The weather was gray and leaden, with ground temperature measuring thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit, or one degree Celsius, and humidity at 80 percent. Jonathan walked the long corridor to baggage claim alone, feeling more anxious than he would have liked or would ever admit. Danni was somewhere ahead. She’d traveled business class while he sat in the last row of economy. The separation was intentional. Training was over. The operation had begun. Nothing made it clearer than the American passport he carried in his left hand, issued in the name of John Robertson of Austin, Texas. Jonathan had been granted his first alias. It was official. He was a spy. At immigration control, Jonathan watched with anxiety as his passport was scanned and whatever information its security strip held was displayed on the official’s monitor. Five seconds passed—an eternity by Jonathan’s newly calibrated soul. “The purpose of your visit?” “Business,” said Jonathan. The official compared Jonathan to his picture, then brought down his stamp.
