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  “This gentleman is an officer with the Libyan Judicial Police, invited here by Interpol. It has been decided, in the interests of international cooperation, to expedite your transfer to a military prison outside Tripoli, so that my colleague here can interview you about certain matters.” Jakobs let those facts sink in. “I am sure someone like you will be able to look after themselves in such a dangerous place.”

  “You’re going to turn me over to those animals?” said Verbeke, in a low growl. “I have a right to be tried by my own kind!” He pulled uselessly at the restraints again. “You told me you would put me in prison for the rest of my life!”

  “I did,” agreed Jakobs. “And you will be in prison for the rest of your life.” He turned away, and limped toward the door. “However brief that is.”

  * * *

  Pytor Glovkonin schooled his expression as he entered the white anteroom, arranging his features into what most closely resembled a remorseful attitude, and waited by the window, looking out into the Parisian evening.

  Contrition was an alien concept to him. Even as a child, it was not an emotion he had ever engaged with, but he could fake it well enough when circumstances demanded it, and he did so now. On some level, it amused him to play at humility. However, he couldn’t quite grasp how lesser men dealt with it on a daily basis.

  He sensed someone else enter the room and saw the Asian woman with her austere dress and calculated manner, reflected in the glass.

  “They’re ready for you,” said the committee’s aide.

  He suppressed a smile. This time, the Combine committee did not play games with him. This time, they wanted him standing in front of them for judgment over a failure.

  But not mine, he thought. Theirs. Had they listened to me at the start, had they shown me the respect I am due, none of this would have happened.

  Now the arrogant fools would be manipulated into an endgame they would never see coming.

  But first I have a play to perform, Glovkonin reminded himself.

  Straightening his jacket, he stepped through the doors from the anteroom as the woman announced his presence. She closed the door behind him and he halted at the end of the long, ornate table.

  Two of the three seats at the table were occupied. The Italian magnate lounged in one of them, toying with a cut-glass tumbler of rum. The dour Swiss banker sat stiffly in the other, leaning over the table with his hands in a steeple. The American was absent in the ruddy-faced flesh, but his visage was displayed on a screen on the far wall. From the way the image’s point of view moved, he appeared to be communicating via a hand-held device. Over his shoulder, Glovkonin saw the sands of a white beach and bottle-green waters lapping at the shore.

  As he expected, none of the men offered him the empty chair.

  “Good evening,” he began, “I came as quickly as I could.”

  In fact, he had flown in from Moscow two days earlier, but made sure to keep that piece of information secret.

  If they knew he was lying, they didn’t mention it.

  “This group has weathered many storms, many setbacks,” said the Italian. “For all our successes, there are the inevitable failures. This is a fact of life. But we have kept these issues to a minimum. When something goes awry, it is contained.”

  “This is not one of those times,” snapped the Swiss.

  His tone was so strident, so challenging, that it almost made Glovkonin forget his act and sneer back in reflex. He caught himself and studied the man as he went on.

  “We expected much from you, and this fresh disappointment leaves the committee questioning our choice to advance you so swiftly.”

  “This thing is falling apart,” added the American, scowling out of the screen at him. “I mean, I reckon we can salvage some elements of it, but the core plan is a goddamn bust.”

  “Yes,” Glovkonin said solemnly. “Well put. I will have information leak out to the media, suggesting a cover-up in Brussels and pushing the narrative of immigrants as potential disease carriers…” He gave a theatrical sigh. “But I’m afraid without the central event in Belgium to underscore that, it will be seen as a fringe conspiracy theory. It will only feed the prejudices of those already aligned with those views.”

  “The point of this operation,” said the Swiss, tapping the table with a thick finger, “was to move that into the mainstream. To demonize one group and empower those we can influence.”

  “I am aware of the stated goal,” said Glovkonin.

  Again, he tamped down his irritation. After his last visit here, he had set to work digging into the backgrounds of these three men and learned much about the financier from Switzerland along the way. He had been amused to discover that, in the past, this man’s bank had made several attempts to buy up controlling shares in Glovkonin’s company G-Kor, only to be thwarted in their efforts. When the opportunity arose, he would punish him for his temerity. But that lay in the future.

  “You let Verbeke have too much freedom.” The Italian sounded bored. “You knew he was a violent thug. Why didn’t you hold his leash a little tighter?”

  “I did as the committee asked me to,” Glovkonin replied. “I remind you, it was you who told me to monitor, but not to deviate from the plan.” He stared at the older man. “Your exact words. When I previously petitioned to take more direct control, I was censured.”

  The American snorted.

  “You know, for a second there, it sounded like our buddy here was blaming us for his mistake!”

  “I only wish to present the facts,” Glovkonin continued, seeing his opportunity. “We stood in this room and I warned you that the Rubicon Group were a threat to the Combine’s operations. You disagreed with that assessment. And now Ekko Solomon’s people are responsible for disrupting the Shadow project.”

  The banker’s lined face creased in annoyance, but he said nothing. This was the moment, if it were to happen, that Glovkonin’s plan would go awry. If they suspected what he was doing, if they knew he had deliberately leaked information to Rubicon’s agents.

  If Saito talked … he thought. But no. That kind of disloyalty is impossible for him, even if he detests me. His duty is his life.

  “There was the Al Sayf thing in Washington,” said the American, his sour expression filling the screen. “Then that shit with the suitcase bomb, then Toussaint’s assassination and now this. Rubicon’s been getting in our way for a while now and we keep letting it slide.” He shook his head. “Have to say it, the new guy has a point.”

  “The Combine has many enemies,” said the Swiss. “Rubicon is just one of them.”

  “True, true,” allowed the Italian. “But unlike the FSB or the CIA, we can’t buy them off or suborn them.” He looked into the depths of his glass. “We always intended to deal with Ekko Solomon one day. In the light of recent events, perhaps we should re-evaluate our timetable.”

  Glovkonin nodded. “It can be done.”

  The other men continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

  “A termination, then?” suggested the banker, brisk and dismissive.

  “That won’t be enough,” said the American. “We gotta burn him down to the ground. Make a lesson out of it for anyone else who thinks about crossing us.” He jutted out his chin, as if squaring up to an unseen enemy. “It’s a matter of reputation now.”

  “So we break him.” The Italian gave a nod, then looked back at the Russian. “Our friend wishes to support us in this.”

  Glovkonin removed an encrypted smartphone from his pocket and speed-dialed a number.

  “It’s time. Bring him in,” he said.

  “We do not use those in here!” snapped the Swiss. “We have a procedure!”

  Glovkonin gave an insincere smile.

  “Forgive me. The exception will be worth the lapse this once.” He walked up to the table, deliberately finding a place at the head of it. “I am happy to be of assistance in this action. You see, I have a unique weapon at my disposal…” There was a knock at the door an
d his smile grew. “Well. Let me introduce you.” He called out “Enter!” and the door opened, revealing Saito on the threshold.

  Saito gave a nod, never meeting the gazes of the men in the room, and stood aside to allow a new arrival to step in.

  “What is this?” demanded the Swiss, growing incensed at the continued breaches of committee protocol.

  “Gentlemen, this is my guest, Mr. Lau.” Glovkonin made a sweeping motion. “I have brought him a long way to meet you.”

  “And who are you to us?” said the Italian, raising an eyebrow.

  Without waiting to be asked, the Chinese man in the expensive suit made his way to the empty chair and sat down in it.

  “I am the man who founded the Rubicon Group,” he told them. “The man that Ekko Solomon abandoned and left for dead.” His hard, battle-worn eyes took them in with a glance. “I am what you need to destroy him.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once more, much appreciation must go to all at my agents and publishers, without whom these books would not be published; my thanks to Robert Kirby, Kate Walsh, Amy Mitchell, Hannah Beer, Margaret Halton, Steve O’Gorman, Jonathan Lyon, Zoe Ross, Margaret Stead, James Horobin, Stephen Dumughn, Nick Stern, Jennie Rothwell, Sophie Orme, Kate Parkin, Francesca Russell, Imogen Sebba, Felice McKeown, Christopher Morgan, Marco Palmieri, and everyone else who has worked so tirelessly to make the Marc Dane series a success.

  Any errors in this work are mine, but every attempt is made to be accurate! In the pursuit of that, thanks to the following people for moral support, advice, and invaluable research assistance: Peter J. Evans, Ben Aaronovitch, Lisa Smith MSc, Kin-Ming Looi, Jan Blommaert, Clint Emerson, John Dwarka, Alex Hern, Xan Rice, Doug Saunders, Sigga at Tröll Expeditions, and Collette at Writing with Color.

  And as always, much love to my mother, and my better half, Mandy.

  FORGE BOOKS BY JAMES SWALLOW

  24: Deadline

  Nomad

  Exile

  Ghost

  Shadow

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  James Swallow is an author and scriptwriter with more than fifteen years’ experience in fiction, television, radio, journalism, new media, and video games. He is a three-time New York Times bestselling author of more than forty novels with more than 750 thousand books currently in print in nine different territories worldwide. He was nominated by the British Academy of Film and Television Arts for his writing on the critically acclaimed video game Deus Ex: Human Revolution. Nomad, the first novel in the Marc Dane thriller series, has sold over a quarter million copies worldwide.

  Visit him online at jamesswallow.blogspot.com, or sign up for email updates here.

  Twitter: @jmswallow

  Thank you for buying this

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  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  Forge Books by James Swallow

  About the Author

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  SHADOW

  Copyright © 2019 by James Swallow

  All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph by LALS STOCK / Shutterstock.com

  Cover design by Russell Trakhtenberg

  A Forge Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates

  120 Broadway

  New York, NY 10271

  www.tor-forge.com

  Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  ISBN 978-1-250-31879-4 (hardcover)

  ISBN 978-1-250-31878-7 (ebook)

  eISBN 9781250318787

  Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].

  First published in Great Britain by Zaffre Publishing, an imprint of Bonnier Books UK

  First U.S. Edition: 2021