Sadov slowly closed his magazine and zipped it into a side compartment of his carry-on bag. Around him, other fliers rose off their chairs and got in line at the gate. He let his gaze skim over the redheaded agent. The man had his arms crossed over his chest and seemed focused on the waiting area. As Sadov stood to join the line the man bounced up and down on his toes. Once. Was that an indication of boredom and restlessness, a reflexive little stretch? Or an indication he might be preparing to make a move? For one small second, Sadov had thought he’d felt eyes on his face.

He slung his travel bag over his shoulder and moved to the back of the line. He noticed the agent who had been posted at the entrance to the waiting area start walking in his approximate direction. The man had bristle-cut hair and a pointed, vigilant face. Like a fox.

Sadov ground his teeth. He remembered the close call he’d had after the job in London. That had been a little over a year ago. A pair of bobbies had identified him, followed him for several blocks. He’d left both in an alley with bullets in their skulls. But now, here, he was unarmed. And with all these people around, he would be trapped.

The line moved forward. He moved with it, his ticket in hand. The redhaired agent was now almost directly in front of him, to the right of the gate, scrutinizing the passengers as they stepped through. Sadov wondered to what extent the image of him could have been refined. There was a great deal of technology available to the authorities. And wasn’t it also possible they had been tipped off? There was a reward. New York City alone had offered fifty thousand dollars. And he did not fully trust Roma or his men. They might have been tempted. Think of the things he himself had done for money.

Sadov continued toward the gate. There were only three passengers ahead of him. An elderly couple, and a well-dressed woman in her forties. The couple exchanged brief pleasantries with a flight attendant as she took their tickets, then disappeared into the jetway. The woman was next. The redheaded man gave her a cursory glance, looked past her at the shrinking line.

Sadov squeezed his tension into a tight ball and pushed it somewhere deep inside him. He had no choice but to continue ahead toward the gate and hope he got through.

He held out his ticket. The attendant’s mouth was smiling. He nodded, peeled his own lips back over his teeth to mimic the expression. The redhead was almost beside him now.

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “would you please step off the line a moment?”