'd spent so much time promising that he would take care of them, that he could help them profit without fear of retribution from the Russians. Now as he sat here, he realized it was all for naught.

His shoulders sagged as he remembered his words to Jim. He had said overconfidently, "Leave it to me, Jim. Have I ever let you down before?"

He took a deep breath for one long moment before turning away from where the pipeline had been. He walked precisely, one foot in front of the other. He wasn't sure how he kept going, but he did.

When he got to the edge of the town, he took a few turns. At the third turn, he moved directly to the small house at the end of the street. He peeked over his shoulder, and when the coast appeared clear, he entered.

He checked the place out from top to bottom, looking in closets and under beds. The small house seemed clean. He slid the kitchen table to the side of the room and pulled up the rug. Kneeling, he pushed down gently on the middle board, which popped up with some effort. He reached into the space to pull out a small laptop with a satellite connection. He sat on the floor, readying the machine to send a message.

He would e-mail Carine, who would get word to Jim outside of official channels. He knew he had to be specific in his words:

"Hi, Carine. I'm having a fantastic time on vacation. Making a lot of progress writing my novel. I just developed a part of the story in which my protagonist turns the tables on a paramilitary group by redirecting the explosives to the group's campsite. All the bad guys appear to have been killed, although the protagonist can't be certain. Unfortunately, my protagonist isn't able to stop the explosion from destroying the original target, and a huge fire ensues. An American reporter named Elle Larsen arrives to check things out. That's all for now. I hope you're well back home. Tell Jim I said hi."

He sent the note, waited for the icon on the laptop to show the message had been sent, and then he shut down the small computer and stowed it away. He double checked that he had left nothing out of place so that there would be no sign he had been there. It was time to return to the site of the explosion to check in on Josef.

# Chapter 38

Carine had been back in DC only a few days, yet each day awaiting word from Osprey had felt like a week. She had not wanted to leave him there with Zerow's thugs. She knew Osprey was good, but could he disarm a small contingent of bandits on his own? Carine signed, knowing she wouldn't have been of much help to him. But it still was tough being back, out of the loop on what was happening.

When she had arrived at Dulles, Jim was there to meet her in the baggage claim area. He had whisked her off immediately to Langley for a debrief. She recalled that conversation, and Jim's look of concern in hearing that Zerow was already on the ground.

"If anybody can manage this, Carine, it's Osprey," Jim said quietly and solidly. She hoped Jim was right. "Keep your personal e-mail up all the time in case Osprey messages you. If he does, send me a note from your State Department e-mail account with the time you want me to meet you in person to get the details. We can meet at that coffee place in Dupont Circle by your house."

She had been compulsive about checking her e-mail. Her colleagues chided her about seeming to always be looking at her phone, when she used to be the role model for keeping distractions at work to a minimum.

Silverstone was not yet back from Moscow. She wondered what information he had discovered. She knew it was unlikely that he would confide in her upon his return, so she had to think of ways she could get him to divulge information. Playing to his ego was what she needed to do. She had to figure out how to get him to brag about his adventures.

She glanced at her phone. She noticed one new message in her Gmail account. She tapped on the e-mail icon for more information.

The name of the sender—Joey Miller- was unfamiliar. She held her breath as she opened the message, and then she read the note a few times:

"Hi, Carine. I'm having a fantastic time on vacation. Making a lot of progress writing my novel. I just developed a part of the story in which my protagonist turns the tables on a paramilitary group by redirecting the explosives to the group's campsite. All the bad guys appear to have been killed, although the protagonist can't be certain. Unfortunately, my protagonist isn't able to stop the explosion from destroying the original target, and a huge fire ensues. An American reporter named Elle Larsen arrives to check things out. That's all for now. I hope you're well back home. Tell Jim I said hi."

Her initial thought was that she was glad Osprey was still alive, and that Zerow's team was gone. She wondered if the undercover FBI agent was also a casualty, or if Osprey had gotten her out in time.

She was disappointed that the pipeline had been compromised. She suspected Osprey felt the same way; that in having failed to stop the explosion, he, too, might be suffering.

She did a quick Internet search on reporter Elle Larsen. Larsen was not only a highly respected journalist; she was also gorgeous. Carine studied the photo of Elle and chided herself for feeling jealous. Elle was a potential threat to Osprey's safety, Carine reminded herself, and she needed to speak to Jim to have him look deeper into the reporter's background.

Carine sent Jim a note from her State Department e-mail account with only "1630" in the subject line, a clear indicator that they would meet at the coffee shop at 4:30 that afternoon. She sat back in her chair and smiled. As she readied to leave for her appointment with Jim, she envisioned herself side-by-side with Osprey, outsmarting villains to keep the world safe.

# Chapter 39

Elle let the lukewarm water of the hotel shower trickle over her cold skin. She attempted to wash away the irritability she felt about making no progress that afternoon attempting to uncover leads about the source of the fire.

She had approached an older couple on their front porch in town. When she had seen them, she smiled, thinking this was February, and it was cold, and this elderly couple was hardy, sitting out on their porch. It seemed as if they were waiting for a glimpse of activity on a mostly still, grey Buhovo day. She chuckled to herself. If nothing else, she thought, Bulgarians were resilient.

The couple had invited her to join them. Elle understood Bulgarian pretty well, and it helped that the old man and woman spoke slowly, the unhurried pace of their words representative of the overall cadence of this sleepy town.

They were eager to reveal the stories of their lives. They shared with Elle that Americans had visited Buhovo as soon as the Cold War had ended. The Americans, they said, seemed as interested in the uranium mines as the Germans had been decades ago when they had come to Buhovo to mine uranium for their nuclear weapons.

Unlike the Germans, the American visitors were environmentalists. They had been visiting consistently for years, measuring the output of radiation in the region.

The results weren't favorable, the couple had shared. Air pollution and incidence of cancers in Buhovo were significantly higher than the norm. Westerners arrived in their protective gear and measured the damage, the couple said, but they brought no solutions. And so, the old couple said, they watched people come and go, but it never made a difference.

People didn't get healthier, the air wasn't cleaner, and young people moved to Sofia while the old ones stayed. There is a story here, Elle thought, but she knew reporting on a place cursed by the minerals in its mountains wasn't a headline. It was barely a story on the fourth page of her paper, the _Chicago Sun-Times_.

She rinsed the shampoo from her hair, running her hands through her long brown locks. She berated herself for thinking this story the old couple told wasn't particularly noteworthy, that people everywhere around the world become ill from their polluted environment. Taking in a deep breath, her eyes closed, she appreciated the warmth of the water for just a moment longer.

She turned off the steady stream and returned her thoughts to the fire. This Matt character was admittedly her best lead on the story, and that wasn't saying much, since he didn't seem open to sharing. Josef had something to say, too; she knew it. If she could find Josef to speak to him when Matt wasn't around, perhaps Josef would tell her something. She didn't expect much out of this dinner with Matt, but that didn't matter. She would find other ways to figure out what happened in the ravine last night.

# Chapter 40

Hotel Tivoli was only half a mile from the restaurant in the center of town. It was already pitch black at 6:00 p.m., with no streetlights to cut through the darkness. Elle scurried attentively on the side of the road. She seemed to recall the main road through town had at least a few light posts.

She could not pinpoint why she felt nervous about being out here. Nobody else was around, and perhaps that was the problem, she thought to herself. When she was in Sofia, she was surrounded by the bustle of townspeople, which felt safer. As she turned onto the main road, she spotted the lights of the restaurant glimmering ahead.

She liked the establishment's name- Dnes- meaning "today." Pulling open the wooden door, she scanned the crowd. The restaurant was alive and full. She saw him immediately: he was sitting at a table in the back. He seemed to notice her right away, too. She felt flushed and took a deep breath to slow her heartbeat.

Their eyes remained locked on each other. Now that the soot from the blaze was gone from his face, she noticed his strong, angular features, his eyes blue and clear. He stood when she approached.

"How did your work go today, Ms. Larsen?" he asked. His question was relaxed, and he seemed genuinely curious about her investigation.

"Not well," she admitted. She draped her coat across the back of the vacant chair, and then she sat down, and he followed suit.

"I learned a lot about the uranium mines and the poisoned populace, but nothing about the fire." He smiled politely. She continued. "I know you will not tell me what you know."

"I won't," he agreed. He liked that Elle Larsen was a straight shooter. "But I didn't ask you to dinner to talk about that, anyway. I'm interested in your experience in Kosovo."

She cocked her head slightly, a curious look on her face. "Why?"

"I was stationed there."

"Were you in the military?" she asked.

"I worked with the military."

"What do you do now?" she asked.

He grinned. "I thought we weren't talking about now."

"You're CIA," she said confidently. "Admit it."

"Let's say that I were. Would I tell it to a journalist?" he asked.

She couldn't help but grin.

# Chapter 41

The server appeared at that table, bringing menus. Elle ordered a Kamenitsa from the tap. Matt smiled. "Make that two, please," he said.

"You speak Bulgarian well," he remarked.

"I studied for a year preparing for this month-long gig in Bulgaria. My assignment tracks back to what you originally wanted to know about my time in Kosovo. I was a journalist on the ground a few months before the NATO air campaign started, and I stayed until all of us journalists were evacuated, right before the start of the bombing in March 1999."

"What was it like there for you?" he asked, leaning in. The server returned with their drinks.

"It was strange," she remarked. Matt could see in her eyes she had taken herself back twenty years, to a different time and place as she recollected her memories. "By the time I arrived, the Serb police and the insurgent Kosovo Albanian army were under a ceasefire. Things were going well. And then a few months later, Kosovo was decimated by NATO munitions, and everything had changed so quickly."

She looked into his eyes. When she talked about Kosovo, most people nodded politely, not knowing or remembering what happened in that remote part of the world at the turn of the millennium. This was different, she felt; she sensed he understood what she was saying.

"When were you there?" she asked him.

"I arrived a few months before you did, right after US delegate Richard Brookehalle had successfully brokered a ceasefire between the Serb police and the rebel Albanians. The agreement encouraged displaced civilians in the mountains to return to their towns before winter set in."

She nodded. "I remember there was great concern about what would happen to all of those people who had left their towns quickly to avoid getting caught in deadly firefights. Most of the people who had left had little in the way of provisions and were not prepared to endure the harsh winter in the mountains."

"That's right," he said. "They sent me to Kosovo to work with the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe- the OSCE- to monitor the ceasefire, and to encourage the internally displaced people to return to their villages."

"How did that go?" she asked.

"It was okay for a little while. Most families trickled back down from the mountains in October and November. The rugged ones who had not returned by that time were prepared well enough to endure the weather; we weren't worried about them. The situation was stable until early January, when the massacre in Racak was reported."

"Racak," she echoed, nodding. Everything had been peaceful until the OSCE had found those bodies in the trench. He looked at her intently. They were both silent for a moment.

"If you were with the OSCE," she asked, "then you must know what really happened in Racak."

He said nothing. "Your posture just stiffened," she noticed. "It wasn't what everybody thought it was, was it?" He shook his head.

The server returned to take their food order. She ordered a pizza made with local kashkaval cheese. He ordered kebapche, the Bulgarian version of kebab.

When the server left, Elle asked quietly, "Did the OSCE fabricate the massacre?"

"Not the OSCE," he said, and then he sighed. "It's still unknown what really happened, and there may never be clarity. I've contemplated coordinating a meeting with government officials who would have known whether the massacre was real, or if it were staged, but visiting American politicians would have been futile, because those who know what really happened will probably never speak."

She nodded. At the time, the Racak massacre had been unthinkable. It was the dead of winter, and skirmishes between the Serbs and Albanians were infrequent. The West's response to the report that Serb police had murdered dozens of Albanian women and children was swift and unchallenged by all, an opportunity to press the Serbs and Albanians into mediated peace talks in Rambouillet, near Paris, shortly thereafter.

He seemed to know what she was thinking. "They set Milosevic up to fail at Rambouillet. He could never agree to foreign occupation in Kosovo indefinitely. What leader of a country rightfully would?"

He continued, "So Milosevic fought it, and then to the surprise of the Americans, the Kosovar Albanians were not as agreeable as expected. The Americans had considered the Albanians their pawns, but the Albanians refused to be controlled. They finally signed the document, and Milosevic predictably refused. And then NATO began its air campaign to force Milosevic to capitulate."

She jumped in, animated, without skipping a beat. "But it didn't work. Milosevic stood his ground, ordering the police to drive the Kosovar Albanians out of the country to the south a few days before the air campaign started. NATO had given Milosevic the chance to pull off an ethnic cleansing campaign; he had nothing to lose."

She drummed her fingers on the table. "So you were there when the Racak massacre happened, and then you stayed until right around the time the journalists were evacuated? I remember the OSCE left around the same time, about a week before the air campaign."

He said, "I was there through the first few days of the bombing. I stayed to get everybody out, and then I got stuck on the ground when the cargo planes stopped running their missions, the day before the bombing started. The Serbs knew the bombs were on the way since all the international support personnel had been evacuated, so they went crazy, robbing and pushing people out. They were powerless and angry and violent." It was his turn to be distant. Witnessing such violence- such chaos- could do that to a person, she thought.

# Chapter 42

The server delivered their meals and two refills on the beer. "Cheers," she offered.

Matt smiled, returning to the present. "You said earlier that you're investigating Bulgaria's support to NATO in the Kosovo conflict. What are you thinking about that?"

Her eyes sparkled again. "About a week after the bombing campaign, CNN ran a headline story about how NATO had intercepted Serb military plans that proved Milosevic was orchestrating an ethnic cleansing campaign.

"The story felt dead wrong. I suspected NATO had floated the information because Milosevic wasn't capitulating as quickly as everybody had expected. There were concerns about how long the air campaign could continue, as there weren't a lot of military targets left; there just wasn't that much infrastructure in Kosovo."

She continued, "The story felt to me as a justification for the bombing campaign. 'Oh, look,' NATO said, 'we found this map illustrating Serb military units in three spots in Kosovo, a plan to encircle and push the Kosovar Albanians southward, out of Kosovo to Albania.'" She shook her head. "The evidence seemed too convenient."

She tapped her fingers on the table as she spoke. "The problem with the map shown on CNN is that it was supposed to be a Serb map, but the map's name at the top of the image read 'potkova' instead of 'potkovica.'

"The Serbs and Croats share most words in a combined Serbian-Croatian language, but some words are different, like different dialects, and the word for 'horseshoe' is one of them. 'Potkova' is more commonly heard in Croatia, whereas the typical term Serbs use is 'potkovica.'"

She continued, "Some theorized that the CIA fabricated the map. If Milosevic's grand plan was the ethnic cleansing of Kosovar Albanians from the province, did the Serb military really need an unspecific map to show them what to do?

"Others postulated that the map was a fake, but that instead of the CIA, it was the Bulgarian equivalent of the CIA- the Bulgarian State Intelligence Agency- who created the map.

"CNN reported that the Bulgarians were the heroes who had confiscated the map from a Serb military police station in Kosovo. Bulgaria was desperate to join NATO, and some speculated that Bulgaria had fabricated the map and delivered it to NATO to show their value to the West."

Matt nodded. "And that's why you're in Bulgaria: to investigate the source of the intelligence report."

"You got it," she said.

It felt good to speak with someone who was not only genuinely interested but also knowledgeable about her work. She couldn't think of the last time she had been in the company of somebody who cared about ideas that were so important to her. She was glad she had agreed to dinner.

# Chapter 43

"What have you discovered so far?" he asked before taking a bite of the kebapche.

She shook her head. "I arrived in Sofia only a few days ago. I lined up an interview with Nadia Manov for tomorrow, but with the Buhovo fire incident, I had to reschedule."

Something had changed; she sensed he was suddenly uncomfortable. "Nadia Manov was the former assistant to the Bulgarian Secretary of Defense, right?" His question sounded forced, she thought. What did he know about Manov?

"Yes, Manov was the politician who announced that the Bulgarian State Intelligence Agency had discovered information proving Milosevic had intended to drive the Kosovar Albanians into Macedonia. Manov promoted the map as evidence that Bulgaria was a supporter of NATO's cause, an important contributor to the effort."

She continued, "Either she capitalized on the existence of the map or she was involved in its fabrication. I suspect the former, but I'm hoping that my interview with her will help shed some light on this."

Matt asked, "Do you think she will tell you anything that could damage her reputation?"

"No," Elle admitted, "but as a journalist, I've picked up a knack for reading people. What I want to know from Manov is whether she believes the map was real. If this is the case, then we can deduce that she played no role in fabricating the map."

She continued. "Then either the CIA was behind it, or perhaps the Bulgarian State Intelligence Agency created it without her knowing. If she insists it was real, then I'll ask her about the 'potkova' mistake to get her reaction."

He was quiet. It seemed like the right time to ask him about Manov. "You seemed surprised when I mentioned Nadia Manov. Why?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing."

Elle didn't believe him, and she saw no harm in probing a little further. "No, you reacted strangely. What was your relationship to Manov back in 1999?"

"Honestly, none," he offered. She studied his face; he was telling the truth.

"Do you know her now?" Elle asked.

She didn't miss a beat, he realized. "I can't discuss it, Elle. I'm sorry."

"All right," she said. "On a separate note, how do you feel about me writing this story about Operation Horseshoe?"

"I'm glad you're doing it, because transparency is a good thing. It's been twenty years, and people should know what really happened."

She laughed. "That's a funny thing for a CIA agent to say."

He smiled. "I suppose it is, if I were a CIA agent."

# Chapter 44

They pooled their leva to pay the server, and then they stood a moment outside the restaurant in the cool air.

"You didn't ask me any more questions about the fire," he noted.

She felt dizzy in his presence. "I knew you wouldn't tell me, so what's the point?"

He caught himself wishing they could stand there together longer. "Are you staying at the Tivoli?" he asked. "I can walk you back."

"That's okay," she replied. "It's only about half a mile, and this sleepy town seems safe."

"It is," he agreed. As they clasped hands, he felt the warmth of her face close to his. She turned to leave, and he lingered in the spot a moment longer, enjoying her purposeful, brisk gait. He hoped she could bring clarity to the Operation Horseshoe situation, for although it had been twenty years, he still thought about it occasionally, an unsolved mystery.

He sighed, snapping himself back to reality. Tomorrow he'd dismiss the Azeri engineers back to Baku, hoping to convince his crew that as soon as Lukas Bradshaw's term ended, there would once again be enough political clout to make this happen. He would rally his team in the morning before sending them home. He would offer them this hope.

# Chapter 45

Elle had wanted to look back, to see if he was still watching her as she walked away. She kept her eyes forward. She met many people in her work as a journalist, but few had grabbed her attention the way he did. She relished this thrilling feeling she was experiencing.

As she neared the Tivoli, she saw a shadow dancing near the bushes flanking the porch's hotel. The movement caught her eye, and she stopped for a moment to check her premises. Was it the wind? Or was the buzz of the second Bulgarian beer impairing her judgment?

The shadow moved again, and she felt her heartbeat quicken. She stood frozen for a moment, willing herself to turn and run the other way. The roads were dark, and in this small town almost everybody was asleep.

Paralyzed for just one additional moment, she glimpsed a figure. She had not imagined things: it was a man. What was he doing, lurking near the front of the hotel?

She weighed her options. Could she breeze past him into the hotel lobby? He was between her and the doors. Could she make it?

She wanted to run, but she waited a moment longer, willing herself to act. He called out to her in heavily accented English. In a loud yet wavering voice, he said, "Lady, I have come for you."

# Chapter 46

Her survival instincts kicked in, and she ran toward the restaurant. If she were moving as slowly as it felt, the man would catch up to her at any moment. The cold air hurt her lungs, but she pressed on.

Matt was on his way back to the safe house when he heard the quick footsteps and heavy breathing of someone approaching. He was trained to respond to situations like this, and he ducked around the side of a house to assess the scene.

He watched her dart down the dark street toward the lights of the restaurant. She was running at a full sprint, her long legs bounding down the gravel pavement as quickly as a gazelle's. He noticed the look of determination in her eyes. Was she outrunning someone? Who was after her?

"Elle!" he called out.

_Matt_ , she thought. She turned and saw him running toward her. A wave of relief rushed over her, and she slowed her pace to allow him to catch up to her.

"What's happening?" he asked.

She stopped running. She was still breathing hard, her heart beating fast. She found it difficult to speak. "There was a man near the front of the hotel. As I approached, he called out in English that he was coming for me, so I ran."

Matt frowned. "Coming for you? Why?"

"I don't know," she said, still working to regain her breath.

He weighed the options. He could take her to the CIA safe house, away from the threat, or he could escort her back to the Tivoli. And then what? Stand guard at the hotel? The safe house seemed like a better bet, if he could trust her.

He breathed deeply. "Where I stay is safe, precisely because only a few people know about it. I feel as if I can trust you not to disclose the location. The alternative is for us to walk back to the Tivoli together to check things out."

She nodded, still breathing heavily, her hands on her hips. "You can trust me, Matt. You're doing me a huge favor, taking me in. I won't betray you."

He nodded. "Let's get out of here."

# Chapter 47

They rounded a corner. He unlocked the door quickly, escorting her inside, and then he gently shut the heavy door behind them.

This should have unnerved me, she thought, being locked into this place with somebody I don't know well at all. But her instincts told her she could trust him.

"Please have a seat," he said as he closed the blinds. He left the lights off.

He asked, "Was the man you saw drunk?"

"It's possible," she said.

"Do you remember if the man ran after you?" He was trying to determine the threat, she suspected, and if the safe house location might be compromised.

"I don't know," she admitted. "It happened so fast, and I was focused on getting away."

He shook his head, as if he had just remembered something. "Sorry. Where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink?"

She laughed. It was a loud, awkward laugh.

"What's so funny?" he asked. He seemed embarrassed.

She smiled. "I'm not laughing at you. It just hit me how bizarre tonight has been."

"What do you mean?"

She said, "You and I hit it off over dinner reminiscing about our shared experiences in Kosovo, and then a creep spooks me, and in my escape I end up running back to you, and then you lock me in your safe house and invite me to have a drink." She shook her head. "It's been a strange night, that's all."

He was silent for a moment, and she wondered if she had offended him. He looked up at her and grinned. "So we hit it off over dinner?"

She blushed. "What do you have to drink?"

"Whiskey, and maybe a can or two of Coke. But no ice."

"A room temperature Coke with whiskey sounds excellent, thanks," she said.

He entered the small kitchen. She heard him open and close a few cupboards, and then she heard the pressure release of the Coke, and the glug, glug, glug of liquid being poured.

Bizarre, she thought again. Perhaps someday this would make for a good story, a journalist sharing a drink with a CIA operative in a safe house.

A clicking noise interrupted her thoughts. Someone was unlocking the door. Her posture stiffened; she felt frozen on the spot.

"Matt," she prompted, a note of urgency in her voice. He appeared. He saw her eyeing the door and headed to the entryway.

"Who is it?" Matt barked in Bulgarian.

Josef opened the door and closed it promptly behind him. "It's only me."

# Chapter 48

Josef's gaze met Elle's. "I would not hurt you," he explained. "I just wanted to speak with you."

Elle gasped. "It was you in the shrubs?"

Josef faced Matt. "She should know what happened, Osprey."

"Osprey?" she wondered aloud.

"It's my work name," he clarified.

Josef looked at his supervisor quizzically, and then he continued. "She should tell the world about this, Osprey. There's no reason to keep this project a secret." His face looked pained. "It's over."

Matt said, "I know you're devastated, Josef. You're headed home, and this feels like failure. But this is just a temporary setback, and we'll be able to rebuild in time."

"You're wrong, Osprey," Josef said. "You thought you had leverage—goodness knows it must have been solid- to keep the Russians at bay. But you did not. You were a fool—and I was also a fool- to believe the Russians would tolerate this. In their classic style, they put a stop to it all by blowing up the pipeline."

"Pipeline," Elle said aloud. "So that's why the fire burned so fiercely. You were building an oil pipeline, and the Russians didn't like it."

Josef turned to look at her, and he shook his head. "Not oil. Natural gas, from Azerbaijan to central Europe. Osprey said he had leverage so that the Russians would look the other way. They gave you lip service, Osprey. They never would have allowed this. They have too much to lose economically in the long term, even when the competitor is small, like Azerbaijan."

"I'm sorry, Josef," Matt said. "We will try again. Not now, and not next year, but in a few years."

Josef snorted. "That sounds like an empty promise. I'm returning to Baku a failure, Osprey, with a frightening message: that America has no influence over Russia, that the Americans no longer hold the political clout to protect us. The balance of power has changed, Osprey, and, it's not for the better."

"Josef, you've worked with me long enough to know that I will make this right. I just need a little time."

"Goodbye, Osprey," Josef said, embittered, and then he turned and left.

# Chapter 49

Matt said to Elle, "If you write the story, just know that it wasn't the Russians."

"Of course it wasn't the Russians. If they knew about this pipeline the entire time, why would they have allowed construction to start, just to blow it up later?"

She noticed the look of amazement on his face. "I'm a journalist, Matt- or Osprey—or whatever people call you. I'm not a fool."

"It's Matt," he whispered. "People who know me call me Matt."

"Is everything you said tonight true?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"Transparency is a much better policy than secrecy."

She smiled. "That's a funny thing for a CIA agent to say."

"I didn't say I was a CIA agent," he replied.

"That's true. And you also didn't say you weren't." Getting back to business, she asked, "Who else was threatened by the pipeline's existence?"

Matt shook his head. "I had not yet delivered on the promise I made to President Polkov. Our verbal contract was so important to Polkov that when the Russians heard about the explosion, Polkov's assistant called me immediately to confirm Moscow had nothing to do with it."

He continued, "I told Polkov's assistant I intended to still deliver on the promise, and that I would keep to the timeline, in exchange for the opportunity to resurrect the pipeline project in a few years."

"Why not rebuild now?" Elle asked.

He shook his head. "Now is not the right time. If we get plans underway, we might make this happen in a few years. This pipeline is good for not only Azerbaijan but also for the US and Europe. It'll take time to rebuild this project, but it'll be worth it."

"I don't understand why you couldn't rebuild immediately," she said.

"The success of this project means we need to give it some time, that's all."

"Who blew up the pipeline?" she asked.

"All I can tell you is that the explosion was caused by unscrupulous people working for a boss without values. It's a tragic situation, but it's not something the world is ready to hear about."

She nodded her head. "I have to investigate this, Matt. I can't just walk away because you told me people aren't ready for the truth."

He chuckled. "I figured that about you, Elle Larsen. But I can't help you with your story; you'll have to take it from here on your own. I'll walk you back to your hotel." He looked into the kitchen. "Maybe we can have that drink together another time?"

They hurried together in the cold darkness. On the Tivoli's front steps, they stood facing each other, closer than a cordial distance, their eyes locked in each other's gaze.

"Are you staying here in Buhovo for a while?" she asked.

He shook his head. "I'm headed out tomorrow. And you?"

"I'll investigate further here a few days, and then I'll return to Sofia to get back to the Kosovo story."

"Good luck with your work on both stories. It's been a pleasure to have this evening with you." He kissed her on the cheek.

"See you soon," she said, uttering those words without realizing that she might not actually ever see him again.

"Remember, Elle, most of those shadows in the shrubs are harmless," he said as he opened the wooden door for her, and she stepped into the eclectic hotel lobby.

She knew what he meant with his cryptic words. Goodbye, Matt, she whispered to the closed door.

# Chapter 50

Sunlight streamed through the gap in the velvet curtains, and her first thought—because there was hardly a morning that she was up after sunrise—was that she had overslept and had missed something important.

And then she remembered she was in Buhovo, at the site of the pipeline. She had a lot of work to do today, and not a moment to waste.

There was no Internet service at the hotel, so she headed to the local bakery that advertised "wifi" in the window to catch up on e-mail. She grabbed a coffee at the counter, ordered a scrumptious banitsa pastry, and made herself comfortable at a café table near the windows.

As the new flood of e-mail updated on her phone, she recognized five messages from Hugh Morrison, her supervisor at the paper. Hugh believed in her work, and he had pulled a bunch of strings to secure funding for her story about Bulgaria's support to NATO in the Kosovo conflict.

She reviewed Hugh's messages from least to most recent over the last two days. Most of the messages were a twist on the anxious first: "Elle, I haven't heard from you. Are you okay? Please send word." The final note was even more desperate: "Elle, I have to assume that you are dead now, which breaks my heart. I'm calling the Sofia police to check on you at your apartment. If you are alive, please send word immediately."

She snapped a quick note back. "Hugh, I'm sorry to have worried you. A bigger story cropped up in a nearby suburb. I'm completing my investigation and will be back to Sofia as soon as I finish writing the full story, a piece that could attract international attention. Please stay tuned, and sorry again to have worried you. Best, Elle."

None of the other messages were urgent, so she spent the remaining time searching for information about the Buhovo fire. Except the local report she had seen a few days ago about how the blast might have been tied to old unexploded World War II munitions, she discovered nothing else.

Which seemed odd, because the pipeline was being built in town, and people had been witnessing the construction taking place. Yet nobody was talking about it. She thought disappointedly that if any of the reporters from Sofia interviewed any of the residents of Buhovo, they might have discovered that something big was happening here. But nobody asked; nobody seemed to care.

She thought for a moment about Matt, felt her cheeks flush, and berated herself for the distraction. She wished she might see him one more time, so she could ask him the question that irked her: how was it possible that this pipeline had been under construction for weeks, and nobody was talking about it?

# Chapter 51

As she tapped her fingers on the table, mulling over this thought, she noticed the man sitting at the next table looking at her.

His dark eyes were friendly. She examined him more closely, noticing his strong, square hands. He seemed to look her over as closely as she was looking at him.

He stood and approached her. "May I join you?" he asked in English.

"Da," she replied.

"I'm Pyotr," he offered, still in English.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Pyotr. I'm Elle Larsen, an American journalist."

"A reporter? Are you here covering the explosion?"

"I am," she replied. "What are your thoughts on what happened?"

The man looked at her straightly, intently. "A terrible thing happened when they blew up that pipeline. That pipeline would have been very good for Bulgaria."

"How do you know about the pipeline?" she asked.

"What do you mean? How could one not know about it? Everybody who lives here knew something was being built."

"Yes, but how did you know it was a pipeline?" she asked.

"The large pipes were a tipoff," he replied. "It wasn't a secret," he said. "They couldn't hide it."

She felt free to speak what was on her mind. "But why is there no news about it, Pyotr? A pipeline through Bulgaria to funnel gas from Azerbaijan to Europe? A challenge to Russian hegemony? And why are the Russians allowing it? There is a story here."

Pyotr shook his head. "Projects start all the time around Bulgaria, Ms. Larsen. There's hope, and then there's a wrinkle in the plan, and then the project stalls. Bulgarian reporters understand this, so they wait until a project nears completion before generating excitement and false hope. We Bulgarians have seen foreign investors come in, make unfulfilled promised, and then leave. Too many dreams never come to fruition." He added, "And with this one, well, the explosion ruined it all."

"Who do you think did it?" Elle asked.

Pyotr shook his head. "I don't know." He seemed to weigh heavily what he was about to say next. "Six people I had never seen before arrived right before the explosion. They may have had something to do with it."

Elle looked at Pyotr quizzically. "Are you a police officer?"

He shook his head. "I'm a detective with the Sofia police department. I want to find out who those six people were. The project lead- an American- had assured us the Russians would not be a problem. The puzzling thing is that the six people I saw didn't look Russian."

"Why do you think they were not Russian?" she asked.

"I know it seems unbelievable, but they looked like Americans to me," Pyotr admitted.

"Why would Americans want to blow up the pipeline?"

"Russian sympathizers?" Pyotr speculated.

Something was nagging Elle. She felt as if Pyotr were onto something, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. She shook her head. "What are we missing?" she asked, drumming her fingers on the table.

Pyotr's cell phone buzzed, and he glanced at the screen. "Excuse me," he said, "I must take this call."

He stood up and offered Elle his hand. "Good luck with your story," he said. "I hope you find out what happened."

Elle also stood, gathering her things. She heard him on his phone as he walked out of the bakery. "Yeah," she heard him say, a tone of frustration in his voice. "I'm working on it," she heard him add.

If Americans had blown up the pipeline that the CIA was helping to build, then who was this opposition group? She wouldn't find answers here on the Internet. She needed to get back out into the field to figure it out.

The lady behind the counter watched Elle as she stowed away her laptop. Elle smiled at the woman and offered a "thanks" in Bulgarian as she departed.

She would check out the explosion site one last time, and then perhaps she'd come back to the bakery. If not to interview locals, she thought, then at least to write.

# Chapter 52

She walked through the town toward the valley. She felt her heartbeat quicken at the prospect of seeing Matt at the site.

She had felt similar feelings about other men in the past, but there was something different about Matt. She thought back to conversations with her friends who were with wonderful men, whom they described as reliable, and that always sounded boring to Elle. Perhaps she would never marry, because she didn't view stability as a virtue.

And then she had other friends: her thrill-seeking, more adventurous friends, who would fall madly in love with men who were passionate and interesting, and then after a short time the flings- those bright short bursts- were over.

Matt was interesting, and he also seemed trustworthy. She shook her head, reminding herself that she was back at the site of the explosion to look for clues, not to daydream.

What exactly was she looking for here at the site? Perhaps a clue indicating where the explosives had come from? She smiled, thinking it was naïve of her to believe that a journalist could figure this out, as if she were a trained crime scene investigator.

Most of the days she'd experienced in Bulgaria were dreary, but not today. She shielded her eyes from the sun as she surveyed the site where the pipeline had been constructed. The explosives had been powerful enough to melt metal. She could discern by the debris, strewn westward, the direction of the blast. The explosives, she reasoned, had been placed on the east side of the valley.

Was that strange, she wondered, that the explosives had not been placed more centrally, and closer to the pipeline? Why east to west? Had she stumbled upon a clue?

She shielded her eyes from the sun again and looked up the valley on the east side. The grass was singed all the way down the side of the valley. The blast was strong enough to burn grass, but it was the pattern of the turf that caught her eye. There was a very dark spot on the side of the hill, and above the spot, the ground didn't appear to be as badly burned. Below the spot, the earth appeared to have been pushed down into the valley.

Had the blast originated up there, she wondered. Again, why? If the purpose of the explosion was to blow up the pipeline, why hadn't the explosives been placed and detonated closer to the site?

She climbed the hill to explore the dark spot more closely. She noticed tree limbs and remnants of other brush along the way. Had this area been forested? Perhaps the bombers couldn't get close enough to detonate right at the pipeline, with the guards around, she reasoned.

That thought jogged another question in her head. As far as anybody knew, nobody had perished in the explosion. The explosion happened at night, in the valley, and local news had reported no fatalities. Josef had been pretty torn up about his dreams being dashed, but he didn't express any angst over any of the crew's lives having been lost.

So if nobody had been at the construction site that evening, then the bombers should have had a prime opportunity to place their explosives closer to the pipeline. Instead, it appeared as if the explosives were off center, on the east side of the hill, in what might have been a forested area. Why?

She reached the black spot on the east side of the valley and began looking around for clues. She found a charred stick and used it to pick around under the top layer. She sighed, realizing she was in over her head. Everything looked the same: burned. She couldn't tell organic from inorganic; the whole space had been razed.

Wait a second, she thought. Her heart beat faster. Her stick had uncovered something that looked like fabric. She squatted, her bare fingers feeling the blackened fabric, which was tough, like a sturdy canvas.

Had this been a tent? She scrambled around for more clues, not caring that she was getting dirtier and dirtier with soot as she continued to explore the area. Perhaps the bombers had set up camp here, and maybe their explosives inadvertently detonated? Could the culprits be dead?

She rooted around for more evidence of what lay at this site. She was so intent on finding something more that she had not heard the man approach; she didn't recognize his presence at all until he tapped her on the back.

"Looking for something?" he asked gruffly, in American English.

# Chapter 53

She glanced up at him and experienced a single feeling: fear.

He looked like something from a horror film. He was so badly burned that he was almost indiscernible as human. His hair was gone, and his face was covered in red, blistered burns, as were his arms and his legs.

Instinctively, she stepped back, her hands out in front of her. She heard him rasping for breath. She expected that it must be difficult for him to breathe.

"Why aren't you in a hospital?" she asked.

He laughed, a maniacal grin plastered across his blistered face. "I'm invincible," he said.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"I was just about to ask you the same question," he said, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm a reporter investigating the explosion," she answered strongly.

He cackled. "Sure, you're a reporter. What are you doing up here on the hill then, and not down where the pipeline was?"

She weighed her options. She could tell him the truth, or she could make up a story. Engaging this devil might help her figure out what really happened, and she reminded herself that she was a journalist committed to discovering the truth, no matter what.

"The blast seemed to emanate from here," she explained confidently. "I noticed this when I was down in the valley near the pipeline, looking for clues to determine who did this."

"So who did this?" the man asked in his raspy voice.

"I don't know," Elle admitted. "The Russians have a motive, as a natural gas pipeline through Bulgaria to Europe threatens their monopoly. But there's no evidence they are responsible." She took a breath. "What do you think happened here?"

His eyes narrowed. "Why do you think I would know?" he sneered. She took a risk. "You're badly burned. You were here when it happened, weren't you?"

He said nothing, and she took another risk. "What's an American doing in Buhovo?" she asked.

"How do you know I'm not Canadian?" he said.

"Who are you?" she asked. "Are you CIA?"

His countenance softened. He let out a laugh, a guffaw that seemed a little too loud. "CIA? Hell, no, lady. Do I look CIA? I'm no suave James Bond type."

She frowned. "It's difficult to tell what you look like, with those terrible burns. You should get to a hospital before you get an infection." She noticed his eyes. She sensed that she had connected with him, that he could tell she was genuinely concerned about his well-being. And she was concerned: the man looked terrible, in worse shape than anybody she'd seen since Kosovo.

She seized the opportunity. "You were here when it happened," she whispered.

His eyes darkened, and she could tell she had hit a nerve with him. "If you value your life, lady, I'd recommend you stop nosing around here. It's easy to pick off cute little reporters. If it's done correctly, nobody will suspect anything but an accident. Go home to save your family the trouble of mourning you," he said, almost sputtering, the strain of speaking becoming clearer.

She stood there looking at him. His eyes narrowed, and he moved his face closer to hers.

"Boo!" he shouted, a maniacal look in his eyes. She gasped and stumbled backwards a few steps, losing her footing, shuffling back down the hill a few feet, failing to stabilize herself.

After she regained her balance, she looked back up at the dark spot on the hill. The burned man was gone.

# Chapter 54

She rubbed her skin furiously in the hotel shower, ridding herself of the smoky debris. She breathed deeply, regaining confidence after her run in with the burned man. She still felt shaky, even after a few hours.

Who was this American? Could he have been one of the bombers? He was obviously at the site when the explosion happened, and he had neglected medical treatment, perhaps to avoid drawing attention to himself. What was he still doing here, then? If he had attempted to blow up the pipeline and the explosives inadvertently misfired at the campsite, then it was all over. So why was he still here? Was he looking for something? Or perhaps someone?

She pulled herself together and headed out to the restaurant for dinner, hoping Matt might be there; she wanted to tell him about her encounter with the man.

She cursed herself for not getting a better look at the man; she had been so distracted by his burns. She noticed his piercing blue eyes, and she thought he might have had a tattoo on his neck, although she wasn't certain. He was moderate height, with a muscular build; he had a military air about him. While his age was difficult to tell, his confidence made her think he was older, maybe in his late forties or early fifties. She sensed this strange, gruff man may be the key to the story.

For a moment, she longed for the bustle of Sofia, surrounded by people and noise and lights. She walked briskly to the restaurant, alert and ready for anything.

# Chapter 55

She glanced around Dnes Matt wasn't there, but Pyotr was. She spotted him in the corner, and he saw her, too. He smiled, and she knew immediately that she should join him for dinner. She walked toward him slowly, thinking about how Pyotr reminded her of Matt: both men seemed direct and honest.

"You look very nice tonight, Ms. Larsen," Pyotr remarked politely, standing to greet her.

"Thank you, Pyotr. May I join you?"

"Please," he said, pulling a chair out for her taking.

A server came by. Elle scanned the room again, feeling a bit deflated at not seeing Matt. She ordered what Pyotr was having: a bottle of Zagorka beer.

"What did you discover today?"

Elle thought for a moment about Pyotr. She knew very little about him, but her instincts told her he was trustworthy. They were both working for the same cause: to understand who was responsible for the destruction of the pipeline. She decided she would share with him what she knew.

"The explosion," she said, "happened on the side of the hill, not right at the site of the pipeline. I noticed the patterns in the grass. I followed the pattern to where the blast seemed to emanate, where it was strongest. There appeared to be a campsite there, or at least that's what I thought. I found canvas, like the material used in a tent."

He was listening closely to every word she said. "How do you know about blast patterns?" he asked. The tone of his voice suggested he wasn't challenging or accusing; rather, he was curious.

"I was a reporter in Kosovo in 1999," she shared. "I learned quickly how to follow blast patterns to understand where mines were laid, or where the bombs dropped from airplanes fell. It's not information that comes in handy most of the time, outside of war, but it's helpful now."

""Well done, Ms. Larsen. Tomorrow I'd like to go back to the site to see for myself what you discovered today." He seemed genuinely glad she had shared her lead.

"There's more, Pyotr. I met a badly burned man. An American, with blue eyes and a muscular physique. He was older, perhaps in his early fifties, and I'd be willing to bet he's ex-military. He warned me not to nose around."

"Did he threaten you?" Pyotr asked, worried. His eyes smoldered protectively. She could take care of herself, but she appreciated his concern; it was smart to have allies.

"I think he was just trying to frighten me," she said. "I don't scare easily, though, and I'm not going anywhere."

The waitress came to take their orders. When she left their table, Pyotr asked quietly, "Did the burned man have a tattoo on his neck?"

Elle looked up, trying to recall a clear picture of the man from her memory. "He was so badly burned, that I can't be certain. But yes, here, on the left side of his neck, there seemed to be a darker marking. I wouldn't be able to give you any more detail, though."

"Could it have been a swastika?" Pyotr asked.

She furrowed her brow. "What?"

Pyotr said, "I think perhaps this man you saw was part of the group of six strangers who were here in Buhovo the day of the blast. One man, well-muscled and older, with greying short military-cut hair, had a tattoo of a swastika on his neck. Bulgarian intelligence sources believe the group may have been an American neo-Nazi brigade, but because American paramilitary groups infrequently work outside of the United States, Interpol has no information to help us understand who exactly these people are."

Elle said, "Let's just say for a moment that this was a neo-Nazi group. What interest do they have in blowing up the pipeline?"

"I don't know," Pyotr admitted. "But you've confirmed that one man- the one whom we believe to be the leader- is still alive. I'm sorry to cut our dinner short, but I must get back to the local office here to send a report back to my office in Sofia about this. This information about the man, coupled with your theory about the blast emanating from the side of the hill, is very good progress."

"Why would the man still be here in Buhovo, after it's all over?" Elle asked.

Pyotr drummed his fingers on the table. "That worries me, Ms. Larsen," he admitted. "Is he planning another attack? Without knowing his motive for blowing up the pipeline in the first place, we can't anticipate what's next."

Pyotr looked uncomfortable, as if he wanted to say something. "What is it?" she asked.

"May I ask the waitress to box our food to go? And then may I walk you back to the Tivoli?" he asked. He added quickly, "I know you can take care of yourself, but I would feel better escorting you back to the hotel."

"How did you know I was at the Tivoli?" she asked.

He smiled. "It's the only place in town."

They hurried back to the hotel without speaking, listening and watching for anything amiss.

On the steps of the Tivoli, Peter offered, "Check to ensure the windows in your room are locked. I'll send an officer to patrol the premises tonight for added security. Let's make plans to meet at the bakery in the morning."

She nodded. "Be careful walking back to the station."

"Thanks," he said, and then added quietly, "The burned man you met makes me nervous."

"Me, too," Elle admitted. "Figuring out this man's identity is the key to knowing what happened to the pipeline."

# Chapter 56

"No," muttered Jim as he read the report that had just popped on his screen. He felt a sense of dread. The report was from SIA, the Bulgarian intelligence agency. He re-read the report to ensure he had not missed any important details.

"Explosives detonated on the side of the hill appear to be the cause of destruction of the Buhovo pipeline. Suspect is a stocky man of medium height and muscular build, with greying, short hair, a large Swastika tattoo on the left side of his neck, and severe burns on his face. A journalist who contacted the man reports he speaks English with an American accent. The suspect may have been part of a paramilitary team, perhaps with a Neo-Nazi focus; other members of the team have not been sighted since the blast."

It was no surprise to Jim that there was a Bulgarian intelligence presence in Buhovo investigating the blast, as Matt had been working with Bulgarian agents in Sofia to secure support for the pipeline project; they would have been quick on the scene to figure out what had gone wrong.

The surprise was that Zerow was still alive- that he had survived the explosion- and that he was still in Buhovo. For what purpose, Jim wondered. He hoped it wasn't to seek revenge on the person responsible for killing his team. Jim took a deep breath, hammered out a very brief e-mail message, and sat back. He couldn't remember the last time he was this worried for Matt's safety.

# Chapter 57

Carine watched Jason Silverstone enter the workspace, her first sighting of him since his return from Moscow. He went straight into his own office without stopping to say hello to anybody on the floor.

She mustered the courage to approach him in his office. "How was your trip?" she asked.

He glanced at her disinterestedly. "Fine."

She stood at his desk, unsure what to say next. He glared at her.

"I guess I'll get back to work," she said as cheerily as possible, turning and exiting Silverstone's office.

A few hours later she sat upright in her chair. "Yikes!" she muttered a little too loudly. She looked around and noticed her outburst had attracted the attention of a few of her colleagues at nearby desks. She met their glances with a sheepish smile.

"1642" was all the e-mail had said. She logged off her workstation and stood, gathering her purse and pulling on her winter coat.

At that moment, Silverstone stepped out of his office, an empty coffee mug in his hand. What bad luck, she thought. She forced a smile.

"Where are you going in such a hurry, Carine?" he asked.

Her heart was beating fast; she had to think of an excuse quickly. "Uh, I was just going to run down to Starbucks to get a latte. Do you want me to bring you back something?"

He smiled. "Sure," he said, "Get me a cappuccino."

"You got it," she said, forcing a smile.

She turned, scurrying down the long corridor, away from him. It didn't surprise her that he didn't offer her any money for the coffee. She knew he saw her buying him his cappuccino as an even exchange for him letting her escape the office for a little while.

She heard him call after her. "And hurry back, Carine. The messages in the intelligence database won't analyze themselves."

She sighed, wondering how much trouble she would be in tomorrow morning when she would have to explain why she had not returned with Jason Silverstone's cappuccino as he had expected. Oh well, she'd cross that bridge in the morning. This was what being a spy was about, right? Taking risks and figuring out how to deal with the mess later. She smiled, realizing she liked all of this cloak-and-dagger activity.

She wondered why Jim needed to see her so urgently. She felt panicked for a moment, hoping that Osprey was all right. She shook those thoughts from her head. Whatever was going on, she was needed, and she had to stay focused.

She didn't want to have to wait too long to catch the next Metro to Georgetown. She picked up the pace, running toward the station. A few people stopped to look at her, which made her smile. They have no idea what I'm up to. Heck, I don't even know what I'm up to, she thought happily.

# Chapter 58

She saw him as soon as she opened the door to Coffee Arrabiata. Jim was waiting in the corner at the same table that they occupied the last time, when Carine had told him about her experiences in Kosovo, about how Osprey had saved her.

His eyes met hers. He stood. "Thanks for getting here so quickly, Carine."

"I had to run to make it by 4:52 p.m." She smiled awkwardly, testing out a more casual approach. "So, what's going on?" she asked.

He got right down to business. "Are you willing to go back to Sofia? Could you leave tonight?"

She stifled a smile. This was exactly what she was hoping he would ask her to do! She told herself to remain calm and collected. "Sure," she said casually. "Is Osprey still there?"

Jim nodded. "I need you to track down Osprey to tell him that Benjamin Zerow was spotted in Buhovo yesterday."

All of her attempts to play it cool disappeared. "Zerow is alive?" she shrieked too loudly. Jim gave her the look a librarian would give a patron speaking in a regular voice. She took a deep breath to settle herself down. "How is that possible? Osprey reported that Zerow's group had perished in the blast."

"That's precisely why you have to go to Sofia. Osprey needs to know that Zerow is alive, and in the area."

"Why would Zerow still be in Buhovo?" she asked.

Jim was silent for a moment. It seemed as if he had a theory he did not want to share.

"Why, Mr. Davidson?" she asked again, gently.

"I don't know exactly, Carine," he admitted. "The only explanation I can come up with is that Zerow is seeking revenge for the killing of the members of his clan."

"But Osprey could take him out," Carine offered. "Zerow's old, and he doesn't seem that smart, and he's alone, right? Or did others survive?"

"As far as we know, he's alone. He may be older, but he's still tough. The element of surprise is sometimes all a subpar opponent needs to take out an outstanding agent."

"I'm ready to go," she confirmed. "Let me grab an overnight bag from my apartment down the street while you get me a ticket to Sofia, and I'm on my way. Where do you think Osprey is now?"

"Our best guess is that he's in Sofia, staying at the Intercontinental Hotel. He's got a secondary mission in Europe that he needs to complete before his return."

Perhaps when I get to Sofia, I can assist him with that secondary mission, she thought.

Jim continued. "Go, pass on the news, and then come back as soon as you are able."

They shook hands and stood. Jim seemed concerned, so she offered confidently, "I'll be fine, Mr. Davidson. Thank you again for this opportunity to do something important like this. Working for you has been a breath of fresh air, a needed respite from being around Jason Silverstone."

He smiled. She thought of something else. "Oh, speaking of Silverstone, Mr. Davidson, could you do me a quick favor?"

"What do you need, Carine?"

"I need a cover story, and you must be a pro at that."

"A pro at what?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "Are you saying I'm a professional liar?"

"No, sir," Carine blurted, hoping she hadn't offended Jim. "I just expect that you have to be a good spin doctor in your line of work, that's all."

"Okay, what do you need?" he asked.

"Silverstone expected me back in the office about 45 minutes ago. A coffee run to Starbucks was the only excuse I could muster on the fly to get out of the office to meet you."

Jim thought for a moment. "When you get to the airport, leave a message for Silverstone saying that on your way to Starbucks, your brother called to let you know that your mom's been hospitalized, and you impetuously went straight to the airport to catch a quick flight back to Boston. You hope everything will be okay, but you're uncertain. Name the person in the office who can cover for you and give Silverstone your cell phone number if he has questions."

"What if Silverstone tries to call me on my mobile phone?"

"If he does, he'll just get your voicemail, since you'll be in Sofia without phone service. When you get back, you can tell him that at your brother's place outside of Boston you had virtually no signal, that it was a heavily wooded area in a valley."

"Thanks, Mr. Davidson."

"Good luck, Carine."

She hoped she wouldn't need it.

# Chapter 59

Elle opened her eyes, forgetting for a moment where she was. The air was cool in the room, and sunlight was peeking through the curtains. She looked around the space, thinking about how she'd been in so many places so many different times in her life. Her gaze rested on the red chair at the desk in the room, and it all came back to her: she was in Buhovo, writing the story about the pipeline explosion.

She felt unsettled. It had been tough to fall asleep the night prior, because she couldn't stop thinking about the burned man.

She rubbed her eyes and looked at the time on her cell phone next to her bed. Pyotr had suggested they meet at the bakery at 9:00, and it was almost that time. She quickly dressed and pulled together her items for a day of investigation and writing. Pyotr said he had wanted to go back to the site, and she, too, wanted to return to the valley with him, eager for the detective's perspective.

Elle noticed him through the window of the bakery and waved. "Good morning," she said cheerily upon approach. She looked down at the two coffees on the table, complete with lids, and she took the hint. "Ready to go?" she asked.

He smiled and nodded, and they left the bakery quickly, making their way down the main street through Buhovo.

"What do you think we might find today?" she asked curiously. She easily kept up with his brisk pace. She liked people like Pyotr who were purposeful in their stride.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Yesterday you described the burn pattern, and I suppose I just wanted to see it for myself. Maybe we'll discover some additional clues. Perhaps the man with the swastika tattoo will reappear?"

"You want a lot," Elle said, smiling.

"I suppose so," Pyotr said thoughtfully.

They climbed the side of the valley. "This is where I found a bit of canvas," she said, "which may have been part of a tent."

"I see the burn pattern," Pyotr noted. "You were right about the direction of the blast."

Elle peered around but noticed nothing new. It was a chilly morning, and all the debris had been cleaned up. She noticed how quiet it was here this morning, and she shuddered. As much as she wanted a good story, deep down she hoped the neo-Nazi was long gone.

They headed back down the side of the hill together. "Pyotr," she said, "I don't know that there's anything more to uncover here. I'm headed back to Sofia today to write my story."

"But who caused the blast- and why- is the missing link. Your story is incomplete." Pyotr's tone made Elle think he wanted her to stay.

"You're right," she admitted, "but I can write and publish what we know now and then keep my ears and eyes open for more. My story might give somebody who knows something a reason to contact me."

He nodded. "I guess I hoped for too much today." He smiled and outstretched his hand. "Best of luck, Ms. Larsen."

She pulled out a pen and a piece of paper, scribbled a note, and handed it to Pyotr. "Elle Larsen -011-232-804-7755" is what the paper said.

He looked at her notebook, and she knew immediately what he was thinking. She handed him her pen and her small spiral notebook, flipped to a blank page.

He jotted down his contact information. She watched the precise movement of his hands, the technical detail of the letters and numbers that he scribed.

"You're left-handed," she noted. "As are you," he said. They locked eyes and smiled.

"Please call me if you find out anything," she urged.

"You do the same, Ms. Larsen. I hope our paths cross again."

She smiled. "Me, too."

# Chapter 60

In her apartment in Sofia she read the note from her editor one additional time, relishing the words.

Her piece was a hit; it had made mainstream American news. She smiled, satisfied that she had broken a story of such significance. "CNN is calling," her editor had written. "They want to know how they can get a hold of you in Sofia for more information."

She tuned into CNN on her TV. It was a matter of minutes before her headline flashed on the screen: "Sabotage of a Bulgarian natural gas pipeline." She smiled. The headline wasn't exactly accurate, as the pipeline belonged to Azerbaijan, but it sufficed.

She listened carefully. The reporter stuck to the facts until the very end, when the journalist's words turned Elle's story into something much larger, right before her eyes.

"There is cause to believe the CIA supervised construction of the pipeline. Let's go to the White House right now for the President's response."

The next clip was a live press briefing at the White House. The CNN reporter was front and center, asking for the President's attention. "Mr. President, did you know about the pipeline?"

"No," Lukas Bradshaw said firmly. "I never would have supported a project that could harm our good standing with our ally Russia."

The CNN reporter asked another question. "So you don't have control over the CIA?"

The room went silent. Bradshaw narrowed his eyes. "Are you questioning my authority?" he asked quietly, angrily.

The reporter smiled. "If you didn't know about the pipeline, and if the CIA did, then don't you think it's a problem that your core intelligence agency is keeping secrets from you?"

Bradshaw regained his composure. "I don't have time or interest to follow all the CIA's operations. I trust the Agency to fill me in on matters of national importance."

"How do you feel, though, about the fact that this project undermined your support of Russia, President Bradshaw? It seems as if the CIA was working behind your back on an endeavor you said that if you had known about, you would not have allowed."

"I've taken enough questions on this subject, thank you," Bradshaw concluded. The press conference continued, with Bradshaw confidently managing questions on other topics.

Elle watched the news longer. Right before she switched off the TV, she noticed the new headline: "U.S. President has no control over CIA."

This wasn't exactly the headline she had envisioned when she wrote her piece. Elle thought there would be more questions from reporters about who was responsible for the blast, but the attention wasn't on the loose end. Instead, the story was an opportunity to expose the President's weakness.

She sat back in her chair and breathed deeply. Even if the rest of the world weren't interested, she still wanted to find out what happened.

# Chapter 61

The phone rang and rang, which infuriated him. He was the President, for crying out loud, and he shouldn't have to wait on the line for somebody to pick up. Just as he had decided nobody would answer his call, he heard a faint "yeah."

"Benjamin, where are you?"

"Bulgaria," Zerow said from the chair he occupied in his spacious room at the Hotel Tivoli.

"Why is your team not back?"

"They're all dead, Lukas. Everybody's gone, except me."

"What happened?" Bradshaw hissed.

"Somebody moved the explosives back to our campsite on the side of the hill."

"Who would do such a thing?" Bradshaw demanded.

"You tell me, Lukas. The CIA is my guess." Bradshaw pulled back the heavy curtains, glancing out the back side of the hotel at the field extending far into the distance. "Anyway, the explosives took out the pipeline as planned. Mission success."

Bradshaw felt his pulse quicken. "This is not mission success, Benjamin; it's a disaster. The media is accusing me of having no control over the CIA."

Zerow laughed. "Well, that's true, Lukas. You don't have control over the CIA. Nobody does."

Bradshaw shook off his old crony's comments. "What are you still doing in Bulgaria?"

"I'm looking for the demon who blew up my team." Zerow glanced out the window again. "I'm seeking revenge, Lukas."

"Why do you think he's still in Bulgaria?" Bradshaw asked.

Zerow sighed. Bradshaw's line of questioning was taxing him. "Why did you call, Lukas? The mission's over. What do you want?"

"Skip your manhunt, Benjamin. I have a different assignment for you: I want you to take out the reporter who exposed the pipeline story. Her name is Elle Larsen, and I'll get one of my tech people to send you her picture."

"Don't worry about sending the picture, Lukas. I know who she is."

"You've been watching the news?" Bradshaw asked.

Zerow scoffed. "Nah, I don't watch the news. I met her."

There was a moment of silence. "What do you mean?"

"She was snooping around on the side of the hill where we had set up camp, a few days after the explosion."

"Did you speak to her?" Bradshaw asked weakly.

"A little. I scared her away. I wouldn't mind making her my next target, after I track down the jerk who killed my crew."

"Forget about the jerk, Benjamin," Bradshaw ordered. "Get Larsen now. She's in Sofia, and you're still in Bulgaria, so just go get her. Now that I know she knows you exist, she must be silenced."

"Yes, sir," Zerow muttered.

Bradshaw continued. "You botched this up, Benjamin. You can't go around chatting people up, drawing attention to yourself, you know? That's sloppy, man. You used to be so precise: in, and then out quickly, and nobody ever knew you were there."

Zerow said nothing. Lukas didn't understand how any of this worked, and it angered Zerow that Lukas would have the audacity to judge the matter in which Zerow conducted his business. Sure, Lukas was frightened, Zerow thought—and yes, he would have a lot to lose if anybody ever tied the explosion back to the President. Still, it didn't seem right—it didn't seem respectful—for Bradshaw to be speaking to him like that.

"Benjamin? Are you still there?"

Zerow was angry, and he had a few things he wanted to say to Lukas Bradshaw, but he knew now was not the time. "Yes," he said.

"Are we good?" Bradshaw asked anxiously.

"Yes, sir," Zerow replied. "I'll check back with you when it's done."

"Very good," Bradshaw said. "Thank you, Benjamin."

Zerow sat back in his chair in the sparse room at the Tivoli, thinking about Lukas Bradshaw. He frowned. He used to have such respect for the President, but these recent exchanges had made him see that his old friend was weak and powerless. Bradshaw boasted, and he acted as if he were in control, but the more Zerow thought about it, the more he felt as if the leader of the greatest country in the history of the world was a buffoon.

He also despised the fact that Lukas showed such little respect for his team of patriots. They were all dead, and he had not even acknowledged their sacrifice. He and Melissa would provide their fallen brethren proper respects upon his return to Montana.

# Chapter 62

Zerow stood and looked at himself in the mirror. Although the burns on his face still hurt, his skin was healing relatively well for an old dude. He felt as if he were healing inside, too, that losing his team, although still so painful, was a call to continue in their absence rather than to lie down and give up.

Zerow knew what he must do. Bradshaw wanted him to hunt Elle Larsen, but he had to stay true to himself, to seek revenge on the agent responsible for the death of his team.

How had the CIA discovered their mission? Maybe Billy was right, that Agatha had been a mole. How else could it be explained? He admonished himself for not listening to Billy, for being seduced by the woman. And now Billy was dead, and that was all Zerow's fault.

All the pipeline engineers were gone; there was nothing more to see or investigate here. For all he knew, the CIA operative was already back at Langley writing his post-op reports.

I guess it's back to the good old U.S. of A for me. He would return to Melissa and then come up with a plan to resume his hunt of the operative. I'll spend the rest of my life hunting this guy, if that's what it takes. Screw Bradshaw. The journalist could live; I'm working on my own orders this time.

He was done with this dump of a hotel; he'd stay the night somewhere classy in Sofia. He deserved it, after all he'd been through. He would make his way home to recover, and then he would seek vengeance.

# Chapter 63

Elle opened her eyes and lay in bed for a moment, thinking about the interview she had arranged with Nadia Manov for later that morning to discuss Bulgaria's support to NATO in the 1999 air campaign against Serbia.

She smiled. She had been looking forward to this interview for years, and the time had finally come. She hoped she could endear Manov to share information about the Kosovo war that had not been revealed before. It had been almost twenty years, enough time for tongues to loosen, to share old sentiments and thoughts that might have been detrimental- or even deadly- to divulge years ago.

Elle stepped out of her apartment, the chilly air hitting her face abruptly. She had bundled in a warm coat, hat, scarf and gloves, but the dank air still surprised her. The day was grey, like most of the days in Sofia since she had arrived.

She hailed a cab to take her to the Ministry of Defense, a large white stone building facing Sofia's City Garden. She briskly walked the few steps up to the large, heavy gilded doors, an entrance that reminded Elle that it hadn't really been that long ago since this place had been sequestered behind the Iron Curtain. The interior of the old building felt cold, a combination of sparse decoration and an absence of proper insulation.

She approached the young soldier at the security desk who politely pointed Elle to use the marble stairway behind him to reach Nadia Manov's office on the second floor. As she traversed the upstairs hallway, she noticed the creak of the floorboards under the dingy carpet, and that the second floor air was significantly warmer.

Nadia Manov's assistant greeted Elle warmly in the antechamber to Manov's office. Twenty years had passed since Manov served the assistant Minister of Defense; Manov now held a public relations role in the Ministry. Her current job suited her well, as she had spent most of her career since Kosovo touting Bulgaria's partnership with the West.

Manov emerged from her office, a bright smile on her face. She was a tall, thin woman in her fifties, with greying hair, wrinkles around twinkling eyes, and a broad smile.

"Ms. Manov, what a pleasure it is to meet you in person. I'm so glad we could make this time work."

Manov nodded. "Likewise, Ms. Larsen. You're an accomplished American journalist, and I appreciate your interest in Bulgaria. Please come in, and we can get started."

# Chapter 64

Elle took a seat in a leather chair across from Manov, an elegant coffee table between them.

"I know you're here to discuss Bulgaria's support to NATO in resolving the conflict in Kosovo in 1999. What would you specifically like to know, Ms. Larsen?"

"Well, Ms. Manov, what I am curious about is whether the intelligence report about Operation Horseshoe- the purported Serb military plan to commit genocide against ethnic Albanians- ever existed."

"Ms. Larsen, by your use of the word 'purportedly,' I can assume that you believe the report did not exist?"

Elle shook her head. "Not necessarily, Ms. Manov. I'd like to hear what you know, and then I'd be glad to share with you my own thoughts."

Elle looked for a nonverbal response from Manov, such as a shifting in her chair showing discomfort, or a tilt of her head to indicate disapproval, but Manov was a closed book who seemed neither surprised nor offended by Elle's suggestion.

Manov replied, "Our Bulgarian intelligence agency, the SIA, provided NATO an unverified intelligence report. NATO knew that the information from the SIA was unsubstantiated. It was our responsibility to provide whatever information we had that could be of use to NATO, and it was NATO's responsibility to determine what to do with the information."

Elle offered, "A few years after the war ended, a retired German general published a book claiming the German Defense Ministry turned a generic analysis of Serb military attitudes and behavior in Kosovo into a report illustrating a specific military plan of genocide. Was the unspecific analysis the Germans used provided to NATO by the SIA?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Larsen, but you must know that I am not at liberty to divulge sensitive intelligence to a journalist," Manov said flatly, revealing no hint of what she was thinking.

Elle continued, "Is it possible that the Bulgarians shared a report recounting a conversation between two high level Yugoslav military generals discussing how important it was that the Kosovo Liberation Army- the KLA- be destroyed?"

"I can't confirm what the SIA provided to NATO. Yes, it's possible that Serb military leaders would have been interested in eradicating the insurgent KLA, considering that the Serb military's highest priority was to stabilize Kosovo. And yes, the SIA had intelligence agents in Belgrade who could have overheard conversations."

Elle offered, "Ms. Manov, I believe a conversation that the SIA intercepted was taken grossly out of context, manipulated by NATO to provide the western alliance the justification it was looking for to continue its air campaign."

Manov appeared uncomfortable. "It's possible," she said quietly.

Elle continued "German officials presented on CNN a map illustrating a Serb plan to push Albanian civilians out of Kosovo. In the newscast, the Germans credited Bulgaria for discovering the map. What are your thoughts on this?"

Manov blushed. "I was stunned. I called the chief of the SIA to discuss this, but he said he knew nothing about the map. It bothered me for a bit, but then I shrugged it off, because the source of the map didn't really matter. What mattered was that this map corroborated the report the SIA provided to NATO. The map validated the SIA's competency, illustrating to NATO that Bulgaria would be a worthwhile nation in the Alliance."

Elle shook her head. "Or, Ms. Manov, the map was a fake, created to convince the public that the NATO air campaign, which had been in full force for two weeks without a sign of Milosevic capitulating, was on course. Most of the political analysts of the time believed that Milosevic would surrender within days, and at the two-week mark of the air campaign, the public's support for- and interest in—the war was dwindling, particularly in Germany."

It was Manov's turn to shake her head. "I don't know what you mean, Ms. Larsen. Support for NATO was solid throughout the air campaign."

Elle replied, "I politely disagree, Ms. Manov. About two weeks into the air campaign, reporters were revealing to the world a mass exodus of refugees from Kosovo into neighboring Macedonia and Albania. The refugees were leaving for two main reasons: first, because NATO was dropping bombs on them, and second, because the Serb soldiers, now under attack by NATO, had no reason left to restrain themselves from driving Kosovar Albanians from their homes.

"And it's that time that NATO's public relations guy said, 'Hey, we need something to restore public support of the NATO air campaign.' I believe the Germans had your Bulgarian report, and they got this idea that they wanted to use it, but that the report itself wasn't credible enough on its own, so they created a map to illustrate an operational plan for genocide."

Manov whispered, "I can't confirm any of this, Ms. Larsen, and you know that. I had nothing to do with any of this."

"I never believed you did, Ms. Manov. If I thought you had anything to do with anything past passing that bland piece of information to NATO, hoping to impress the West, showing NATO that Bulgaria was a worthy member of the Alliance, then I don't think I could sit here civilly with you. I see in your eyes your truth."

"So why are you here, Ms. Larsen?" Manov asked.

"I'd like you help me share with people the truth about Operation Horseshoe, twenty years later."

"And how would we do that, Ms. Larsen?"

Elle smiled. "With details, Ms. Manov. Small but important details."

# Chapter 65

Elle explained, "The map the Germans revealed on CNN in early April 1999 noted 'potkova' at the top, which is the Croatian word for 'horseshoe.' The Serbian word for horseshoe isn't 'potkova,' rather, it's 'potkovica.' It's an error that proves the map was a fake."

Manov said nothing.

Elle continued. "Ms. Manov, do you recall if the Bulgarian intelligence report provided to the Germans contained the term 'Operation Potkova'?"

"I don't remember," Manov said.

"Could we visit the SIA look at the original report?"

Manov shook her head. "We cannot ask any government officials to spend time investigating something that happened twenty years ago that is of little significance to the course of events today."

"I hoped you could help prove the Bulgarians had nothing to do with fabricating the map, that this was a desperate idea cooked up by the Germans."

Manov looked down at her hands in her lap. "It's much more difficult to prove something did not exist than something did. So I don't know that we'll get anywhere with the SIA, but I'm willing to try. I'll make a few calls, Ms. Larsen, to get you an interview with a former intelligence officer who might assist you."

Elle knew it was a long shot to be asking Manov for help, and that this was a lucky break. "Thank you, Ms. Manov."

# Chapter 66

Manov stood, signaling the end of the interview.

"I have one final question," Elle said. "Were you angry that NATO didn't invite Bulgaria to join after you provided that intelligence?"

"Yes, I was. I understand now that such things don't happen instantaneously. The situation was tricky because Russia didn't want to let us go," Manov offered.

"On the subject of Russia, isn't Bulgaria still highly dependent on Russian natural gas?"

"Unfortunately, yes" Manov replied. "Bulgarians want more autonomy, and more cooperation with the European Union. We were headed in that direction before your president was elected. President Bradshaw's connection to Moscow means that we remain Russia's pawn, as the U.S. would not jeopardize their relationship with Moscow to protect Bulgaria."

Manov turned to face Elle. "May I ask you a question, Ms. Larsen?"

Manov nodded.

"Why are you writing about the Kosovo conflict of 1999? What good could come out of your project? If your hunches are correct, then your story is that this war many supported twenty years ago was fought on false pretenses. With all due respect, it's a depressing story. Why pursue this with such exuberance?"

Elle was unprepared for Manov's question, and it took her a moment to collect all of her thoughts into a reasonable response. She shrugged her shoulders. "I guess I just want to know the truth. It's not about righting a wrong or trying to expose NATO. I just want to know what really happened, for myself."

Nadia Manov said nothing. After a moment, she looked Elle in the eyes, and then she nodded. "I'm glad we could meet," she said.

"Likewise," Elle offered warmly, and the women parted ways.

Elle descended the steps of the government building back out onto the street that divided the Ministry from the City Park. The sun was shining for the first time since she had arrived in Bulgaria, and she couldn't help but smile. She had waited for a long time to make even the slightest progress on this story, and this moment felt good.

# Chapter 67

Carine was tired. She looked around, wondering if anybody was paying attention to how long she had been sitting in the lobby of the Intercontinental, watching the glass front doors of the hotel like a hawk.

She couldn't afford to miss him. If she didn't see him return, she would have to wait until he left again, and that could mean being on alert all night. She still felt jet-lagged and stood to get her circulation moving. She had to stay crisp. Wake up, Carine, she told herself.

She saw him through the glass door, and her heartbeat quickened. He was here, and it was definitely Osprey. She felt faint for a moment, wondering if she should sit back down. But he was a fast walker, and she knew she had to make her move immediately.

She hurried toward him. He seemed always in tune with his surroundings. He noticed her immediately.

His brow furrowed. "Carine? What are you doing here?" He led her back to the area of the lobby where she had been waiting before. They sat down together.

She whispered, "Zerow is still alive."

He was silent for a moment. "Are you certain?"

Carine nodded. "Elle Larsen spoke with him a few days ago."

His posture stiffened. "Elle Larsen?"

"Larsen ran into Zerow in Buhovo. She shared the details of her conversation with Zerow with a Bulgarian police officer, who then passed the info on through the Bulgarian State Intelligence Agency to the American intelligence community."

"What else?" Matt asked.

"That's all I know. Jim sent me here to warn you. He's concerned that Zerow might come after you, in retribution for sabotaging his operation and killing his team."

"What about Elle?" he asked quietly.

Carine felt a flash of jealousy. She mumbled, "I think she's fine."

"I need to get back to Buhovo," he breathed, more to himself than to Carine.

"Larsen's gone, Osprey. The Bulgarian intelligence agent noted in the report that all foreigners have left Buhovo."

He stood there, looking straight ahead. His instinct was to return to Buhovo, to confirm she was safe. And who was this Bulgarian intelligence agent? If she were still in Buhovo- and if she were anywhere near Benjamin Zerow- she wasn't safe.

# Chapter 68

"What are you thinking about?" Carine asked softly.

He shook his head. "It's nothing," he said.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

He looked at her. "When you return to DC, please tell Jim I've expedited the timeline on the operation to avoid Zerow. I will move immediately."

"What's the operation?"

"I can't discuss it, Carine. Jim doesn't even know the details. All he knows is all that this operation is paramount to soliciting Russian support for an eventual rebuild of the pipeline. Not now- and not in the next few years- but eventually. I'll move tomorrow. Please tell Jim that after it's done, I'll be back in DC to debrief."

Carine nodded. She felt breathless and alive in his presence. She smiled, and he noticed.

"What is it?" he asked quizzically.

"You just always know what to do," she whispered.

"Thanks," he said. Did he blush a bit, she thought?

She took a chance. "We're a good team, you know."

He cocked his head to the side, looking puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"You make things happen, and I'm your go-between. Like your sidekick."

He saw on her face what she was feeling. He breathed, "Look, Carine, all of my career, I've worked alone, and that's for a very practical reason: because bad things happen, and I can't protect anybody else."

"I don't need you to protect me, Osprey. I enjoy being a part of this," she offered.

"A part of what, Carine? Running back and forth between DC and Sofia, delivering messages in person because the political climate in our country is so tense right now that the Commander-in-Chief- doesn't trust its intelligence professionals to do their job?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "I hope for the sake of all of us that this situation ends soon, and that we can go back to collaborating, to working for the same outcome, when business interests don't trump national interests. I can't wait for the day when you don't have to be the go-between, Carine, not because I don't like or appreciate you, but because it'll be a better day when none of these shenanigans are necessary."

"Everybody needs somebody, Osprey," Carine offered. "I can be that somebody."

"I'm flattered that you would want to partner with me. I have really appreciated you putting yourself out on a limb, passing information back and forth these last few weeks."

"Would you ever reconsider?" she asked. "I mean, I'd wait for you, you know."

He smiled, a bit embarrassed. "Thank you, Carine. Your loyalty and belief in me is incredible. Thank you."

His gaze looked faraway for a moment. She wondered what—or of whom—he was thinking.

She forced a smile. "I'd better get going. It's getting late, and you have a mission to accomplish."

"Thanks, Carine. I wish you the best." He stood and reached out, clasping her arm. She turned and walked out of the Intercontinental, the cold air smacking her face, the wind distracting her for a moment from the feeling that her heart might be breaking.

# Chapter 69

Was it all over, she thought? She couldn't leave him now; she just couldn't do it. What if he needed backup in this operation that was starting tomorrow? What if he needed her? He said he worked best alone, but what if tomorrow were different?

She couldn't go back to DC while Osprey was still here, finishing up business. She would stay, just to see this through. She walked a few blocks around the Intercontinental, working out a plan, and then she returned to the hotel.

She scanned the lobby, knowing that she would not see Osprey, as he would have already been back up in his room for the evening.

A man who was sitting in the same spot she had been only an hour before seemed to watch her with keen interest. She shrugged it off, making her way to the elevator bay, up to the third floor and then down the carpeted hallway to the standard room that she would keep for at least a few days more, until Osprey's mission was over, when they could finally return home to the U.S. together.

# Chapter 70

His heart skipped a beat. What was that woman doing here at the hotel? He recognized her from Buhovo: she had been on the side of the hill, talking to a man, and then she had retreated down into the valley where the pipeline had been.

Zerow leaned in and squinted, studying her closer. She looked mousy, and she dressed too casually in a puffy coat, jeans and sneakers to be European. She had a nervous look about her, as if she were up to something, but she didn't seem suave enough to be an operative.

Zerow smiled. This American woman was here, which gave him hope that perhaps the CIA agent who took out his team was here, too.

Expensive, dependable hotels—that's what the spies always liked. Perhaps their governments owed them this luxury, in exchange for their willingness to risk their lives. If tonight would be one's last night alive, shouldn't a government servant enjoy 1,000-count Egyptian cotton sheets?

As hours passed, Zerow nodded off on the sofa. A hotel employee had come by to ensure he wasn't a homeless man homesteading in the expensive lobby. Zerow thought to himself of the irony, that here he was, a self-made man, and another man, who probably had very little to stand upon himself, was coming over to judge him, and perhaps to nudge him out of the hotel. He hummed and exhaled, readying himself for conflict.

The innocent, unsuspecting worker came close, carefully collecting clues to Zerow's identity while the assassin feigned slumber. The young hotel clerk moved forward nervously, fulfilling the request of his supervisor to check things out, not wanting to get too close to a human whose intentions were unknown.

Zerow raised his head, his eyes narrow with venom. The clerk took a step back. "Boo!" Zerow sputtered quietly yet forcefully, causing the worker to shriek and back away, his eyes wide with surprise.

"When are you going to realize we Americans will get you every time?" he said arrogantly, maniacally. "You can't stop us," he hissed. Zerow looked past the frightened worker, toward the front desk where the manager was standing at a safe distance, observing the exchange.

"Cowards," Zerow muttered, not loud enough for the manager to hear, but loud enough for Zerow himself to reflect upon his innate strength in a world of weakness and frailty. He knew they were all too afraid to approach him again. Others may see him as a maniac, he reflected, but he saw himself only as a man of power.

# Chapter 71

It happened the next morning. He had hoped for it, and the night prior he had talked himself into thinking that it would happen, but part of him believed it would not, that this was just the young, optimistic, eternally powerful Benjamin Zerow wishing for a future that might not be.

The opportunity he had been waiting for transpired before his eyes: Mr. CIA Super-Agent traversed the lobby. Zerow recognized him immediately from the blast site. It almost seemed surreal that his prey had fallen into his lap like this. Zerow had not seen the operative exit the elevator; in fact, he had not seen him at all until Mr. CIA Super-Agent was right there, only about twenty feet away, bundled in a hat and scarf, exiting the hotel as if he were just a normal American tourist.

Zerow's heartbeat quickened. He had to play it cool; he could not make a misstep tailing his nemesis. He watched the operative enter a black sedan and counted the seconds until he could flag down a taxi and instruct the driver to follow the agent. He had to stay close behind, but not too close that he might be seen.

The moment seemed right. Zerow left his position in the lobby, nonchalantly hopping into the next available cab.

"Follow that cab, but don't let on that you're following, and don't lose him," Zerow barked in English.

The young man with dark eyes smiled. The driver had very few opportunities to practice his English, and here was a chance to impress his customer with his linguistic excellence. "Yes, sir," the driver said confidently.

They sped off in the morning light to the government district of Sofia. Zerow wondered where his enemy was headed, and for what purpose. A few minutes later, the black sedan stopped in front of the Ministry of Defense building. "Pull over here," Zerow barked, not wanting to get too close to the black sedan. "I'm getting out," he said, handing the driver a stack of American dollars for the ride.

Zerow walked across the street toward a kiosk in the city park, keeping his eye on the black sedan. Matt remained seated in the automobile for what felt to Zerow to be a very long time.

This might be my one and only chance to seek revenge on him for killing them all, Zerow thought. They were all gone- his entire family- except his wife Melissa, who was waiting for him back at their homestead in Montana.

What would he tell Melissa? She would want to know how the operation had failed, how he himself had let down the team. What would he say?

He imagined himself returning home, in that moment when he would have to face her, to tell her what happened. He envisioned himself walking through the doorway stoically, sitting her down to let her know that they were all dead—everybody except himself—and that he had hunted and killed the murderer in his tracks.

This visualization fueled him. He wanted so badly to take out this agent to make everything right again. If he couldn't do this, he thought, then he was weak; his team was gone, and he couldn't fix that.

I need a clear shot, he said to himself. But I can't get it, with him still sitting in that car, with the windows closed. Be patient, he told himself. I might only have one chance to make everything right.

# Chapter 72

In a matter of seconds, Zerow's situation transformed right before his eyes.

A woman stepped out of a cab, hurrying up the steps into the Ministry building. He looked back at the black sedan, not wanting to miss the target. But something about the woman seemed familiar. He looked again, this time through the rifle scope.

_It's the reporter from the site of the explosion_ , he realized. _What is she doing here?_

His heartbeat quickened. Bradshaw had ordered Zerow to take out Elle Larsen. Zerow had been too angry with Bradshaw's dismissiveness to take the order seriously; he was bent on targeting the CIA agent who had killed his team.

But now, here at the same spot were both Larsen and Mr. CIA Super-Agent. _Was it fate_ , he wondered, _to be awarded an opportunity to take them both out?_

What was the reporter doing here? Was Larsen connected to the agent?

Elle entered the building, and Zerow returned his scope to the agent. Zerow could see his opponent's face. _He knows Larsen_ , Zerow noticed. _And he seems surprised to see her here._

This could not be happenstance. The man Zerow aimed to kill—and the woman Bradshaw wanted killed—were both here at the same place at the same time.

Benjamin Zerow was not a curious person. Usually he received a kill order, and then he would hunt the victim; he never permitted himself to think about the target as a person, to question whether the kill was justified.

Zerow paused a moment to wonder if there were more to Bradshaw's request than to silence a bothersome journalist. Could there be value in keeping Larsen alive to find out what she knew? Although he and Bradshaw had been long-term friends, Zerow thought it might not hurt to have a little blackmail to use against his old crony, if Lukas ever became desperate enough to turn against him.

Zerow toyed with the trigger on the rifle. He had a decent shot of the agent through the glass.

No, he thought, he would wait it out; he would not kill the agent right now. He was curious about what would happen; he felt that it was big. His kill could wait.

# Chapter 73

_Elle_? He had not expected to see her here, his thoughts focused so intently on his meeting with Manov.

And then he remembered that Elle had said she would return to Sofia to write her story on Bulgaria's role in the 1999 Kosovo conflict, which explained her appearance at the Ministry.

He sat back in the sedan and exhaled. She had not seen him... he was confident of that. He just had to carefully, discreetly wait out the appointment, and then he would meet with Manov in private afterwards.

Matt wasn't good at just sitting and waiting. He recalled others in his training at the Agency excellent at surveillance: very patient, alert and poised. Matt found times like this boring. He wanted something to happen, somebody to do something. No, what he wanted was to take care of his business, which he couldn't do while Elle was around.

As he waited, he permitted his thoughts to drift back to her. He recalled the last time they had seen each other, when they parted ways back in Buhovo. He had thought of her a few times after that, wondering how she was doing, and if she still thought of him.

Why should he care if she did? He tried to think of other things: Zerow, Manov, and Bradshaw. His gaze drifted to the Ministry steps. He envisioned her once again, entering the building. How he hated waiting.

Then he thought of something: there was a side room to Manov's office. Perhaps he could enter through the side door and secure permission from Manov's assistant to wait there until Elle was gone and Manov was free. He was glad to have a plan. He told the driver to wait, that he would be back with a passenger within the hour, and that they would then head to the airport.

# Chapter 74

Elle returned to the antechamber of Nadia Manov's office and waited there patiently until Manov emerged from behind her closed door, beckoning Elle inside, to return to the sitting area the two women had occupied only the day prior.

Manov spoke first. "I called my contact at Bulgarian intelligence, a man named Viktor Koskov, who has a tremendous amount of tenure in Bulgarian intelligence. Koskov has agreed to speak to you on the condition that you publish nothing that could harm Bulgaria's reputation. He believes nothing he tells you would be damaging, but he's a cautious person and a committed patriot. He shared that the information he has for you will reflect unfavorably upon the Germans, not the Bulgarians. He and I both agree to allow this meeting with you in exchange for the opportunity to review- and possibly censor- your article before you print it."

Elle looked closely at Manov. She knew how this would work: she could have the story of a lifetime here, but if Koskov and Manov determined that the information could hurt Bulgaria's good standing with Russia or with Western Europe, the deal would be off. Could she handle finding out the truth if it meant she would not be permitted to share that information with the public? She didn't love this idea, but she understood the terms, and she would always remain true to her word and to her commitments.

"I agree," Elle offered, extending her hand, sealing the deal with a handshake.

"Here's Koskov's mobile number," Manov offered. "He is expecting your call."

Manov's assistant discreetly entered the office. "Ma'am," she offered meekly, "you have an unexpected visitor."

Manov looked irritated. "Please tell the visitor to wait," she instructed calmly.

The assistant appeared to be nervous. "Ma'am, it's him." She added quietly, almost in a whisper, "It's the American."

_American_ , Elle wondered. What was going on here?

"Excuse me, please, Ms. Larsen," said Manov. "I must go."

"Of course," Elle said.

As Manov and her assistant exchanged words in hushed tones, Elle turned to leave.

And then she saw him. He was watching her, and his gaze met hers through the break in the open door. She held her breath and felt as if her heart had stopped. Not in a million years had she expected to see him again, much less not here. And now here he was, in Nadia Manov's office. But why?

He forced a small, uncomfortable smile, the kind that said, _I can't speak to you, and I can't acknowledge you, because there is something else I must do_.

She knew this wasn't the right time or place to find out what business Matt had with Manov. She watched Manov enter the side room that Matt occupied.

A hand touched her shoulder gently, startling her. She pivoted to see Manov's assistant standing there, an anxious look on her face. "Ms. Larsen, this way, please," the assistant whispered nervously.

"Yes, thank you," Elle responded. She walked down the hall and exited the building the same way she had arrived.

# Chapter 75

She knew what she would do: she would wait there, outside, until he emerged. Should she wait covertly, she wondered? If he saw her as he exited the building, would he be willing to speak with her?

Spying a bench next to a small kiosk in the city park, she crossed the boulevard. This location would be the perfect place to monitor the Defense Ministry Office entrance without being noticed.

Elle waited. After about thirty minutes the door to the Ministry building opened, and out walked Matt, with Manov a close step behind. Manov carried a small suitcase.

A black sedan sat in front of the building. The driver stepped out of the car quickly, moving to the passenger side to open the door for the approaching diplomat and her guest.

This is my chance, Elle thought. She willed her feet and her legs to stand. She felt stiff in the cold weather, as if her blood had thickened while she sat outside in the cold. She hurried across the street, her eyes focused on Manov and Matt, determined to reach the pair before they ducked into the car to leave.

"Wait!" she yelled to get their attention.

Manov and Matt both looked up. Elle reached the pair quickly.

"Elle, I'm sorry, but we have to go," Matt breathed quietly.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"You know him?" Manov asked Elle curiously.

Elle's gaze caught Manov's, and she nodded. "We met in Buhovo," she said.

Elle looked back at Matt. "There's no time to explain, Elle. I'm sorry."

"Is this about the pipeline?" Elle asked. She chided herself for sounding desperate.

Elle had expected Matt to respond to her question, but it was Manov who jumped in. "This is about more than just the pipeline, Ms. Larsen. This is about the future of Bulgaria. Agent O'Connor is correct: we must..."

Her sentence trailed; Manov had collapsed. Elle's first thought was that Manov had fainted, but as she bent down to help Manov, she spied a bullet hole in the diplomat's temple, blood flowing from the head wound.

Nadia Manov was dead.

# Chapter 76

"Elle, come on," Matt urged gently, his voice quiet and controlled. She looked up him, quizzically. How could he be calm? Somebody had just killed Manov right in front of their eyes.

"Get in the car," he prodded, helping her in, "and keep your head down."

"Go," he ordered the driver in Bulgarian.

A bullet ricocheted off the backseat window's bulletproof glass. "Go now!" Matt barked at the driver. "Back to the Intercontinental." The driver hit the gas, tires squealing, as they sped away.

Matt had not thought the bulletproof glass Mercedes was necessary; he had expected the trip with Manov to the Sofia airport and then on to Moscow in a private plane to be drama free. He had been wrong.

# Chapter 77

Bulletproof glass? Zerow thought. Why?

He would have had the perfect shot. He had his crosshairs on the agent's head. Mr. CIA Super-Agent was the perfect target, and Zerow would not have missed him, had it not been for the bulletproof glass. And now the agent and the reporter were gone.

Zerow watched the scene unfold across the street outside the office of the Ministry of Defense. A slew of six security officers ran toward Manov's collapsed body within minutes. A few encircled the deceased, examining the corpse. The other officers looked up and around, seemingly aimlessly, as if they hoped to glimpse the shooter. They don't know what to do, he thought smugly to himself.

It was time to get going. Soon the secret police would check the area nearby for reports of suspicious persons and activity. Zerow moved into the city park, away from the Ministry building, his disassembled rifle secure in the large pockets of his oversized parka. He walked three blocks to the subway, bought a ticket at the kiosk, and headed back to the Intercontinental to track down his nemesis.

# Chapter 78

Matt looked at Elle. She was watching the road carefully, her eyes wide. They were moving fast, the driver maneuvering in and out of traffic adeptly.

"Where are we going?" she asked calmly. He looked at her. She looked scared, he thought, and yet her voice was calm. Her eyes remained fixed on the road. He wondered if she believed her focus was helping, that somehow her concentration was keeping them from crashing.

"Are you all right?" he asked her gently.

She took her eyes off the road and looked at him. "Who shot Manov?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know," he said.

"Where were you and Manov going?" she asked.

His initial instinct was to tell her nothing; he was well practiced at keeping details to himself. He wanted to offer her something, but he couldn't speak freely with the driver within earshot. "I'll tell you when we're back at the hotel."

She looked at him intently. She had met dozens of liars in her time as a journalist. If she were reading him right, she thought he was not a liar, and that he would tell her the truth.

She refocused her concentration to the front, vigilantly watching as the Mercedes twisted and turned through the city traffic. She saw the Intercontinental ahead on their right.

They passed by the front of the hotel. She swung her head to look at Matt indignantly. "I thought you said we were going to the Intercontinental."

"We are," he replied, and the driver made a sharp turn to the right, and then another sharp turn down a steep ramp on the back side of the hotel, stopping in front of a gate with a guard in attendance.

The driver rolled down his window. "Room 1005," he said, and the guard lifted the gate. The Mercedes continued down the ramp to a steel garage door. The driver swiped a card key, and the door lifted slowly.

Elle could see very little as her eyes worked to adjust to the darkness. The driver turned on the Mercedes headlights; they traveled only a little father before coming to a complete stop.

She watched Matt hand the driver a tip and exchange a quiet word of thanks.

"Ready?" he asked.

For what, she wondered.

# Chapter 79

She followed him to a freight elevator. He pulled a card from his pocket and swiped it across the keypad. The elevator door opened immediately. They entered the car, and Matt pushed the button for the tenth floor.

"Is your room really 1005?" She asked.

He smiled. "Not everything is a secret code, you know."

She exhaled, feeling some tension from the last ten minutes melt away.

He looked at her. "You can't write about this part," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll tell you what I know about Manov. You can have that story, and it's a big one. But you can't tell anybody about the inner workings of the Intercontinental, because that information would jeopardize the anonymity of the handful of agents we have in Sofia. I only brought you here because this is the safest place to be right now."

The elevator door opened, and the pair stepped out into a short hallway. The only room at the end of the hall was room 1005.

# Chapter 80

He had expected the room to be unoccupied, but it was not. He glimpsed her in the kitchen before she had seen him.

"Carine, what are you still doing here?" he asked. He meant to convey only surprise, but his words had sounded aggressive.

Carine poked her head out of the kitchen doorway, a puzzled look on her face.

"I didn't expect you to be back so soon," she said. Her gaze met Elle's. "Who is this?" Carine asked, walking into the living room space.

"How did you get in here?" Matt demanded.

Carine ignored his question. "I thought about what you said, Osprey, but I wasn't ready to go. I can help you here." She looked Elle over. "Who are you?" Carine asked again.

"Elle Larsen, _Chicago Sun-Times_."

"You're the reporter." Carine spat. She turned to face Matt. "Osprey, what are you doing?" she demanded.

"Carine, that's enough," Matt said firmly. "Your task was to return to DC to tell Jim I've moved up the mission timeline." Matt sank into the corner of the sofa. "But I guess it's fine that you didn't deliver the message, since the mission will not happen."

Carine gasped. "What do you mean?"

Matt shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it right now. I do want to know how you got up here. How did you get into the suite?"

"Jim's instructions were to look for you in the lobby of the Intercontinental. If after two days I didn't find you, he instructed me to get the key to room 1005 from the hotel manager. He was very specific that I needed to ask for the key from the manager only, not from a clerk at the front desk.

"I went to the tenth floor, but there was no room 1005. At first I thought perhaps I was mistaken, that I had gotten the room number mixed up in my head. Since I had no idea which room was yours, I went back downstairs and took a chance, asking the manager for the key to room 1005.

"He looked at me closely and then beckoned me to follow him through the side hallway to a locked door that led to the freight elevator. I was a little nervous at first, wondering where the manager was leading me. He pushed a button, the elevator rose, and the rest is history."

Matt seemed annoyed by Carine. "I'm going to grab a drink," he said. "Elle, my guess is that you could use one, too. What'll you have?"

"Whiskey on the rocks, please," she said, rubbing her forehead and then added as an afterthought, "Thanks, Matt."

"Matt?" Carine asked. "Your real name is Matt?"

Matt sighed. "Carine, do you want anything?" he offered, sounding irritated.

"Sure, I'll take a whiskey, too," she said.

"Make yourself at home, Elle. I'll be right back," he said as he ducked into the kitchen.

Elle sat down in an oversized chair, and Carine took a spot on the couch. This should be interesting, Elle thought to herself.

# Chapter 81

"Are you an agent?" Elle asked Carine point blank.

"Yes," Carine replied, hoping her lie was convincing. Today would likely be her last opportunity to play the role of Osprey's sidekick, so what did she have to lose? She thought bitterly about how Osprey had shared his real name with a reporter. She was having a difficult time thinking of him as a Matt; all these years he had only been Osprey to her.

The women sat in silence for a few minutes. Carine crossed her legs, pumping her foot up and down. Elle watched the nervous movement. Carine stopped moving when she noticed Elle was watching her, her head tilted.

"You don't seem like an agent," Elle coaxed. She didn't know how Carine would take the comment, but she thought it was worth the bite.

"How many agents do you know?" Carine asked indignantly.

'Only one," Elle replied, "and he seems much different from you. He seems much more confident."

Matt entered the room carrying identical glasses for Elle and Carine. He sensed the tension and regretted that Carine was still here.

He set the drinks on the coffee table. "I have to make a quick call from the communications room," he said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Elle watched him head down a short hallway. He entered a room on the left.

Carine watched Elle. "You wouldn't understand, Ms. Larsen. This is top secret stuff," she scoffed.

Elle leaned forward to sip her drink. "Hmm," she murmured, her gaze fixed on Carine's.

"So where are you staying?" Carine asked casually.

"In the Solunksa apartment complex, near here. I'm in Sofia for a month-long assignment."

"Hmm," Carine said, mimicking Elle. She sat forward, grabbed her drink, and took a large gulp.

This woman is no agent, Elle thought. So what's she doing here?

# Chapter 82

Matt sat at the desk in the back room, the landline receiver cradled against the left side of his face. He slumped, allowing his body to collapse. The pipeline project was finished, and he had weathered the explosion as best as possible, pressing forward with plans. But now that Manov was dead, it was all over.

He sat up, shaking off his disappointment. He had to move on, and he knew what he had to do, even though this was not a call he was at all prepared to make. It was time to phone Russian President Polkov to let him know the deal was off, which would seal the fate of the president's ill daughter.

He didn't know what he would say. He couldn't imagine how to break the news to Polkov that the woman who could have saved his daughter was now dead.

He and Polkov had agreed that Polkov would turn a blind eye to the Azeri pipeline for the cure to Polkov's daughter's rare blood disorder. After the explosion, Matt had called Polkov. The men had an honest conversation, and Matt agreed to deliver the blood donor to Moscow as originally planned in exchange for Polkov's agreement to allow reconstruction of the pipeline once Bradshaw was out of office. Nadia Manov had been the key to Irina Polkov's recovery and to the promise of a future pipeline.

Matt put his head on the desk, overcome by a feeling of dread in having to make this call to Polkov. He breathed deeply and sat up straight. It was over, and he owed Polkov the truth.

# Chapter 83

Matt returned to the living room a few minutes later. "You look shaken," Carine said empathetically.

He was carrying a bottle of Zagorka, a locally brewed beer in his hand. He sat on the couch next to Carine.

Elle looked at him, offering a weak smile. He said, "I owe you a response to your question in the car, Elle. I was escorting Nadia Manov to Moscow."

"Moscow?" she asked. "Why?"

Carine interjected. "Osprey—I mean, Matt— don't tell her anything. She's a reporter."

Matt shook his head. "It's over, Carine. The pipeline will never be rebuilt. I trust that Elle won't write anything that could endanger an American agent. She's smart, and she can figure out a creative way to tell her story without implicating any of us."

He trusts me, Elle thought. The truth was always the most important thing Elle Larsen sought, and seeking the truth sometimes meant violating somebody else's trust. She wasn't sure that he should trust her as much as he seemed to right now. Could she betray him for the story of a lifetime? If he were anybody else, she thought, then the answer would have easily been yes.

He looked at her and laughed, an honest, awkward outburst. "You're wondering whether I should trust you, because you've broken others' trust in the past to secure the big story." He paused. "You won't do it this time," he said, looking straight at her.

"How do you know that?" she asked. How had he known what she was thinking?

He looked apologetically at Carine, as if he had forgotten for a moment that a third person was there. Then he looked down at his hands. "I just know," he whispered.

Carine was silent, an observer of the exchange. It hit her that this was the woman that Osprey— no, Matt—had said was like no other.

Carine's head buzzed from the whiskey. She knew she should leave, but then it would all be over. No, Carine told herself, she would stay. Osprey was worth the fight.

# Chapter 84

"Tell me more about Moscow," Elle urged Matt.

He leaned forward. "Lukas Bradshaw commissioned a paramilitary group led by a guy named Benjamin Zerow to blow up the Azeri pipeline, because the pipeline project compromised Bradshaw's economic investment in Russian natural gas. I found the explosives and moved them to the hill near Zerow's campsite."

He looked down at his hands again. "I underestimated the power of the blast, which damaged the pipeline beyond repair and took out everybody on Zerow's team except Zerow himself."

Elle nodded as she listened. She sensed his frustration at the botched job. "Why were you and Manov headed to Moscow?" Elle asked.

"To broker a last-ditch effort to convince Polkov to let us rebuild the Azeri pipeline after Bradshaw's term ends in four years."

"Does Manov have that much clout with Polkov?" Elle asked.

"Manov had something better than clout: she possessed an antibody in her blood that could have potentially cured Polkov's teenage daughter of a rare, crippling disease."

Elle furrowed her brow. "How could you know that Manov possessed the antibody, and that you could use her as leverage in the pipeline deal?"

"Manov tested positive for the antibody."

"But how did you know to test Manov?" Elle asked.

"Yeah, how did you know that?" Carine chimed in. She didn't like Elle, but she had to admit that Elle's questions were good ones.

Matt cradled the Zagorka in his hands. "Because Nadia Manov is Irina Polkov's biological mother."

# Chapter 85

Matt had caught both Elle and Carine off guard. After a few moments, Elle said, "In all of my research on Manov leading up to my trip to Bulgaria, I don't remember reading anything about Manov having a connection to Russia," Elle said.

Matt shook his head. "Their relationship was short lived; a fling during a time when tensions were high, when they were both far from home."

"I don't understand," Elle said. "Where? And when?"

"Manov and Polkov were together in Kosovo in 1998, right before the war started. The CIA knew of their relationship and affectionately referred to them in messages as "Boris and Natasha" from "The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show." At the time, we believed Manov was positioning herself to take a leadership position back in Bulgaria once the war ended. The CIA suspected her relationship with Polkov was not born from love; it was politically motivated. She was securing her position with Polkov so that Russia would treat Bulgaria, who had aspirations to join NATO, kindly.

"When Manov returned quietly to Bulgaria at the start of the air campaign in April 1999, the CIA was puzzled, as this was her big chance to plant the seeds of her political career while NATO was beating Slobodan Milosevic, the last dictator of Europe, next door. But Manov had not returned with fanfare as we had expected.

"The CIA didn't understand why she was quiet; they couldn't even find her at first. She cropped up in Sofia about a year later, working in a low-profile role in public relations for the Ministry of Defense. After a while we wrote her off; she no longer seemed to be an important player.

"And then last summer, when I was looking for a way to persuade Moscow to let the Azeris build the pipeline through Bulgaria, I stumbled upon a recent photo of Irina Polkov on the Internet. She looked ill. I followed my instincts and found one uncorroborated intelligence report suggesting Irina Polkov was suffering from a rare and fatal disease.

"My instincts were correct: Irina was gravely ill. The doctors at the Agency speculated that Irina could be helped—and possibly even cured—with a blood transfusion containing the rare antibody to her disease. The best chance of the antibody's existence was in a family member. But the Polkovs had adopted Irina in 1999, which meant that we had now had a puzzle to solve: we had to figure out who Irina's biological parents were."

# Chapter 86

"I went to see Polkov in Moscow. I told him that our doctors might save Irina, and that I would help make this happen if Polkov would allow the Azeris to build their pipeline. Polkov willingly agreed that if we could save Irina, the Azeris could have their pipeline.

"I told Polkov we needed to find Irina's biological parents. I remember Polkov looked at me in a puzzled way. 'You don't know?' he had asked. 'I figured the Agency knew that I am Irina's biological father.'

"I told Polkov I thought he and his wife had adopted Irina in 1999. Polkov replied, 'That's what we told the media. My wife desperately wanted a baby, but she was infertile. Nadia called to tell me she was pregnant, and my wife overheard my end of the conversation. I told my wife the truth, and although she was angry with me over my indiscretions, she saw an opportunity. She suggested we adopt the baby. Nadia was compensated well to keep quiet about what had happened. The only people who knew Nadia was Irina's mother was myself, my wife, and Nadia's housekeeper, who delivered the baby in Bulgaria in 1999.'"

Matt continued. "We tested Polkov's blood on the spot, but he didn't carry the antibody. I flew to Sofia to see Manov, and with very little convincing, Manov agreed to help. I tested a sample of her blood, and she was a match, so we made plans to get the transfusion scheduled.

"The explosion changed everything. I called Polkov to confirm we were still committed to performing the transfusion, and he was grateful for this. The new plan was to go through with the transfusion and then resurrect pipeline construction once Bradshaw was out of office."

Carine said, "Now that Manov is dead, Irina's fate is sealed."

Matt looked at Elle. He watched her eyes. She seemed to be thinking of something furiously, intently.

"What is it?" he asked gently.

Elle looked up at Matt. "There's just one part of what you said that seemed a little off. Irina knows about Nadia. They've met at least once, about ten years ago."

# Chapter 87

"What do you mean?" Carine asked. "How do you know?"

Elle said, "When I was in Manov's office, I saw a picture of Manov with a young girl. I wondered at the time who the girl was, thinking perhaps that it was a niece, as I didn't recall Manov having been married, or having any children. The girl in the photo looked familiar, but I couldn't place her. I'm recollecting the picture now, and the girl could have definitely been a younger version of Irina Polkov."

Matt shook his head. "It must be a coincidence. Irina doesn't know the truth about Manov being her mother, so it can't be Irina in the picture."

"That's what Polkov thinks, but I know what I saw, Matt. The photo was of Manov and a school-aged Irina. I'm positive."

Matt offered, "I got the sense that the Polkovs had no intention of telling Irina about Manov. Polkov had even asked me if there might be a way to do the transfusion without Irina finding out who the blood donor was."

"Why would Polkov suggest that?" Carine asked.

"Maybe they were afraid Irina would be angry with them that they kept the truth from her all of this time?" Matt offered. "Or maybe the Polkovs feared news about his affair could hurt him politically?"

"Who is the girl in the picture, then?" Elle wondered to herself aloud. She stood up, excited. "Wait! What if Matt's right, that the girl in the picture is not Irina? What if I'm wrong?"

"Wow, you're thrilled about being wrong," Carine said sarcastically.

"Yes, I hope I'm wrong," Elle said, laughing. "What if the girl is a relative of Manov's who could serve as a blood donor? We must find that girl!" Elle said excitedly.

Matt's heartbeat quickened. Was there hope after all that Irina's life could be saved, and perhaps the Azeri pipeline could be rebuilt? "It's worth a shot," Matt said, smiling.

He drummed his fingers on the coffee table. "I'd like to get back to Manov's office to find the picture of the girl you saw, Elle, but the police will be all over the crime scene; there's no way we can get back to check it out."

"I think I know somebody who can help," Elle said, her eyes sparkling with renewed excitement.

# Chapter 88

"Who?" Matt asked.

"Pyotr," Elle offered. "He can get us in."

Matt's face grew warmer, and he felt his heartbeat quicken. "Who's Pyotr?" he asked.

Carine interrupted, "Pyotr from Buhovo?"

Elle looked puzzled. "You know him?"

Carine smiled. "Dark brown hair in a short military-style cut, warm brown eyes, and a friendly smile? Yes, we had lunch together." She looked at Matt for a response, but his gaze was fixed on Elle.

"It might be the same person," Elle offered. "I met him in Buhovo, too, in the bakery. He's a police officer."

"Is he trustworthy?" Matt asked.

"Yes," Elle and Carine replied in unison. Matt had a strange feeling about this. How well did they know this man to express confidence about his trustworthiness? What other choice did they have, though? "Okay," Matt said, "let's find Pyotr the police officer to help us get that photo from Manov's office."

"I'll call him," Elle said, pulling out her cell phone.

"Don't turn your phone on," Matt urged.

"Why?" Elle asked.

"A cell phone signal emitting from this compartmented room draws attention to our activity."

She put her phone in airplane mode and pulled Pyotr's number from her phone contact list. "Here's the number."

Carine felt her importance slipping away. She stood and excused herself to the bathroom.

# Chapter 89

Elle seized the opportunity to ask Matt about Carine. "She doesn't seem like CIA material. What is she doing here?"

"She's a State Department intelligence analyst who's been a communication conduit between me and my boss Jim."

"Why do you need her?" Elle asked.

"Because President Bradshaw is watching the CIA too closely. Jim was concerned that if he contacted me directly, Bradshaw might compromise my undercover position."

"But why?" Elle asked.

"The pipeline challenges Bradshaw's business interests. He has a lot invested in Russian Gazkov, and the Azeri pipeline threatens his profit stream."

Matt faced her. "Elle, we'll track down this girl who might be a blood match to Irina, and if that doesn't come to fruition, we'll look for other people related to Nadia Manov. If we can save Irina and get the pipeline project going again in a few years, we have to do it."

"I'm with you," she said unhesitatingly.

Matt clasped her hands. "That sniper is out there, and I suspect he was gunning for me, not Manov. Jim sent Carine back to Bulgaria to warn me about Zerow, whom Bradshaw sent to Bulgaria to blow up the pipeline."

Elle offered, "Perhaps Zerow followed your car to Manov's office to wait for you there."

"It's possible," Matt agreed. "But what makes little sense is that he had a clear shot of me earlier, and he didn't take it. When you arrived for your meeting with Manov, I was already there, waiting in the car, my window carelessly rolled down. Zerow could have taken me out, but he did not. Why?"

She shrugged. "Maybe the sniper isn't Zerow. Could somebody else have been after Manov?"

"I really don't know," Matt admitted.

"No matter what," she said, "I'm in. I want to see this through to the end with you."

"Hey, I was thinking..." Carine started as she reentered the living room, and then her words trailed off when she noticed she was interrupting what felt like a very private conversation.

Elle gently pulled her hands from Matt's grasp.

"What is it, Carine?" Matt asked, a little flustered.

This was it, Carine thought. Time to make my move. She sat back down on the couch.

# Chapter 90

"I'm going to stay until this whole thing is over. I want to help find this relative who might be a genetic link to Irina."

Matt shook his head. "Carine, there is nothing further you can do here. Go home and tell Jim we're seeking an alternative donor."

"I want to stay," she said. "You can use my help."

"If you really want to help, then please return to DC to provide Jim an update. I want Jim to know this isn't over yet, Carine. I need him to know that I haven't yet failed. This is the only way you can help."

She nodded, frowning. She didn't want to leave, and she didn't want to leave him here alone with her. "When will I see you again?" she asked. He shrugged.

"But what about her?" Carine asked angrily, gesturing at Elle. "She's the one, isn't she?"

He felt uncomfortable having this conversation in Elle's presence. He looked at Elle for a hint of what he should say, but her expression offered him no cue, so he said, "What matters now is that we follow through with the mission at hand."

Carine stood. She looked at him one last time before leaving the apartment. "You don't know what you've lost, Osprey," she sneered, her eyes narrowed. She turned away and stomped out of room 1005.

# Chapter 91

Elle Larsen's reaction to an uncomfortable situation was always the same: to take action. She stood. "Should we try calling Pyotr now?" she offered.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Zerow is dangerous, Elle, and you could die."

She laughed. "I'm going to die someday, so it might as well be while we're in the middle of an adventure, right?"

"I'm not kidding, Elle. Being alone has worked out well for me, as I've never had to worry about anybody other than myself."

"Nothing's different now, Matt, because I'm not your responsibility. Think of me as being along for the ride."

Elle walked over to the hotel room door.

He looked at her quizzically. "Where are you going?"

She secured the hinge lock on the hotel room door. "Can't be too careful," she said.

# Chapter 92

As they settled into the two chairs in the communications room, Matt asked, "What do you know about Pyotr?"

"I met him after you left Buhovo. He's a Sofia police officer investigating the explosion."

Matt's brow furrowed. "How do you know you can trust him?"

Elle laughed. "I've met and interviewed so many people as a reporter that I'm now fairly decent at discerning the good from the bad."

"What does Pyotr know about the pipeline?" Matt asked.

"Pretty much everything," she said. "He knew about the construction of the pipeline without me telling him anything. I told him about my creepy encounter with Zerow at the blast site, and then he and I went back to the valley the following day to look for more evidence."

Matt's eyes lit up. "It's because you told Pyotr about your exchange with Zerow on the hill that Jim knew to send Carine back to warn me."

Elle smiled. "The intelligence report, yes. Pyotr left dinner abruptly to write the report, which he sent to through the Bulgarian State Intelligence Agency to share with the CIA and other intelligence partner organizations. You can thank him yourself when you see him for passing on the information about Zerow."

"I'm still trying to decide if I like this guy or not," he said.

"What's not to like?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing, I suppose. Let's call him."

# Chapter 93

He picked up immediately. "Da."

"Pyotr, it's Elle Larsen."

He paused a moment, and then he said warmly, "Ms. Larsen, what can I do for you?"

"Pyotr, we need your help."

"Who is 'we'?" Pyotr asked.

Elle glanced at Matt. "My colleague and I want to track down a relative of Nadia Manov's quickly, and we thought you could help."

"Nadia Manov is dead," Pyotr said tonelessly.

"Yes, we know."

There was another short pause. Peter asked, "Ms. Larsen, if you don't mind me asking, how do you know Nadia Manov?"

"I was working on a story about Bulgaria's involvement in the Kosovo conflict of 1999. I saw her this morning, right before she died."

"You know," said Pyotr, "we're looking for a man and a woman who fled the scene of Manov's assassination. Would you know anything about this?"

"Yes, and I'll gladly tell you everything."

"Let's meet," urged Pyotr. "How about at Aioli on Carnegie at nineteen hundred hours?"

"Excellent, Pyotr. We'll see you then."

# Chapter 94

Their taxi reached the pub, and as she stepped out of the backseat of the small automobile, she noticed Pyotr on the sidewalk. Their eyes met, and he smiled. He moved to greet her. "It's so nice to see you again, Ms. Larsen," he said, shaking her hand.

Matt paid the driver and joined Pyotr and Elle on the curb. "Pyotr," Elle said, "this is..."

Pyotr interrupted to complete her sentence. "Osprey. It's good to finally meet you in person."

Matt looked at Pyotr quizzically. "Should we know each other?"

Pyotr chuckled. "Only by nickname. I'm Garvan, which in English means 'The Crow.' My real name is Pyotr Dimitrov. I've been your Bulgarian liaison for the pipeline project."

Matt looked puzzled. "Elle shared that you're a Sofia police officer," he said. "My Bulgarian contact is with the State Intelligence Agency."

Pyotr smiled. "The State Intelligence Agency was downsized after Bulgaria joined NATO, so I moved into a police role, because there wasn't much spying for most of us to do anymore. I work mostly a detective on the Sofia police force, but I'm still tied into a few intelligence operations."

They entered the pub and were seated at a square table near the back of the room.

Matt said, "I wasn't sure I would ever meet you in person."

Pyotr smiled politely, and then he got right down to business. "May I ask you a few questions? With the pipeline project on hold indefinitely, what are you still doing here in Sofia? And what was your business with Manov?"

"I'll answer your questions with a question of my own," Matt offered. "Did you ever wonder why Russia turned a blind eye to the pipeline project?"

"The United States had something Polkov wanted."

Matt nodded. "Polkov's daughter is gravely ill. I found a blood donor match in Nadia Manov, Irina's birth mother.

Elle watched Pyotr closely, noticing that he did not appear surprised by the news. Pyotr nodded. "There had been rumors that Polkov and Manov were involved many years ago."

Matt nodded. "I was escorting Manov to Moscow for the blood transfusion when the sniper took Manov out. I believe Manov's death was an accident, and the sniper had been after me."

"Why you?" Pyotr asked.

"Lukas Bradshaw had sent a paramilitary team to Bulgaria to destroy the pipeline. We figured out their plans, and I moved their explosives cache away from the pipeline, up the hill where the group had set up camp for the night.

"I adjusted the bomb detonator to give myself just enough time to escape the blast range, but minutes later, when the timer hit zero, a much larger blast than I had expected erupted from the valley. I had underestimated the force of the explosives, and while my move took out the bad guys, the pipeline was inadvertently destroyed."

Pyotr took a long sip of his Kamenitsa. "But yet you still planned to deliver Manov to Polkov to save his daughter, keeping up your end of the deal."

Matt nodded. "Everybody knows the political situation in the U.S. isn't right to try this again now. I was delivering Manov on good faith that Irina could be healed, and that we could rebuild in a few years."

Pyotr commended, "But now Manov is dead, and there's no blood donor." His eyes lit up. "That's why you're looking for a relative of Manov's, isn't it? You are looking for somebody else who might carry the needed antibody in their blood."

Elle nodded. "Manov had a picture of a girl on her desk. Who could it be, Pyotr? Perhaps a niece?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. Manov was unmarried and lived alone. There were no brothers or sisters to notify of her death this morning, so I don't know that there could be a niece."

"We need to get a look at that photo on Manov's desk," Elle said. "It's our best lead right now."

Pyotr offered, "We can go back to Manov's office in the morning to check out the photo." He stood and pulled out his wallet, placing a few leva on the table. "Meet me at the Defense Ministry at 9:00. Change your clothes to minimize the chance that any of the police still on security detail outside the Ministry building recognize you."

"Thank you, Pyotr," Elle said warmly. His eyes locked with hers for a brief, intense moment, and then he turned and quickly left the restaurant.

# Chapter 95

Matt and Elle walked together to the pub's front door. Matt turned to face Elle. "Pyotr's right that our best chance of getting in and out of the Ministry building tomorrow depends on us changing our look."

Elle nodded. "I have an outfit back at my apartment that would work, a conservative suit that would not draw attention. And I can wear my hair back in a ponytail and wear sunglasses. I'll meet you at the Ministry building tomorrow at 9:00. My apartment's near here, so I'll just walk home."

He looked like he wanted to say something else. "What is it?" she asked.

"I don't know how to say this without sounding cavalier. It's just that, well, with Zerow out there somewhere, would it be okay if I escorted you back to your apartment?"

Elle smiled. "Sure. It's only a few blocks away, and it shouldn't be difficult for you to grab a taxi back to the Intercontinental."

The pair strolled past a series of short apartment buildings until they reached a gate flanked by two full trees. On a keypad Elle typed a code to open the gate, and then they entered the courtyard of the Solunksa apartment complex, a tidy green space surrounded by three four-story buildings.

Her building was straight ahead. They traversed the garden on a narrow stone path. When they reached the front door of her building, she frowned.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The lamp is out," she noticed. "Usually it's much brighter here in the courtyard."

She pulled open the door. "You don't need a key to get into your building?" he questioned.

"According to my neighbors, the lock's been broken for a few months. Nobody seems concerned about it."

Matt nodded and followed Elle into the foyer and up three flights of carpeted stairs to her apartment on the right.

She turned the key in the old keyhole and opened the door a crack. Matt gently stepped in front of her.

A quick, slight flash about thirty feet down the main hallway of the apartment caught Matt's eye. He stepped back quietly, his gaze meeting hers. Somebody was there.

# Chapter 96

Matt cocked his head, motioning her back toward the stairwell. She left the door slightly ajar and moved with him quietly and swiftly back down the twisting staircase.

She didn't hear the bullet, but she saw the hole it left in the wood paneling on the second floor landing. Matt grabbed her hand, pulling her with him, hurling her around the remaining two turns of the staircase.

There were only a few steps more to go; the building door was within sight. This was the critical moment, Elle thought, for Zerow- or whoever it was- had the crosshairs set on the doorway.

Could they dodge his bullets? Real life didn't mirror action movies in which the good guys always narrowly escaped the bad guys. She grabbed Matt's arm. "There's another way," she whispered.

Instead of darting straight out the front door, Elle guided Matt to a small passageway next to the stairs, a space Matt had not noticed during their ascent. The dark passageway took them behind the stairs.

"We should flee, Elle," Matt urged quietly. "We have a better chance of survival running rather than hiding. We should get out."

"We are getting out," Elle confirmed. "Look over here." She pulled a large piece of cardboard out of the way for Matt to see the wall behind it.

"A window," he said, surprised. Elle bent down to unlatch the hook. The window swung outward, and the pair crawled through the opening into the back alley behind the apartment complex.

"Come on," she said. They ran through the alley and then zigzagged down a few other small streets until they reached the larger Belvedere Street. A taxi was dropping off two passengers. Matt and Elle scrambled into the cab as soon as the other patrons had exited.

"Intercontinental Hotel, _molya_ ," Matt said.

The driver sat there for a moment texting on his phone. " _Burzam_ ," Elle pleaded, "or we'll find another driver who can get us there quickly."

The driver looked back at Elle in his rear-view mirror. He noticed the desperate look in her eye and put down his phone, and then he peeled away, jolting his passengers back in their seats.

"Fast enough?" he asked in Bulgarian, smiling.

" _Da_ ," Elle and Matt exclaimed in unison. They looked at each other.

"Nice call on the window exit," Matt said, offering a slight smile.

"Thanks," she replied. She exhaled, and she caught herself thinking about how she didn't remember breathing at all these last five minutes.

Matt said, "When we get back to the hotel, I'll call Pyotr to have him send police over to your place. At best, they apprehend Zerow. At worst, we can ask Pyotr to have the patrol officer to grab a few of your personal things."

She shook her head. "There really isn't anything I need. I had my computer and phone with me in my purse when I went to see Manov this morning. If I'm never reunited with my clothes and a few other things I brought from home, it wouldn't be the end of the world."

He didn't respond for a moment. "What are you thinking?" she asked him.

"I'm just trying to put the pieces together. Why would Zerow be at your place if he's after me?"

"You and I left the Ministry building this morning together in your hired car. Perhaps he thought I could lead him to you? I don't know how he could have known where I was staying, though," she admitted.

"Bradshaw has resources," Matt offered grimly.

The taxi arrived at the large, well-lit entrance to the Intercontinental. "Are we going in through the front this time?" she asked.

He nodded. "Let's make a quick pit stop before going back upstairs."

# Chapter 97

Matt and Elle walked through the lobby down a darkened hallway. At the end of the hall was a boutique closed for the night.

Matt swiped his hotel room key on a keypad next to the boutique's glass door. Elle heard the lock click. "After you," he said, holding the door open for her.

"What is this place?" she asked.

He turned on a light and locked the glass store door behind them. "The CIA has an arrangement with the hotel: we're allowed to take supplies from the closed stores after hours as long as we pay for what we take. You will need clean clothes until it's safe to return to your apartment, and if we could find you a hat and glasses for our return trip to Manov's office tomorrow, that would be good, too."

She nodded. She quickly picked out a cream-colored blouse and a pair of black pants.

"I found a hat over here," Matt called. He removed the price tags of all the items they took and left the tags and a short stack of cash next to the register.

They left the store. He used his card key to swipe a locked door on their left, and she followed him through the door and down a narrower hallway until they reached the secret elevator bay that they had previously accessed from the loading dock on the back side of the hotel.

If I ever decided to write about this adventure, she thought, I wonder if anybody would ever believe it?

# Chapter 98

Back in room 1005, Matt called Pyotr from the communications room. "Detective Dimitrov, Benjamin Zerow was in Elle's apartment this evening."

After a delayed moment Pyotr asked quietly, "Is she all right?"

"He shot at us, but we escaped unharmed."

"What a relief, " Pyotr said. "We got a call from a resident of the Solska apartment complex reporting shots being fired, and a patrol was dispatched about thirty minutes ago to investigate."

"Elle's apartment is on the top floor of the rear building. Have your team look for clues to tie Zerow to the scene: bullet casings, hair, fingerprints... whatever he might have left behind. Zerow's a professional, so we might not have a lot to go on."

"I'm on my way over to Solska now to check out the scene myself." He added confidently, "We'll get this guy."

"I hope so," Matt offered. "Catch us up on whatever you find when we meet you tomorrow morning at the Ministry building."

Matt sat back in the chair at the communications desk. Should he send a message to Jim to let him know what was happening? He decided against it, knowing his note would be easily intercepted, and that if Zerow were working for Bradshaw, the President would be monitoring clandestine communication between Bulgaria and the U.S. closely.

Elle popped her head in the doorway. He looked up and smiled. "What did Pyotr say?" she asked.

"He's headed over to your apartment to look for clues."

She nodded. "If he finds evidence to implicate Zerow in an attempted murder, do you think Zerow would sell out Bradshaw to lessen his sentence?"

Matt shook his head. "I think the chances of the Sofia police finding evidence to implicate Zerow is slim. Zerow's a hired assassin, adept at covering his tracks."

She nodded, leaning against the doorway. "Hopefully we can pick up a clue tomorrow to point us to Manov's young relative."

He drummed his fingers on the desk. "If a living family member exists, we have to find her, because Irina's life depends on it."

# Chapter 99

A chill ran up her spine as their black sedan stopped in front of the Ministry building. She thought of the scene from yesterday, which felt so long ago, considering everything that had happened since then. The details of the previous day came flooding back to her: her reunion with Matt, the quick getaway to the secret back entrance of the Intercontinental, meeting up with Pyotr at Aioli, and the harrowing encounter with Zerow back at her apartment.

She shook it off, focusing on what was most important right now: determining whether Nadia Manov had a relative who could serve as a blood donor to Irina.

Elle felt confident the girl in the photo she had seen in Manov's office yesterday morning was Irina, and Elle had so many questions about the photograph. When had Irina and Nadia crossed paths? Was Irina so good of a secret keeper that her adoptive parents and their secret service contingent didn't realize that she had found her birth mother?

Elle hoped she was wrong, that she was mistaken about the girl being Irina, as this mysterious person in the photo was their best chance of keeping Irina alive. Today they would sort this out.

Matt saw Pyotr on the front steps of the Ministry building speaking to a few police officers. As the pair approached Pyotr, Elle sensed the police were at ease in the presence of Detective Dimitrov, who introduced Matt and Elle as investigators with a lead on the American sniper. The police officers didn't seem to take much interest in them, which surprised and relieved Elle. Although Pyotr would vouch for them, she and Matt had fled a crime scene yesterday, and although they had not been responsible for Manov's death, their behavior- albeit a matter of self-preservation- could would have been construed as suspicious.

Pyotr held the door for Matt and Elle, and once inside, they climbed the steps to Manov's office. Elle had fully expected Manov's secretary to be in the office, but she was not there.

"The Ministry gave Manov's secretary a few days off," Pyotr remarked, as if he could read Elle's mind.

The three crossed the antechamber. Pyotr turned the doorknob, opening the large ornate door gently. They entered the space as Pyotr flipped the light switch on.

The office looked mostly as Elle had remembered it the morning prior: the furniture was intact, and a cabinet in the corner still housed a pile of papers that appeared as if they still needed to be filed. What was different, though, was immediately clear to Elle.

"Oh no," she exclaimed. "The photo is gone!"

# Chapter 100

Pyotr and Matt looked at her

"Things are missing," she confirmed. "A few things on the walls, and a few items on Manov's desk." Elle scanned the room. "It seems as if her personal things have been taken."

Pyotr summoned one of the police officers from the front porch. "Who's been in here since Manov was murdered yesterday?" he asked

"Nobody, sir," the officer said. "We checked this office after exhausting the outside crime scene yesterday morning. Ms. Manov's assistant was dismissed at around fourteen hundred hours yesterday."

The officer gulped as he recalled an additional detail. "There was an older woman here earlier today. She looked like a housekeeper: she was wearing an apron, and her hair was pinned up in a bun."

"What else do you remember about her?" Pyotr asked

"Grey hair and wrinkles, and she was a little plump. Her clothes were worn, as were her shoes."

"Did you notice anything else?"

"No, sir. I'm sorry. That's all I can remember." The cop whispered, "Am I in trouble for not stopping the woman? She looked innocent enough."

"You aren't in trouble, Sergeant. Do you remember her acting nervous at all?"

"No, sir. I think that's why I thought she belonged here. She seemed to be a housekeeper, tending the building."

"Very well. Thank you, Sergeant."

Elle's brow furrowed. "Could the older woman be a relative who had learned of Manov's death?"

Pyotr shook his head. "I don't think so. Manov's parents are deceased, and she had no brothers and sisters; there was no next of kin to be called when Manov died."

Elle said, "We must find out if this woman is connected to Manov."

"Agreed," Matt said. "No matter what the motive, our mystery woman may have the photo of the girl and could be our best chance of finding a blood relative."

Matt turned to face Pyotr. "Where did Manov live?" he asked. "Could we go there next to look for a clue to the identity of the woman? We can ask around and see if any of her neighbors know anything."

"Absolutely," Pyotr said. He pulled his mobile phone out of his pocket. "Sonja, this is Pyotr. Could you please pull up the address of the domicile of Nadia Manov?"

Pyotr was silent as he listened to the information his assistant provided. He nodded. "Thanks, Sonja," he said, ending the call. He looked up at Matt and Elle. "Manov's apartment isn't far from here; it's only about ten blocks north. We can take my car."

# Chapter 101

Pyotr weaved the BMW effortlessly through Sofia traffic into the old residential area of the city. He parked on the street in front of a grand three story building. The old building and its grounds within the gate were well manicured, and a winding promenade crossed the large grassy front to the gilded door of the building's foyer.

A man with a thick beard stepped out of the foyer, eyeing the strangers.

Pyotr skipped the pleasantries. In Bulgarian, he said, "We're police. Is Nadia Manov's housekeeper here?"

"Housekeeper? No, you must be mistaken," the man said through the gate. "Nadia didn't have a maid. She was barely here at her residence herself to cause a mess."

Pyotr, Elle and Matt exchanged glances. Elle looked at the man, who was eyeing her closely. She asked, "Sir, what do you mean? How can you be certain that Manov did not have a housekeeper?"

"On weeknights Nadia came home late, and she was never here on the weekends. She left for work Friday mornings, and she didn't return to the apartment until Monday evening. I don't know where she went, but she didn't sleep here on the weekends. Nobody came or went from her apartment except Nadia herself."

Pyotr seemed surprised by the amount of information this man knew about Manov. "How do you know Nadia?"

"I am Sam Grovdna, the custodian of this building. I'm here every day." Grimly, he added, "I saw on the news that she had been shot. The news reporter said it was an accident."

"That's correct, Mr. Grovdna."

"What are you investigating, if her death was an accident?"

Pyotr answered truthfully. "We're trying to discover if Ms. Manov has any relatives."

Sam shook his head. "I don't think so, sir. Nadia seemed alone. She was friendly enough, but she kept to herself. I don't think she had anybody in her life close to her."

"Thank you, Mr. Grovdna," Pyotr offered, and the three climbed back into the BMW. From the backseat, Matt snuck a glance at Elle in the passenger seat. He wondered what she was thinking.

"Where do you think Manov spent her weekends?" Elle asked.

"That is an important question," Pyotr remarked.

Matt added, "And was she alone?"

Pyotr offered, "We should investigate Manov's background more deeply. Who took Manov's personal items? And who is the girl in the photo that Elle saw?"

Matt nodded. "I can head back to the Intercontinental to tap into CIA channels for help while you work through your Bulgarian State Intelligence Agency resources, Pyotr."

Elle chimed in. "I'll scan open source material."

Matt said, "Perfect. Each of us can work on this from a different angle. We'll leave no stone unturned looking for a living relative of Manov's."

# Chapter 102

Elle rubbed her eyes, looking up from her laptop. She placed her computer next to her on the couch in room 1005 and outstretched her arms and legs. She had been searching fruitlessly through LexisNexis files for about an hour, looking for information that might suggest what Manov was up to on the weekends.

Elle sat back, thinking about the woman with the grey hair who may have taken Manov's personal effects. She wasn't an aunt, or a mother, or any other relative, as far as Elle could tell. If she were a housekeeper, as the policeman at the Ministry had intimated, then she wasn't Manov's, because the man at the apartment building had confirmed that nobody other than Manov ever came and went.

Wait a second, she thought, feeling her heartbeat quicken. Maybe that's it. Perhaps the woman was Manov's housekeeper, but not at Manov's weekday address in Sofia.

She took her search in a different direction. She reviewed the articles she had found about Nadia Manov's past as potential puzzle pieces unlocking where her second home might be.

A childhood home, perhaps, or a family estate? The articles Elle had reviewed reported that Manov was born in a small town outside of Sofia. But what was the name of the town? She had to keep looking.

# Chapter 103

Matt returned to the living room. She looked up. "Any leads?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "I sent a request for information, but we may hear nothing until tomorrow." He plopped into the armchair. "How about you? Did you find anything?"

"Maybe," she said, her eyes sparkling. "Manov grew up in Koprivshtitsa, about forty-five minutes from here. Manov doesn't have a housekeeper for her apartment in Sofia because she's not there often enough to need one, but perhaps she needs one in Koprivshtitsa, somebody to maintain the premises full time while she works weekdays in Sofia."

He smiled. "It's a long shot, Elle, but it's the best lead we have right now. Do you have an address?"

She shook her head. "Unfortunately, no, and the town looks fairly large on Google Maps, so I don't think we could expect to arrive and find out information about Manov by knocking on doors."

"I'll call Pyotr to see if he can help," Matt suggested, standing. She watched him return to the communications room, and then she turned back to her computer to search for more clues.

# Chapter 104

"Koprivshtitsa?" Pyotr asked.

Matt explained. "Koprivshtitsa is Manov's hometown. It's a long shot, but perhaps this is where she used to go on weekends. We can find no evidence of a romantic relationship, or a close friendship, or any connections in Sofia which would warrant Manov's complete attention in the city."

"But she has no living family," Pyotr reminded Matt.

Matt nodded. "At this point it doesn't seem like we've got a blood donor option, that's true. But I still want to know who picked up Manov's personal items. Could the woman be a housekeeper from Manov's country home in Koprivshtitsa? Or could she perhaps be an aunt, maybe somebody from a rural part of Bulgaria who isn't in your database?"

Matt continued, "I didn't know Manov well, but I could see her being the type to want to escape from the Sofia scene for the weekend. After Kosovo, at the height of her political career, she was off the radar for a bit of time. Perhaps her childhood home was her refuge?"

"It's possible," Pyotr said. "Our Sofia police database isn't linked to Koprivshtitsa's, so I'll contact the police chief there to ask him if there remains a Manov estate, and if he knows anything about activity there. If I can get any information, I'll call you, and we can head out there together."

"Thanks, Pyotr."

"Oh, one more thing. Is it possible to speak to Ms. Larsen a moment?" Pyotr asked shyly.

"Sure, just a second," Matt said. He stuck his head out the communications room door. "Elle, Pyotr wants to speak with you."

She entered the communications room and took the receiver from Matt. "Hi, Pyotr," she said.

"Elle, after the police concluded their crime scene investigation at your apartment, I packed your items into your suitcase and stowed your bag in my trunk."

"You did?"

Pyotr stammered. "Uh, I didn't mean to violate your privacy; I just thought..."

She laughed. "No, I'm grateful you collected my things, as you've saved me the effort of having to go shopping to buy a few items to get me through the rest of my time in Sofia. Should I swing by your office to pick up my bag?"

"It's no problem for me to drop off your suitcase at the front desk. I can be there in ten minutes."

"Pyotr, thank you," she said. She hung up the phone. Matt was studying her. "He likes you," he chided.

Ignoring his comment, she asked, "What did Pyotr say about Koprivshtitsa?"

"He's calling the local chief of police to inquire about Manov's childhood residence."

She nodded, standing. "I'll see you soon."

"Tell Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome hello from me," he called out as she left the communications room.

Why was he acting so juvenile? She exhaled, shaking her head as she left room 1005, recognizing that this break would be good for the both of them.

# Chapter 105

Matt heard the click of the hotel room door as it closed. She was gone, and for a moment he was unsure what to do. He reclined in the communications room chair, wondering if he should have gone with her to meet Pyotr downstairs. As long as Zerow was still out there, she was in danger.

Should he go? No, he thought, she definitely wouldn't like that. She could take care of herself.

He felt restless. He grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and plopped down on the couch. He flipped through a few television channels before landing on Sofia news.

Fifteen minutes later, he heard the click of the lock, signaling her return. "Hey," he said, sitting up straight. He turned off the television.

"Hi," she replied, wheeling her suitcase behind her. She was smiling. "What is it?" he asked.

She nodded and sat down in the chair next to the couch. "Pyotr spoke to the Koprivshtitsa police chief this evening; it turns out that Nadia Manov's childhood residence is indeed in Koprivshtitsa."

"Keep going," he smiled, encouraging her to continue. He could tell by the look in her eyes that there was more to tell.

She leaned in. "The police chief confirmed that Manov frequented the farmhouse on weekends, and that a housekeeper lives on the premises to maintain the property in Manov's absence."

Matt leaned back, smiling. "Your hypothesis about the identity of the woman who picked up Manov's personal effects from the Ministry building appears to be correct."

She shook her head. "We have confirmed nothing yet; we must wait to see how all of this plays out tomorrow." She stood. "Pyotr will pick us up at eight to take us to the farmhouse. I'm turning in for the evening."

"That's a good idea," he said, standing. "I'll join you."

She shot him a puzzled look, and his eyes widened. "No, sorry. I just meant that I'll hit the sack, too. In my own room." He gestured toward the bedroom at the end of the hallway. Embarrassed, he said, "You can use the bathroom first."

She laughed. "Thanks. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he said sheepishly, shutting off the living room lights before retiring to his room.

# Chapter 106

Pyotr stepped out of this car and held the passenger side door open for Elle. "Good morning, Pyotr," Elle offered cheerily.

"Thanks for the ride," Matt added, climbing into the back seat.

Pyotr gestured to three drinks in the BMW's cup holders. "Dankata, on Lyuben Karavelov Street, serves the best cappuccinos in Sofia. I took a gamble that you both drink coffee."

"What a perfect treat for such a cold morning," she remarked. "Thanks, Pyotr."

The BMW sped effortlessly through Sofia center, past the iconic statue of Alexander II on horseback, the stunning Aleksandr Nevsky Orthodox church, Zainov park, and the airport. Within ten minutes, they were outside city limits, driving east through farmland on Highway 6, a well-maintained, two-lane road.

Pyotr commented, "Koprivshtitsa is known for its authentic Bulgarian architecture and folk music festivals. It's a popular Bulgarian tourist destination."

Elle chimed in. "I remember reading about the town in my guidebook. There are hundreds of architectural monuments there. And wasn't Koprivshtitsa reported to be the place where the first shot of the April Uprising against the Ottomans occurred in the late 1800s?"

Pyotr laughed. "I'm impressed by your knowledge, Elle."

Elle caught a glance at Matt in the side mirror of the BMW. It looked as if he were rolling his eyes. His gaze met hers in the mirror, and she shook her head disapprovingly.

They reached Koprivshtitsa shortly thereafter. Pyotr had plugged the address to Manov's farmhouse into his phone, and they had easily found a narrow, gravel road on the south side of the town that snaked for a few miles to a farmhouse on their right.

"Were it not for GPS, I don't think we would have found this place," Elle commented.

"Perhaps this was Manov's intent, living so far out? To be off the grid and unnoticed? Maybe Koprivshtitsa was her escape," Matt suggested.

"Perhaps," Elle said. "But Manov didn't seem like somebody who was trying to escape anything."

Pyotr chimed in. "I agree with Elle, but how do we explain what she'd be doing out here in the middle of nowhere on the weekends?"

Elle pointed upward at the roof. "There's smoke billowing from the chimney, which means somebody's inside." They got out of the car and walked up the gravel driveway, their footsteps crunching the light layer of snow against dried leaves.

"It's so quiet out here," Matt remarked.

"And so beautiful," Elle noted. She was about to add "and peaceful" when a loud shot rang out, interrupting the scene.

"Take cover!" Matt yelled, and the three bounded behind one of the large shrubs between the driveway and the house.

# Chapter 107

"Who's there?" a woman's voice cried out from the front porch. "Go away!"

Pyotr responded from the bush. "Police, madam."

"Police around here don't drive BMWs. Leave or I will shoot!" she shrieked. "We've done nothing wrong."

"We're not here because of any crime," Pyotr said authoritatively. He stood slowly, raising his hands so that the woman could see him. "We just want to speak with you."

"Go away!" the woman yelled.

Pyotr nodded. "Madam," he said calmly and firmly, "we mean you no harm. We're investigating the death of Nadia Manov, and we came to Koprivshtitsa looking for answers, that's all."

He observed the older woman, thinking the rifle looked out of place in her hands.

He took a chance. He walked towards her on the porch with his hands raised, his police badge in one hand. "This is my identification," he offered. "Please examine it."

"Stop!" she yelled desperately. "I don't want to shoot you!"

Pyotr said calmly, "There are three of us: myself, and these two Americans. He beckoned to Elle and Matt to move forward slowly from the bush. "Could we please ask you some questions? Then we'll be on our way."

The woman looked at Pyotr, weighing whether to trust him. "Please," he added. "We came to speak with you."

"Fine, ask your questions," the woman said. "But stay right where you are."

Pyotr asked, "Who are you, and what is your relationship to Nadia Manov?"

"I take care of this place," the woman answered. "Nadia used to come here to her retreat from Sofia on weekends."

"Why did you go to her office yesterday to collect her personal effects?"

Pyotr's question caught the woman off guard. Her eyes down turned, she said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Was there something specific you wanted to retrieve from the crime scene?"

"I don't know what you mean," the woman said, her eyes still focused on the ground.

Pyotr pursued his line of questioning. "Madam, you could continue to deny being in Nadia Manov's office yesterday, or you could explain why you were there. The Ministry has cameras all over the building, and we have your image on tape. We have physical evidence of your presence there yesterday. What are you hiding? Did you have something to do with Nadia's murder?"

The woman looked at Pyotr, shocked. "Of course not. I loved Nadia, and I would never do anything to hurt her. I was just collecting her things. I figured nobody would want her items after her death."

Pyotr said, "You took police property from a crime scene, madam."

The woman started crying. "I did what I was told, that's all. Please leave. There was nothing of importance to anybody else in that box of stuff I took. It was just her personal things." The woman looked frightened.

"Who asked you to collect her possessions?" Pyotr asked.

The woman was silent. She diverted her eyes, realizing she had said too much.

"I did," said a young woman who appeared from behind the older woman.

"I don't believe it," Matt muttered. "It's Irina Polkov."

# Chapter 108

The young woman crossed her arms indignantly. "I'm not Irina Polkov. My name is Tatiana Manov, Nadia's daughter."

Matt shook his head in wonder and smiled. "I don't believe it. This is fantastic!" He seemed to forget for a moment that the old woman was still holding a rifle.

"What is so fantastic?" Tatiana ordered. "My mother is dead. What are you celebrating?" she asked with exasperation.

"Please excuse me, Ms. Manov," he said sincerely, regaining his composure. "I meant no disrespect. It's just that, well, I don't know how to explain this, but you're like an angel from above. I'm overwhelmed, that's all. My apologies."

The older woman stated solidly, "I think it's time that you left." She raised the shotgun, a gesture intended to confirm that the conversation was over, and that the strangers should go. "And while I cannot stop you, I would ask you to keep Tatiana out of the Sofia limelight. This was her mother's wish these last twenty years, that her daughter remained protected from politics."

"We will honor your privacy," Pyotr offered. He gestured to Elle and Matt. "Let's go."

"Wait," cried Tatiana. "You. The American. What did you mean when you said I'm 'like an angel from above'?"

Matt looked at Tatiana. "You remind me of..."

Pyotr put his hand firmly on Matt's shoulder. He whispered, "Not now."

"You remind me of your mother," Matt concluded.

Tatiana's eyes narrowed. "There is more you're not saying."

Tatiana turned to the older woman. They spoke together quietly.

"I want to know what happened to my mother," Tatiana declared.

'Very well," Matt said. "May we come in?"

# Chapter 109

Elle noticed immediately the warmth of the radiating heat of the fire. The older woman walked over to the fireplace to add another log to the fire.

"This is Ana Hagi," Tatiana announced in English to the guests. "When I was little, Ana tended to me during the week while my mother worked in Sofia, and she remains here now to take care of this old place," she said, waving her hand around the farmhouse.

They stood in the small atrium of the tidy home. To the right was the living area with comfortable looking chairs and the fire aglow. To the left was a door; Elle assumed it was the door to the kitchen. Straight back was a quaint table. Elle spied a narrow, dark hallway to the far right; she imagined that was where the bedrooms were. This place is so quaint, like a country B&B, she thought.

Tatiana continued. "I'm a college student enrolled in the medical school program at the University of Plovdiv. Most of the time Ana is here by herself, but that will change when I graduate. I'm coming back to Koprivshtitsa after my schooling is over to set up a practice in town." Her face grew darker. "I just wish my mom were still here to see it all unfold."

The group retreated to the warm space near the fire. Elle and Matt sat on one side of the coffee table, Pyotr and Tatiana on the other, and Ana in the chair farthest from the fire.

"I know my mother was killed by sniper fire," Tatiana stated. "Reporters on television news programs covered that thoroughly. What I don't know—and what I want to know—is why my mother was killed. She was an upstanding citizen. Who could have wanted her dead?"

Pyotr spoke in Bulgarian for Ana's sake. "We believe your mother wasn't the intended target of the sniper. We believe the assassin was aiming for somebody else, and your mother was collateral damage."

"But nobody else was killed," said Tatiana.

"The target escaped," said Pyotr. Elle noticed Matt's eyes were down turned. Did he feel guilt over Nadia's death, she wondered.

"Who escaped?" asked Tatiana.

"I was the target," Matt admitted.

Tatiana appeared at a loss for words. She looked at Matt, and then at Elle, and the back at Matt again. "You were with my mother when she died?" she asked. "And the sniper was after you?"

# Chapter 110

He nodded solemnly. "The sniper was the leader of a paramilitary group. I sabotaged the group's campsite, and everybody perished except the leader. We believe he's seeking revenge on me."

"What were you doing at the Ministry building with my mother?" Tatiana asked.

"Did your mother tell you about any upcoming trips she had planned?"

Tatiana shook her head. Then she seemed to remember something. "A few weeks ago, my mom mentioned she was headed out of town on a business trip, and that she might be gone a few days. But then the trip was cancelled. She called me yesterday morning to tell me that the original trip was back on." Tatiana wrung her hands. "She phoned me right before she was murdered."

Matt nodded. "She was going with me to Moscow, Tatiana. We were leaving the Ministry building for the Sofia airport when the sniper fired his deadly shots."

"Why were you going to Moscow?" Tatiana asked.

"President Polkov's daughter Irina is ill. Irina Polkov's best prospects for recovery is a blood transfusion from somebody with the antibody to the disease. Nadia carried the antibody."

"I don't understand," Tatiana said, her brow furrowed. "How did you know my mom carried the antibody?"

Matt was quiet. Elle thought he looked uncomfortable, as if he wasn't sure how much to disclose to Tatiana about her mother's past.

Elle asked, "Tatiana, do you know Irina Polkov? Have you ever seen her?"

Tatiana shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't keep up with Russian politics," she admitted.

Elle asked, "Do you have Internet access here?"

Tatiana laughed. "Of course. We may be removed from Sofia, but Koprivshtitsa is still civilization. You should be able to connect on your mobile phone without a problem."

Elle quickly and easily found a headshot of Irina Polkov. "Here," Elle offered. "Look. Is she familiar?"

Tatiana frowned. "I don't think so," she said.

Did she really mean that, Elle wondered. Could she not see that this was her identical twin sister? The hair was different, and Irina was wearing a lot of makeup, but their eyes and nose and mouth looked exactly the same. Perhaps Tatiana spent little time looking at herself in the mirror, Elle mused.

Elle said, "Here, let me try something." Elle pulled up an application on her phone to change Irina's hair to something closer to Tatiana's. Tatiana shook her head. "I still don't understand what you're doing," she said.

"Okay, I have one more idea. Tatiana, let me take your photo." Elle snapped a picture of Tatiana on her phone, then she manipulated the photo so that the picture of Tatiana was next to- and about the same size as- the picture of Irina.

"Look," said Elle excitedly. "Look at your eyes. They're exactly the same."

Tatiana wrinkled her brow, confused. "I don't understand," she said.

Elle urged, "Look again. Whom does she resemble?"

Tatiana pulled back. "No," she muttered. "I don't know what kind of trick this is, or what you are trying to do here." She stood up, stumbling backwards from Elle. "Please leave here immediately."

Elle shook her head. "Tatiana, Irina is your sister."

"No!" she yelled.

"Da," said the housekeeper, strongly and firmly.

"Ana?" Tatiana questioned, her eyes wide in disbelief.

# Chapter 111

"Da," Ana repeated. "This is your sister, Tatiana. Your twin sister."

"It's impossible," Tatiana insisted. "It's just me. It was always just me!"

"No," said Ana, "you were born, and then your sister was born a few minutes later. This sister of yours is Irina Polkov, taken by your birth father, Vladimir Polkov."

Tatiana shook her head. It's not true," she insisted. "My father is dead. My mother told me stories of how he died in the Kosovo War."

"He's still alive," Ana confirmed, "and he's the President of Russia."

Tatiana sunk down in her chair. "I don't believe it. Why didn't you tell me, Ana? Why didn't my mother tell me?"

"It was to protect you. Your mother was very firm about your privacy, because she wanted you to live a life of your own. Polkov didn't know that your mother was carrying twins, and neither did she until she went into labor. Your mother gave Irina to the Polkovs, and they never found out that there was a second baby."

Tatiana looked at Ana with disgust. "How could you keep this from me all these years?"

"It was what your mother wanted," Ana said. "I was respecting her wishes."

Tatiana stood up and flailed her arm violently across the coffee table, causing the glass candelabra to crash into sharp pieces across the floor.

"Stop!" Ana cried loudly and firmly.

"Everybody out," Tatiana exclaimed furiously. "Out, now!"

# Chapter 112

"We'll go now, Tatiana," Matt said, as he, Elle and Pyotr stood, "but before we do, there is one more thing you should know. If you carry the antibody, you might save your twin sister." Matt pulled a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket.

He continued, "Here's my mobile number. If you help, we could arrange for a clandestine procedure to take place in Moscow to protect your identity. Please think about it."

Ana approached Tatiana. "Are you all right?" she asked.

Elle understood Bulgarian well enough to follow Tatiana's response. Tatiana explained wearily to Ana that if she possessed the same antibody her mother had, she might save Irina's life with a blood transfusion.

"You must do it!" Ana exclaimed. "You will - it's the right thing to do, Tatiana. She's your sister."

Tatiana looked at Ana angrily. "I need some time to decide what to do. The man gave me his number. I will get back to him soon."

Ana was the one who now seemed angry. "How much time does Irina have to wait around while you gingerly decide? You must step up and do this. Go meet Irina. Help her."

"It was my mother's decision to help; I need to choose what to do for myself," Tatiana said adamantly.

"Don't disappoint your mother, Tatiana. Do what's right, for her sake," Ana pleaded.

"Everybody go now, please," Tatiana said firmly, in English. Ana bowed her head in deference to Tatiana. She walked to the front door and opened it to escort the three strangers out.

"Blagodarya," Pyotr offered, and then the three traversed the snowy porch and descended the steps, retreating into Pyotr's BMW.

# Chapter 113

Nobody spoke as Pyotr pulled out of the driveway, back onto the country road.

Finally, Matt broke the silence. "We came to Koprivshtitsa in search of a housekeeper, with the narrow hope that perhaps there might be a lead to a living relative of Nadia Manov's, and we ended up finding Irina's twin sister, the absolute closest genetic match. I'm still in a bit of disbelief about it all," Matt admitted.

"So what's next?" asked Elle. "Do we return to Sofia to await Tatiana's call?"

Pyotr nodded. "Tatiana deserves some time and space. Her mother was murdered only yesterday, and then today we dropped tremendous news on her that she has a twin sister who is alive but unwell in Moscow, and that perhaps she can save this twin sister she's never met. It's a lot to consider."

Pyotr looked at Matt. "Does Polkov know about Tatiana?"

Matt shook his head. "No, he doesn't. I'm certain of that. If he had known about Tatiana, he would have suggested her as a potential donor after Nadia was killed. He didn't offer Tatiana, and he would have done anything to increase Irina's chances of survival, even if it meant having to explain a decades-old affair and the resurfacing of a daughter he's never met. Polkov would have accepted that political risk if it could save Irina's life."

"Matt, how long does Irina have?" Elle asked. "How much time can Irina wait for Tatiana to decide about whether to help?"

Matt frowned. "Irina's illness has been kept under wraps, so it's unclear how badly the disease has spread. Assuming Tatiana carries the antibody, we need to get her to Moscow as quickly as possible."

Matt looked pensive. "Back to your original question, Elle, about what we do next. Yes, we wait, but we can't wait too long. If Tatiana doesn't come to her own conclusion within the next day or two that she should help Irina, then we deploy Plan B."

"What is Plan B?" Elle asked.

Pyotr's phone rang, and he glanced at the number on the receiver. "Excuse me. I need to take this call," he said.

# Chapter 114

Pyotr spoke quietly. Elle strained to follow the conversation, hanging on Pyotr's words, attempting to fill in the blanks with the short responses Pyotr provided. She watched Pyotr's face intently. He was frowning and mostly listening.

"Da," he said as he hung up the call.

"Pyotr, what is it?" Elle asked gently.

"I'm weighing what to tell you," he replied.

"Okay," she said.

Pyotr sighed. "That was one of my colleagues at Sofia police headquarters. An American died in his hotel room at the Intercontinental at around two o'clock this morning. Detective Novak called me because the man had a receipt from the Hotel Tivoli among his personal items, indicating he had been in Buhovo, and Novak wondered if perhaps the American was connected to the explosion. Novak said the man was badly burned recently on his face and arms.

"The body's at the morgue undergoing an autopsy. Cause of death appears to be heart attack: the coroner believed the man's body had done all it could to heal from the burns, and that finally his heart just gave out."

"Zerow," Matt muttered.

"Could he really be dead?" Elle wondered aloud. "I mean, he seemed so tough, so fierce. Perhaps it's somebody else?"

"It's possible," Pyotr said. "Let's head to the morgue to find out."

# Chapter 115

Pyotr parked the BMW around the back of a grand old building. Elle shivered as she stepped out of the car into the chilly air. She dreaded entering the morgue; she knew that as soon as she stepped through those doors, the distinctive smell of disinfectant would bring back memories of her first few years as a journalist working the beat on the north side of Chicago.

Her stories sometimes ended at the Cook County Medical Examiner's building on the south side of the city. She had relished public transportation; she took the El everywhere, even in the middle of the night when that creepy morgue was her destination. She did what she had to do to investigate and to finish a story.

The three approached a large steel door on the back of the stone building. It was unlocked. Elle smiled, thinking that things were different in Chicago, that the doors there were always locked, and that there was no getting past Elmer, the night coroner, without pleasantries.

Yes, there was the smell, she noticed. She knew it would be there: the chemicals so strong, almost—but not quite- toxic enough to mask the aroma of human decay. She reminded herself to breathe shallowly through her mouth, that she could overcome that feeling of nausea once again if she reminded herself that it was only a smell, and that she could take the necessary steps to avoid it overtaking her.

She saw stone steps at the end of the dim hall and recognized immediately that the coroner's office would be down the flight of stairs in the basement. The three descended the stone steps and found themselves in an even dimmer hallway. A light was on in a room near the end of the hall, peeking out at them from under the doorway, struggling to offer brightness.

The group pressed on in silence, with only the clunking of their shoes against the stone slabs creating noise, indicating their arrival.

A man poked his head out of the lit room. He was short and bald, with round wire-rimmed glasses. He looks like a coroner, she thought.

"Georgi," Pyotr said, offering a handshake. "Thank you for accommodating our visit on such short notice."

"My pleasure," Georgi replied. He looked genuinely happy to see Pyotr; she surmised the men knew each other well.

Georgi smiled at Elle. "Georgi Blastov," he announced, gesturing at Pyotr. "This gentleman has saved my life at least a few times from the Sofia mafia."

Pyotr looked embarrassed. Changing the subject, he asked, "So what do you have here, Georgi?"

"An American."

How do you know he's American?" Matt asked.

It was Georgi's turn to appear embarrassed. "I mean no offense, but American men emit a different odor than European men. The diet, I suppose?" Georgi shook his head. "No matter, the deceased is an American man, in his early fifties, with significant burns to his face, neck and upper torso. His heart malfunctioned."

Georgi continued, "If this were a Bulgarian man and not an American, this would be a case of a simple heart attack, a system stressed by fatigue fighting infection and busy with reconstruction from burns..."

He continued, an inquisitive look in his eyes. "But this is not a Bulgarian man; this is an American man, and with me here this evening is a Bulgarian detective and two Americans interested to know what happened."

Matt asked, "May we see his face, Dr. Blastov?"

Georgi pulled back the sheet to reveal whom they had suspected it would be: Benjamin Zerow.

"Is there any additional testing we can do, Georgi, to rule out foul play?" Pyotr asked.

Georgi frowned. "No, that's it, Pyotr. No glamorous story here. The man's heart gave out."

# Chapter 116

"What are you thinking?" Matt asked Elle as they walked together back to the BMW.

She shook her head. "Maybe I'm turning into a conspiracy theorist or something, or perhaps I'm looking for a story where there really isn't one." She turned to look at him. "Do you really think Zerow died of natural causes?"

He shrugged. "The coroner seemed to think the stress on Zerow's body from infections at the site of the burns was too much for his heart. Although Zerow was in good physical condition, perhaps he had an underlying heart condition," he suggested.

Elle turned to face Pyotr, who was a few steps behind. "What do you think, Pyotr?"

"I think we should go back to the Intercontinental to examine the crime scene. The police would have already been through the space, but perhaps we'll pick up a clue they missed."

Matt nodded. "It's worth a shot, and we've got time to kill awaiting Tatiana's call. Let's go."

# Chapter 117

Each time she had entered the lobby of the Intercontinental, it felt different. The first visit- through the back entrance- was covert. She smiled, thinking about how that moment felt so long ago.

The second trip took her through the front doors of the glamorous hotel, when she and Matt had quickly moved from the bright lobby to the dimly lit hallway to pick up clothes after the visit to her apartment had gone sour.

She thought of Zerow and shuddered. He seemed so menacing on the hill near the decimated campsite. She was now safe to return to her apartment, but there was really nothing left for her there, no reason to return.

She was at the moment a woman without a plan. She'd been accompanying Matt on this adventure since Zerow had killed Nadia, playing the part of a companion.

What was next? They would examine Zerow's hotel room, and they would await Tatiana's call. But what if Tatiana didn't call? Matt had intimated that he would contact the young woman if she didn't voluntarily reach out to him.

What was he capable of doing? Would he force Tatiana to Moscow to undergo the blood transfusion, to uphold his agreement with Polkov so that the pipeline project could resume when Bradshaw's presidency ended? Was he motivated to save Tatiana's life, or was it all for the pipeline? She was a realist, and so knew his motives were likely mixed.

Elle and Matt waited near the front desk while Pyotr spoke to the hotel manager. She noticed Matt's gaze upon her. "What's on your mind?" he asked.

She looked at him. "What if Tatiana doesn't call?"

He sighed. "I'll return to Koprivshtitsa to pick her up. She's going with me to Moscow."

"What if she refuses?" Elle asked.

Matt shook his head. "I won't force her to travel with me, but Tatiana will not have a material choice in the matter. I spoke to Polkov last night. He had known already about Manov's death, and I shared with him we were investigating living relatives of Manov's testing their blood for the antibody."

He continued softly. "I'm in a predicament, Elle. Polkov doesn't know he has another daughter, but he knows that I'm still here in Bulgaria looking for a way to save Irina's life."

She shook her head. "You don't have to tell him we found Tatiana, Matt."

He looked at her. "And then what happens when Irina dies, and you and I both know that we might have been able to save her?"

Elle looked down at the ground. She didn't enjoy forcing Tatiana to do something against her will, but Irina's life was in their hands. "What do we do?" she asked.

"We hope that she decides on her own to help Irina. If she doesn't, we have no choice but to tell Polkov about Tatiana. I don't see a more ethical course of action we could take."

Elle frowned. "So Tatiana can go with you to Moscow, or she can wait for the KGB to come to Bulgaria to take her by force to Polkov?"

"You got it."

"Tatiana's been through a lot in the last few days," she reminded him. "Nadia's gone, and she's just learned she has a twin sister. She may need more time."

Matt shook his head. "Every day we wait is another day Irina gets sicker. I know a lot has happened over the last few days, but we can't wait until Tatiana fully processes all of her feelings about the situation, Elle. There isn't time."

Matt and Elle were closer, almost face to face, the tension high between the two of them.

Pyotr returned to where they were standing. He looked uncomfortable. "What are you guys talking about?"

"Nothing," Matt said, pulling back slightly. His gaze met Pyotr's. "So what's going on? Can we get up into the room now?"

"Yes," Pyotr said. "I have the key to room 312. Let's go check it out."

# Chapter 118

The first thing she noticed was the smell: that Lysol smell, as if an aerosol cleaner had been released for a long time within the small space to kill the evidence of a dead body having been there.

The next thing she noticed was the absence of sheets on the bed. She wondered what the crime scene had looked like when Zerow was here. Had he fallen asleep in bed and died peacefully?

Matt seemed to have the same question. "Where was the body, Pyotr? Do you know anything from the police report about the crime scene?"

"Yes," Pyotr replied. "I forwarded two photos to my phone from the evidence files to give us a better sense of what might have happened here."

Matt and Elle stood on either side of Pyotr, reviewing the photos with him. The three were silent, looking closely at the pictures for clues.

Matt commented, "He's lying on his back, with the covers almost up to his chin."

"Yes," said Pyotr. "Our detectives noted the unusual positioning, too. Check out this second photo they snapped of the body with the sheets and blankets removed."

The second photo revealed Zerow's torso, his arms neatly placed next to his naked body.

Pyotr looked uncomfortably at Matt. "Is it customary for Americans to sleep naked in winter?"

Matt shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. "I mean, I guess I don't really know what other people do. It's not something I would do."

Amused by Matt's embarrassment, Elle struggled to suppress a slight smile. "Pyotr," she asked, "are you suggesting that perhaps he was placed here, after his death?"

Pyotr shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. In these pictures he's lying perfectly flat, arms at his side, and he's naked. It seems strange."

"Maybe we should look for clues suggesting the body was moved, and for clues that somebody else was here with him in the room." Matt suggested.

The three went to work in different directions in the room. Elle stood at the side of the bed, trying to visualize Zerow's body under the covers. She sniffed, noticing a familiar scent, a smell she could not immediately place. She sniffed again.

"What is it?" Matt asked.

"Perfume," Elle remarked. "I've smelled this somewhere recently." She sniffed again, seeking the source.

Matt joined her. "My olfactory senses aren't that great," he admitted. "I smell nothing past the standard clean hotel room smell."

Elle bent down near the armchair next to the bed. "It's stronger over here," she offered. Pyotr joined them near the chair.

"Perfume scent can last for weeks on cloth," Pyotr said, "so whoever was wearing the perfume could have been here before Zerow, not necessarily at the same time that he was here."

"I wish I could pinpoint that familiar scent," Elle said, wringing her hands. "I know it from somewhere."

Pyotr pulled out his mobile phone. "Georgi, it's Pyotr. On the American, did you smell any distinct perfume odors that would indicate a woman may have been with him before his death?" Pyotr looked down at the carpet, listening to Georgi's response. "Merci, Georgi," he said, and then he ended the call.

Pyotr turned to face Elle and Matt. "Dr. Blastov didn't recall any perfume odor, but he said that doesn't mean one didn't exist: he's suffering from a slight cold that's impairing his typically sharp sense of smell."

"Who found the body?" Elle asked. "Was it a housekeeper? If so, could the perfume be hers?"

"Yes, it was the housekeeper who found Zerow on her routine cleaning duty," Pyotr confirmed, "and it's very possible that the scent you detected, Elle, belonged to the housekeeper."

"You're probably right," admitted Elle. But something inside her resisted, encouraging her to consider that the perfume was important, that this was a detail that could assist them in understanding what happened to Zerow.

They left the hotel room with no further clues. On the elevator ride back down to the lobby, Elle decided she would try to figure out the name of the perfume. They had no other leads and all they could do right now was await Tatiana's response, so what did she have to lose?

As they crossed the lobby, nearing the front entrance, Elle announced, "I'm headed to Paradise Center Mall for a bit. I'll meet up with you here later, Matt." Matt had provided her a card key to room 1005, giving her the opportunity to come and go as she pleased. She was headed off on her own now for the first time in a while, glad for the opportunity to reassert her independence.

Matt and Pyotr looked at her quizzically. "New shoes?" Pyotr asked, grinning, a knowing look in his eyes.

"Sure," she replied, her cool gaze meeting Pyotr's.

She wasn't certain that testing fragrances in the mall would be productive. She wasn't sure that her sense of smell was refined enough to pinpoint the perfume. And even if she figured out the scent, would that get them closer to figuring out who murdered Zerow?

"What are you up to, Elle Larsen?" Matt asked cautiously. "Why are you so curious to understand what happened to Zerow?"

"Why am I interested in investigating a man's death?" Elle asked. She shrugged her shoulders. "Innate curiosity, perhaps? Or maybe I just want to see the situation to a close."

As she climbed into a waiting taxi outside the hotel, she challenged herself to explore Matt's question more deeply. She wasn't ready to go back to Chicago because her business in Sofia remained unfinished, and she was eager to put Zerow behind her so she could refocus on her original mission: to either corroborate or invalidate Operation Horseshoe military plans.

"Paradise Center Mall, molya," she instructed the taxi driver, and the cab sped south, out of the center of the city, towards the base of Vitosha Mountain.

# Chapter 119

Matt watched her leave the Intercontinental. "What do you think she's doing at the mall?"

Pyotr faced Matt squarely. "She's going to test perfume," he said matter-of-factly.

"How do you know that?" Matt asked.

Pyotr shook his head. "You should do a better job picking up clues, my friend. She's confident she's onto something with the perfume she smelled in the room."

"But she said, 'Forget about it.'" Matt insisted.

Pyotr chuckled. "She said that, but her body language and facial expressions told a different story. She's following her instincts."

Matt smiled. "You might be right."

Pyotr laughed. "Of course I'm right."

Matt shook his head. Pyotr was tracking Elle better than he had done, he had to admit.

Matt's phone buzzed, interrupting his thought of Elle. He answered the call. "Mr. O'Connor?" said the voice timidly on the other end of the line. He smiled widely. Taking in a deep breath, he replied confidently, "Tatiana. I'm so glad you called."

# Chapter 120

He took a few steps away from Pyotr to continue the conversation in private. "It's good to hear from you, Tatiana," Matt reassured her.

"I needed some time to think about what to do," she said. "I'm ready to help now. My mother is dead, and my obligation is to save my twin sister."

Matt's smile evaporated. "You could choose not to help, to go about your life. Or you could take the more courageous route to save somebody's life. You've chosen the difficult path. Never underestimate the power of choice, Tatiana."

There was a pause. Matt wondered if she found his words inspiring, as he had intended, or whether she found them rote, rehearsed.

He heard her sigh on the other end of the line. "You talk about choice, Mr. O'Connor, but let's be honest with each other. Choice is a lie you tell yourself to feel better about having coerced somebody into doing something you want them to do, in your best interest."

She continued, "I can help you willingly, but if I choose not to help, you'll call the KGB, and the situation will be much worse for me then than it is right now. They'll break down the door, and they'll test my blood, and if I'm a match to be a donor, then they'll take me to Moscow, against my will. And they would take my blood, and whatever else they would need, and then they would discard me, used, when I was no longer important to their goals."

He was speechless. She continued, "So that's what the alternative to helping you entails, Mr. O'Connor. It's not a good option. I'll take your offer, but don't offend my intelligence by suggesting that this is my choice. This is the lesser of two evils."

Matt had been holding his breath. Everything this young woman was saying was true; Tatiana seemed worldly beyond her years. For a moment he felt sadness, wishing for her sake that she were less of a realist.

He shook himself into action, rattling off orders. "Pack a light bag with three to four days' worth of comfortable clothing," he commanded. "And do you have a valid passport?"

"Of course," she replied.

"We'll test your blood when you get here. Assuming you're a fit donor, I'll arrange transport to Moscow and let the Kremlin know we're on our way. I'll send a driver in a black sedan to pick you up right now."

Pyotr watched Matt end the telephone conversation. "She's in, isn't she?" Pyotr asked.

Matt nodded. He couldn't pinpoint exactly why this course of events had not brought him the satisfaction he had expected.

# Chapter 121

The first thing she noticed was how bright Le Parfumerie was. This store was like the ones in the United States: small kiosks occupied by women laden with makeup.

She breathed deeply, competing scents invaded her nostrils. Would she be able to discern what the mystery woman's scent was? And even if she did, how would she tie the scent to a person?

She was methodical in her search, starting with the kiosk closest to the entrance of the store. She approached the woman at the small booth who smiled as Elle approached.

The woman's own makeup was minimal, secondary to the natural beauty of her dark brown eyes and long, silky brown hair. She looked different from many other women at the other kiosks, who seemed bored or distracted by themselves. She seemed interested- and interesting.

"May I help you find something special?" the woman asked in soft, controlled English.

Elle replied in Bulgarian. "I'm interested in your perfumes."

The woman smiled, and she continued in English. "This is our most popular scent among women of all nationalities. It's created here in Sofia. It's soft, with floral undertones."

Elle shook her head. "I'm looking for something more distinct, for gaining the attention of a man. Something musky."

The woman looked puzzled. "I didn't peg you for that scent."

"It's not for me," Elle admitted, smiling shyly. "I'm trying to track down somebody by her unique scent."

The woman nodded, eager to help. She pointed to a perfume in a red bottle with a sharp black lid. The bottle reminded Elle of what one would expect in a receptacle for an evil potion.

"Bulgarian rose oil is more aromatic than other rose oils, which is why most of the rose oil extracted here in Bulgaria is exported to the famous perfume manufacturers like Chanel and Christian Dior. This fragrance in the red bottle is manufactured here in Sofia. While the base scent is musk, you'll notice hints of rose intermingled."

The saleswoman sprayed a small piece of paper with the scent for Elle to sample. "This perfume is called Envy. It's a popular perfume among some members of the Bulgarian elite, particularly older women wanting to make a sexual statement."

"This is it!" Elle exclaimed. Her sense of smell wasn't perfect, but this was definitely the perfume. How lucky, she thought, that the first scent she had sampled was the right one.

"Did anybody of interest purchase this scent from you recently?" Elle asked. She noticed a look of caution in the woman's gaze. "I'm not police; I'm an American reporter trying to track down a woman who might be involved in the death of an American man."

"Are the police involved?" the woman asked curiously. Elle nodded. "There's a very good detective involved."

The woman sighed. "An American woman was here a few days ago."

Elle's heart skipped a beat. "Do you think you could describe her?"

The saleswoman closed her eyes, putting herself back into the memory. "She was very plain looking. I'm having difficulty recalling any specific physical details about her."

The saleswoman opened her eyes and continued. "She was looking for a Bulgarian perfume. It had to be Bulgarian; she had insisted on this. She wanted something 'sexy,' she had said. I remember her smiling at me, as if she were indicating, yes, you know what this is for. She loved the bottle, and even more she loved the name of the scent: Envy. She tried that one and that one only, and she purchased it immediately."

"Did she pay by credit card?" Elle asked excitedly.

"No, I don't think so. She paid in leva."

"No way to trace her identity," Elle mumbled, mostly to herself. She sighed. "Thank you for your help. You seem to have a good intuition about people. You were right about that scent being wildly wrong for me."

The attendant blushed. "People interest me. I'm in graduate school at the University of Sofia studying behavioral psychology."

"That's a good fit for your strengths," Elle said.

"Thanks," the clerk said. "And good luck with your investigation."

As Elle exited the store, she smiled, thinking this hunch of hers ended up surfacing an American woman who might be connected to Zerow. As she walked outside to flag a cab back to the Intercontinental, she thought about how she couldn't wait to get back to Matt and to Pyotr to share with them her news.

# Chapter 122

As she approached the Intercontinental's revolving door, she spotted Matt and Pyotr waiting in the lobby

Matt saw her, too. He had spied her even before she saw him; he had watched her get out of the cab. He noticed she seemed happy

"Hi," she said emphatically, taking a seat next to Pyotr and across from Matt in the cozy alcove of the lobby near the radiating fireplace.

"What is it?" Matt and Pyotr asked in unison, eager to hear what she had to say.

"Envy," was all she said, her lips pursed in a smile, her eyes twinkling.

The looked at each other quizzically and then back at her. "I give up," Matt said.

"The perfume is called Envy. That was the strong scent in Zerow's room."

"How could you be certain, Elle?" Matt asked skeptically. "I mean, there are thousands of perfumes out there."

"Yes, that's true. But this perfume is sold at the first kiosk in Le Parfumerie. The perfume is Bulgarian. And an American woman purchased the perfume a few days ago. My theory is this: the American woman was looking for a Bulgarian perfume to make herself seem more Bulgarian, to mask her foreign status."

Elle continued, "The only thing that's nagging me is that I had smelled the scent before, and I can't pinpoint why it's familiar to me. This is the missing link. If I could remember where I smelled the perfume, maybe we could figure out where else this woman has been. This could be the clue we need to determine her identity."

"Was the salesperson able to give you a description of the woman who bought the perfume?" Pyotr asked.

"She said the woman had intimated that she would have an encounter with a man and wanted a perfume for the experience. She couldn't remember any physical details about the woman."

Matt sat forward, speaking quietly. "If an American woman was involved, and if Zerow's death wasn't because of natural causes, then I can to put a call into headquarters to see if they can give us any leads on who might have wanted Zerow dead."

Pyotr shrugged. "Given Benjamin Zerow's sordid past, there could be lots of people seeking retribution for violent crimes he committed. Maybe his past just caught up with him. An embittered widow seeking revenge, perhaps?"

Elle crinkled her brow. "Bulgaria is a long way to go to chase down Zerow." She sat up straight. "Wait a second. There is somebody who could want him dead: Bradshaw. Maybe Bradshaw called the hit to tie up loose ends?"

Pyotr nodded. "It makes sense. Bradshaw's in a bit of hot water, with people questioning his control of the CIA. Zerow's a loose cannon: unreliable and unpredictable. Bradshaw must know Zerow's a risk."

Matt was still leaning in. "Zerow was a bad man. Anybody could have wanted him dead. And it could have been Bradshaw." He sat back and sighed. "Is this worth pursuing? The coroner declared his death by natural causes. Does it matter if it was not?"

The three sat, silent for a little while, contemplating what Matt had said.

"If Bradshaw called the hit, then Zerow's cause of death matters to me," Elle said. "If we could find that woman who had been in the hotel room and tie her to Bradshaw, then we have the story of the century here."

Pyotr asked, "Will you stay in Sofia a while investigating, Elle?" She noticed his eyes looked hopeful.

"Yes," she said. "Now that the pipeline story is on pause, I'll spend some time looking into Zerow's death, and then back to the Kosovo story. Nadia gave me a good lead, so I'm well positioned to do one more interview to wrap up that story. Then it's home to Chicago for me. I'm past my budget for this project, and my editor is eager to get me home quickly."

She tried to read Matt's face. She wondered what his plans were. If Tatiana had agreed to accompany him to Moscow, would he go to Russia and then return to Sofia? She liked the idea of possibly seeing him one last time before their paths completely diverged.

Matt's eyes met hers; he had caught her looking at him. She offered a weak smile. "Tatiana called," he said.

"She did?" Elle asked, surprised by the young woman's quick response. "Is she in?"

Matt nodded. "She's on her way here now. We fly to Moscow early tomorrow morning."

"Oh," Elle said, her heart sinking. "Tomorrow."

"I'm going, too," Pyotr added.

"You are?" asked Elle and Matt in unison.

Pyotr chuckled. "Do you really think you'll be able to escort a Bulgarian minor to Moscow without drawing attention to yourself, Agent O'Connor? A forty-year-old American man traveling with a young Bulgarian girl?"

Matt said sheepishly. "I guess I didn't think about that."

Pyotr replied. "I got clearance from the SIA to accompany you. I have a seat on tomorrow's Air Moscow flight."

Matt nodded. "It'll be good to have you along, Pyotr. Thank you."

Pyotr looked at Elle. "I think you should come with us, Elle. The cost of your airline ticket would be courtesy of the Bulgarian government."

"Me? But why?" Elle asked.

"For a few reasons. First, if we travel as four- two men and two women- we're less likely to draw attention than two men and a very young woman. Second, Tatiana seems more comfortable with you than with me or Matt. The only condition to you going with us is that you must sign an agreement that you will not report on the transfusion, to protect Tatiana's identity."

The story isn't always the most important thing, she reminded herself. "I'll do it," she said.

"Excellent," Pyotr offered. "I already bought you a seat next to mine on the plane, hoping you would say yes."

Matt looked surprised. "You've thought of everything, Pyotr," he said.

Pyotr looked at Elle. "I'm an adept planner. You can count on me."

Elle looked at Matt, who offered a weak smile in return. She asked, "What will happen when Polkov finds out about a daughter he never had?"

Matt explained, "I already broke the news to Polkov about Tatiana. If Tatiana is interested in cultivating relationships with her father and her twin sister, Polkov said he could manage it politically. And if Tatiana preferred to return quietly to Bulgaria after the transfusion, well, I think that would be okay with the Polkovs, too."

"What about Irina?" Elle asked. "Does she have a say?"

Matt shrugged his shoulders. "I think that's contingent on what Tatiana wants. When I spoke to Tatiana earlier, she made it sound as if she wanted to do the transfusion and return home as quickly as possible."

"Perhaps," Elle said. "I just wonder if she'll feel differently once she's in Moscow with her father and her twin sister."

Elle caught out of the corner of her eye someone walking towards them. "It's Tatiana," she whispered. She, Matt and Pyotr stood to greet the young woman.

She wasn't smiling. Elle didn't blame her.

# Chapter 123

"Hi Tatiana," Elle offered. Still unsmiling, the younger woman nodded curtly.

"Thank you for agreeing to do this," Matt said.

"I'm the leverage America needs with Moscow, right?"

Pyotr jumped into the conversation. "Ms. Manov, I can attest to Agent O'Connor's motives, which are in Bulgaria's best interests."

Tatiana faced Pyotr, addressing him in Bulgarian. "It's difficult to trust somebody who caused my mother's death," she said.

"What do you mean?" Pyotr asked.

"My mother is dead because of him," she said, gesturing angrily towards Matt

Pyotr shook his head. "Your mother's death was an accident."

Tatiana started to cry. "She would still be alive if she hadn't been with him."

"That's true, but it wasn't Agent O'Connor's fault."

Tatiana was silent for a moment, tears streaming down her face. Pyotr looked uncomfortable. Elle offered, "Tatiana, the assassin who killed your mother is dead. I saw his body at the morgue with my own eyes."

Pyotr added, "And I'll be accompanying you to Moscow. I trust Agent O'Connor, but I understand why you would not. Think of me as the one whom you can rely on to keep you safe."

"I'm going, too," Elle added.

Tatiana wiped her tears. "Why? So you can write a story about this sordid experience, to make money and become famous from my tragedy?"

Elle shook her head. "I've promised not to write about you. Pyotr thought traveling with another woman might make you feel more comfortable."

Tatiana turned to Matt. "You've considered it all, then?" she asked quietly.

Pyotr extended his hand to Elle. "Ms. Larsen, I am looking forward to seeing you tomorrow morning."

Matt faced Pyotr. "Six-o'clock at the Air Moscow counter?"

"Da," Pyotr said. Turning to face Tatiana, he offered, "Try to get some rest this evening, Ms. Manov."

Pyotr turned and walked across the lobby to his car parked in the front of the Intercontinental.

"Let's get you settled in for the evening," Elle suggested, and the three headed to room 1005.

# Chapter 124

Matt showed Tatiana around the apartment. "You can sleep in the bedroom at the end of the hallway. Elle's room is the one across from the bathroom, and I'll sleep out here on the couch tonight."

Elle shook her head. "Tatiana can take the room I'd been using, Matt, and you can keep your bed. I'll head back to my apartment tonight. Now that Zerow is dead, there's no threat."

Matt frowned. "Are you sure? After what happened?"

Elle breathed deeply and nodded. She knew she'd be nervous revisiting the apartment, but she reminded herself that the danger had passed.

He knew he wouldn't be able to change her mind. "All right," he said. "Tatiana, I'm going to duck into the communications room for a while to get some work done. Please knock if you need anything." Matt closed the door behind him, leaving Elle and Tatiana together in the living room.

Elle sensed Tatiana was uncomfortable. "He's a good guy," Elle said. "I trust him, and President Polkov trusts him."

Tatiana looked as if there were more to say. "Would you like to sit down for a moment?" Elle offered. The younger woman nodded.

"What's wrong with Irina?" Tatiana whispered.

"She has a very rare blood disorder. The Polkovs had kept Irina's illness a secret for a few months, but secrets are difficult to keep from the CIA. Matt found out about Irina, and then he consulted with top American disease experts and discovered that Irina could be cured with a blood transfusion. The problem is that very few people in the world carry the antibody, as it's a mutated gene. Matt tested your mother and discovered she carried the antibody."

"Why was Agent O'Connor eager to help?"

"He was working with Azerbaijan and Bulgaria to build a natural gas pipeline to Western Europe. He told President Polkov he would save Irina if Polkov would allow the pipeline to be built."

"Blackmail," Tatiana said bitterly.

"It was more like a mutual agreement, Tatiana. Everybody had something to gain by doing it this way."

"But the pipeline exploded," said Tatiana. "Polkov reneged on his deal."

Elle shook her head. "The Russians weren't responsible for the explosion. A terrorist group did it."

"Terrorists. Why?"

"To protect the financial interests of a businessman with a lot of stock in Russian gas" was all Elle said. She didn't think Tatiana needed to know that it was the American president behind it all. Elle thought about why she wasn't more eager to break this story. She wondered if it was because a part of her didn't want to give the world one more reason to distrust the United States, which is exactly what would happen when everybody found out the truth.

Elle continued, "There will be an opportunity to rebuild the pipeline in a few years, but Irina might not make it that long. That's why the transfusion must happen now."

"I see," said Tatiana.

Elle asked gently, "How are you doing, Tatiana? I mean, it's a lot to handle, this news of your father, and of your twin sister."

Tatiana shook her head. "I don't know. I was on this path to get my degree to become a doctor in Koprivshtitsa, and I had never planned to leave my home. Now we're headed to Moscow to save my twin sister's life."

Tatiana looked at Elle. "Do you think my father will want to meet me? And do you think I will be able to meet Irina, or will the KGB keep my identity a secret? At first, when you came to my home, I just wanted you to leave. Then I felt scared, knowing that if I didn't go with you to Moscow, that Polkov would be desperate to save Irina's life, and he might send the KGB after me. But now I'm wondering if running back here after the blood transfusion is really what I want. My mom is gone, and my only remaining family is in Moscow. I'm not sure that they want me, or that I want them."

The women sat silent together for a moment. Silence was difficult for Elle, as she was a person of action, always ready for the next moment. She stood. "Let's get you set up for the evening, Tatiana. I'll grab some clean sheets and towels from the linen closet for you."

Tatiana nodded. "Thank you, Ms. Larsen."

Tatiana flipped on the switch to the spare bedroom while Elle moved down the hallway to pull a few items from the linen closet. Tatiana looked around the small room, wondering if, with so much on her mind, she'd be able to sleep. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn't felt hungry these last few days; she had forced some food down this morning to placate Ana's constant worrying.

Elle appeared in Tatiana's doorway. "Here you go," she said, placing the clean linens on the bed in the room. "I'll just grab my suitcase, and then..."

Elle stopped in her tracks. Tatiana noticed this immediately; she saw the look of puzzlement on Elle's face. "What is it?" Tatiana asked.

Elle inhaled deeply. It was the scent, Envy, here in this room!

She scanned the room, trying to detect the source of the perfume smell

"Ms. Larsen, what is it?" Tatiana asked, alarmed.

Elle smiled nervously. "It's nothing. You can put the used sheets in this hamper in the room's corner." She walked over to the bin and opened the lid.

Her suspicions were correct: the scent was coming from the hamper. From the sheets that Elle had changed before she slept in the room.

Carine's sheets.

# Chapter 125

Her heart was beating quickly. She breathed deeply to calm herself. The last thing she wanted was to unnerve Tatiana. She forced a polite smile. "Try to get some rest, Tatiana. I'll see you at the airport tomorrow morning."

Tatiana nodded. "See you tomorrow."

Elle knocked on the door to the communications room. "Come in," Matt said.

"Are you sure you have to go back to your place?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. Her heart was still beating quickly.

He frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Can we talk privately for a few minutes?"

"Sure," he said, following her down the hallway to the living room. They sat down, she on the corner of the sofa, he on the chair. "What's going on?"

She breathed deeply to steady herself. "How did the conversation with Polkov go?" she asked Matt.

"It went well. He's glad that Tatiana cooperated."

"What's the plan in Moscow?" she asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Does Polkov want to meet Tatiana? Will Tatiana be allowed to see Irina?"

"He said he wants to meet Tatiana to thank her for what she's agreed to do. He asked me if I thought Tatiana wanted to meet him. I said I didn't know."

Elle said, "I suppose it's good that both parties are approaching this tentatively. Maybe once they meet, they can figure out together what they want to do."

"How is Tatiana doing?" Matt asked.

"She seems okay. She's very brave."

"Thank you for coming with us to Moscow, Elle. I'm glad Pyotr arranged this; it'll be good for Tatiana."

Elle nodded. "Thank you for trusting me. I imagine there aren't too many CIA operatives out there willing to trust a journalist."

He smiled. "You're different." He looked down at his hands. "Elle, I know we have no future together, that we're headed in separate directions after Moscow. I wish it weren't that way, though. I like you."

She smiled, leaning in closer. "Would the CIA even let you date a journalist? Don't they have rules on who you can't date? Like you can't date a terrorist? Or a communist? Or a journalist?"

He laughed. "They probably have rules. But rule following is not a typical characteristic of an operative, you know. The CIA looks for candidates with strong moral values, dedication, commitment, and perseverance willing to break rules when the rules don't matter. So yeah, they probably have dating restrictions in place, but our human resources department probably also knows nobody's adhering to them."

It was her turn to laugh. "Elle, why don't you stay here tonight?" he offered. "We're all headed to the same place in the morning."

"I want to stay," she said, her gaze meeting his, "but I think it's best if I go. I'll see you in the morning at the airport."

"All right," he conceded. Again, he knew he could not change her mind.

She needed to tell him about the perfume. Why did she not want to tell him about this?

He looked at her quizzically. "What's on your mind?"

"That perfume, Envy," she whispered. "I know now where I smelled it before."

"Where?"

"Carine was wearing it."

Matt frowned. "I don't understand."

"When I dropped off clean sheets with Tatiana in the second bedroom, I smelled the perfume. The scent was coming from the hamper where I put Carine's sheets last night, when I changed the bed linens." She continued, "Carine meets the description the perfume seller provided, Matt."

Matt asked, "Okay, maybe she bought perfume. Maybe she met somebody here in Sofia she wanted to impress. There's no way she could have been with Zerow."

Elle's brow furrowed. "No way? Are you sure?"

"No," Matt asserted. "Jim handpicked Carine to ferry communication between headquarters and me, and he has an excellent sense of people. Carine could not be involved with Zerow. I don't know how she could even know him: she was a State Department intelligence analyst in DC, and he was the leader of a paramilitary group in Montana. It's impossible."

He rubbed his temples. "Maybe she bought the perfume for me." He sighed. "She wanted to stay, to continue working with me. She told me we'd make a good team. Maybe she bought the perfume because she thought she had a chance with me." He looked at Elle. "When I realized she had feelings for me, I sent her back home immediately."

Elle said nothing. He continued, "It's just a coincidence that Carine's perfume matches the scent from Zerow's room, Elle. It can't be anything other than a coincidence."

She shook her head. "There are very few true coincidences in the world, Matt. More often than not, there are connections, not coincidences."

Matt drummed his fingers on the table. He heard a noise in the hallway: it was the click of Tatiana's door. A moment later she emerged from her room.

He smiled. "Tatiana. Hi."

She said, "I thought I might grab myself a bite to eat."

Matt stood. "Excellent. Let me show you what we've got."

Elle stood, too. There was no use arguing over coincidences and connections. "I'll see you both bright and early in the morning," she said, wheeling her suitcase behind her as she exited room 1005.

# Chapter 126

Elle admitted to herself as she pushed open the ajar gate to the Solska apartment complex courtyard that she felt fearful, as those memories of that evening when Zerow had hunted her flooded back fiercely. She thought curiously about how a place- a location- had the power to invoke such strong feelings.

She reminded herself that Zerow was gone and that he could no longer hurt her. She told herself that this feeling of fear was only a reminder of what had happened, and that the real threat had passed. She exhaled as she traversed the courtyard, rolling her suitcase behind her. She reminded herself she was safe, and she would get a good night's sleep, and then she'd be off to the airport early in the morning.

She listened carefully as she walked across the grass, encouraging herself that the absence of noises out of place meant that everything was okay.

She heard a faint rustle. And then she smelled it: Envy.

She froze. The woman- Carine, or whoever had been with Zerow- was here. She knew at that moment that she had to run as quickly as possible from the courtyard.

She took a step backward to exit and bumped into somebody right behind her. She felt the needle pierce her neck, and then she instinctively pushed the syringe away.

She heard the syringe hit the pavement with a clink, and then everything went black.

# Chapter 127

Pyotr was heading back to his apartment to pull together a few items for the trip to Moscow when his mobile phone rang.

Before the interruption, he had been sitting in his BMW at a stoplight, thinking about Elle. He knew they had no future together, that there wasn't enough in Sofia to keep her here. Securing a ticket for her to go to Moscow, he admitted, was selfish. This trip would give him a chance to spend a little more time with her before she returned to the U.S.

Pyotr's looked at the incoming call on his phone. It was the coroner.

"What have you got, Georgi?" Pyotr asked.

"Pyotr, you were right. The American didn't die of natural causes. I started thinking after you left that I should do more testing. I tested his blood and found high traces of nexopyroxine and lukopotatrine."

"Give it to me straight, Georgi. What does that mean?"

"It means your American was poisoned with a cocktail toxin that would have paralyzed him. So I took another look at the body. And I found a tiny hole in his neck where he could have been punctured by a thin needle."

Georgi continued. "But the toxin wouldn't have killed him. Even with the stress his body was under recovering from the burns, something else killed him. Asphyxiation is the likeliest culprit: once paralyzed, he would not have been able to fight back, and then somebody could have easily smothered his breath.

"I found evidence of asphyxiation in his lung tissue, Pyotr. All anybody would have had to do would have been to have held a pillow, with little force at all, over his nose and mouth, and that would have been enough to do him in."

Pyotr made a U-turn in the busy intersection. "I'm headed back to the office. We need to get a crew back out to the Intercontinental to dust for fingerprints. We now know that this is a murder, and..."

"Let me stop you there," Georgi said. "I think your time would be better spent investigating the source of the toxin. It's unusual, Pyotr, this mixture of nexopyroxine and lukopotatrine was in the deceased's blood. I'm texting you the names of these two chemicals right now. My guess is that your suspect wouldn't be sloppy enough to leave fingerprints at the crime scene, so going back to look for clues might be a waste of time. If you can track down the origin of the toxin, then you have your murderer."

# Chapter 128

Pyotr pulled into the driveway of his apartment complex on the east side of town and dialed Matt immediately from the BMW.

"Agent O'Connor," Pyotr announced, "your suspicion was correct about Zerow's death. Benjamin Zerow didn't die of natural causes. He was murdered."

Matt was silent for a moment at the desk in the communications room, contemplating Pyotr's news. "How do you know, Pyotr?"

"After we left the morgue, Dr. Blastov tested Zerow's blood, and he found very high amounts of two chemicals, nexopyroxine and lukopotatrine, in Zerow's body."

"Sorry, what did you say the names of those chemicals were?" Matt asked.

"Just a moment. I'm pulling up the text from Georgi to read you the names again. The drug was a combination of nexopyroxine and lukopotatrine."

"How certain is Dr. Blastov about this?" Matt asked.

"Very certain." Pyotr asked, "Do you have a lead, Agent O'Connor?"

Matt replied, "I'll see what I can find out on our end."

"Agent O'Connor, what do you know about these chemicals?" Pyotr asked again, his voice raised in agitation.

Matt sidestepped Pyotr's question. "Thanks for the information, Detective Dimitrov. I'll see you tomorrow at the airport."

Matt hung up the phone and moved his chair away from the desk, revealing a small box with a latch mounted to the underside of the steel desk. Matt slowly opened the latch.

The two vials were gone. And the handgun was missing, too.

# Chapter 129

Barely breathing, he dialed Jim immediately.

"Matt, I didn't expect to hear from you before your return. What's going on?"

"Jim, why did you enlist Carine Winters's help? What do you know about her?"

"Matt, what do you mean?"

"I mean, why Carine Winters? Did she approach you?"

Jim laughed. "Do you take me for an amateur? Winters was just a mousy State Department analyst with a crush on you. What's going on?"

"Benjamin Zerow was murdered in his hotel room last night, Jim. The Sofia police found a nexopyroxine-lukopotatrine cocktail in his system."

Jim was silent for a moment. "Okay, so it was an American operative who did Zerow in. What's the big deal, Matt? Zerow was a bad dude."

"Two vials of nexopyroxine and lukopotatrine are missing from my communications room, Jim. And the spare handgun is gone, too. The only person who was here in this apartment when I wasn't around was Carine Winters."

"Why would Carine kill Zerow?" Jim asked.

"I don't know," Matt muttered. "She knew Zerow was gunning for me. Maybe she thought she was protecting me?" he offered weakly.

Jim scoffed. "Carine Winters is a State Department analyst. A bookworm. Do I think she has a motive? Maybe a very weak one. Do I think she has aptitude or guts to kill a trained assassin? Absolutely not."

"Where are the vials, Jim? Somebody used them to kill Zerow. Who did it, and how did they get the serum?"

"I don't know, Matt, but Carine Winters couldn't have pulled it off. I'm rarely wrong about people."

Matt sighed. "I don't know, Jim. What if this wasn't just a crush? What if this was more like an obsession, cultivated over time since Kosovo..."

"Get over yourself, Agent O'Connor. It's not Winters."

Matt sighed. "But Jim, there's another clue that points to Winters: her perfume. Elle Larsen noticed the scent on Zerow, and she said she had smelled this unique odor before. A vendor confirmed selling the perfume to an American. Tonight Elle picked up the same scent on Carine's used bed sheets."

"A perfume, Matt? Really? Do you think Ms. Larsen's sense of smell is that sharp?"

He thought of Elle. "Yes, I do," he replied. "She's very perceptive."

Jim said, "So we have Winters' scent at the crime scene. And Winters had access to the vials."

"It fits, Jim."

"But how could she have gotten into Zerow's hotel room?"

"She gained access into our safe room here at the hotel. She convinced the manager she was legit for room 1005, so how difficult could it be to get access to a regular room?"

"Oh," Jim said.

"If Winters could persuade somebody at the front desk to give her access to the CIA suite, then it's entirely possible that she could convince a clerk at the front desk that her 'husband' - who had preceded her in their visit to Sofia - was not picking up his phone. Perhaps he had fallen asleep already after such an arduous journey? Would the clerk provide her a second room key so she wouldn't have to wake her dear husband from his slumber?"

"Okay, perhaps," Jim admitted. "So she accessed Zerow's room with the vials in hand, ready to paralyze and then suffocate him?"

"Possibly," Matt said.

Jim offered, "We'll put the word out to take in Winters for questioning. Let me see when she returned to the U.S."

Matt waited while Jim checked the customs database.

"Matt, she hasn't come through U.S. customs yet. She hasn't returned to D.C. yet."

"So she's still here in Sofia?"

"She could be anywhere," Jim said. "But don't worry about it, Matt. You can handle a crazed fan. I'll see you when you get back from Moscow."

# Chapter 130

Jim sat back in his chair in the office. He hadn't expected to speak to Matt until after the operation was over, and he found himself relieved that so far everything was going according to plan.

Everything was in order, except this hiccup with Carine Winters. Had he been wrong about her? He believed that she was powerless, an eager civil servant, the perfect messenger to relay information to and from Matt without detection. Could she have been capable of killing an assassin? The whole thing seemed so unlikely.

How could he sort this out to find Carine—wherever she was—to question her? This was a sticky situation because Winters was a U.S. citizen. Had she been a foreigner, Jim would have had a dozen resources at his disposal to track and apprehend Winters, but as an American, Winters' capture would be up to the FBI.

He had to do something. He put on his coat and gloves and hopped into his Audi, headed for D.C.

# Chapter 131

The brawny middle-aged man walked purposefully to the security station, a wide grin on his face.

Jim smiled. "It's been a few years, Bill, but you still look the same. Same suit. Same crew cut."

The men shook hands and clapped each other on their backs. "I'd say you look the same, too, Jim, but I don't make a habit out of lying."

Bill Charleton handed Jim a visitor's badge. "We can talk in private up in my office." They walked a short distance down a pristine hallway to a stairwell at the end.

They climbed one floor, and then a second, and finally a third. "Does the FBI not believe in elevators?" Jim asked breathlessly as they reached the pinnacle of the stairway.

Bill laughed. "Our agents are the fittest of all federal employees, Jim, and now you know our workout secret."

Bill's office was on the right, a small, utilitarian space containing a metal desk, two metal chairs padded in vinyl, and a poster-sized photograph that Jim recognized.

"I remember when you took that photo of the quad, Bill. It was our freshman year," Jim said, sitting in one of the chairs.

Bill chuckled, taking the seat behind his desk. "That was a long time ago. And look at us now, two old guys still serving and protecting."

"My office is a little homier than yours, you know."

"I expect the CIA's hooked you up with some fancy digs over there at Langley. The FBI's a little more frugal; we don't have the luxury of funneling money through black ops over here. We're transparent about everything."

Jim smiled. "You're still a boy scout, Bill."

"So what's going on, Jim? What can I do for you?"

"We have a situation."

Bill laughed. "I figured that much. Go on."

Jim sighed. "As you know, President Bradshaw has the CIA under scrutiny. One of my operatives was in Bulgaria overseeing construction of a natural gas pipeline from Baku to Western Europe."

"What did the Russians think of this pipeline?" Bill asked, his eyebrows raised.

"We made a deal with them, and Polkov was onboard. We weren't sure that Bradshaw would be, though, since the pipeline project hurt his personal investment in Russian energy and also the profits of his own energy company."

Jim continued, "I enlisted a State Department intelligence analyst to ferry correspondence between me and my operative in Bulgaria to keep this operation off the White House's radar."

Bill scratched his head. "Kind of old school of you, isn't it, Jim?"

"Perhaps," Jim said. "Unfortunately, the analyst is now missing."

Bill leaned on his desk, a questioning look in his eyes. "Who do you think did it, Jim?"

Jim shook his head. "No, no, I didn't explain the situation correctly. We don't think she's been kidnapped. We think she went rogue."

"What do you mean, Jim?"

"I met Carine Winters at Langley a few weeks ago. She's an unassuming woman in her early forties, soft-spoken, seemingly benign. In the course of our conversation, she revealed that she had met my operative about twenty years ago in Kosovo, and that he had saved her life. The way she spoke of him made me think she was still enamored by him. She seemed trustworthy and unlikely to draw attention to herself, so I asked her if she would deliver in person a message to my operative in Bulgaria. She agreed."

"Okay," said Bill, his brow raised.

"I think perhaps I underestimated her interest in my operative. He was in danger, pursued by Benjamin Zerow, the leader of a right-wing American paramilitary organization."

Bill nodded. "I know Zerow. And I know why he went to Bulgaria."

Jim's eyes widened. "That's right. You lost your operative in the explosion. I had forgotten that you knew all about this operation."

Bill said, "We inserted our agent under deep cover into Zerow's group about a year ago. She traveled with Zerow and the rest of the group to Bulgaria to blow up your pipeline, Jim, under President Bradshaw's orders. Somehow Bradshaw found out what you were up to, even though you were trying to be careful, and he ordered Zerow and his gang to destroy the pipeline."

Bill continued. "Zerow's operation went awry. Our agent isn't exactly sure what happened, though."

Jim interrupted. "Wait a minute, Bill. Are you telling me that your agent survived the blast?"

Bill nodded. "Our agent was so deeply undercover that we were completely disconnected from her for many months. The only reason she survived the explosion was that she had left the campsite to call headquarters. It was the first time that we had heard from her in months. She wanted permission from headquarters to break her cover to stop the pipeline from being destroyed and the engineers from having been killed. Her conviction— that she could not stand by and let innocent people die- was what saved her life."

Bill continued, "She had called us from a pay phone in the center of Buhovo, and the explosion at the campsite was so powerful that we heard it on the other end of the telephone. Later she sent a report to headquarters that Zerow and the rest of the team appeared to have been killed in the blast, but that the site was so badly charred that she could not confirm that everybody was dead.

"She remained in Buhovo to look for evidence of survival of the paramilitary team members. She's checked hospitals and clinics, but nobody reported treating any Americans. We've been watching customs closely, and none of the paramilitary members have attempted to return to the U.S., at least not yet. Our best guess is that they are all dead."

Jim said, "Benjamin Zerow is definitely dead. But he didn't die in the blast; he was killed in his hotel room last night."

"What happened?" Bill asked.

"The coroner believes Zerow died of asphyxiation, that he was drugged and then smothered to death with a pillow. My operative believes Carine Winters, the State Department analyst, is responsible for his death."

Bill shook his head. "I don't think an analyst who sits behind a computer all day would have the skills or strength to take out an assassin, Jim. I don't believe it."

"I didn't either, Bill. But the chemical cocktail the coroner found in Zerow's blood is a unique composition the CIA uses to subdue suspects. There were two vials in our safe house in Sofia containing the cocktail, and the vials are now missing. Nobody had access to those vials except Winters and my operative."

"But why would Winters kill Zerow?" Bill asked.

"My operative moved the explosives that killed Zerow's team, and Zerow was seeking revenge. Our best guess is that Winters was protecting my operative from Zerow."

Bill rubbed his forehead. "Okay, so let's say Winters killed Zerow to prove her worthiness and dedication to your agent. If that's the case, then she's probably still in Sofia, right?"

Jim nodded. "We know she didn't return to the U.S. as planned."

"So she'll probably hang out near the safe house, waiting for an opportunity to speak to your agent, right?"

Jim nodded. "Yes, except my agent is headed to Moscow tomorrow morning to deliver on the deal we made with the Russians to move forward with the reconstruction of the pipeline."

Bill's eyes brightened. "So we can catch her while she's lying in wait for your agent to return to Sofia from Moscow."

"You got it, Bill. She's an American, and she's a special case, given her top secret clearance. Could you send an agent to bring her back for questioning?"

"Your visit is perfectly timed, Jim. My agent was scheduled to return to D.C. in two days unless she found evidence that Zerow was still alive. I'll send her word that Zerow is confirmed dead, and that she has a new mission, which should be a fairly easy one for a top agent: to apprehend and escort Carine Winters back to the U.S."

"Bill, thank you. We can arrange a private flight for your agent and Winters out of Sofia as soon as your agent nabs her."

Bill typed a few characters on his keyboard. "Let me pull up a photo of Carine Winters to confirm we're talking about the same person. Then I can send the photo to my agent."

Bill showed Jim an official State Department photo of Carine Winters from his database. "That's her, Bill. Thanks again for your help with this."

"My agent will be relieved to have confirmation that Zerow is dead. This news will bring her much-needed peace. Benjamin Zerow was a monster."

"Bill, our safe house is a hotel room at the Intercontinental Sofia. The freight elevators toward the back of the building are the only ones that reach room 1005 on the tenth floor. Your agent's best bet on apprehending Winters is at the Intercontinental."

"We're on it, Jim. We will bring Winters in for questioning."

"Thanks. I owe you one." Jim looked around the office again as he stood. "Maybe I could order you some better office furniture to call it even?"

"No thanks, Davidson. I'll hold my favor card until a time when I could use your help to get one of my agents out of a sticky situation."

"It's a deal, Bill." The old friends shook hands. "Thanks again."

# Chapter 132

She wasn't there at the designated place and time, and Matt knew her well enough to know that something wasn't right. He wasn't used to worrying.

Pyotr, Tatiana and Matt sat waiting for Elle near the Air Moscow ticket counter as planned. Matt was hunched forward, wringing his hands.

Pyotr guessed what Matt had been thinking. "Perhaps her cab got caught in traffic," he suggested.

"No," Matt said. "Something is wrong." He looked around, scanning the terminal. He watched a few people enter the airport through the doors nearest them, but there was no sign of Elle. He looked at his watch again. "I'm going to her apartment," he said as he stood.

"We'll all go," Pyotr offered. If Elle was in trouble, Pyotr thought, then he couldn't sit here at the airport with Tatiana wondering what was going on.

The three took a taxi to Elle's apartment. A resident was leaving the complex as they arrived. What good luck, Matt thought, that they would have such easy access into the courtyard.

Matt remembered the last time that he and Elle were in this courtyard the night Zerow pursued them. He blocked the memory from his mind and took a deep breath, refocusing himself on the current task at hand: to find Elle.

"Zdraveite," the resident said, smiling politely. He was an older man in his sixties, stout, with grey hair.

Pyotr asked him in Bulgarian, "Have you seen an American journalist? She rents an apartment in this complex."

The man frowned. "Something happened to her," he said. "Everybody here is talking about it."

"What do you know?" Pyotr asked. "I'm a police officer," he added, showing the man his badge.

"The woman was attacked here in the courtyard," the man said somberly. "Last night my neighbor, Ms. Dunkov, found the American lying here unconscious. She called the police, and an ambulance arrived to take the American to Sofia Hospital. That's all I know."

Pyotr looked at Matt and Tatiana. "Elle's at Sofia Hospital. Let's go."

# Chapter 133

In the ambulance her head had felt foggy, and the rest of her body felt nothing. She heard the paramedics comment on how cold her body felt. She didn't feel cold or hot. She heard them talking about an intravenous line, but she couldn't feel the needle as they inserted it under her skin on her wrist.

Now, in the hospital, she was regaining feeling again. Her head began to throb, and the nerves in her cold feet shot signals of pain up through her calves.

She felt him near her. "Elle," Matt whispered. "The doctors are running an antidote to the poison slowly through your IV line. Within the hour, you'll have full command of your body. They said that at this point it would be normal if you started to feel pain and tingling as the anesthetic properties of the poison wore off, so you've also been given a small dose of narcotics to help combat the pain."

She felt him squeeze her hand gently. She was grateful to be feeling things again. "You'll be okay," he whispered. She felt warmer, and exhausted from struggling to stay alive. Finding herself unable to ward off sleep, she drifted away.

# Chapter 134

She opened her eyes and blinked. Her eyes felt so dry. Had that really been Matt speaking to her about the poison, or had she dreamed it?

She looked around, feeling grateful to move her head, her neck. There on the chairs near the window in her hospital room she spied Matt, Pyotr and Tatiana.

Pyotr caught her gaze. "Elle, you're awake," he said excitedly.

She struggled to regain her speech. "Moscow," she muttered weakly.

Pyotr, Matt and Tatiana stood and moved closer to her bed. "It's okay," Pyotr whispered. "Don't worry about anything."

They were wasting time, she thought. She must speak. "Go to Moscow," she said as clearly and forcefully as she could muster.

Her eyes were fixed on Matt's, and his on hers. "I'm fine, really," she said as convincingly as she could.

Pyotr offered, "I can stay with Elle. She will only continue to recover and regain her strength. I will ensure she's safe until you and Tatiana return, if you're okay with this change of plans, Tatiana."

Tatiana nodded. Matt said nothing, his gaze still fixed on Elle.

"Take Tatiana to Moscow," Pyotr said. "Fulfill your promise, and we'll see you when you get back."

Matt clasped Elle's hand. She smiled weakly. "I'll see you soon," she said.

"Okay," he whispered.

On the way to the airport, Tatiana whispered, "She will be all right, Agent O'Connor."

"I hope so," said Matt. I hope this more than anything, he thought.

# Chapter 135

Pyotr smiled politely at Elle. He asked nervously, "Do you want to talk about what happened to you, or is it too soon?"

"Pull up a chair, Pyotr," she offered. He carried the wooden stool and placed it next to the bed.

"I don't remember too much," she admitted. "I smelled Envy, the same perfume that I discovered in Zerow's room, and then somebody tried to stab me with a needle. I remember knocking the needle out of my neck, and then seconds later I fell unconscious."

"Do you have any recollection of what your attacker may have looked like?"

Elle shook her head. "I think the assailant was about my height. That's just a guess, though, because I could knock the needle away. I think somebody stronger or larger could have killed me right on the spot."

Pyotr said, "It seems as if the same person who suffocated Zerow attacked you."

Elle said, "I have a theory about who did this, Pyotr."

"You do?"

She nodded, and then she frowned. "Didn't Matt share with you our suspicions?"

Pyotr shook his head. "No. Who is it?"

"Carine Winters."

Pyotr looked shocked. "The intelligence analyst? But why?"

"She was infatuated with Agent O'Connor."

Pyotr shook his head. "I don't understand. Why would she come after you?"

"I think she saw me as a threat to her ability to partner with Agent O'Connor."

"She was Agent O'Connor's partner?"

Elle shook her head. "No. She had been commissioned to relay messages between Matt and CIA headquarters to evade President Bradshaw's scrutiny. Matt ordered her to return to DC a few days ago."

Elle sighed. "That perfume, Envy, that I smelled in Zerow's room was familiar to me... I had smelled it elsewhere, but I couldn't remember where. Last night, when I was helping Tatiana settle into the second bedroom of the safe house, I smelled the scent again. I followed the smell to the hamper in the room where Carine's used bed sheets were stashed. And then I smelled the same scent again last night in the courtyard of my apartment complex, right before I was attacked."

Pyotr asked, "Could it be a coincidence, Elle? I mean, Carine doesn't seem capable of murder."

"I agree that she doesn't seem to fit the bill, but I also don't believe in coincidences. I think perhaps Winters was infatuated with Matt and killed Zerow to protect him, and then Winters came after me because she saw me as a roadblock to a relationship with her beloved."

Pyotr sat back in his chair. "Elle, I'm sorry, but this seems so sensational."

"I know, Pyotr," she admitted. "And unless the Sofia police can pull proof that Carine Winters was in Zerow's hotel room or in my apartment complex, we will have a difficult time proving she committed these crimes. Right now this is all just a hunch based on a common scent I picked up in three different places. I know it seems farfetched."

He took her hands. "Elle, I believe you. You're intelligent and perceptive. I guess I just can't believe I was so wrong about Carine. She seemed so innocent, so naïve."

Elle smiled. "When people are desperate, they sometimes do unpredictable things. Matt had asked Carine to return to the U.S. Perhaps she thought if she could prove to Matt to be a worthy partner, she could stay with him."

Pyotr smiled. "Love gives people the courage to act irrationally."

Elle shook her head. "Not love, Pyotr. Delusion."

# Chapter 136

Pyotr remained with Elle that night, and most of the next morning. During that time, Elle drifted off to sleep frequently, her body recovering slowly from the effects of the temporary paralysis.

When she was awake, she wracked her brain trying to recollect the scene in the courtyard when her assailant- Carine, she surmised- had drugged her. Elle wondered that if she had not been able to knock the vial to the ground before the serum was administered in its totality, if she would still be alive.

Elle awoke near midday to find Pyotr standing next to her bed. "Elle," he whispered, "I need to head over to the police department to catch up on some paperwork. I'll swing back by this evening with takeout from Aioli."

She sat up and nodded sleepily. "Thanks for looking out for me, Pyotr."

He smiled gently. "It's my pleasure, Ms. Larsen. Continue to rest. I'll see you later." She watched him gently close the hospital room door behind him as he left.

She lay back down in the bed, thinking about how tired she still felt, wondering when she might regain her vigor. She closed her eyes, reflecting on how grateful she was for Pyotr's company while she recuperated.

She started to think about her Kosovo story. About how, as soon as she regained her strength, she would call Viktor Koskov of the Bulgarian Intelligence Agency to arrange an appointment with him to find out what he knew about Operation Horseshoe.

She needed to call her editor to let him know that she was all right. She sat up to see what personal effects her friends had brought to the hospital. Was her cell phone here, she wondered. And what about her laptop, her purse, and all the other items in her suitcase? What had happened to the things that she was carrying when Carine attacked her in the courtyard?

She surveyed the hospital room but didn't see her purse or suitcase. She made a mental note to ask Pyotr about this when he returned later that afternoon.

She exhaled and reminded herself that this hospital stay was a good opportunity to rest, to regain her strength and to recuperate after a stressful few days. She closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep again.

# Chapter 137

She was used to periodic sleep interruptions by nurses coming in to check on her status. She heard the door open, and then she heard the clicking of dress shoes making contact with the linoleum floor.

Click, click.

The noise unnerved her, and she realized immediately why: the doctors and nurses who had been visiting her to-date all wore comfortable, padded shoes.

This wasn't a doctor or a nurse in her room, she sensed. It was somebody else.

Was she overreacting? Could this be Pyotr returning from his work? She was paralyzed with fear. What could she do?

The person was inside her room, still near the door. Elle had been sleeping on her side, facing the window, away from the door. She had to do something.

She rustled the sheets, signaling that she was awake, and slowly turned from facing the window to the door. She felt as if she were moving in slow motion. Who was this person in her room? She had to turn, to see.

As she turned her body, she caught sight only of the woman's shoes as she left the room, closing the door quickly behind her.

Click, click, was the sound of black patent leather heels against the floor.

She sat up and rang the buzzer on her hospital bed for help from a nurse. She hoped Pyotr would return soon.

# Chapter 138

"Do you think the person in your room was Carine?" Pyotr asked. He had returned to the hospital about fifteen minutes after the mysterious woman had departed Elle's room. He sat in a chair next to Elle's bed, listening intently as she recounted her experience.

Elle shook her head. "I'm not sure. It was a woman in heels. Everybody else here wears quiet, padded shoes. The click of her shoes caught my attention. I knew whoever it was, she was not a medical attendant."

Pyotr took Elle's hand. "You're safe now, Elle. I won't leave again."

"What's strange," Elle said, "is that this mysterious woman returned my bag purse."

Pyotr glanced at Elle's items near the door. "If the woman were Carine, why would she do that?"

"I don't know," admitted Elle. "I don't know why one would attempt to murder someone and then return their luggage to them. Maybe the hospital visitor was one of my neighbors from the apartment complex?"

Pyotr shook his head. "I went back to the station today to speak to the officers who arrived at the courtyard at the same time as the ambulance, shortly after your neighbor who found you had called for help. I asked about your luggage. The officer said there were no personal items at the scene. He called your neighbor, and she said your bags weren't there in the courtyard. Somebody took your items, Elle."

"Carine seems like the most likely culprit, although I don't know why she would want my items. And if she took my things, it makes no sense that she would creep over here to the hospital to return them."

Pyotr nodded. "There is one other wrinkle in the police report. Somebody called the ambulance before your neighbor did. Somebody who spoke fluent English."

"Carine?"

"Again, why? Could she had felt immediate guilt about harming you? Immediate regret for her violent action? Did she call and then flee with your items? And then she felt badly about taking your things and returned everything to you earlier today?"

Elle rubbed her forehead. "I don't know, Pyotr. Maybe she had second thoughts. Maybe she killed Zerow to protect Matt, and she wanted me out of the picture, but maybe she realized that killing a bad guy and killing a reporter were two very different things?"

A nurse entered the room, interrupting the conversation. "We have good news for you, Ms. Larsen. We'd like to keep you overnight for one final stretch of observation, and if you continue to show signs of improvement, you'll be discharged tomorrow."

"Thank you," Elle said. She was relieved to be regaining her strength, eager to put this near-death experience behind her. The nurse measured Elle's blood pressure and temperature and left the room.

Pyotr asked, "Would you like to check your purse and your suitcase to ensure everything's still there?"

"Sure," Elle said. Her laptop was password protected and did not appear to have been hacked. Her wallet contained the same one hundred leva that she remembered it having before. "I think nothing's missing, Pyotr."

"If it's all right with you, I'd like to stay the night. Just in case Carine Winters is not miraculously reformed."

She smiled. "Thank you, Pyotr, for all you've done."

He blushed. Softly, he said, "I'm glad to be here, with you."

# Chapter 139

She opened her eyes, noticing the light shining in through the tinted window. He was awake, sitting near the natural light, working on his laptop. He saw her and smiled. "How are you feeling?"

She stretched her arms. "Great," she said. "I've finally caught up on sleep after a very restless week."

He laughed. "What an adventure it's been for you, Elle."

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I think I'm ready for a little less excitement. Boring would be okay right now."

He smiled. "I can't imagine that it's ever boring with you, Ms. Larsen. Yes, maybe you could use a few fewer people trying to kill you. But seeking boredom? Now that's a stretch."

She enjoyed Pyotr's company. "Let's bust this joint," she said, standing on wobbly feet.

He rushed to her side. "Hold up a second, Elle," he said, gently grabbing her arm to steady her.

One of the doctors entered the room. "Oh, Ms. Larsen, I see you're up and walking around already. Very good."

"I'm ready to go home," she said.

He looked at her carefully. "I concur," he said. "Let's check your vitals, and then you should be good to go."

She looked at Pyotr and smiled. The doctor finished his exam, and then she went into the restroom to get dressed. She was weaker than she realized, and pulling on her jeans and sweater took much more effort than what she had expected. She took a deep breath and steadied herself on the bar in the bathroom. She splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, and then she returned to the space where Pyotr was. He had a worried look on his face.

"You look drained," he said. "Please, sit for a moment."

She took his advice. "I guess I'm a little weaker than I thought."

He clasped her hands. "Elle, why don't you stay with me for a little while? You'd be safe there, and I'm a pretty good cook. Maybe just for a few days, until you're stronger?"

She looked straight ahead. What was next for her, she wondered. She was in no rush to get back to the U.S. She thought of Matt, and her heartbeat quickened. She wondered how things were going in Moscow, and when he might return to Sofia.

And then her thoughts turned from Matt to Pyotr. She looked at him. She noticed the way he looked at her sometimes. She thought that he would never admit his feelings for her, that he would say nothing to betray his stoicism, his professionalism. But she saw it, and she wondered if staying with him, when her feelings didn't match his, was a mistake.

He was watching her closely; he seemed to read her thoughts. "Elle," he said, "I like you, but I don't expect my feelings to be reciprocated. I care about you, and I'd feel better knowing that you're safe while you're getting stronger."

She smiled. "I don't want to take advantage of your kindness, Pyotr."

He shook his head. "You're not. I'm grateful for this time that we have together, that's all. I know it's not forever, or even for very much longer." He smiled. "I'll take what time I can get with you, Elle."

A nurse entered the room to give them the news that Elle was cleared for discharge. "Let's get out of here," he said, taking her hand and grabbing her bags.

"Thank you," she whispered, resting her head against his arm for a moment as they walked down the hallway of the hospital toward the elevator.

# Chapter 140

Pyotr's apartment was the perfect place for rehabilitation, she thought to herself, as she stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows in Pyotr's guest bedroom that overlooked old Sofia city.

She ventured into the kitchen and found Pyotr making breakfast. "I told you I was a good cook," he said confidently. "And now you can test my assertion."

She made them coffee while he finished cooking the omelets. The sat at his kitchen table, which was next to another large floor-to-ceiling window. "How did you sleep?" he asked.

"Wonderfully," she said. "Your place is beautiful, Pyotr. The views of the city are incredible."

He nodded. "I knew I wanted to live here the first moment I saw this place. I like the way Sofia looks from up here on this hill." He looked at her. "I have to go into the office for a bit today, Elle. Before I go, can I bring you anything to make your stay more comfortable here?"

She shook her head. "No, I'll be okay, thanks. I have some writing to do today, and there's one more person I'd like to interview for the Kosovo story that I'm working. I'll try calling him over at the SIA today to see if he'd be willing to meet to talk, maybe tomorrow."

"I can take you over to the SIA tomorrow," he offered. He looked at his watch and stood. "I have to go. Good luck with your writing today."

"Thanks, Pyotr. See you later."

# Chapter 141

She had been so engrossed in her work that the knock on the door had startled her. For a moment she had forgotten where she was. She looked up and noticed the sun setting over Sofia. Pyotr would be back soon, but this could not be Pyotr; he would not be knocking on his own door.

She felt worried for a moment. She grabbed a metal candlestick on her way to the door. There was no peephole. She would not open the door without knowing who was there.

"Hello?" she said.

"Elle?" the voice said.

She recognized him immediately. She released the deadbolt and opened the door.

"You're back," she said, throwing her arms around him. He held her tightly, and they stood there, entwined for a few moments, together.

"I was hoping you would be here," he said.

She pulled away to look at him. She touched his cheeks, cradling his face. She leaned in and kissed him. "I missed you," she said.

He smiled. "Can I come in?"

"Of course," she said, grabbing his hand.

"Is Pyotr here?" he asked.

"He went into his office to catch up on work today," she said. "He should be back soon."

"How are you feeling?" Matt asked, brushing a wisp of hair out of her eyes. "I was so worried about you."

"I'm much better," she said.

"When did you get out of the hospital? I flew back from Moscow this morning, and I went straight there, but you were gone."

"How did you know to come here?" she asked.

He laughed. "Tracking down Pyotr Dimitrov's residence was a piece of cake: I went back to the Intercontinental, and made a few calls, and it was done. I'm just glad that you're here, and you're safe."

They heard the jiggle of the locks on the door. Elle took a step back from Matt. He looked at her quizzically.

Pyotr opened the door. "Agent O'Connor, you're back," he said, smiling. The men shook hands. "How was Moscow?"

"It went well. Tatiana's transfusion was a success, and when President Polkov and his wife met Tatiana, they took to her immediately. They asked her to stay with them in Moscow, at least for a little while. Tatiana met Irina, and they were inseparable since that first meeting."

"That's great news," said Pyotr. "And the pipeline?"

Matt nodded. "All we have to do is wait out President Bradshaw's term, and we should be right back on track." Matt looked at Elle. "Have things been uneventful here since Tatiana and I left?"

"Mostly," Elle said. "When the ambulance and police arrived in the courtyard, my luggage was gone. A woman came to the hospital yesterday to return my bags."

"Did you get a look at her?" Matt asked.

She shook her head. "I saw her black heeled shoes as she was leaving the room."

"Do you think it could have been Carine?" Matt asked, concerned.

Elle looked at Pyotr. "We're not sure. Somebody called an ambulance before Elle's neighbor found her and called. We don't know who the second caller was. Could it have been Carine, regretting immediately her actions against Elle? Was calling the ambulance and returning the stolen luggage an act of repentance?"

"Or perhaps it was a different person," Matt said. "My instincts are telling me that Carine Winters is still out there. But her time is limited. When I was in Moscow, Polkov agreed to put word out through Interpol that Winters might be dangerous. She can't outrun the police forever."

Pyotr nodded. "She's a novice. If she's still in Sofia, we'll get her."

# Chapter 142

"Agent O'Connor, may I get you a drink?" Pyotr offered.

"Yes, thank you. Whatever you're having, make it two," Matt said.

"And you, Elle?" Pyotr asked.

She shook her head. "Pyotr, you've been a terrific host, and I've worn out my welcome here. I'm almost as strong as before, and after my meeting at the State Intelligence Agency tomorrow afternoon, I'll be heading back to Chicago. I'll pull my things together to spend my last two nights in Sofia at the Intercontinental."

"You're welcome to stay, Ms. Larsen, but I understand your reasons for wanting to go."

"Thank you, Pyotr," she said, heading to the back room to repack her suitcase.

Pyotr grabbed two Kamenitzas from his refrigerator.

Matt offered, "What if we grabbed a bite to eat together this evening as a last hurrah? Perhaps at Aioli again?"

Pyotr smiled. "Excellent idea, Agent O'Connor." He raised his bottle. "In celebration of Irina Polkov's life."

Matt nodded, raising his bottle. "And for Tatiana Manov and her newfound family. And for the pipeline." He clinked his bottle against Pyotr's. "Nazdrave," Pyotr offered, clinking back.

Chapter 142

Getting out of Pyotr's BWM, she spotted Aioli across the street. It felt like such a long time since the three of them had met here before.

They chose a booth near the back of the restaurant. Elle looked around, noticing the warmth of candlelight on the tables. She inhaled, noticing the familiar smell of warm, savory stew. She heard a guitarist playing a soft melody in the corner. She felt calm, relaxed.

She snuck a glance at Matt. Her mind felt a little cloudy being here with him. She felt like a teenager again, trying to keep it all together. She took a deep breath and a small sip of Bulgarian wine, enjoying the feeling of the moment.

"So what's next for you, Agent O'Connor?" Pyotr asked after their entrees were served.

Matt shook his head. "I'm not sure. My mission is complete, so I should be going back to D.C., but I may stay a few days longer to keep a watch on intelligence reports indicating Carine Winters' whereabouts."

Pyotr nodded, sipping his Kamenitza. "If she's here, Agent O'Connor, we'll find her."

Elle caught Pyotr's glance. He was looking intently at a tall, lean, smartly dressed woman at the front of the restaurant.

"Pyotr, what is it?" Elle asked, noticing the alarmed look on his face. "Who is she?"

Pyotr whispered. "Don't turn around," he advised. "I think we were wrong about Carine Winters this entire time. I think Benjamin Zerow's killer might be right here, in this restaurant."

# Chapter 143

"What do you mean?" Matt asked quietly.

"A woman just entered the restaurant. I've seen this woman before. She's an American, and she was part of Zerow's group. I saw her in Buhovo with Zerow and the rest of his group the day of the explosion."

Matt asked. "Are you sure that this woman you see right now was part of Zerow's group?"

Pyotr nodded. "Absolutely. I'm positive."

Matt smiled, which puzzled Elle. "Matt, do you know who she is?"

'Yes I do," he said. "I didn't think she was still alive."

"Is she part of Zerow's troupe?"

"Kind of," Matt whispered. "She's FBI. She's been embedded in his cell for almost a year. I didn't think she had survived the explosion."

"Could she have killed Zerow?"

"She had the skills to, but unless something went dreadfully wrong, I don't know what her motive would be. Her mission was to dig up enough dirt about Zerow's operations to put his biggest financiers behind bars. Killing Zerow wouldn't have been part of the plan. And she wouldn't have any reason to go after Elle."

The three sat there silent for a moment, pondering the situation.

"What do you think she's doing here?" Elle asked.

"We're about to find out," Pyotr said, his gaze fixed on the woman who was approaching their table.

# Chapter 144

"May I join you for a moment?" the woman asked, sliding into the booth next to Pyotr before anyone could respond.

Matt mumbled, "You're the FBI agent who had been undercover with Zerow's group. I thought you were dead."

"I escaped the blast," she said. "I stayed in Sofia to track Zerow's killer, Carine Winters."

"So it is true," Matt muttered. "Carine killed Zerow."

"Winter killed Zerow, and she was also the one who attacked you, Ms. Larsen. I witnessed the attack in your apartment courtyard, but I could not stop Winters before she drugged you. I called the ambulance, and then I took off after Winters, but I couldn't find her that night."

"Were you the one who returned my luggage to me in the hospital?" Elle asked.

Agatha nodded. "I was at the hospital, watching for Winters, but she never showed. I went back the Intercontinental yesterday, thinking maybe when you returned from your mission in Moscow, Agent O'Connor, that she'd seek you out at the Intercontinental."

"How do you know for certain that Carine killed Zerow?" Elle asked. "The crime scene was wiped clean of evidence."

Agatha smiled. "Because Carine Winters confessed to the murder of Benjamin Zerow, and the attempted murder of Elle Larsen, about two hours ago."

# Chapter 145

"What do you mean?" Pyotr asked. "Are you saying that Winters has been apprehended?"

Agatha nodded. "That's correct. She's in custody now, and first thing tomorrow morning a chartered plane will fly us to Heathrow, where we'll then board a private plane to take Winters to DC to try her there."

"How did you get her?" Elle asked.

"This morning Winters called one of her friends back in Georgetown, a woman named Josie Jackson with the Department of Energy, asking Ms. Jackson to wire money. Ms. Jackson wired the funds to a Banque Sofia branch on Cardinal Avenue. The FBI was monitoring all atypical wire transfers to Sofia hoping to get a lead on Winters's whereabouts, and this transaction raised a red flag.

"I watched Winters enter the bank, and shortly thereafter, as she was leaving the bank with Ms. Jackson's cash in hand, I detained and handcuffed her."

"Where is she now?" Pyotr asked.

Agatha smiled. "She's at your station for the night, Detective Dimitrov. I'll be back to pick her up very early in the morning, and then she'll be out of your hair forever." She slid out of the booth. "Wait," Elle asked, "How did you know to find us here at Aioli?"

"It was easy," Agatha said. "I tailed Agent O'Connor from the Intercontinental to Detective Dimitrov's house, and from there to here." She smiled. "Enjoy your dinner."

# Chapter 146

Pyotr pulled up into the front of the Intercontinental. Turning to Elle, he said, "It's been a pleasure, Ms. Larsen. Take care of yourself."

"And you, Detective Dimitrov." She smiled. "I won't forget you." She leaned in and kissed him on his cheek.

She rolled her suitcase into the hotel lobby and looked back, just once, as Pyotr was getting into his car. Their eyes met, and her heart skipped a beat. He ducked back into the driver's seat, and she veered for the check-in desk.

"Elle," she heard, and turned to see Matt in the seating area near the fireplace. He stood and walked toward her.

"You can stay in the suite tonight."

She laughed. "I'd better not. I don't think you have any more clean sheets in the linen closet in the hallway."

"I'll take the couch in the living room," he offered. His face was very close to hers. She felt her breath stop for just a moment. She could feel her heart pounding fiercely in her chest.

"Okay," she said. They walked through the darkened hallway to the freight elevators at the back of the hotel.

She noticed he seemed uncomfortable, as if there was something he wanted to say.

"Elle, I couldn't stop thinking about you when I was in Moscow. At first I worried about how your recovery was going, and if you were safe from Carine. And then it occurred to me that all I wanted was to get back to you."

She smiled and clasped his hand in hers. The elevator opened, and they ascended quickly to the tenth floor.

Room 1005 was right there at the end of the hall, as it had always been, but everything felt different now. Brighter, perhaps?

# Chapter 147

The next morning presented another cold, dreary day in Sofia. The taxi dropped Matt and Elle off in front of SIA headquarters, the Bulgarian intelligence agency's large cinderblock behemoth a few blocks from the Ministry of Defense. Manov's intelligence contact, Viktor Koskov, had agreed to meet Elle to share what he recalled about the intelligence report on Operation Horseshoe.

This was it, she thought. I will either solve this puzzle today, or, more likely, nothing comes of this meeting with Kostov, and the question remains unanswered about the origins of the Operation Horseshoe map.

Koskov was in the lobby of the Soviet-style building when they entered. His eyes narrowed, his gaze focused on Matt.

Matt whispered to Elle, "He wasn't expecting you to be accompanied."

Elle approached Koskov confidently. "Mr. Koskov," she said in Bulgarian, "thank you for your willingness to meet." Koskov's gaze returned to Matt's face. She looked at Matt and then back at Koskov. "My colleague can wait here, in the lobby, until we finish our meeting."

Koskov gave a wary nod, and a brief grunt, and then he motioned for Elle to follow him up a flight of stairs, past a security guard.

Elle studied Viktor Koskov as she climbed the staircase behind him. He was in his late fifties. She knew this from the research she had done to prepare for this meeting. He donned a short military-style crew cut, coupled with a well-trimmed beard. He wore wire-rimmed glasses with rounded frames and seemed in excellent health for a man of his age. He climbed the steps without hesitation or shortness of breath, and with a purposeful stride.

Koskov escorted Elle into a small, ornately decorated room, the antechamber to a larger office. They entered the office, and he closed the door.

She looked around. The office was utilitarian, bare. The heavy, maroon, velvet curtains were pulled back just enough to allow in some grey light of winter. A large steel desk filled the center of the room. Koskov took a seat in a swivel chair on one side of the desk. He gestured to her to sit down on the other side.

"Let me guess what you're thinking, Ms. Larsen. You've noticed the stark design difference between the antechamber and my office is strange."

Elle smiled, her eyes sparkling.

Koskov laughed. "It's easily explained, Ms. Larsen. My wife was permitted to decorate the antechamber, but she was never allowed access into this office, where we stored the most sensitive top secret information."

"I see," said Elle, noticing three army green, steel file cabinets in the corner. "Do your files contain a copy of the Operation Horseshoe map the Serbs created to illustrate their plan for mass genocide of the ethnic Albanians in Kosovo?"

Koskov laughed again. "I like people who get right down to business, Ms. Larsen. I like you." His face took a more serious tone. "I won't waste your time. We don't have an Operation Horseshoe map here, and we never did." He added, "But you knew that already, didn't you?"

# Chapter 148

She nodded. "I suspected that the intelligence Bulgaria passed to NATO was generic."

"That's correct, Ms. Larsen. If you want insight into who created the map, you must ask the people who began to worry when Milosevic had not capitulated to NATO as quickly as the West had assumed. You must ask the people who worried that the public might wonder if NATO's bombing campaign was a just move. You must ask the people who feared that the public might realize that the massive migration of people out of Kosovo and into Albania and Macedonia was partly because people were fleeing NATO's bombs and partly because the bombing campaign meant the Serbs had nothing left to lose in driving the Kosovar Albanians out."

Elle replied, "I believe the people of whom you speak, Colonel Koskov, represent NATO's media relations team."

Koskov nodded. "They'll admit nothing, Ms. Larsen." He looked her in the eyes. "I think they believed that what they were doing was right, that they wouldn't make the same mistakes that they made in Bosnia, that they would never let another Srebrenica massacre happen again. The question that has remained on my mind these years is whether the end can justify the means. And the conclusion that I have come to, Ms. Larsen, is that the end cannot justify the means."

Koskov continued, "Fabricating the Racak massacre, forcing the Serbs into an impossible negotiation at Rambouillet, and then showing a fake map on CNN to force quickly a NATO war on Milosevic... well, it just wasn't right." Koskov shook his head. "And for what purpose was the war? To prove NATO's relevance in the post-Cold War world? Was that a good enough reason to decimate Kosovo? I believe you're here, Ms. Larsen, because perhaps you feel the same sense of injustice."

Elle felt tears stinging in her eyes. She nodded. "I wanted the world to know what we know to be true, Colonel Koskov. The war is over, and we can't change what happened. The lesson learned is that we must continue to question with the greatest intensity what governments do and say. We cannot trust, Colonel Koskov; we can only question."

Koskov looked out the window. "Twenty years have passed, and what good has the war done for the people of Kosovo? Nationalism is more rampant than ever. There are discussions underway between Belgrade and Pristina over a land swap, to allow Serbia to have northern Kosovo, where the population is mostly ethnic Serb, in exchange for Presevo in the east, a predominantly ethnic Albanian area. A land swap, Ms. Larsen, is a gentle way of advocating for ethnic separation, an ethnic purity of the state. It's the easiest thing to do. But is it the right thing to do?"

Elle was silent. She had known deep down that this meeting with Koskov would not provide the answers she sought. She had not suspected, though, that he had felt the same as she these years about this war that had transpired two decades ago.

Koskov could not provide any additional insight, and so it was time to pursue alternatives. As long as her editor would permit her time off to pursue this personal interest, she would travel the world interviewing involved persons, all to get to the truth.

"Colonel Koskov," she offered, "do you know a general in the Luftwaffe named Hans Lorelei?"

Koskov smiled. "I do," he said. "I've read General Lorelei's book." He looked at her quizzically. "Is Germany your next destination, Ms. Larsen?"

She nodded. "I'm headed home to Chicago first, as my editor at the _Sun-Times_ has given me tremendous leeway to pursue this Kosovo story, and I owe him at least a few other stories that will help keep the lights on at the paper. Yes, I'll be headed to Germany to interview General Lorelei, but perhaps not until I have enough vacation days saved up to embark on this endeavor."

Koskov nodded his head in agreement. "General Lorelei is a decent lead, Ms. Larsen. He suspected the Germans created the Operation Horseshoe map that Johann Fleming, the German Prime Minister, revealed to the world on CNN. Lorelei contended that the map was a fabrication because the name of the map, at the top of the exhibit- Operation Potkova-was linguistically incorrect. Lorelei noticed this minor detail, that if the map had actually been created by the Serb army, then the word for 'horseshoe' should have been 'potkovica,' not the Croatian word 'potkova.'"

Elle stood, and Koskov followed suit. "I'm sorry I could not provide you greater help, Ms. Larsen. I wish you the best."

"Thank you, Colonel Koskov,"

She left the sparse office and transgressed the ornate antechamber. Quickly and purposefully, she continued down the hall and then back down the stairs. She caught her breath for a moment, thinking about how eager she was to regroup with Matt, to share with him the highlights of her conversation with Koskov. As she descended the stairs, she didn't see him. She scanned the area, wondering for a moment if he was still there, if he had waited for her.

Her heartbeat quickened. She felt her pulse in the veins in her neck and in her heart in her chest. Had he left, she wondered. She felt disappointed for a moment and then chided herself for this. He didn't belong to her, she reasoned, and they were under no contract to stick together.

She tried to shrug it off, that feeling that she had been left behind. She resolved to head outside, to grab a taxi, and to make plans to return to Chicago. It was time to go home.

# Chapter 149

Her boss had told her that Uber was catching on in Sofia, but she didn't feel like messing with her phone, and there were at least a few cabs waiting outside the Ministry building for passengers.

She walked toward the first available cab. "Wait!" she heard him yell. She turned to confirm that the voice belonged to Matt. She smiled and breathed deeply, relieved that he had not left.

"Where are you going?" Matt asked, jogging to catch up with her. "Are you trying to ditch me?"

She offered a hearty laugh, appreciating the weight of worry having been lifted from her shoulders. "You're still here," she said, smiling.

"I am." He furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "Where would I have gone?"

# Chapter 150

The cold air in his lungs reminded him that DC's climate was just about the same as Sofia's, and that the gloves and hat he donned today had served him well those last few weeks on assignment in Bulgaria.

He opened the door to the pub in Tyson's Corner and spotted Jim at a small booth at the back of the pub. So predictable, he thought. That agent needs to shake up his act a bit. He smiled as he approached his mentor.

The Guinness caught his attention. "You know I don't like stout, Jim."

"You don't have to like it, Agent O'Connor."

Matt shook his head, offering a slight smile. "Not this time, Jim."

Jim smiled. "Very well, Agent O'Connor. The next time we meet, I'll have whiskey waiting for you."

Matt glanced at the TV monitors around the pub. Every station was broadcasting the same breaking news: the commencement of U.S. President Lukas Bradshaw's impeachment trials.

"Bring me up to speed, Jim. What has been going on while I was gone?"

Jim's eyes twinkled. "The FBI recorded Bradshaw's phone conversations with Benjamin Zerow that implicated Bradshaw in not only the pipeline sabotage but also the command to kill Elle Larsen. It's not looking good for Lukas Bradshaw."

"Which is good for us," Matt replied. "I spoke to Josef earlier today. The pipeline project is set to resume in about six months, Jim." Matt smiled widely. "We're back on track."

Jim looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I'm sorry about being so wrong about Carine Winters, Matt. I thought she was harmless." He smiled. "I had no idea you could have had such an influence on a woman."

"Hilarious, Jim." Matt looked down at his drink, embarrassed by Jim's comment.

"Speaking of women," Jim asked, "how is Elle Larsen?"

It was Matt's turn to smile. "She's good," he breathed. "She's back in Chicago."

"Are you going to see her again soon?"

"I hope so," Matt said. "I have some vacation time due."

"In Chicago?" Jim asked.

Matt shook his head. "No. I'm thinking about tagging along with her on an interview she's pursuing in Berlin."

"Two peas in a pod," Jim remarked. "Neither one of you ever takes a real break, do you?"

Matt smiled and stood. "I have to go, Jim. It was good seeing you again. Congratulations on nabbing the bad guy."

Jim frowned. "Nobody wins when the bad guy turns out to be the Commander-in-Chief. But it's a new day, right? An opportunity to start over."

The men shook hands. "Take care of yourself, Jim."

"And you, Matt," Jim whispered.

Matt was taken aback for a moment by Jim's informality; he was used to Jim calling him Agent O'Connor. He caught himself smiling as he left the pub.

He felt the buzz of his phone in his pocket as he crossed the street towards the Tyson's Corner Metro stop. He pulled his phone out to see who had texted him.

The text read "Lorelei's in Berlin. Meet me there next Tuesday?"

He tried to think of a clever response, but he knew it would be virtually impossible to outsmart Elle Larsen. He settled on an answer he hoped she'd like, smiling as he messaged her: _bis später_.
