Today's Reading
Adam had been traveling on adjacent streets, staying as close to parallel as he could with her. He would pick up the surveillance now.
At the next corner, Emma turned left and hit the accelerator, thumping hard over a speed bump. Somehow, she needed to get ahead of the Balakin's car on the narrow side streets.
It was a waltz of cars, each just out of sight of the other.
"I have eyes on," Adam announced a moment later. "Target heading north on Kensington High Street."
As she navigated London's twisting, narrow side streets, Emma was viewing a map of the neighborhood in her mind. Kensington High Street was a straight line to Hyde Park. And unless he was sightseeing, Hyde Park held nothing of interest except Kensington Gardens and the royal residence at Kensington Palace, and he certainly wasn't going there. The only place nearby was...
Her breath caught. She spoke quickly into her microphone. "The Russian embassy. That's where he's going."
There was a pause before Adam replied, "I think you're right."
"I'm heading to the Palace Green," Emma said. "Stay with him."
She hit the accelerator, racing down affluent streets of elegant townhouses, spinning the wheel as she navigated onto Notting Hill Gate, her tires squealing.
Just as she made the turn, a small woman in a pale blue uniform pushing a pram stepped out into the crossing ahead of her.
Emma slammed the brakes, bracing herself as her body was thrown forward. The car stopped with a shiver. The woman gave her an alarmed glance and hurried across the road.
Swearing softly, Emma accelerated more gently this time, fingers drumming the wheel when a slow-moving van pulled in front of her. Throughout it all, she could hear Adam's voice in her earpiece as Balakin's car made its way toward its destination.
Finally, she turned off onto a small side street, parking on a double yellow line before jumping out of the car and running down to a private lane, barricaded from traffic. She paused on the corner, pretending to look at her phone while in reality she was studying a sprawling Edwardian wedding cake of a building, half-hidden behind forbidding brick and metal walls topped with razor wire. The blue, red, and white Russian flag waved defiantly above the portico, the colors crisp against the backdrop of that peerless sky.
She didn't have to wait long. Two minutes after she arrived, the embassy's gates began to slide open. And a minute later, the black Mercedes rolled into view.
In the backseat, Vladimir Balakin stared straight ahead as the car turned slowly into the drive, its engine purring. Moments later, the gates shuddered and slid shut, hiding the car from view.
"Target inside the embassy," Emma said, softly.
For the first time that day, her boss's voice appeared in her earpiece.
"Abort this operation," Charles Ripley ordered. "All units, return to base."
But Emma didn't immediately do as she was told. Instead, she stared at those closed gates.
Something big was happening. She could sense it.
CHAPTER TWO
Twenty minutes later, Emma parked the Ford in an unmarked underground car park on a quiet Westminster street that curved like a scythe. The buildings here were classic Victorian red brick row houses, few were more than four stories tall. Beside each door a brass plate or tasteful wooden sign bore the names of the organizations inside. Most of them were true. The door she turned into had a sign reading "The Vernon Institute." That was a lie.
The plain, oak door opened into a small entrance hall that held nothing except a second set of doors. These were much more modern. And much more bulletproof.
Leaning forward, Emma stared into a small electronic device mounted on the wall. A red light blinked slowly. After a moment. the light turned green, and the doors unlocked with an audible click.
She walked through into a bustling office. Esther Fields waved from the comms desk, her blond hair a puff of vanilla tamed by the black straps of her headset.
"Ripley wants you to go straight up," she called.
Emma lifted a hand. "On my way."
She dropped the Ford's keys into the wooden box beside the door with its perennial plea that the government's cars should be returned clean and with at least some fuel, before heading for the long oak staircase that dominated the room.
...
