“He thinks the person who died was a stand-in, and that the target might have gone out of the country.”
“He knows or is he guessing?”
The contact shook his head. “At the moment, it’s merely a rumor, but he says his sources are very reliable.”
Bronsky grimaced. He found the news hard to believe. But he also couldn’t return to Moscow without knowing for sure. He had no doubt that his own life would be forfeit if he showed up, and the rumor turned out to be true.
“He needs to find out immediately,” Bronsky snapped.
“How is he—”
“Howis not my problem!”
The contact shrank back. “I-I’ll let him know.”
“I expect to hear from you first thing in the morning.”
As the contact opened his mouth to speak, Bronsky heard a muffledthwapfrom somewhere behind the man. Before he could even react, the contact staggered into his arms.
Bronsky reflexively grabbed him. His hand touched a wet spot on the man’s back. Anotherthwapechoed under the bridge and something zipped past Bronsky’s head.
Someone was shooting at them.
As a third shot rang out, Bronsky shoved his contact’s lifeless body away and fled in the opposite direction.
He heard the spit of the silenced pistol two more times before he lost the shooter in a warren of narrow streets, not far from the river. He kept moving until he was sure he was safe, then leaned against the wall of a dark alley to catch his breath.
He had no idea who the shooter could have been, or, more importantly, for whom the shooter worked.
It was possible his contact had run afoul of someone, and Bronsky was simply caught in the middle of it. But it was best to assume he was the target.
God knew, he’d made more than enough enemies over the years. But they were all in his past, so he had no idea why someone would be coming after him now.
Unless the Brits had already figured out he was the one behind Dame Felicity’s assassination.
He thought it over then shook his head.
He’d been very careful when setting up the operation. Even the contact who had just died in his arms hadn’t known his real identity.
No, he was targeted because of something else. What that was, he’d have to figure out later. Now that he’d lost the shooter, his more pressing problem was that of Dame Felicity’s status.
He needed to find out whether she was still breathing. And if she was, he would make sure she wasn’t for long.
He knew exactly whom he had to call.
The line rang four times before it was answered by a sleepy male voice. “Hello?”
“Hello, Gordon. Did I wake you?”
The line went silent for a few seconds before Gordon Pryce said, “M-Mr. Bronsky?”
“I’m glad you still recognize my voice after all these years.”
“W-w-why are you calling me?”
“That’s a stupid question. Because I need your assistance, of course. Why else?”
Pryce was an analyst at MI6 who had been part of Bronsky’s network of spies back when Bronsky was stationed in London. Bronsky had used a honeypot to recruit him in the form of a beautiful female agent. Dozens of compromising pictures were taken, any one of which would have ruined the man’s life and career. Pryce had no choice but to become an informant.
