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don’t wait around for him to try that gun.”
    “That gun” was a VSSK Vychlop 12.7 mm sniper’s rifle, the most powerful weapon of its kind in the world.
    “How did you rig it?”
    “You don’t need to know.”
    “I don’t go in blind.”
    “We engraved three bullets with his name and the royal family’s coat of arms and included them in the case. Two of them are good. We put fifty grams of C4 in the third. When the firing pin hits it,
bang
goes the breech. And I mean
bang
, as in a serious shrapnel burst. You don’t want to be nearby when it goes off.”
    “Thanks for letting me know,” she said. “I’m glad you’re looking after me.”
    “Me
look after
you?
Since when?”
    The comment provoked a laugh. Maybe because it was so patently true, or maybe because she wished it weren’t. “Talk to you on the other side.”
    Emma pressed her foot against the accelerator, locking her arms against the wheel as the car gained speed—200 … 220 … 240 kilometers per hour—and the wind buffeted her.
    “Slow down,” said Connor.
    Frank Connor was the head of Division and Emma’s boss. She ignored him.
    The free trade zone came into view. It was a city of warehouses, hangars, cranes, and fences built on a gargantuan scale. The highway narrowed from eight lanes to four. A sign advised her to slow to 80 kilometers per hour. Her response was to press the pedal harder and watch the speedometer jump to 260. She stared at the unbroken white stripe leading her on, enjoying the hum of the automobile’s five-liter V10 engine, the world beyond her reduced to a blur.
    “Emma … I said, slow the hell down!”
    She kept her foot on the accelerator: 280 … 290 … 300.
    And then she braked. The car decelerated rapidly, the g’s forcing her forward against the seatbelt, making her aware of her anxious stomach and her rapidly beating heart. She drew a breath and calmed herself. The butterflies vanished and her heart rate fell to its normal fifty beats per minute. She was no longer Lara or Emma. She was an operative. Names didn’t matter. It was her work that defined her identity, her mission that formed the core of her soul.
    Leaving the highway, she turned in to the east entry and stopped at the security checkpoint. A tall fence topped with rings of barbedwire blocked her path. A uniformed guard looked her up and down but didn’t ask for her name or her identification. She was expected. “Continue straight ahead for two kilometers,” he said. “You’ll be met at Warehouse 7.”
    The fence clattered on its track, and Emma advanced into the complex. She passed a succession of warehouses, each five stories tall and as large as two city blocks. Even at this hour the area was alive with traffic: trucks loading and offloading goods, forklifts zipping back and forth, cranes lifting containers from trains to flatbeds.
    Finally she reached Warehouse 7. A second checkpoint blocked the road. As she approached, the gate slid back. A police car was parked a few meters ahead. Its flashers lit up and began to strobe. A hand emerged from the driver’s window and motioned for her to follow.
    She tailed the police car across a wide asphalt expanse to a smaller hangar two kilometers away that was situated at the farthest corner of the free trade zone. Its giant barn doors stood open, and bright lights burned overhead. Her eyes scanned the building. For a moment she caught a shadow perched on the rooftop, the glint of a rifle, but when she looked closer it was gone.
    Balfour had already arrived and stood alone beside his Bentley Mulsanne Turbo. His retinue of bodyguards had dwindled to one, a six-foot, six-inch Sikh she knew as Mr. Singh.
    There were, however, a dozen uniformed policemen to see to his well-being. This was the prince’s territory, and the prince would guarantee Balfour’s safety.
    Emma killed the engine and stepped out of the car. A policeman frisked her, then nodded for her to go ahead.
    “Ah, Miss