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analysis charts, witness statements, as well as a detailed assessment. There was no doubt in her mind, that giant of a man wasn’t a State Department employee. He had intelligence written all over him. She picked up her phone and dialed a number.
    “Embassy of the United States,” the operator answered.
     

CHAPTER 8
     
    Ice was the only one in the gym at the CIA compound. It was basic: a squat rack, chin-up bar, a bench, and a pile of dumbbells. Still, it was more convenient than the huge KFOR gym he occasionally used, and he didn’t have to put up with overweight REMFs doing bicep curls in the squat rack. As he warmed up on the bench with two ninety-pound dumbbells, his phone rang. Dumping the weights, he strode across to his gym bag, grabbed the phone, and answered the call.
    “Listen, this can’t take long,” Barishna whined. “I’ve found someone who’s willing to talk to you about Zahir.”
    He sat on the bench. “What’s he got?”
    “Everything: locations, numbers, names, details… he’s got details.”
    “What does he want?”
    “Cash, he’s poor. Everybody’s poor.”
    “When and where?”
    “Tomorrow. At an abandoned farm outside Sarban.”
    “OK. How am I going to find it?”
    “Drive past Rimaniste. Meet me at the bridge just before you enter Sarban. Tomorrow at 10am. I’ll guide you from there.”
    “OK.”
    “Make sure you come alone. He’s scared but needs the money. If you bring others he won’t show.”
    “Understood, I’ll see you then.” Ice hung up the phone. This could be the breakthrough. The additional information that would force the ICTY to indict Zahir, or at least get the OSCE to drop him from the elections. On the other hand it might be a setup. That risk could be mitigated though, and both Zahir and Barishna knew better than to target a US citizen. Atrocities during a civil war were one thing. Killing a CIA officer was something else altogether.
    He abandoned his workout, grabbed his bag, and headed back to the office where Vance was working. Despite missing out on the weights session, he felt better. It was time to wipe the smug smile off Zahir’s face.
     
    ***
     
    Ice ran through contingency plans in his head as he sat waiting in the 4Runner. He and Vance had worked late the previous night, going through every conceivable scenario.
    Barishna was ten minutes late. A group of teenagers had gathered across the road and were watching. Their interest was not surprising. Sarban could be described as a one-horse town, literally. Ice had seen only one other vehicle in the tiny village, a four-wheeled cart being towed by a horse.
    He lifted the handset to the 4Runner’s tactical radio. “One-one, this is one-two, no sign of QM,” he transmitted to Vance.
    He noticed the teenagers turn their heads before he heard the sound of an engine. Using the side mirror, he watched a battered black SUV approaching. As it closed in, he slid his hand onto his pistol. Fifty yards out, he identified Barishna at the wheel and relaxed. “One-two, QM has arrived.”
    The speaker crackled and a tinny voice replied, “Check, one-two.”
    Barishna pulled up next to him and leaned across to yell through the open window. “Follow me. The farm is just ahead.”
    Ice tailed the SUV through the village. A mile down the road, the vehicle parked opposite an overgrown track.
    He stopped alongside and lowered the window. “Where to now?”
    Barishna pointed at the track. “Up there.”
    “Lead the way.”
    “No, you go alone. He won’t be seen with me.”
    “Why not? You’re not working for Zahir anymore.”
    “People talk, tell stories. You go to the farm. He will meet you there.”
    Ice glanced at his grab bag on the passenger seat. In it were a MP5K-PDW submachine gun, spare magazines, two grenades, and the cash. “If this is a set up, you’re going to regret it.” He planted the accelerator and aimed the 4Runner up the track.
    As he approached the farm, he saw it looked