Moscow Sting

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ADRIAN CAREW GLARED THROUGH the rain-streaked window of a British intelligence pool Vauxhall Carlton as if the application of his undoubtedly impressive willpower could unsnarl the traffic. Cars were bumper to bumper going west out of London, and the weather was only making things worse.

His driver, Ray, with fifteen years of service and an almost Zen calm by comparison with his boss, half turned towards the rear seat.

“We’ll be through this in a minute or two, sir.” His words barely made their way through the noise of the rain drumming on the roof of the car.

With his usual expression of muscular irritation in place—teeth clamped, jaw muscles twitching—Adrian coldly addressed his reply to the side window.

“Never mind.”

At sixty-three years old, the former SAS hero, military intelligence wizard, and later chief of MI6 Moscow Station, had earlier in the day gleaned from one of his eyes and ears at Joint Intelligence that he had been elevated to the informal short list for the top position at MI6; Spymaster in Chief, the media called it.

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