Recall Zero. Джек Марс

She headed into a tiny back office with wood-paneled walls and a melamine table as a desk, covered in invoices and assorted other paperwork. She opened the calling app on the phone, dialed the number she knew by heart, and waited as it rerouted. It took several seconds, and for a moment she thought it wouldn’t work, that the call wouldn’t go through, but at last it rang.

      Someone answered. But they did not speak.

      “It’s me,” she said in Ukrainian.

      “Karina?” The woman on the other end of the line sounded confused. “What are you doing calling this number?”

      “I need help, V.”

      “What’s wrong?” Veronika asked urgently.

      Karina did not know where to begin. “There was a meeting,” she said. “Between Kozlovsky and Harris…”

      “I saw the news.” Veronika sucked in a breath as she realized. “You? You were the interpreter in that meeting?”

      “Yes.” Karina quickly recounted what had happened, from her time with the two presidents to fleeing from the Secret Service agent. She tried to keep her voice steady as she concluded, “If they find me, they will kill me, V.”

      “My god,” Veronika said breathily. “Karina, you need to tell someone what you know!”

      “I’m telling you. Don’t you see? I cannot take this to the media. They will stifle it. They will deny it. You are the only one I can trust with this information. I need to get the earrings to you.”

      “You have them?” Veronika asked. “You recorded the meeting?”

      “Yes. Every word.”

      Her sister thought for a long moment. “FIS has a liaison in Richmond. Can you get there?”

      Veronika, Karina’s older sister by two years, was a top agent of the Foreign Intelligence Service, Ukraine’s version of the CIA. It was no secret to Karina that FIS had several sleepers in the United States. The thought of being under their protection was an attractive one, but she realized she could not risk it.

      “No,” she said at last. “They will expect me to flee. I’m certain they’ll be watching the airports and highways carefully.”

      “Then I will tell him to come to you—”

      “You are not understanding, Veronika. If they find me, they will kill me. And anyone who is with me. I will not be responsible for that.” Her voice caught in her throat. Standing there in the dim back office of a shady cellular store, the events of the past few hours finally caught up with her. But she would not let her emotions get the best of her. “I’m scared, V. I need help. I need a way out.”

      “I will not let anything happen to you,” her sister promised. “I have an idea. I will have our liaison make an anonymous tip to DC Metro that the meeting was recorded—”

      “What? Are you insane?” Karina snapped.

      “And I will have him tell the media as well.”

      “Christ, V, you have lost your mind!”

      “No. Listen to me, Karina. If they believe you possess a recording, then you have a bargaining chip. Without it you are as good as dead. This way, they will want you alive. And if the tip comes from Richmond, they will believe you have fled the city. In the meantime, I will work on an extraction and get you the hell out of here.”

      “The heat is too much for you to send one of your own to retrieve me,” Karina said. “I won’t have anyone compromised or killed because of me.”

      “But you can’t do this alone, sestra.” Veronika was silent for a moment before adding, “I think I might know someone who can help.”

      “FIS?” Karina asked.

      “No. An American.”

      “Veronika—”

      “He is former CIA.”

      That clinched it. Her sister had truly lost her mind, and Karina told her so.

      “Do you trust me?” Veronika asked.

      “A minute ago I would have said yes…”

      “Trust me now, Karina. And trust this man. I will tell you where to go and when to be there.”

      Karina sighed. What choice did she have? V was right. She could not elude the Secret Service, the Russians, and anyone else they sent by herself. She needed help. And she did trust her sister, even if this plan sounded ludicrous.

      “All right. How will I know this man?”

      “If he is still good at his job, you won’t,” Veronika said. “But he will know you.”

      CHAPTER FIVE

      Sara inspected herself in the bathroom mirror as she adjusted her ponytail. She hated her hair. It was too long; she hadn’t had it cut in months. Her ends were split badly. About six weeks earlier she’d let Camilla dye it red with a box from the drugstore, and though she’d liked it at the time her bright blonde roots were showing through the first inch from her scalp. It wasn’t a good look.

      She hated the dark blue polo she had to wear to work. It was a size too big for her slight frame, with the words “Swift Thrift” screen-printed on the left breast. The letters were faded, the edges chipped from repeat washings.

      She hated going to the thrift shop, with its constant odor of mothballs and stale sweat, pretending to be nice to rude people. She hated that nine bucks an hour was the best she could do at sixteen without a high school diploma.

      But she had made a decision. She was independent.Mostly.

      The bathroom door swung open suddenly, forced from the other side. Tommy slid to a halt when he saw her standing in front of the mirror.

      “What the hell, Tommy!” Sara shouted. “I’m in here!”

      “Why didn’t you lock the door?” he shot back.

      “It was closed, wasn’t it?”

      “Well, hurry up! I have to take a piss!”

      “Just get out!” She shoved the door closed and left the older boy cursing on the other side of it. Life in the co-op was anything but glamorous, but she’d gotten used to it in the year that she’d been living there. Or had it been more now? Thirteen months or so, she reasoned.

      She brushed some mascara on her eyelashes and inspected herself once more. Good enough, she thought. She didn’t like to wear a lot of makeup, despite Camilla’s best efforts. And besides, she was still growing into her looks.

      She exited the bathroom, which opened onto the kitchen, just in time to see Tommy leaning away from the sink and zipping up his fly.

      “Oh my god.” She winced. “Tell me you did not just pee in the sink.”

      “You were taking too long.”

      “God, you’re disgusting.” She crossed to the old beige refrigerator and took out a bottle of water—no way she was drinking tap water now, that was for sure—and as she closed it again, the whiteboard caught her eye.

      She winced again.

      On the refrigerator door was a magnetic dry-erase board with six names in black marker, each of the tenants of the co-op. Written beneath each name was a number. The six of them were responsible for a share of the rent and equal part of the bills each month. If they couldn’t pay their share, they had a three-month grace period to wipe out their debt, or else they would have to leave. And the number under Sara’s name was the largest.

      The co-op was far from the worst place to live in Jacksonville. The old house needed some repairs, but it wasn’t a disaster. There were four bedrooms, three of them occupied by two people each and the fourth used as storage and workspace.

      Their landlord, Mr. Nedelmeyer, was a German guy in his early forties who had a bunch of properties like this one in the Jacksonville