Chapter 32: Quite a show they had tonight; "when this is all over"; third row; Yana could feel it;

Mid-town diner, 3:15 a.m., Manhattan, 2016

"Harold, Team is clear," Harold heard in his earpiece.

He glanced at his watch and then slipped his cellphone from his coat. At the far end, in her seat at one of the empty booths near the front, their waitress watched his lips move. He seemed worried about something, she thought - speaking in a low voice to the one on the other end. It seemed to be going back and forth, him explaining something, then having to wait for the other to have their say, while his eyes kept shifting to the woman with him.

The waitress could hear her draining that second round of scotch, rattling the ice in her glass after every sip. She imagined the man to be someone the woman knew very well. Not her lover, though. He didn't look at her that way. He seemed protective, almost fatherly towards her. Something awful had happened to her – bruises on her face and neck. Someone close had done this. She'd overheard the man saying she should leave this time, before - that's all she could hear him say. The waitress looked back to their table.

Ah, a breakthrough. His face showed it, the lines around his eyes softening. He was sliding his phone back into his pocket and turning to the woman. Ice rattled. He reached out with his hand and placed it on the arm with her glass, lowering it down to the table. His eyes stared at her intently, and he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. She watched as the woman pulled her arm away, lifting it up so the ice rattled. Then a long silence. Was she drinking?

The glass slammed down on the table and the waitress jumped. There was movement over there, and the woman pulled her coat up around her and swung herself out of the booth. Heels clicked on the hard floor and the waitress watched her head for the front of the diner, unsteady in the turns. She seemed to be looking around for something.

"Restroom?" the waitress offered and the woman turned her way, nodding. She pointed the way to the right hallway and the woman turned, her hands reaching out to steady herself on the way.

"Check, please," she heard, and the waitress turned back to their table. The man had pulled out his wallet and was peeling bills from a stack. She stood and walked his way, pulling her pad from the pocket of her uniform. Thumbing through a few pages, she got to theirs. With a flourish, she wrote a number, circled it, and tore off the page for him. He barely glanced at the sum at the bottom, and handed it back with bills on top.

"Keep the change," he said, and then he stood, stiffly she thought, and pulled his overcoat around him. He reached for his hat on the hook, and stepped past her, eyes straight ahead. She couldn't read his expression. Maybe something in between sad, worried, and frustrated.

"Thank you, sir. Have a good evening," she said softly, with a little bow his way. He turned away and shuffled, with a limp, toward the front. Her son, the busboy, passed her with his gray tray to clear the dishes at their table. They exchanged a few words and then the waitress went to the desk at the front, where the man waited for the woman.

She slid behind it and tapped her code into the register. When it blinked awake, she entered their order and totaled it. The cash drawer opened and she pushed the bills inside, counting out the change and sliding it into her pocket. Harold watched her nod silently to him again for the generous tip, and then they both turned at the sound of heels clicking on the floor. Zoe looked pulled together now, or at least like she was putting on a good show of it. She seemed to be concentrating on walking so it didn't look like she was unsteady.

When she reached Harold, he smiled and wrapped her arm around his. They turned to the door.

"I'll drop you off at Tanya's," he said softly to her, and the waitress saw the woman's face anger all over again. Neither said anything more. The two left together, while she watched. Her son walked up behind her and stopped at her side with his tray, watching the two of them leaving.

They seemed to be walking a little faster now. Maybe the woman had finally given in, the waitress thought. He was only trying to help. She looked at her son and shook her head. Quite a show they had tonight.

Out in the cold air, Harold smiled to himself. Zoe had been masterful tonight. She'd even convinced him at the beginning. He'd been worried that she was off her game, that they shouldn't have imposed and asked her to do this tonight. But he'd soon realized that what he'd thought was concerning – the frailty, the unsteadiness in her gait as she'd walked with him – it was all part of the act.

Her bruising, moulage make-up he now believed; the ice-water ploy and the scotch on the rocks – brilliant! He'd been taken in himself at first; until she'd dumped her scotch into the ice water, convincing the waitress she'd drunk all the scotch herself. Once he'd seen that, Harold played along. For a little while tonight they'd succeeded, distracting the lone pair of waitress and busboy with their little drama. And his Team was able to get in and get out, presumably without any trouble. He'd hear all the details back at the safe-house soon.

The two were nearly at her car in the back lot of the diner. Zoe turned to him, smiling, lifting her dark glasses. He could see the purple splotch around her eye more clearly then. She opened the top of her coat, impishly, and showed him the hand print on her neck. Rather too convincing. He winced.

Zoe saw his face and stopped a moment with her hand at her heart and her eyes on him. She reached out, abruptly, gathering him into an embrace. When she pulled away, he could see her eyes glistening.

"You're a good man, Harold." He watched her struggle for a moment. "Don't ever change," she said. "Sometime, when this is all over, we should go and have a real drink together," she said, her hand on his forearm.

A light clicked on inside Zoe's car, and she turned around, surprised. She hadn't even had her keys out. Harold held his hand out to warn her away from the car, and stepped forward to look inside. Nothing in the front; then in the back, on the floor, he saw two of his Team looking up at him. He continued toward the car without a word, opening the driver's side door for Zoe.

"All's well, my dear. We'll be in touch. Very soon," he said, tipping his head a fraction toward the car. She smiled, gave him a quick hug around the shoulders, and slid in behind the wheel. Harold closed her door and stood there, while she made herself ready and drove off.

As he turned to his left to watch her pull out, there was a dark figure right there. He flinched and realized who it was in the same moment.

"Sorry, Finch. Didn't mean to startle you," Reese said.

"I presumed you wouldn't be far, Mr. Reese." The two exchanged glances and then headed off together - into the night.

Crimean Peninsula, 2014

Their truck bumped along over dusty roads, groaning and creaking over dirt piles in the path. At this time of night, with no lights anywhere, they had to move slowly in these old trucks. It was hard to tell where the road was, or what axle-breaker they could hit in the dark. It was two more hours of hard travel like this to get to the drop off, and then another two hours the rest of the way in, on foot.

Clouds had gathered, just as they'd planned, and there wouldn't be any moonlight tonight. Their squads would jump off the back, and leave for forward positions, one at a time. Three rows. The first were the closest. Then each row set up further back, behind the first. The last one 1800 meters from the targets – 1800 meters – possible now only because of the new rifles.

And only the last row had them – the third row – these were their finest, the elite snipers of Spetsnaz. With its better optics, unique fit and finish, and the same high-powered round the Americans used in their bolt-actions, Russian snipers weren't limited to 700 meters any more. This weapon was deadly at 1800.

Three rows fanned out facing forward, hidden, waiting hours for the moment their targets appeared. The third row would fire first, take out the high-value targets. Then the others would fire - to keep Ukrainian forces pinned down long enough for rocket launchers to shred the rest. With these tactics, Spetsnaz was winning the Crimean prize they'd been sent there to get.

Manhattan diner, December, 2016

At five in the morning, the front door opened. It was still dark outside, and cold air came in with her; the waitress, Yana, coming in to start her shift. She nodded to the one who was there overnight - the name escaped her. The boy in the back was her son, Yana recalled, but she didn't know his name either.

She checked around inside. A few customers were there at the front, having breakfast at the counter. They were regulars by the look of it. The busboy was in the back, mopping the dining room floor before he left. She could smell the sharp smell of the cleaner in the bucket. He looked up and waved her way, but she was already on her way back to the office. The lights were off inside. No one was there at this time of day. She pulled keys from her sweater pocket, and fed the tip of one into the keyhole. Inside, monitors on their security system were the only things lit in the room. She reached for the switch and lights fired up overhead. She crossed to a set of lockers on one wall, and swung the dial on the padlock back and forth until it clicked. Her shoulder bag went in first, on top of an extra pair of shoes she kept in there. Not much else inside. No photos, no bottles of scent, hand cream, mirrors, like the others had in theirs. She kept to herself, kept her things from prying eyes.

Yana reached in for the black apron she wore over her uniform. It tied at the waist, and the order pad in her pocket thumped against her thigh. Up high on the single shelf inside the locker, she felt for her pen. It wasn't there. It must have rolled back, and she was too short to reach. Yana scraped a chair over the floor and stood up on the seat, peering into the dark opening at the top.

"Lose something?" she heard, in Russian. Without turning, she answered. The other waitress was there at the door with her son.

"You missed all the excitement tonight," she said, almost begging for Yana to ask. Yana wasn't the type to take an interest, she thought - but maybe this would catch her attention.

"There was a couple here," she said. "and the woman was all bruised up. Fancy clothes, dark glasses. She was trying to hide the bruises. Nikki and I heard them talking the whole time. I think it was her husband who beat her up. The man who brought her in was trying to get her to leave him," she said, and she waited for Yana to ask what happened next.

Yana jumped down from the chair, pen in hand. She pushed the chair back across the floor, scraping so hard that the waitress covered her ears. When Yana didn't ask, she turned to her son and said, "well, at least he was a great tipper." She looked over her shoulder to see if Yana looked up, but she didn't see any reaction.

She gave up. There was something wrong with that woman, she thought. She'd never met anyone so cold. She turned and told her son they should go. Without another word, they headed down the hall. On the monitor nearby, Yana could see them walking in the hallway. The woman bothered her. She spent all her time talking with the customers. She was slow and inefficient. Any little thing would distract her. Yana didn't care to work the same shifts with her.

She stopped for a moment and thought of something. Any little thing would distract her.

Yana walked to the security system monitors. She pulled the keyboard closer and started tapping on the keys. In a few minutes she was looking through the upload from the overnight shift. In the front half, there was plenty of movement and she fast-forwarded further along. Then things went quiet on the monitor. No matter which camera she picked, there was virtually nothing to see. Just empty hallways. She fast-forwarded again and then there was movement again on all the screens.

She sat there, staring. Then she stood up and went to one of the desks. Locked. She grabbed her keys again and picked a small brass one. In the drawer at the bottom of the set, she looked inside for the newspaper. Her fingers wrapped around it and gave it a squeeze. Good, the cellphones were still inside. Then she slid the drawer closed and walked over to the door. No one was in the hallway now, and she closed the door and locked it. No one else should see what she was about to do.

Yana crossed to the braided rug, and lifted an edge, rolling it back on itself like a cigar. The metal door looked untouched, but she wanted to make sure. With the metal loop, she lifted the door and then she squatted down to pull the squeaky foam up off the cache.

Everything was there. Good. But, somehow, it didn't feel right.

There was something wrong about the story, the timing, something.

The security footage was almost too clean. And where was this mystery couple? None of the footage caught them.

Something was wrong. Yana could feel it.