Page 83 of Ford
“Why are you detaining us?”
The woman in the front seat didn’t move.
“We did nothing wrong. We’re tourists—”
“Stop. Talking.” The woman barely glanced over her shoulder this time as she said it, and something in her tone, less warning and more, well,warning.
As if she might be trying to protect them?
What—?
They pulled up to the exact building he’d seen on television. Four stories, mustard colored, the bottom floor made of stone like a medieval prison.
The woman got out and opened their door. “Follow me.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He glanced at the building, the immensity doing something to his insides.
If they went in, they weren’t coming out.
The woman turned then and took a breath. “If you want to stay alive, you will.”
He blinked at her.
“I was sent by my husband to get you. Your friends are in big trouble, and if you show up at the embassy, you will be too. Now, c’mon.”
He didn’t move. “Who’s your husband?”
“You’re just going to have to trust me.”
“Trust the FSB?”
“No. Trust your friend Ham. I’m his contact.”
Ham? He didn’t move, but Scarlett tugged his hand.
And then he was following the women as they went through the front doors of FSB HQ.
Scarlett couldn’t believe that Ford had followed her right into FSB Headquarters. The very thought of it had probably given him a rash, the idea that he might have voluntarily handed himself—and his very valuable personhood, intelligence, and skills—over to a country that may or may not be on friendly terms with the United States.
It depended on the current tweets of the time, probably.
But still, Petty Officer First Class, Navy SEAL Ford walked right in through the tall double doors, following the dark-haired agent down the marble floor, all the way to the back of the first floor and into a room where the woman closed the door and said in English, “Your sister is safe.”
If Ford hadn’t been the man he was, he might have collapsed right there, but instead he closed his eyes, the tiniest tightening around his mouth betraying his worry.
“But she’s on her way to Siberia.”
That shook even Scarlett, and she tightened her hand in Ford’s.
“Is this some kind of joke?” Ford snapped, and the woman held up her hand.
“No. It’s a way to get her out of the country.”
The office she’d secured them in was large, with the white-blue-red stripes of the FSB logo on the carpet, a long black credenza behind a massive desk covered with three computer screens. A window overlooked a parking lot. And on the desk, a picture of the woman and two dark-haired children, a boy and a girl.
“I think you need to start at the beginning,” said Ford. He let go of Scarlett’s hand, flexing his own, and then folded his arms over his chest, which seemed to swell, a sort of bracing of himself, Scarlett figured. “Who are you?”
“My name is Yanna. And I can’t tell you much. It’s better to talk to the American Consulate Chief of Station. He’s waiting for you at the Hotel National.”