53

“Have we heard from Petrova yet?” asked Olga Zhukovskaya.

The FSB colonel standing before her shook his head.

“Not since that meeting in Rome, Madam Deputy Director. I have ensured that the standard notice is placed in the classified advertisement section of the International Herald Tribune, but she has not responded.”

“Do we even know where she is?”

Another shake of the head, almost sorrowful this time.

“No. We have reason to believe that Vermulen might have chartered a yacht, but we have been unable to confirm that, and we would not be able to track it, even if we had. As you know, ma’am, our resources are not what they used to be. We have not launched a single reconnaissance satellite since September 1995. We have been completely blind since it ceased to function a year later.”

He sighed, somewhat theatrically.

“We used to impose our will across the globe; now the best we can hope for is to steal pictures off Western commercial satellites…”

Zhukovskaya was not in a mood for self-pity. It was not an emotion for which she’d ever seen any need.

“That may be. The fact remains: We need to find them. Vermulen is planning something. I can feel it.”

The colonel stayed silent, letting his boss think in peace. It did not take long for her to come to a decision. Olga Zhukovskaya was a woman who knew what she wanted. It was one of the qualities that made her such an effective leader.

“Whatever Vermulen is doing, it involves Pavel Novak. He will know what is happening. And very soon we will know, too.”

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