Burner (Gray Man, #12)

by Mark Greaney

“Over two decades ago, we Russians gave up liberty for security, and that was a disaster, both for us and the world around us. Now the world around us has had enough,

Russia was, in Drexler’s opinion, just a big gas station run by gangsters,

The woman did not seem fazed. “Getting some bullshit story from your higher-ups comes with the territory.” Court nodded. “I’m just glad you aren’t some Pollyanna who thinks we’re always the good guys.” She laughed at this, then said, “I’ve worked in five duty stations since joining the Agency. We’ve done good things in every country, and we’ve fucked things up in every country, as well.” “Christians in Action,” Court mumbled, using a pejorative term for the CIA.

“I get it. You’re some disaffected, burned-out, jaded, hard-edged asset who doesn’t believe in the mission any longer but keeps doing what he’s doing because he doesn’t know what the hell else to do.”

She laughed a little. “Not originally what I had in mind.” She looked out the window a moment. “To be honest, despite the work I do, I’m essentially a pacifist. I know the U.S. needs to project power, but I’m not going to be the one to shoot anybody.”

Kirby assented with a little nod. “You have to pull this off, Suzanne. The files contain CIA money transfer information that could compromise us, if not destroy us.” She didn’t have to ask for more detail. Clearly there was something in Krupkin’s data that could lead to uncovering CIA money flowing through Russia, presumably to support operations in the country.

“This summit in New York . . . if it succeeds, it’s going to lead to a resumption of relations and trade between the U.S. and Russia. Between the West at large and Russia.” Brewer nodded. “Russia is getting off easy, aren’t they?” “Absolutely, they are. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but we’ll have to go back to fighting them in the shadows. Get me that data, protect this Agency, and protect the negotiations.”

With twenty-four tracks in all, Milano Centrale was the second-largest station in Italy.

Brügger & Thomet APC9K submachine gun was impressively compact, just less than twice the size of a full-sized pistol

you just called yourself an asset. You’re not an operations officer, are you? You’re something else.” Court gave a little nod as his eyes searched the area for trouble. “I am something else.” Angela took a couple of shallow breaths. “I’ve heard rumors about men working as contract killers for Langley. Sub rosa. Deep black. I . . . I always thought that bullshit spy thriller stuff was only in fiction.” “It is,” Court said. “Mostly. But there are a few guys like me.” He shrugged. His searching eyes suddenly locked on hers. “And we’re filed in the nonfiction section.”

Court chewed the inside of his lip, began scanning the area again. “The dark side is a virus, and I contracted it a long time ago. You seem like a nice person, an honest person. Don’t get too close to me, and definitely don’t get too close to Brewer. We’ll just infect you.”

In the counterintelligence realm, it’s known as “irregular lines of movement.” The men were moving perpendicular to both incoming and outgoing passengers, adjusting their trajectory in unpredictable patterns.

Microtech Socom Elite automatic knife. With a press of a button upon the draw, he could fire a four-inch M390 steel drop-point blade out the side, making this a rapidly deployed silent killer, perfect for an assassin like the man known to the West as Matador.

Everybody is ready to end the conflict, to resume relations. The Europeans want dependable energy, and Russia wants billions of dollars; America wants to say they brokered peace and to ease tension with Moscow and to stop giving billions in weapons to Ukraine.”

The best time to plant a tree is twenty years ago.

Suzanne Brewer walked out of a chilly and cloudy afternoon and through the doors of Bistrot du Coin, a French restaurant on Connecticut Avenue just an eight-minute drive northwest of the White House. The often raucous atmosphere was subdued at two p.m.;

“Well.” He slid onto the barstool across from her. “How about we have a drink while we wait? Husband? Boyfriend?” “Girlfriend,” Zoya replied, her eyes cold. “Look, dude, you aren’t just out of your league here, you’re not even on my menu.”

The Russians would then be subjected to a pro forma, sternly worded lecture from the United Nations Security Council, and then, immediately after the dressing-down, a UN resolution would be signed encouraging nations to resume trade with Russia as long as Moscow adhered to some semblance of a cease-fire. Immediately trade would begin booming again. Gas, oil, and grain would flow; Western commercial interests inside Russia would reopen; banking and finance sanctions would be eased.

SIG Sauer Copperhead was one of the tiniest subguns in existence,

Taurus GX4 micro-compact pistol in her purse,