For a long, uncomfortable moment, she stared back at the tall young man, completely unsure how she should react to this veiled proposition. Was he seriously signaling the possible defection of another Russian flight crew, this time with their country’s most advanced experimental aircraft? If so, this was either the most outrageous scam ever dangled in front of the CIA . . . or a golden opportunity to pull off one of the most incredible espionage breakthroughs in modern history.

He read her confusion. “Obviously, we don’t expect you to commit your government or its money on the basis of a single photograph,” he assured her. “But if you would like to explore our offer further, I’ll need a highly secure means of contacting you directly—one that avoids the usual delays involved in covert communications.”

“I can arrange that,” Reynolds said slowly, privately relieved that she wasn’t being asked to make a spur-of-the-moment decision. She reached into her purse, selected a business card from among several in her wallet, and gave it to him. It was blank, except for a single email address, a collection of assorted characters using the domain name “spyder.biz.” Messages sent to that address would be funneled to one of several covert servers CIA officials used for “private communications”—emails they wanted to hide from congressional scrutiny, nosy administration snoopers, and Freedom of Information Act requests from journalists and good-government groups. She made a mental note to make sure her tech people cut that particular server out of the loop, as a precaution to protect the rest of the dark network. After all, this might still be some kind of complicated con, or worse, a disinformation ploy run by Russia’s own intelligence outfits.

With a nod of thanks, the young man slid the card into his jacket pocket. “One word of friendly warning, Ms. Reynolds: you understand that this is an extremely valuable property, so I cannot guarantee that our offer will be exclusive to your country. Quite naturally, others may prove equally intrigued.” Then, without waiting for a response, he turned away from her and walked off through the gallery.

Miranda Reynolds stared after him with a frown. Con game or not, she didn’t like the idea of a possible bidding war against Beijing. The People’s Republic of China had its own stealth bomber program. Its agents would leap at the chance to acquire Russia’s advanced prototype. The situation she now faced was complicated enough without turning into a possible high-stakes auction involving another of the world’s great powers.

One of her aides materialized by her side. “Do you want him followed?” he asked quietly. His smartphone was already in his hand.

Impatiently, she shook her head. “Too risky. Whoever that guy really works for, he moves like a professional. We wouldn’t learn anything that he doesn’t already want us to know.”

“So what’s our next move?”

“We take the first available flight back to D.C., Charlie,” she said. “And then we wait to see whether this trip was just a wild goose chase . . . or a real chance at the mother lode.”