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‘I’m a doctor. Don’t draw me into your politics.’ Carrie’s face was etched with irritation. ‘Check our findings here against neighborhoods in any American city and compare how normal or bad it is.’

‘When you say “our,” who are you referring to?’

‘I am working with Russian military paramedics.’

‘Cooperatively?’

‘We are medical professionals. That’s what we do.’

‘Then, I have to ask: Do you feel right about coming on air like this?’

Carrie tensed. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You are helping the Russians in this military operation against America. Your parents are Russian—’

‘My father’s Estonian.’

‘They were both citizens of the Soviet Union. Therefore, I have to ask, Dr Walker, because our viewers will want to know, what your loyalties are to Russia?’

Every muscle in Carrie’s face seemed to stiffen. Her eyes sharpened. Stephanie remembered one evening when they got drunk together while she was splitting from Harry. Carrie told how she dealt with whatever operating-theater shit was thrown at her. Stay focused. No crying in surgery. Keep punching on. That was what she delivered now, upfront and personal to the anchor: ‘How do you feel about promoting an enemy state while drawing your seven-figure salary behind your studio presenter’s desk?’

‘Excuse me, Dr Walker!’ The anchor looked stunned.

‘Your network has just given Russia millions of dollars of free publicity.’

‘That’s not the—’

‘Yes, it is!’

‘Dr Walker, I have to—’

‘Don’t you dare cut me off! I’m here because I was ordered at gunpoint to go on air to tell your audience what I’ve seen and done. And you consorted with Moscow—’

‘What I meant was—’

‘Your question was phrased to imply that I was being unpatriotic.’

‘I appreciate it must be stressful—’

‘You asked if I felt right about supporting the enemy.’

‘Yes, I did.’ The anchor recovered her composure, but only for a second.

‘I feel fine about it. And I’ll tell you what’s happening next. In the next few minutes I’m being ordered into a Russian helicopter with Admiral Vitruk to fly three miles across to Big Diomede to help in an operation to drain fluid from the brain of a one-day-old United States citizen. Why don’t you keep your cameras rolling, and ask your audience if they want President Swain to comply with your definition of patriotism and shoot our aircraft down?’

‘There’s that bit of intel we wanted,’ said Harry, as the newscast switched to a commercial break. ‘Vitruk protects himself by taking Dr Carrie Walker with him.’ Harry held Stephanie’s coat to help her into it. She took it from him and did it herself.

‘Tell me I’m wrong,’ she said. ‘By painting Carrie a traitor, they’re making her expendable.’

‘Yes. They won’t touch her on this flight. But if they choose to strike later and the casualty cost is limited to, say, eighty Eskimos and a traitor, then yes, they could get away with it.’

‘That would be Holland, not Swain,’ said Stephanie.

‘Don’t underestimate Swain.’

They walked to the entrance. Harry opened the door to a blast of cold night air. To her surprise, he kissed her lightly on the lips, then hugged her. ‘It’s good working with you again, Madam Ambassador. We’ll fix it, you and I.’

* * *

Stephanie walked into the Oval Office where Swain’s advisors were watching her Prime Minister address shift-change workers on the New Jersey docks. The television shot was stunning, Slater raising his arms, turning to the Statue of Liberty, the camera moving from the Manhattan skyline to the transfixed expressions of his audience. Slater stood next to Jeff Walsh, the union leader she had met at that dinner that now seemed so long ago. They looked like two ageing revolutionaries, brothers in arms, voices for the forgotten and ignored.

When Slater had suggested that he make this speech, she’d thought it a crazy idea. If his task was to rally support in Europe, why would a British Prime Minister make his case to American dockworkers in the middle of the night? Why not do it with a few discreet phone calls?

But she was wrong. Slater had warmed them up and they looked as if they were hanging on his every word. He spoke about the universal aspiration of mankind, a bond that no one nation could break. ‘A bond forged by working men and women, like you, not jumped-up politicians seeking a cause for war.’ A single wolf whistle was picked up by others to create cheering applause. ‘Way to go, Kev,’ came a shout, followed by another. ‘Right on, Europe.’ Slater wrapped his arm around Walsh. ‘Shoulder to shoulder. Shoulder to shoulder,’ he shouted, and the chant ran like a Mexican wave with fists pummeling the air, dockers linking arms and the camera director skillfully picking out the faces of firemen, police, paramedics, the civilian heroes who kept people safe.

‘And my message to the Russians on Alaska is clear and direct,’ Slater continued as the cheering subsided. ‘Leave, and leave now. Leave and be free.’ Sleet across lamps, breath on faces, the camera moved from him to the crowd, the stamping of feet, the raising of arms. No one else could have pulled it off as Slater had. She disagreed with just about all his policies, but she had never heard a finer orator or seen a more skillful working of a crowd.

‘And to my colleagues in Europe…’ Slater was saying as Stephanie’s phone lit up, a message from Harry. She read it and looked up, stunned and afraid. Prusak was on the phone too, his eyes on the television. The Defense Secretary took a call. A moment later, the Secretary of State did the same. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff took two fast steps to the Oval Office desk. ‘Sir, they’re saying we shot down another Russian helicopter.’

‘Who’s saying?’ said Swain.

‘Tin City radar station picking up Russian military traffic. It’s the one Dr Carrie Walker was on.’

Stephanie re-read Harry’s message — Vitruk’s helicopter down. A Moscow number on Stephanie’s phone lit up. Sergey Grizlov.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Little Diomede, Alaska, USA

Ten minutes earlier, wedged into cover just above the ice-floe edge, Rake had fixed a rocket-propelled grenade on a launcher, hoping to hell he wouldn’t have to use it. If he did, he would need to destroy the approaching helicopter with one shot because he doubted he would have time for a second. Smoke from the grenade propulsion would expose his position. The trick with this weapon was to fire and move. But the only place he could go was onto the sea ice, where he would be a perfect target for the helicopter’s fire power. He wished the helicopter crew would adhere to basic military rules and stay at least four hundred meters away from the hillside and out of range of an RPG or assault rifle. At that distance, thermal imaging would only create confusion and they would have difficulty spotting him. But those were rules for regular troops, and these were special forces whose mission must be to kill or capture him. The weather was clear too, and there were stars, the moon, and clarity of vision. If he were them, he would take the risk and come closer.

His analysis was right. The Russian helicopter flew around the north edge of the island and followed contours that rose almost straight up. At one point, the aircraft was so near that its rotor-blade draught ripped away the snow that gave him cover. Rake could see outline figures of soldiers inside. He counted four, but there would be others. The helicopter pulled away, climbed like an elevator, then began a slow vertical descent for the real search. Floodlamps lit the landscape that men would be scouring with trained eyes. Thermal imaging would pinpoint him. He could only stay hidden for so long, a minute, probably less. Within a few seconds of them spotting him, he would be dead.