Page 137 of Secret Service

Anatoly leans close, his face almost next to mine. “I found his father’s cast-off family, and then I found her. Lena. I dug into her life, and, finally, I found the records of Lena Kirilov and Adrian Quinten’s visits to a maternity hospital in Helsinki.”

“She was pregnant.”

Anatoly nods. “You understand how difficult it has been to pull all this together, yes?”

“Did she have the baby?”

“No. She was four months pregnant when she was run off the road.”

“You’re certain she was killed?”

“Kirilov and Quinten are certain. The accident report was mysteriously lost on the Finnish police servers. There is only a single hard copy left, and I dug it out of a warehouse. The details of the crash, the damage to her vehicle—it sounds like a textbook assassination. Either FSB or a CIA or MI6 operation.”

“Why would either side want to assassinate Lena Kirilov?”

“Both were likely worried that the men she was close to were compromised. If it was the FSB who killed her, certain factions might have thought that the then brand-new President Kirilov would be open to pressure from his sister, or the West acting through her. If Lena—compromised by the CIA or MI6—asked her brother for a favor, would he agree? And the same goes for the CIA or MI6, if they thought a promising British Army officer would do anything for the woman he loved, and the secret sister of the new president of Russia.”

“How does her murder turn Quinten into a personal spy for President Kirilov?”

“The simplest reason in the world: rage. If I had to put money on it, I would say a faction of the FSB tried to take President Kirilov out early, and they thought killing his sister would weaken him. And even if it did not, they’d removed a potential security risk. But Kirilov and Quinten believe otherwise. To them, the West is to blame for Lena’s death, and the hole left in their lives has never been filled. They united in their grief.”

“So Quinten turned traitor? You said he hadn’t planned on a long military career. He was only a young officer when this happened.”

“Revenge is a dish best served ice cold. With the right guidance, the right motivation, Captain Adrian Quinten became General Adrian Quinten, and then the deputy head of Allied Command for NATO forces. Could there be any better spy for Russia? He is a knife in the heart of NATO.”

“Jesus.” I run my hands through my hair as memories of Quinten’s most recent meeting with Brennan flash through me. I led him through security. I escorted him into the Roosevelt Room. Marshall had introduced him as his “good friend.”

“Vice President Marshall is close to him. Marshall brought him to the White House, and it was the two of them who convinced Brennan to funnel more arms and ammunition to domestic opposition inside Ukraine.”

“All of which, I guarantee you, went right to Kirilov’s supporters. Those weapons were probably used against your allied forces in Ukraine.”

I can’t believe how deeply we’ve been played. How thoroughly, how completely.

Everywhere I turn, there’s another betrayal, another patch of quicksand.

“You’ve been tracking Quinten?”

“I only uncovered his identity as Kirilov’s cutout very recently. I have been working day and night, trying to move backward through all his movements and all his contacts. Your vice president is one, but there are more in your president’s circle who are connected to him.”

I close my eyes and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes. “I think Marshall’s connection to Quinten is strong.”

“Maybe. But your vice president wasn’t at the United Nations General Assembly, and that is where we believe General Quinten connected with the spy inside your government. It must have been there. The timing lines up.”

Anatoly’s eyes roll to the ceiling. Sheridan has gone silent above us. “Now, there is something I want you to see,” he says as he pulls up a video file.

It’s Russian surveillance, a pinhole camera view of the interior of a Manhattan bar I recognize. It’s a block away from the UN, and the place is packed.The date and time in the corner say it’s the night of the General Assembly. The night I slept with Brennan.

“What am I looking at?”

“Here.” Anatoly points to the edge of the video, to a two-seater high-top against the wall. Two men in dark suits are drinking beer. There are four empty bottles between them. One leans across the table, and his partner turns his head so he can hear—

It’s Sheridan.

I watch as Sheridan nods and stands. Now that he’s out of the way, I see it’s Henry sitting on the other side of the table. He waves his empty bottle at Sheridan. Sheridan laughs, and then he pushes through the crowd like a salmon fighting his way upstream.

At the bar, Sheridan looks left, right, and left again, as if he’s looking for something or someone. He eventually elbows his way in next to a tall, silver-haired man nursing a martini.

That man—Adrian Quinten—turns with a smile and opens a space for Sheridan.

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