March 2012

There comes a time in every spy’s life when, in a restaurant deep in the bowels of an Uzbek bazaar, he finds out via a handwritten message — accompanying his plate of pork kebab, no less — that he has been made.

“You’ve got company,” the note read. “Proceed to fallback location.”

Gerry instinctively looked around, wondering which of the four other patrons could be con...