"Control," she said, "I need third-party navigation."

"Control, over," came a voice. "Hold."

She shot a quick glance at the speedometer: 77 mph.

"Take a sharp right in approximately one hundred feet. Get over."

Braga ripped the BMW hard right, hit the brakes, then moved the car onto Baku.

"He's coming right at you," said CIA control in her earpiece.

At the corner of Baku, Al-Medi ripped off his jacket. He sprinted down the small side street. In two blocks, there was a metro station.

He looked back. The man now had a gun, which was swinging up and down in his left hand as he tried to catch up with him. But the shot to the man's leg slowed him.

Al-Medi kept glancing back, at first fearful he might get shot but soon realizing that his tracker, whoever he was, wanted him alive.

Maybank was falling behind as the blood now sopped his running shoe and the pain became intense.

He saw Braga's red sedan far in the distance, at the end of the street. Al-Medi was now between the two of them, running toward her.

"You need to stop him," Maybank yelled.

Al-Medi moved as he'd been trained, in a zigzag, dragging in behind pedestrians, making it hard for his pursuer to catch him.

In less than a block was the metro station. He would lose the man there.

Braga stopped the car at the end of the street, watching in the distance as Al-Medi raced toward her. She could also see Maybank, well behind him, limping as he ran, his leg covered in blood.

Braga slouched down in the seat. Her head was just high enough to peer through the opening in the steering wheel.

Al-Medi came closer, sprinting along the line of parked cars. She put the car in reverse and cranked the steering wheel counterclockwise. Then she waited.

He was a dozen cars ahead, then ten, then just a few. A savage, angry look was in his eyes. When he reached the car in front of her, she glanced up, watching as he ran by her door, oblivious of her presence. He was drenched in sweat. She waited one last moment, then took her foot off the brake and floored the gas. The M5 burst left, its back end lurching into Al-Medi's legs, slamming him violently, pummeling him to the tar. He landed, both legs broken, and started to scream.

Braga climbed out and opened the back door just as Maybank arrived. Maybank wrapped flex-cuffs around Al-Medi's wrists as Braga handled his ankles. Maybank finished with a wrap about his head, muffling his screaming. They lifted him into the back of the car, then climbed in, Maybank in back, Braga driving.

Maybank unsheathed his combat blade and jammed it into Al-Medi's mouth as Braga turned around, then floored it. Propping his mouth open, Maybank searched Al-Medi's mouth. He found a fake molar and ripped it out. Inside was a small white pill: cyanide. He opened the window and tossed it to the street.

Maybank grabbed Al-Medi's T-shirt and ripped it down the front, tearing it in half. He took the cloth and wrapped it around his thigh and tied it tight over the wound, creating a tourniquet.

Braga had the M5 scorching along Baumanskaya at 80 mph, weaving skillfully between cars and pedestrians as she sped toward the CIA safe house.

Maybank hit his earbud.

"We have him," said Maybank, breathing hard. "I need direction."

"Get him back to Vernacular House and prepare for immediate interrogation," said Polk.

"What's the protocol?"

"Dayton protocol," said Polk. "We have a Level-One terror threat. Use whatever means necessary to find out the whereabouts of Cloud. Out."

16.

NSA.

Serena Pacheco was in line at the NSA cafeteria, buying a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Her cell phone started ringing. The ID indicated "June, J."

"Pacheco," she said, answering the phone.

"PRISM is going nuts up here," June said.

"Be right there."

Pacheco left her tray on the counter.

Back at her workstation inside the TAO suite of offices, Pacheco found two separate hits, or matches, based on the CIA sketch of Cloud. Both were photos of a woman with dark skin and long black hair. In one photo, the woman is seen walking out of a Moscow restaurant. Standing next to her is a man with straight blond hair, dressed in a tuxedo. The other photo showed the same woman, this time climbing into a limousine. The same man is behind her, holding the door. Pacheco zoomed in on the two photos, then placed them between the CIA sketch of Cloud and the photo from the nightclub. The first photo did not look at all like the Cloud depicted in the sketch or in the photo from the nightclub; he was handsome and clean-cut, his hair neatly combed and straight. But the second photograph gave her pause. It was his eyes. They were dark and suspicious. They were the same eyes. It was unmistakable.

Pacheco quickly ran the woman's photo through PRISM. In less than a minute, dozens, then hundreds of photographs dominoed across her screen.

Basaeyev, Katya CITIZENSHIP:.

Russia DOB:.

c. 09/10/1990 Yakutsk, Sakha Republic, SIBERIA HIST:.

Convent of Good Shepherd, Yakutsk Yakutsk, SIB 1990-2002 Bolshoi Academy for Performing Arts Moscow, RUS 2002-07 Bolshoi Ballet, troupe ballerina, 200708 Bolshoi Ballet, prima ballerina, 2008 Katya's biography went on for twenty-seven pages. In all, PRISM was able to source more than a hundred thousand photographs of the famous Russian ballerina. Of these, only two popped Cloud's photo.

One of the photos on Pacheco's screen had been taken just an hour before, then posted by someone on Pinterest. Pacheco clicked on the photo. It showed Katya's beautiful face on a large poster above the entrance to a theater. Katya's blue eyes were like jewels. An enigmatic smile was on her face, her pure white teeth visible and contrasted against rose red lips: The Kirov Ballet is proud to present Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake with Special Guest Star Katya Basaeyev "The Siberian Diamond"

July 4July 28 Mariinsky Theatre, Saint Petersburg "I found his girlfriend," said Pacheco.

17.

ABOARD THE LONELY FISHERMAN.

NEAR NADOR, MOROCCO.

MEDITERRANEAN SEA.

Faqir had the trawler running on only one engine, putting along the dark North African coast, a half mile or so offshore. Most boats in the area were moored for the night, anchors down, awaiting first light.

The Lonely Fisherman's running lights were extinguished. Faqir navigated by a portable state-of-the-art sonar system, which was set on the wood shelf next to the wheel.

They were still in safe waters, but in a few hours, they would come to the Strait of Gibraltar. If they were going to get stopped, that's where it would happen. That one of the crew left behind the explosives only added to the anxiety Faqir felt. This side trip was unnecessary. It would add several hours onto the voyage, hours that were precious.

The front window of the wheelhouse was open. In the crow's nest at the bow of the ship, thirty feet up in the air, two of the Chechens were standing, each holding thermal night-vision binoculars, scanning the water in front and to each side of the trawler.

Their instructions were twofold. Warn him if they were approaching too close to a vessel. More important, look for a particular flag: Indonesia, Vietnam, Manila, Thailand, any African country.

Faqir tried not to think about the sheer stupidity of Guzny, but he couldn't help it. It was unbelievable. Everything they had worked for could now be gone, simply because one man had forgotten a duffel bag.

Suddenly, one of the men in the crow's nest started waving his arms and pointing to the right.

Faqir stepped from the wheelhouse and crossed the deck.

"What is it?" he yelled.

"Flag," he answered. "Vietnam."

"Get ready," he ordered. "Every man."

Faqir walked back to the wheelhouse and turned the ship toward the distant lights of a boat. It took twenty minutes to reach it. Faqir navigated to the smaller ship's starboard side. It was a beat-up old thing, a double-ended fishing scow that sat low in the water. A few lights were on, but there was no movement. Atop an aft stanchion, a flag dangled. It was a rectangle of red with a yellow star in the middle.

Faqir had spent three years aboard a similar fishing scow. Most of the fish were caught legally, but when times were slow, his captain was not above dropping explosives into the water and seeing what came up. It was highly illegal, and Faqir quickly learned the countries that engaged in the practice. Of all of them, Vietnam was the worst.

As the Lonely Fisherman chugged closer, a swarm of Chechens stood on the port deck, weapons raised. Faqir cut the engine just as a crew member aboard the other boat appeared on the deck, carrying a flashlight. When he saw the approaching ship, his eyes bulged, then he screamed and turned to run. One of the Chechens fired. The staccato of automatic weapons fire interrupted the relative quiet. A burst of slugs hit the man as he ran, knocking him down, the flashlight tumbling onto the wooden deck.

The Lonely Fisherman drifted closer and closer until, finally, it slammed into the Vietnamese boat's side. As two Chechens lashed the vessels together, the others leapt aboard the quiet scow.

"No witnesses!" yelled Faqir as his men sprinted across the deck toward the stairs that led below, to where the screw was sleeping.

Faqir stepped to the wheelhouse. As he entered the empty room, he heard screams, then the peal of submachine gun fire coming from directly below.

He ransacked the wheelhouse, ripping open cabinets, searching for explosives. Finding nothing, his eyes moved to the door. Above it was a steel box. He pulled the box down and opened it. Inside were several dozen sticks of gelatin dynamite along with a pile of blasting caps. He grabbed six of the sticks and all of the caps, then walked quickly to the door. As he climbed back onto the Lonely Fisherman, the first of the crew who'd gone below appeared back on deck, trailed by the others.

Faqir waved them over.

"Hurry!" he snapped.

The gunmen ran in a loose line back to the trawler, climbing aboard as Faqir started the engine.

One of the men stepped into the wheelhouse.

"It's done. There were fourteen men in all."

"You searched for anyone who might be hiding?"

"There's no one. They're all dead. Should we sink it?"

"With what, idiot? Explosives?"

"What about setting it on fire?"

"No," said Faqir. "That will only draw attention. Cut the boat's anchor line. Perhaps it will drift into the rocks and sink on its own."

Faqir revved the trawler's engine and put the boat into gear.

"Untie the boat," he yelled through the window. "Two men, back in the crow's nest. We need to hurry."

18.

VERNACULAR HOUSE.

MOSCOW.

Al-Medi looked up at Maybank as he struggled to catch his breath. He was drenched, pale, and barely alive.

"Where is he?" asked Maybank.

Maybank had been at it for an hour now. He was in a soundproof, windowless basement room, with Braga watching from the door, as he tried to get Al-Medi to break.

"I told you, I don't know who you're talking about," said Al-Medi, his Chechen accent thick. "I stole the phone."

"We ran your prints. We know who you are. Stop fucking with me."

Maybank slammed Al-Medi's head down into the water. He looked calmly at his watch as he held him under. After a full minute, he lifted him back out.

Al-Medi was soaking wet. He stared lifelessly up at Maybank. Suddenly, his eyes rolled back in his head. He leaned left as he began to fall from the steel chair.

"Oh, no you don't, motherfucker," said Maybank.