"Rumors get around, and I'm sure your briefing with Dennison didn't go so well. Here's what I think. I think she told you if we fail in London, it's all over for us. They'll break up the team again, and as for you ... I don't know ... but she gave you the ultimatum, right?"

"What are you? A fortune-teller?"

"You're just like my ex-husband. Easy to read. When he was trying to tell me he wanted a divorce, I'd already had the papers drawn up."

"Ouch."

"For him, not for me."

"Sorry about that."

"I'm sorry you haven't asked about it. That's your problem, Captain. You need to be more nosy. You need to know us better. Pry. I mean, you haven't even hit on me."

"Are you crazy? I respect your privacy."

"We don't want it respected. Ask about our personal lives. There isn't a h.e.l.l of a lot there anyway. This is pretty much all we got. But ask."

Brent shrugged. "Well, I guess I shouldn't be telling you this, but you're right. I'm hanging on by a thread here."

"And like I said, we'll help. You were good back on the island. I'm proud to serve with you. We just need to get her in London."

Brent took in a long breath. "Yes, we do."

She was about to get up, but he stopped her. "Thanks. I can't do it without you . . . or them. I know that."

She winked. "Tell them."

By the time Lakota made it back to her seat, their pilot was on the intercom, his voice tense. "Sorry, guys, but we've just been diverted to RAF Lakenheath."

"Why's that?" asked Brent.

"It doesn't sound good," answered the pilot.

"What's happening?" Brent demanded.

"The Russians have some heavy troop transports en route."

"They're coming here? They're crazy."

"I thought the same thing. I don't know if it's an occupying force or what, and they've got fighters in the air. The Brits are worried about shooting them down because of collateral damage. Hold on a second. We've been locked! We've been locked!"

Suddenly, the Sphinx banked hard right, and Brent felt his stomach slam into his ribs.

"Oh my G.o.d," gasped the pilot. "Brace for impact!"

NINE.

Sandhurst, England Warda had told Chopra that according to her father's wishes, Hussein would be given lessons in all the major subjects by officers from the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, commonly known as Sandhurst. These officers would tutor the boy at a small, nondescript home on the outskirts of the town, where he would reside for nine months out of the year. The tutoring had begun last year, when Hussein had turned fifteen. Prior to that he'd been moved every few months and instructed by a select few teachers who traveled with him. The boy's father had wanted him to be formally trained and educated, and he'd always had great respect and admiration for the British education system and for its military officers; thus, he'd left specific instructions for Hussein's preparations to become a well-rounded individual.

The e-mails and videos from her father were difficult to read and watch, and Warda had spent many days crying over them. It seemed that in the months prior to the nuclear exchange, tensions had grown so high that her father had actually been planning for his own death and preparing as much as he could for the survival of his country. However, most of his wishes had been thrown by the wayside when, for the most part, the people who would have enacted them had also been killed during that fateful and horrible day.

With Westerdale's help, Chopra had obtained excellent doc.u.mentation and two things to alter his appearance: He'd bought a much thicker pair of plastic frames instead of his usual ultralight t.i.tanium gla.s.ses, and he had shaven his head completely bald. He typically wore a short, conservative haircut, his salt-and-pepper locks parted to one side and held in place with a squirt of hair spray. Now he was bald with thicker gla.s.ses and resembled an overage punk rocker or insecure artist type. Looking in the mirror proved unsettling.

Westerdale had also reported that Warda was now in the hands of the Americans, which was, for the most part, not a bad stroke of luck. He doubted they would hold her against her wishes and suggested that Chopra share this news with Hussein or Hussein's people so that they might attempt to locate her.

Chopra arrived at London Heathrow Airport and caught a black cab out to Shepperton, where he changed cabs again, then headed down to Windlesham and did likewise once more, all in an effort to thwart anyone trying to tail him. He instructed the last driver to pull up outside the Premier Inn, where at such time a nondescript sedan was waiting for him. He paid the driver and climbed into the other car.

Ironically, he recognized the sedan's driver, a white-haired man named John Southland, an American who had been working for the Al Maktoum family for decades as a professional mechanic and driver.

"Mr. Chopra, it's been a long time," said Southland.

"Much too long," answered Chopra, growing a bit misty-eyed. "I thought you'd been killed."

"They sent me away early with the children. I urged them to come, but they insisted on staying. He thought if he evacuated he would be deemed a coward by the people. And he paid for that with his life. But we are still here and have been with the children ever since."

"And how many others?"

"Just four of us. And two more with the sisters. They have an apartment nearby."

"You've done an excellent job of protecting them."

"We didn't do it alone. And I've heard that everything could change now. We are understandably concerned."

Chopra took a long breath. "I have what is rightfully his. And he, under the guidance of a regent, can now a.s.sume leadership of the country."

"The Americans are calling Dubai the Wild West. No rule, with refugees moving in and out, and radiation still a problem. You are handing him a garbage heap."

"No. Dubai will rise again. This needs to happen."

"The Russians will not be happy."

"That's why we must protect him."

"I'm confused, Manoj. It's not even your country."

"You're wrong. I wouldn't have a life if it weren't for them. I'm a man of two countries. Hussein will rebuild his nation, our nation."

Southland chuckled under his breath. "You'll have fun convincing him of that."

"Oh, really?"

"You'll see. He's not the boy you remember."

They fell silent as Southland took them to the Owls-moor section of Sandhurst and turned down Horsham Road to park beside a four-bedroom detached house similar to an American townhome. These were modest quarters for the young sheikh, but that was part of remaining subtle and keeping a lower profile here in Europe. Time spent away in places like the Seych.e.l.les was obviously another matter.

As he climbed out of the car, Chopra frowned over the deep thrumming that emanated from the house, and as he followed Southland toward the side-entrance door, the thrumming became a distinctly deep and steady pulse.

"He likes to listen to his music in the morning," said Southland.

"What about headphones?" asked Chopra.

Southland rolled his eyes. "Oh, we've tried ..."

Once inside, Chopra winced at the booming and shouting coming from an upstairs bedroom. He wasn't sure if they called it rap or hip-hop or had invented some new term, but the sounds were headache-producing, the language unabashed.

They moved into the kitchen area, where seated around the table were two men and a woman, again all of them middle-aged and familiar to Chopra. The leaner man and the woman were private tutors, and the other, more stocky man was one of the family's personal bodyguards. Chopra had forgotten his name but remembered that he'd retired from the Saudi Ministry of Defense and Aviation.

He greeted them, but they were, in a word, cold, barely glancing up from their toast and cereal, which smelled wonderful since all he'd had was bitter airport coffee.

"I'm sorry," said Southland. "We don't quite agree with what's happening here."

"Why is that?" asked Chopra.

"Because he's not ready for such responsibility," said the woman.

Chopra glanced at her emphatically. "He's sixteen. We all know the story of Sheikh Maktoum bin Buti."

Southland snorted. "We're living in much different times."

"History repeats itself," said Chopra. "He, too, will rise back to power."

"Maktoum bin Buti was very young, yes, but he was courageous. Hussein is a product of the computer age, bloated with information and blinded by his own desires for stimulus and pleasure."

This eloquent argument had come from the female teacher, and her surname finally came to Chopra: Werner. Mrs. Werner, a British college professor who'd been swept up out of graduate school to work exclusively with Hussein and his sisters.

"I didn't come to debate this," said Chopra. "I need to speak with him. I need to remind him of who he is and what I've been protecting for all these years."

"You're an idealist, Chopra," Werner said, staring up at him over the rim of her gla.s.ses. "And I hope you've braced yourself for disappointment."

"You're making him out to be a monster. He's a sixteen-year-old boy."

The volume on the stereo upstairs suddenly spiked, and Southland lifted his voice like an irate father. "Hussein, that is much too loud!"

The volume increased further.

After a deep breath, Chopra headed for the staircase. He wound his way up to the first landing, and the music became so loud that he thought his eyes would begin to tear. He found the nearest bedroom door at the top and gave a loud knock.

No answer. He knocked again, much more loudly, and when the door swung open, Chopra took one look and remained there, aghast ...

The Snow Maiden had just finished launching her own surveillance drone, which separated into four distinct modules, each sensor no larger than her thumb and attaching itself to the house. She'd just finished listening to Chopra speak to the boy's staff, and she decided that she would move soon to catch them all in one place, when they were most vulnerable.

She was crouched behind Southland's car as the man came outside to fetch the newspaper.

She took a deep breath and reached out with all of her senses.

If someone had been electronically monitoring her heart rate and respiration, the numbers would've barely risen. By the time she'd joined the GRU, she'd stopped counting the number of people she had killed. If you asked her, "Do you remember that night in Cairo when you had to take out that man just before he got in the cab?" she would squint into that memory. The kills had become routine-an ugly word when it came to death-but she hoped they'd remain that way. Without emotion or guilt to cloud her judgment or delay her performance, she could operate efficiently, robotically even. No drama-just the elimination of obstacles.

She got to work.

The neighbors would be heading out soon, and she scanned the doorways before acting.

Clear.

After a barely appreciable thump, Southland collapsed from a perfectly timed and executed head shot. She dragged his body behind the car and left it there, out of sight from the street or adjacent doorways. She fetched the newspaper and held it up in front of her face as she entered the side door.

"What the h.e.l.l are they reporting on now?" came a man's voice. Ah, yes, the bodyguard.

She lowered the paper, and in its place came her suppressed pistol. The bodyguard swallowed her first round. The teachers met her entrance with wide eyes and open mouths, as though they were hungry, too. She shrugged. Her gaze lifted to the ceiling. Indeed, the boy's music helped m.u.f.fle any sign of commotion.

Two more shots. The male teacher snapped back, then fell forward into his bowl of cereal. The other fell sideways off her chair. The Snow Maiden neared the table and s.n.a.t.c.hed up a piece of the woman's toast. Peach jam. Yummy.

Her phone vibrated. She checked the screen: a message from Patti. You'd better move. You've got trouble. You'd better move. You've got trouble.

The missile struck the port-side engine, and the explosion sent the Sphinx banking hard and losing alt.i.tude. As the others swore and screamed, Brent thought, Well, all that worrying over my career was a waste of time. And the engineers who designed this contraption probably haven't addressed the old autorotation issue that I'd been hearing about, so we're dead. Well, all that worrying over my career was a waste of time. And the engineers who designed this contraption probably haven't addressed the old autorotation issue that I'd been hearing about, so we're dead.

But then the aircraft leveled off and the pilot got on the horn to say he had control.

That was the only good news.

In a voice tense and breathless he added that they were still coming down hard and fast and losing hydraulic fluid. Belly flopping like a five-hundred-pound man into an inflatable pool might be the best that he could do.

Brent checked one of the windows, a new addition to the Sphinx, and noted their angle of descent and the farmers' fields splayed out before them. A pair of fighter jets raced by before he could identify them. He wanted to ask the pilot if he had any more information, but thought better of it. Let the guy focus on landing.

"Who's praying with me?" cried Heston. "I'm not ready to meet Jesus, and I say we tell him that!"

"Get in crash positions," ordered Brent. "Remember your training."