contents were complete and intact, and then closed it back up.
“Thank you, Nadia. I know procuring this must have been difficult.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table to her.
“I can’t take that,” she said.
“You deserve it. For everything you’ve done.”
She ignored the bulging envelope and leaned forward, taking his hands. “You must tell me what you’re doing. I want to help you.” She knew all four operatives, as well as her superiors back in Moscow, were hanging on every word.
Up to this point, the only intel they’d had to go on was courtesy of a single encrypted communication intercepted from one of Colchev’s known associates that referred to “Wisconsin Ave.” and an event taking place on July twenty-fifth, less than a week away. The belief within the organization was that he was planning a rogue op using former SVR operatives turned mercenaries and that the target was somewhere in America.
“I wish you could come with me,” Colchev said, “but the risk is too great.”
“When I volunteered for the SVR, I knew the risks.”
“I meant the risk to my mission.”
“You don’t trust me?”
Colchev turned to watch a passing ferry. “What I’m planning takes a special conviction. Honestly, I don’t think you would have the stomach to follow through.”
“Why?”
“It’s better that you don’t know.”
She let go of his hands and sat back. “Did you know I have spoken to the head of the SVR?”
Colchev’s head snapped around. “Why?”
“I didn’t tell him about our meeting. I wanted to know what he had planned for you if you returned.”
“A sham trial followed by a swift execution, I expect.”
“No, he said that he understands that the situation wasn’t your fault. And he knows that you have another operation in motion. He wants to know if there is any way he can help you.”
Colchev was silent as he examined her for deceit. Like him, she was an expert at lying, which she was doing now. Her objective was to find out about Colchev’s current plan. The director was hoping that Colchev would bring her onto his team or at least give her some hint of his mission. Barring that, the four operatives were instructed to move in and take him as soon as he walked out of the cafe with the bag. Bedova couldn’t have asked for a more wrenching assignment: to bring in the man she had once loved to be executed just as he’d theorized.
Colchev had created the spy ring that included Anna Chapman and nine other spies who were exposed by the US counterintelligence agencies in 2010. To prevent divulgence of their intelligence-gathering methods, the Russians retrieved them by swapping four imprisoned Russian intel officers who had been moles for the Americans. Nobody had been happy about the deal, but the SVR couldn’t allow the spies in America to reveal any more than they already had.
Someone had to be blamed for the debacle, and the obvious choice had been Colonel Alexander Poteyev, the SVR agent who’d sold the spies’ identities to the Americans for thirty thousand dollars. But internally, the fault rested with Colchev, the man responsible for setting up the entire operation in the first place. If he wasn’t incompetent for letting the Americans discover the spies, then he was complicit. Either way, he had to be dealt with. Permanently.
“Nadia,” Colchev finally said, “they have already tried Poteyev in absentia and found him guilty of treason. He’s now a non-person in Russia. If it weren’t for the CIA’s protection, he’d be dead by now.”
“Why didn’t you go into protective custody like Poteyev?”
Colchev’s jaw worked back and forth, and then he spoke in a hush. “Because I’m not a traitor. I didn’t sell out my country. I hate America for everything they’ve done to Russia. I’m a patriot.”
“Then prove it. Come back with me and tell them the truth.”
“They aren’t interested in the truth. They want a show trial to save face. It will accomplish nothing.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I have assets in the US that I never revealed because I feared Poteyev’s treachery myself. Because they weren’t compromised, I saw my opportunity to act independently, and I’m taking it. I’m going to prove my allegiance to Russia and the SVR. And when I do, my men and I will be welcomed back to our homeland as heroes.”
“But what can you possibly do that we can’t?” Bedova asked.
“Something that takes will. Now that I’m a non-person, whatever I do can be blamed on a rogue spy. I didn’t ask for this status, but since I have it, I will take advantage of it and do what Russia never could without fearing retaliation. Once they see the results, they will do everything they can to reward me.”
“I don’t understand.” Her gaze lingered on the bag holding the equipment Colchev had requested. “How will Icarus make this operation possible?”
Colchev tilted his head as if considering a decision. “Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”
She had reached him. Now she had to delve into his mission. “Are you planning an attack?”
He smiled. “I am planning to strike a blow that will change the course of history and Russia’s place in it. I have—”
Colchev’s phone buzzed. He stood and picked up the bag. This was it, as soon as he left the cafe, the operatives would move in and grab him.
But instead of leaving, he put the bag on his seat and held up a finger. “Excuse me while I take this call. Then I’ll share my plans with you.”
He stepped away to a pillar by the side of restaurant, just out of earshot.
“Can you hear anything?” she said without moving her lips.
“Nothing,” one operative said.
“Keep an eye on him,” said another.
“He won’t leave without the bag,” Bedova said. “He needs it for some reason, and he’s about to tell us why.”
Bedova felt a rush of air blow by her, and the swift hand of a bicyclist snatched the bag from Colchev’s seat. He threw the satchel over his shoulder and pedaled away furiously, scattering yelling pedestrians in every direction.
The thief, who was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, must have thought it was Bedova’s luggage carelessly placed across from her, but he would get a rude surprise when he saw that it held no money, jewelry, or electronics.
Before she could call for help, the other operatives were shouting in her ear.
“Get him!”
“He’s too fast!”
“Cut him off!”
The operative seated at the cafe tried to jump across the railing to stop the cyclist, but he was too late, as were the agents in the walkway and the one bursting out of the restaurant’s interior.
Bedova knew that Colchev would be just as concerned with retrieving the sack, but when she turned, she couldn’t see him. The wail of an alarm coming from that direction cut through the other noises.
“What happened to Colchev?” she said.
“He was right there a moment ago!” came the harried reply. “I looked away for a second, and then he was gone.”
Bedova grabbed the envelope and leaped out of her chair. She ran through the cafe to see a fire exit from the adjoining apartment tower click shut. The alarm it had tripped continued to shriek. Because it was a metal door with no exterior handle, someone inside must have opened it for Colchev.
Only then did she realize that the whole scenario had been a setup. Colchev had chosen the restaurant, no doubt paying off the waiter to steer Bedova toward the seat she’d taken. He had used the cyclist as a distraction, giving him enough time to duck into the building.
She took off after the other men chasing the rider, who disappeared around the corner of the building.
Pumping her arms, she sprinted after him, rounding the building not far behind the other agents. As the cyclist came into view, she saw him dump the bike at Macquarie Street. A van screeched to a halt next to him. He
