Flynn looked across at Van Horn. “You work for this guy,” he said quietly. “What does it really involve?”

“No bullshit this time?” she asked, with the faint echo of a laugh.

“No bullshit,” he confirmed.

Van Horn nodded, looking relieved at his change in tone. “Well, Nick, basically the job involves travel to a variety of unsavory, exotic places, frequent danger, and the occasional risk of getting killed. All for relatively low pay and uncertain benefits.”

“So, pretty much the same as serving in the armed forces, then,” Flynn pointed out with a quick, sidelong grin.

Fox nodded. “True enough,” he allowed, with a fleeting smile of his own. “But with one rather significant exception . . . especially to someone like you.”

“And what’s that?” Flynn wondered.

“The opportunity for truly independent action, without being held back or second-guessed by superiors who are more interested in protecting their careers than in accomplishing the mission,” Fox said bluntly.

For a time, Flynn considered that, looking back and forth between Laura Van Horn and Fox. How far could he trust them? Maybe not far, he thought. At least not yet. Then again, if even half of what they said was accurate, it could turn out to be one hell of a ride. He nodded. “Okay, count me in.”

Côte d’Azur, France

That Same Time

Dmitri Grishin’s huge luxury yacht was anchored off a small, cliff-circled harbor on the French coast. One of the hundred-meter-long vessel’s auxiliary craft, a beautiful teak motorboat, rumbled softly across the azure waters of the Mediterranean, swung through a graceful curve, and glided in alongside a centuries-old stone quay. Quickly, crewmen tied the motorboat up and then turned to help their only passenger, the oligarch himself, up a short ladder.

At the top, Grishin paused to thank them. “Your service during this vacation has been superb, and will be amply rewarded,” he said cheerfully. “I only wish the press of business didn’t require me to return so soon to Moscow.”

They bobbed their heads in gratitude. Their employer, though demanding, paid well—and tipped even better when he was pleased. And everyone aboard the yacht had noticed the sea change in his mood over the last few days. With a final, genial wave, Grishin turned toward the limousine that would take him back to the airport in Nice.

And then his head exploded—blown apart by a subsonic 9mm round. Without a sound, his corpse toppled off the quay and splashed into the Mediterranean.

Three hundred meters away, high up on the rocky cliff overlooking the little village, the man who’d shot him began methodically disassembling his scoped VSS Vintorez sniper rifle. This silenced weapon had been specially developed for use by Spetsnaz-trained assassins.

Two other men stood nearby, watching impassively while the murderer quietly and efficiently stowed the tools of his trade in a carrying case. One of them was a senior officer in Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, the SVR. He turned to the tall, elegantly dressed younger man at his side. “Moscow is grateful for your cooperation and patriotism, Mr. Voronin,” he said. “Without your information, this traitor might have managed to escape detection. And only your inside knowledge enabled us to retrieve the two hundred billion rubles he had been paid as ransom.”