France

Ava stared out the side window at kilometre after kilometre of forest, hills, with the agony of a giant knot in her stomach. Felix hadn't spoken, and Alek kept flicking his eyes at her in the mirror. Where were they going? Did he know? Her daughter's face appeared behind her eyes and she felt a tear forming.

"Are you crying, Ava?" Felix asked suspiciously.

"No. No, it's the bug I must have caught. I just feel poorly. My head hurts." She wiped her eyes then blew her nose, offering a helpless smile. "Where are we going, Feely?"

"Right over there." He lifted his head toward her window.

She turned and saw a brilliant blue lake as the car came around a bend in the road. Beside the water was a dacha, two stories of pine logs with a slate roof. A long dock ran down to the water where an impressive yacht caught the last of the sun's rays.

"How beautiful, whose is this, Feely?" The knot tightened.

"A competitor. You'll meet him soon."

She watched Alek lave the car and go up to the dacha, banging on the door. It opened and a man peered out, spoke with Alek, then closed the door. A few minutes later he returned, and Alek waved to Felix.

"Come. We go."

Ava coughed and made an apology. "I hope that doesn't get worse." She cleared her throat, then followed Felix to the dacha.

Inside was as impressive as the exterior. Stained pine flooring with brilliantly coloured woven rugs. Heavy furniture in leather formed a conversation area, and around the walls were framed photographs of what appeared to be the surrounding property. Ava slowed as she entered, her attention on the man standing by a massive fireplace, holding a drink.

"So, the great Felix Kubavich visits my humble dacha. Have you come to offer me your любовница?" He smirked, eyeing Ava. "What would I expect to have to give in return?" The words were released with the arrogance of confidence.

Alek took a step forward, matched by a hard, wiry looking man, across the room. Felix raised a hand, his eyes drilling into the speaker. He waved Ava forward, watching carefully between the two.

"Ivan Vokov, meet Ava Kapova." Her expression was a puzzled fear, while Ivan's was amused bewilderment. "Nothing to say to each other? Don't be shy." Felix suppressed his surprise at the reactions; he had expected more.

"I think you had better explain this interruption, Kubavich, you are not a welcome guest in my home - you or this-," Ivan waved a dismissive hand at Ava.

"You are aware of the recent incidents involving the assassination of a courier."

"Of course. It happened in my territory." The last was said as a blatant challenge.

The eyes narrowed, and the smile was nasty. "So, then you would also know why that happened."

Ivan delayed by sipping is drink. Did Felix somehow know? Was this a game to confirm his suspicions? He felt his arms get damp, and he glanced at his bodyguard.

"It was enough to know that it didn't interfere with my operations. Why wasn't important." The glare he received released more perspiration down his back.

"Really." Felix placed an arm around Ava. "It must have been a shock when you learned about Luka then. Wasn't he one of yours? Of course he was, and now he's dead as well."

He knows! Ivan set his glass on the mantle, a tornado of thoughts swirled through his mind, clashing and spinning uselessly away. He knows!

"I'll let you in on something you didn't know, Ivan Vokov. Your old friend Vladim requested I remove your sorry carcass from the field, in exchange for information on a mole in my organization." His arm tightened on Ava, and she thought she would faint.

"Now it appeared, you somehow learned of the dossier, and thought, well, if I can get that, I'll have old Felix over a barrel."

The perspiration migrated to Ivan's forehead.

"So tell me, Ivan Vokov, did you get that dossier?"

"I did not."

"But you tried." His arm squeezed Ava tighter. "Your little meetings in parks with chalk marks on posts," Felix snickered, "Moscow rules. Really, Ivan, you read too many spy novels."

He knows everything! "It- it's how we survive - with information." The words tumbled out shakily, and another furtive glance went to his man.

"True. And in our game, it's survival of the fittest." Felix spun away, clutching Ava to his chest as gunfire broke out behind them.

England

"I spoke to Percy." Mallory said, as Morrisey came out of the bathroom. "A very, very annoyed, Percy." She moved some hair behind her ear and stood, arms folded. "I told him we had just wanted to go somewhere different for a meal, and went a little too far to get back last night."

"How did he interpret 'a little too far'?" He was grinning widely.

"As one might expect." Her blush was beautiful. "I had to correct his thinking."

Morrisey's grin became a chuckle, and he crossed the room, taking her arms. "And now what?"

She deftly slipped around him and went to the door, purse on one shoulder, car keys in her hand. "We go to our room, scolded."

The drive back to the Hammerfield hotel was occupied with a rehash of all their thoughts, concerns and suppositions; a final agreement reached. Arrival was met by a solemn looking young man with orders for them to go straight to Percy's office. Morrisey assumed he had also removed the bugs.

"I don't think your boss bought your explanation."

"Just be very careful what you say, Percy only seems to be the facade he displays."

"At some point we will have to let him know our concerns."

"Let's wait until it is to our advantage . . . or our necessity."

Percy was enthroned behind his desk, teacup resting near his fingers, and the pot in close proximity. In a corner sat the young man who had met them earlier, sitting silent with an iPad on his lap.

"Be seated, please." Percy frowned down from his slightly elevated height. "Operation Red Closet." The phrase was delivered like an introduction, and they looked at one another, confused, until they realized it was an instruction to the young man. "Martin will be recording this meeting for our files."

"Agent West. Throughout this entire operation you have continuously broken protocols which, in some measure, contributed to its failure. What have you to say?"

"With respect, sir," she said formally, "my brief was to monitor the courier at the hotel. The inclusion of Agent Morrisey, which I objected to if you recall, made that somewhat awkward, as his people, while professing a simple observation, apparently had deeper interests."

Percy's face darkened, and he paused to pour more tea, stirring while studying Morrisey.

"Before you ask, you know very well what our concern was. I'm sure you and Director Duggan discussed it many times. And I believe my secondment was to assuage SIS, hoping to dampen my contribution." Morrisey glanced at Martin, whose face was struggling with an inappropriate grin.

The spoon clattered onto the saucer and Percy's face inflated dangerously.

"That will be all, Martin, thank you." The glare riveted Morrisey to his chair, while Martin scurried from the office.

"Just what is it you think Director Duggan and I discussed, Agent Morrisey?" The words were clipped, and Percy only glanced at his tea cup, the attraction clearly lost.

He drew in a long breath, side-eyed Mallory, and rubbed his hands together. "Well, Mister Carstairs, let me start at the beginning - my beginning."

Percy remained statue still, bloodless lips pressed tightly together, and still fingers resting on his cold tea cup, as he listened to Morrisey's theory of the so-called Red Closet operation. When he finished, he and Mallory looked at one another, surprised at no reaction from their version. Percy inhaled deeply, blinked slowly and picked up his phone.

"Martin, a fresh pot of tea, please - and cups for our guests."