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These men were former special forces members and they were prepared to repel any attack, and the events in Dubai and the Maldives had only honed their attention to a finer point. The seventeen security assets on duty tonight presented an incredibly imposing show of force to any would-be aggressor, and to a man, they were utterly and unshakably confident of one thing. Nobody . . . nobody . . . was going to come here and fuck with Constantine Pasternak tonight. • • • Court Gentry had come here to fuck with Constantine Pasternak tonight.
Simply destroying some rich dickhead’s water toy felt like weak sauce to Court, but it was something, and as far as he was concerned, this work was nevertheless an honorable endeavor.
Russia was, in Drexler’s opinion, just a big gas station run by gangsters, and other than the Russian president and his most inner circle, there was no one more powerful than Daniil Spanov.
“I’ll make it worth your while. Let’s just talk about it before you say no. All I ask is ten minutes of your time, and then maybe a lift in your dinghy back to shore.” And then she did something that in his nearly twenty years as an intelligence operative he’d never seen anyone do. She winked at him. It wasn’t done provocatively; rather, it was surreptitious, as if she were imploring him to play along.
“You would hurt my family?” “Not me,” the American said. After another brief pause, he added, “I am not doom, but I am the harbinger of doom.” “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”
She saw that they seemed to be scanning as they moved through the throngs of travelers at a pace unique from those around them. 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. She’d noted that the pair were neither rushed and determined passengers hustling to find and leap aboard their train before it left the station, nor were they idly standing
