The English Girl: A Novel

out.”
    “Who?”
    “Stop the fucking car.”
    It did stop, but not because of Zhirov; they had reached Petrovka Street. It was a large intersection, with streets leading away in several different directions. The light had just turned red. Directly in front of them was a Land Rover with two men in front. Mikhail shot a glance over his shoulder and saw a second Rover behind them. Then he felt his mobile phone give three short bursts of vibration.
    “What was that?” asked Zhirov.
    “Just my mobile.”
    “Turn it off and remove the battery.”
    “You can never be too careful, right, Pavel?”
    “Turn it off,” Zhirov snapped.
    Mikhail reached into his overcoat, drew the Makarov, and screwed the barrel hard into Zhirov’s ribs. The Russian’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. He looked at Mikhail for a few seconds, then his gaze moved toward Yaakov, who was climbing out of the Land Rover in front of them. Keller had already climbed out of the second Land Rover and was approaching the Mercedes from behind.
    “Tell the driver to put the car in park,” Mikhail said quietly. “Otherwise, I’m going to put a bullet in your heart. Tell him, Pavel, or you’re going to die right now.”
    When Zhirov made no response, Mikhail thumbed back the hammer of the weapon. Keller was now standing at Zhirov’s window.
    “Tell him, Pavel.”
    The traffic light turned green. Somewhere a car horn sounded. Then another.
    “Tell him!” Mikhail barked in Russian.
    Zhirov glanced into the rearview mirror, met the driver’s gaze, and nodded once. The driver slipped the car into park and placed his hands atop the wheel.
    “Tell him to get out of the car and do exactly as he’s told.”
    Another glance into the mirror, another nod of the head. The driver responded by opening the door and climbing slowly out. Yaakov waited there to take possession of him. After murmuring a few words into the driver’s ear, he led him to the Land Rover, shoved him into the backseat, and slid in after him. By then, Keller had taken the driver’s place behind the wheel of the Mercedes. When the Land Rover moved off, he slipped the car into gear and followed after it. Mikhail still had the Makarov to Zhirov’s ribs.
    “Who are you?” Zhirov asked.
    “I’m Nicholas Avedon,” Mikhail answered.
    “Who are you?” Zhirov repeated.
    “I’m your worst nightmare,” said Mikhail. “And if you don’t shut your mouth, I’m going to kill you.”
    I n the Op Center at King Saul Boulevard, the lights of the team were moving vertically up the video map of Moscow—all but one, which was motionless on Teatralny Prospekt, just down the hill from Lubyanka Square. There were no celebrations, no congratulations on a job well done. The setting wouldn’t allow it. Moscow had a way of fighting back.
    “Thirty seconds from start to finish,” Navot said, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Not bad.”
    “Thirty-three,” said Shamron. “But who’s counting?”
    “You were.”
    Shamron gave a faint smile; he had been counting. In fact, he had been counting his entire life. The number of family members lost to the fires of the Holocaust. The number of countrymen lost to the bullets and the bombs. The number of times he had cheated death.
    “How far is it to the safe house?”
    “One hundred and forty-seven miles from the Outer Ring.”
    “What’s the weather forecast?”
    “Horrendous,” replied Navot, “but they can handle it.”
    Shamron said nothing more. Navot stared at the lights moving across Moscow.
    “Thirty seconds,” he repeated. “Not bad.”
    “Thirty-three,” said Shamron. “And let’s hope no one else was watching.”
    T hough Shamron did not know it, those were the same thoughts running through the head of the man standing in the window of his fourth-floor room at the Hotel Metropol. He was gazing down the curve of Teatralny Prospekt, toward the yellow fortress looming over Lubyanka Square. He wondered whether he would be able to detect some sort of reaction—lights coming on in the upper floors, cars careening out of the garage—but decided it was unlikely. Lubyanka had always been good at hiding her emotions, just as Russia had always been good at hiding her dead.
    He turned away from the window, switched off his computer, and stuffed it into the side pocket of his overnight bag. Then he rode the elevator down to the lobby, accompanied by a pair of prostitutes, seventeen going on forty-five. Outside a Volvo SUV idled at