Yuri Federov and Alex arrived by yellow cab in front of a restaurant named Il Vagabondo on Carmine Street in Little Italy and stepped out into a light, cold drizzle that had begun on the drive downtown. Manhattan in November; the weather was typical.

If the New York restaurant critics gave an annual award for Most Sinister Atmosphere, Il Vagabondo might have been in strong contention. Three long black limousines sat outside the restaurant; once she and Yuri stepped inside, Alex saw an array of thick-browed guys at the bar, watching the entrance, watching everyone arrive. The congregation at the bar was solidly male; it looked like the waiting room in a urologist’s office.

From the bar, the eyes of those assembled suspiciously jumped from her Russian escort, to Alex, then back to Federov again. She knew the routine: check out who is entering, check out the female companion, keep your eyes on the guy. Look for trouble and get a lid on it if you find it. Yuri’s appearance started a few conversations. She wondered how many other Feds were in the place this evening and further wondered if anyone had dropped a wire on it. Probably, she decided.

The place was decorated in expensive Italian-American eclectic, a style that Robert used to refer to as “Early Al Capone.” There were murals of Sicily on the walls and replica Roman columns at the doorway that led to the dining room. The only things missing were Mount Vesuvius and a signed portrait of Sinatra. The Italian food, however, promised to be outstanding, judging from the atmosphere.

A captain in a black jacket met them. His name was Mario and he knew Federov. Mario quickly led them to a table where a man was waiting. The captain dutifully held the chair for Alex as they sat down.

Yuri introduced Alex to his friend, Paul Guarneri.

“This is my friend, Alex LaDuca of the US Treasury Department,” Federov said to Guarneri. “Alex, I’ve mentioned you to Paul many times.”

“Favorably, I hope,” she said politely.

“Always,” Federov said.

Guarneri was fiftyish, dark, and handsome, with a little gray at the temples. He had a strong face, what some might have called a Sicilian face, but with something else mixed in. Alex, having a mixture of Italian and Spanish-Mexican blood in her own veins, was always alert to such things.

“Usually I don’t like to hear from anyone at Treasury,” Guarneri said with equal politeness. “Maybe tonight will be an exception.”

“I’m here socially, not professionally,” Alex said.

“That makes three of us,” Guarneri said. “I guess it’s a check-yourgun-at-the-door sort of night.”

“Really?” she answered, “I didn’t check mine.”

Guarneri laughed. “What are you carrying?” he asked.

“If everything goes well, no one will find out.”

Even sitting, Guarneri came across as tall and powerfully built. He also came across as smart.

Alex could always pick up when a man she was meeting showed some interest. There was something about the eyes on her, the body language, the tone of voice. She sensed it from Guarneri, just as she had the first night in Kiev with Federov.

“See?” Federov said. “I told you Alex was my type of broad.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Yuri,” she said back.

In no way did she expect to feel anything in return for this new acquaintance. If she had felt ready for any sort of new relationship, it wouldn’t have been with either of these men. It would have been with her longtime friend and sporting partner, Ben, or it could have been with someone like Peter Chang, whom she had worked with in Madrid. But the bottom line was that Guarneri was an attractive man. Even though he was twenty-some years older, she picked up on something primal. And it surprised her.

“Just visiting the city?” Guarneri asked her.

“I live in Washington right now,” she said. “Treasury sent me up to keep tabs on Yuri. Nothing new about that, the US government seems to think I’m his babysitter.”

“Ha! We should all be so lucky,” Guarneri answered.

“What about you, Mr. Guarneri?” she asked. “Yuri says you live here?”

“I have a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights,” he said. “And my name is Paul, if I may call you Alex.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “And a brownstone in Brooklyn isn’t the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

“No, it’s not,” Guarneri said. “I bought it a year ago when the market was down. I have room for my kids.”

“You’re married?”

“Divorced. Joint custody. Two girls, fifteen and twelve. My angels. A boy, eight. My devil.”

“I get it,” she said.

“I grew up on Long Island,” he said. “Glen Cove. Know it?”

“I know where it is. I’m from the West Coast. So it’s just a short three thousand mile walk from where I grew up.”

Guarneri had lived in the New York metropolitan area all his adult life, he said. He added that he had gone to parochial schools in Glen Cove, “run by some of the world’s toughest nuns,” as he put it, and then had gone to Cornell University where he picked up an undergraduate engineering degree while nearly freezing to death for six months of each of the four years. “My old man made plenty of money,” he said. “Not all of it legal, but he made it anyway. So I got sent to good schools. I try to do the same for my kids.”

“That must cost you a few bucks,” she said.

“Yeah. About fifty grand a year. Three private school tabs in the city.”

“I’m told you used to be able to buy a house for that,” Alex said.

“Now you can barely buy a judge,” Federov added.

“Your father? Is he still in business or is he retired?” Alex asked, staying with Guarneri.

“Neither. He’s dead. Someone shot him.”

A beat, then, “Recently?” she asked.

“My father was shot to death as he walked to his car in South Philadelphia,” Guarneri said. “Easter morning, 1973.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“So am I,” Guarneri said, “but it was a long time ago.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, was anyone ever convicted of killing him?” Alex inquired. She felt Federov’s squinty gaze bouncing back and forth.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Of course not. Look, he was connected to organized crime; he did what he did, and he took his risks. I loved him as a father, he was good to me, but I’m not going to sit here and say he was a good man. I’m not so sure he was. But I was provided for and so was my mother.”

A waiter in a traditional white jacket brought a bottle of wine to the table and showed it to Guarneri-he must have ordered it before his guests had arrived. From what Alex could see, it was a hearty red Tuscan. Guarneri gave a nod. The waiter uncorked it and poured a glass for Guarneri, who gave another nod. Then the waiter poured wine into the other two glasses and departed.

“My father left behind the ownership to several buildings in the New York and Long Island area. So I never had to get involved in the type of business that he did. All I had to do was manage buildings. Be a landlord. Push the right papers around. I picked up an MBA at St. John’s University so I’d know how to do it. But I learned more in the first month of managing buildings than I did with two years of real estate law at St. John’s.”

“I’m sure you did,” Alex said, sipping the wine, which was excellent.

A short time later, the waiter reappeared and took their orders. A cordial conversation continued among the three diners until, after they had finished their meals and knocked back a second bottle of the Tuscan wine, Guarneri finally angled around to something he wished to discuss.

“So listen, I want to ask your opinion,” Guarneri said, turning to Alex. “May I ask you how you see certain things in relation to the United States and a certain country in Central America?”

“You can ask, Paul,” she said. “What country?”

“Cuba,” he said.