CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The plane jostled with turbulence and Karina gasped in the darkness of their cramped quarters.
“Tell me,” she said wryly, “do all CIA agents travel in such luxury?”
The two of them were sitting with their backs against opposite walls of a five-foot-by-five-foot crate of sturdy, industrial plastic. The narrow door to Zero’s left was locked from the outside, and the crate was situated atop a wooden pallet which was in the cargo hold of a small plane which was flying over the Atlantic Ocean en route to Europe.
“I’m not a CIA agent anymore,” he reminded her. He imagined that she only knew that because of her sister, if they were really sisters, Emilia Sanders or Veronika or whatever her real name was. “How much did she tell you about me?”
“Not much,” Karina admitted. “Only
