"Yeah," answered Calibrisi. "I need live stream as she's speaking, along with your EKG."

"Hold on."

Calibrisi put his hand over the phone, then looked at an analyst.

"I want this run through FACS along with the VRA module," said Calibrisi.

Calibrisi, in shorthand, was instructing the NCS analyst to quickly set up two forms of remote lie detection technology for use on Katya. FACS stood for Facial Action Coding System, in which Katya's facial movements would be quickly cataloged, creating a digital bookmark of what Katya looked like when she was telling the truth and when she was lying.

The VRA was voice risk analysis, a CIA-developed remote lie detection technology. At the same time Langley's computers were aggregating Katya's facial movements, a separate software module would attempt to read the inflections in her voice against her heart rate, breathing pattern, and blood pressure.

Together, they would provide a down-and-dirty lie detector, less effective than a classic interrogation setting, but with Katya on a submarine thousands of miles away, it was Calibrisi's only option.

"Park it on line four, sir," said the young woman.

"Starting with a baseline," said Calibrisi. "When you have it, let me know."

"Roger."

A few moments later, a soft female voice came over the speaker system.

"Hello?"

The plasma at the front of Targa abruptly cut to Katya's face. She was seated in front of a steel table. Her hair was slightly messed up, though her beauty was obvious. EKG wires on her arm and neck were visible.

"Miss Basaeyev, my name is Hector Calibrisi. I work for the U.S. government. You were taken out of Russia on my authority. I want you to know that you'll be treated as fairly and respectfully as you treat us. Which means answering our questions truthfully. We mean you no harm. You know who we're after."

"You kidnapped me, and now you torture me and hold me against my will. I don't know anything. I think you have the wrong individual. Pyotr is not terrorist."

"You work as a ballerina, is that correct?" asked Calibrisi.

Katya paused for a brief moment, then looked up. She didn't respond.

"When was the last time you danced in front of a live audience?"

Katya shut her eyes as Calibrisi asked her another question.

"What was the ballet?"

The analyst turned to Calibrisi and shook her head. Without Katya answering the simplest questions, they would be unable to establish a baseline of how the ballerina acted when telling the truth.

"What was your mother's maiden name?"

Katya opened her eyes, then started crying.

Calibrisi muted the line and looked at Polk.

"This isn't working," said Calibrisi. "And we don't have time to be patient."

Calibrisi unmuted the line to the Hartford.

"Monty, take me down, please."

A moment later, Thomas came back on the line.

"Where do you want her?"

"Is there a carrier somewhere in the North Atlantic?"

"Negative. Nimitz is the closest and that's in Naples."

"Give me live sat," whispered Calibrisi.

A digital map appeared. His finger found the Hartford. From there, his finger made a beeline southwest, finding the United Kingdom.

Polk put his hand out, muting the line to the Hartford.

"What about MI6?" asked Polk, referring to Langley's closest ally in the trade, Britain's intelligence service.

Calibrisi nodded. "Good idea."

"You want me to call?"

"No, I'll call," said Calibrisi. "You need to focus on getting those men to Moscow."

Calibrisi unmuted the uplink to the submarine.

"Monty," said Calibrisi, "get her to Inverness Airport in Scotland. We'll take it from there."

On the USS Hartford, Thomas hung up his cell phone. He climbed a ladder down to the quarterdeck. He went to the digital map, tracing a path with his finger toward the north coast of Scotland. He looked at one of his junior officers.

"Give me the range on an Osprey V-22."

"A thousand miles, sir."

"What if we load it with fuel?"

"With internal fuel tanks, double it, sir."

He picked up one of the submarine phones.

"This is Montgomery Thomas on the USS Hartford. We have an Emergency Priority. I need a V-22 as soon as you can get it here, loaded with enough gas to fly to Scotland."

Under a black, starless sky, the Hartford rose to the surface of the water, gray-black steel against gray-black sky and gray-black water.

Thomas climbed onto the platform as, in the distance, the low growl of a plane cut above the noise of the ocean.

Behind him, two men lifted Katya by her flex-cuffed arms to the top of the ladder. She was dressed in navy blue pants, black rubber boots, a navy blue shirt, and a fleece jacket. All of it was too big for her. A nylon life vest was strapped around her, tight around her chest, torso, and legs. A pair of large steel O-rings-for transport-dangled from the vest at the waist.

The lights of the plane appeared through the cloudy sky, as the Osprey's turboprops grew louder. Suddenly, a triangle of bright halogen lights illuminated the plane's white fuselage. The lights pivoted and scanned the black ocean until they found the hulking steel of the submarine.

The Osprey descended quickly. For a brief moment, it appeared as if it might fly straight into the ocean. Then it stopped immediately overhead. The props abruptly flipped from vertical to horizontal, like helicopter rotors, enabling the plane to hover overhead.

A steel door opened in the bottom of the plane. A flashing light appeared.

The flashing light, attached to a cable, descended. With a grappling hook, Montgomery grabbed it and clipped the cable to the O-rings on Katya's vest. He checked it to make sure it was secure. Then he held his left thumb up in the air.

The cable went taut, and Katya was yanked up from the deck of the Hartford. She disappeared into the fuselage of the plane. The steel door shut, then the plane's engines screamed out of sight, ripping southwest, into the night.

47.

ELEKTROSTAL.

Cloud listened to Katya's phone ringing for the third time. When it went to voice mail, he shut his eyes and listened.

"Hello. I'm very sorry but I can't talk right now. Please leave me a message."

Cloud hung up the phone, then hit Redial. As he waited for something he knew would not happen, something that would never happen again, namely, for Katya to answer, he shot Sascha a look.

"Have you been able to reach any of the men?" asked Cloud, referring to Katya's bodyguards.

Sascha shook his head.

"I have tried Roman twice, Vladimir three times, and the other. There is no answer."

Katya's phone started ringing, then, after two rings, a voice came on: "Who is this?" the man asked. Russian.

"Where is she?" asked Cloud.

"This is Colonel Polyan from FSB. Who am I speaking to?"

"I am ... Katya's father," said Cloud. "I have been trying to reach her."

"I'm sorry, sir," said the officer. "She is not here."

"Where is she? There are news reports-"

The phone went dead.

Cloud stood up, a psychotic look on his face. He hurled the cell phone at the wall, where it smashed into pieces. He kicked his chair away and walked to the stairs.

"Cloud," said Sascha.

Cloud ignored him.

He descended the stairs three steps at a time. When he reached the basement garage, he climbed onto his motorcycle. He turned it on, revving it hard, then screeched forward, pulling up the ramp to street level. As he was about to accelerate onto the dark street, a figure appeared and lurched in the path of the Ducati. Cloud slammed on the brakes.

It was Sascha.

"Come back inside," he said, panting heavily from his run down the stairs, holding up both arms as if he could direct Cloud to do what he wanted. "Something has happened."

"I have to go to Saint Peters-"

"She's gone, Pyotr," snapped Sascha.

Cloud stared into his friend's eyes for several seconds. He didn't say anything. Sascha stood as still as a statue, holding his arms up. Then he put them down and stepped to Cloud, walking to his side, moving to within a few inches of him. Gently, he placed his hand on Cloud's shoulder.

"We knew this was a possibility," said Sascha. "Going to Saint Petersburg will get you nothing, except caught. Now come back upstairs."

Five minutes later, Cloud followed Sascha to his computer.

"The CIA is sending more men into the country," said Sascha.

Cloud went behind Sascha and read the screen. It was a transcription of a CIA conversation.

709.

get brainard and fairweather to moscow 710.

tell christy she needs to take the bullet out herself 711.

then get word to dewey 712.

he needs to stay in theater Their eyes met. They both knew what it meant. They were coming for him.

"They're coming to meet Andreas," said Sascha.

"They're going to try," said Cloud. "Find out where the safe house is. There are agents already there."

Cloud went to his computer. He joined Sascha inside the CIA network, then placed a piece of tracking code, similar to a cookie, on the records of the agents Langley had dispatched to Russia to assist Dewey. Any activity involving either Brainard or Fairweather would trigger an alert, which Cloud could then examine.

When he finished, he looked at Sascha.

"Put Andreas's photograph out on the wire," said Cloud. "Law enforcement, news agencies."

"What about his identity?" asked Sascha.

Cloud was silent as he considered the question.