No car, no cell signal, and the other two spies were nowhere to be seen. He’d failed the mission.

His life was over.

He turned around and stood over the corpse of the fat American, a single bullet hole in the center of his forehead. He flicked the cigarette away and knelt down close to the body, examining the face.

The Korean shook his head, haunted by the dead man’s smile.

74

FALLS CHURCH, VIRGINIA

Rhodes shut the burner phone and tossed it on his desk. Zvezdev hadn’t picked up in two days. The fat bastard was hanging him out to dry.

Rhodes pulled the Kimber .380 from his wall safe and checked the magazine, then set it carefully on his desk next to the phone. He pulled out his legal passport, and a counterfeit one he’d purchased a week ago, just in case the whole thing went sideways. You don’t have a plan until you have a plan to escape, his father had taught him. Of course, that was in regard to fieldwork, but it was proving damn useful today.

It suddenly occurred to him that he wouldn’t see his son grow up—at least, not for the next several years. But then again, his own father had been absent for most of his childhood, and he’d made out all right. Fatherhood, like most things in life, was overrated. The little nipper would be just fine.

His wife? Well, a pretty girl for sure, but just another piece of ass. He was glad to be getting rid of her—for as little as she put out, she ran up a lot of bills. A twinge of guilt crept across his conscience. She’d have to file for bankruptcy, of course, and would undoubtedly lose the house. She might even have to get a job, poor thing. He couldn’t pay child support, let alone alimony. His bank accounts were drained, his trust fund depleted, and all of the offshore money he’d invested in his bet against Dalfan stock was gone now.

And in an hour, he would be, too.

But then again, she was screwing her Pilates instructor. A smile crept across his face as he imagined her shock when she finally figured out that he had fled the country and left her holding the bag.

Rhodes startled as the library door swung open. He turned around.

“Jack? What are you doing here—my God, son. What happened to you?”

Jack Ryan, Jr., stepped up to Rhodes’s desk, his battered face as grim as death. His left forearm was in a cast, and his hands were badly bruised and scraped.

“Surprised, Senator?”

“I thought you were in Singapore.”

“I was. So was Paul.”

Rhodes glanced over Jack’s broad shoulder. “Where is he?”

“Dead.”

Rhodes blanched. “Dead?”

“Don’t play games, Wes. You called me and warned me he was in ‘hot water,’ remember?”