The Fall of Moscow Station by Mark Henshaw

was a rare thing for him to care about such things on a personal level.
    But Jon had never been a case officer, had never felt protective of an asset. Kyra had been responsible for a man’s life. She had run through the streets of a hostile city, trying to fulfill the Agency’s debt of honor and save a person from execution. The case officer unchanged by that didn’t deserve the job. A man who was willing to see them executed for his own gain deserved the electric chair, Kyra thought, so just bruising Maines’s ego and his manhood hadn’t even come close to sating her sense of justice. Hunting traitors was never a business of cold calculation. There was always a layer of passion and hatred underneath it all.
    Leading with your heart is a fine way to get killed? she thought. You’re wrong, Jon. It’s the only real edge we ever have in this business. Training and tools could always be countered, but the will to act, to keep pushing on against the enemy . . . that was harder to match.
    So it was ironic, she thought, that she was pushing against the enemy by standing still. Kyra leaned against one of the trees that lined the wide median between the opposing lanes of the Unter Den Linden, ignoring the tourists and locals walking behind her. Cars rolled past, almost within arm’s reach, but she never moved or looked away from the embassy. The wind picked up, imparting a chill to the air.
    Kyra zipped up the red jacket.
    There were German Bundeskriminalamt officers hiding in tourists’ clothing at both ends of the block, ready to seal off both ends of the street and take Maines into custody after he walked out the front door. The president of the United States had refused to offer a pardon to Alden Maines, but Maines didn’t know that. With that realization in hand, Kyra had thought she might be able to shut down Maines’s threat before nightfall. All he had to do was believe that his deal was within reach.
    You asked for me, Maines , she thought. Get out here.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Alden Maines stared at the embassy sidewalk from the conference room window, failing to repress a smile. The president signed off, and I get to go home , he thought. Maines had sold out his country, made $50 million in the process, and the president himself had agreed to forgive it all. The world was dancing on his strings.
    â€œIt is a good view,” he heard Lavrov say. Maines turned and saw the Russian general come up behind him. “Not so nice as it was before the Wall came down, but it still has much to recommend it.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” Maines said. He had nothing left to say to the man.
    Lavrov smiled, a small one. “She is quite a pretty girl, isn’t she?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe young lady in the red coat down on the street,” Lavrov said. “The one I allowed you to meet yesterday.”
    â€œNot my type,” Maines said. “I don’t like the pudgy ones.” I’ve got my pardon now, you moron , he thought. You don’t want to pay, you get nothing.
    â€œOh, surely you recognize a disguise when you see one,” Lavrov protested. “Hers was a very good one, but I suspect that she is much prettier without it. She would make a most agreeable companion for an evening out, and good entertainment after if she were persuaded. But I doubt she would entertain any such notions with you. I’m told that she left you clutching yourself on the roof.”
    Maines gritted his teeth but refused to look at the Russian. Of course Lavrov knew about his humiliation. Another reason to spit in Stryker’s face when he walked out the front door of this building in a few minutes. You won’t be so full of yourself then, General.
    â€œA woman of intelligence, beauty, and spirit,” Lavrov said, approving. “I would like to know her name.”
    â€œShe didn’t tell me.” It was technically