Golitsin drummed his fingers and waited. Tatyana obviously enjoyed recounting the tawdry gossip, and he let her ramble awhile before he got down to business. "Don't you find it curious how Yuri Khodorin has resisted our overtures?"

"He is a tough nut to crack," Tatyana agreed. "Nicky's taking a terrible beating."

"He's not the only one. I finally placed two of my agents inside his companies. Both discovered, somehow."

"How do you know this?"

"I was meant to. The message was quite clear. One found in his car with his throat slashed, the other disappeared. Went to work one day and hasn't been heard from in three weeks."

"They must've gotten sloppy," she said very coldly.

"They were handpicked. Veteran agents, both of them, and they went in with perfect covers. I don't think so."

"Then what do you think?"

After a brief pause, fueled by another noisy sip, Golitsin told her, "Khodorin has been tipped off. It's the only explanation."

"It's a good explanation. Not the only one, though. But assuming it's right, who would be behind it?"

"Alex Konevitch."

"Impossible."

"Is it really? They were friends before Konevitch fled. Business competitors, but they sometimes chummed around."

Tatyana considered this theory before launching into her usual nit-picking. "How could he get word out? He's rotting in prison, Sergei."

"So what? Solzhenitsyn smuggled out full-length novels, and that was from our most remote Siberian gulag."

"I do remember reading about that. He wrote them on toilet paper or something."

"Anything's possible."

"But how did Konevitch learn we were going after Khodorin?"

"Maybe Khodorin contacted our boy. Maybe Konevitch was watching. I don't know. It doesn't really matter."

"That's two maybes," Tatyana, ever the lawyer, observed, but without conviction.

"Then let's dispense with the doubts. We've tried the same tricks on Khodorin. The computer hacking, the murders, the bombings, the police visit, the in-house spies, all of which succeeded spectacularly with Konevitch. Khodorin's been ready for every single one. He's clobbering us at our own game. It's not beginner's luck, and it's not coincidental."

Tatyana kicked off her shoes and planted her lovely feet on the desk. "So what do you suggest?"

"It's not a difficult problem."

"Then there must be an easy solution."

"There is. Konevitch, he has to die," Golitsin informed her. "And the sooner the better." His glass was empty and he refilled it with a flourish. It felt great to be back in the game, outthinking his opponents. He privately relished the vision of an OUT OF BUSINESS sign hanging on the bank in the morning. How nice it would be to wake up and have those worries behind him. He would hang the sign himself, he decided. Good riddance. "So where is our boy wonder now?" he asked, trying to suppress any hint of giddiness.

"A federal prison in Illinois. After seven months in Atlanta, it was felt he became too acclimated. Too comfortable."

"Too comfortable?"

"According to Tromble, Konevitch fit right into the life. Some band of Cuban heavyweights took him under their wing. He was living like a king. A security detail followed him everywhere. A Barcalounger in his cell. Special meals prepared in the prison mess hall. Can you believe it?"

Yes, he did. He was long past being surprised by Alex Konevitch. And, too, he was long past underestimating him. Probably, he decided, this explained how Konevitch blew the whistle on them to his old chum Khodorin-with help on the inside, there were a million ways Konevitch could communicate with the outside. "So you've failed to turn up the heat on him," Golitsin stated, but without his characteristic nastiness.

He had his own bad news to impart-bad news for her, anyway. No use getting her all worked up.

"Technically, Tromble failed. Not me," she insisted. "I've done everything I could. Our prosecution team arrived months ago. Konevitch should've been back in an American court a long time ago. The case is perfect."

"All right," he conceded very agreeably. "Then it's all Tromble's fault."

Suspicious from this burst of benevolence, Tatyana snapped, "What are you hiding, Sergei?"

Golitsin sank in his plush leather seat and cracked a small smile. She was so quick. He quickly recounted the sad tale about the rogue trader who shoved the export-import bank into insolvency. By nine the next morning, the bank would be shuttered. By ten, word would race around Moscow: Konevitch's once mighty empire had finally bled to death.

Tatyana's feet flew off the desk and landed on the floor. "Oh, that's just great," she moaned. "Your idiots ruined me. My stock is now worthless."

"Mine, too."

"Oh, spare me. You have Konevitch's money, his mansion, his cars, his luxury apartment in Paris. What do I have?"

He was tempted to answer truthfully: A hundred thousand shares of nothing; you're broke and desperate, living on a mangy government paycheck. I'm your only hope-you need me more than ever.

Instead, he tapped his fingers on the car seat and sipped patiently from his scotch as she swore and vented for a few more minutes.

Eventually, he uncorked the cure to her troubles. "All the more reason to take care of this Khodorin business quickly. We'll divide the cash this time. I promise. Five hundred million, perfectly even, a three-way split. Same with his shares. And this time, we'll sell everything as fast as we can. We'll easily bag another billion or more."

He paused to allow her a moment to accept the inevitability of her situation. She was broke, for the moment; but not hopeless. With the right moves, in no time at all she could light her cigarettes with thousand-dollar bills. "The best way to get inside Khodorin's head is to kill Konevitch," he suggested.

"It will be quite difficult. He's out of reach, behind bars."

"But not impossible. And if Khodorin wants to play games with us, he needs to be taught a lesson. There's no way for him to win."

"You're right," she mumbled. The brilliance of the suggestion finally dawned on her. "Meet our demands when the time comes, or we'll hunt you down. If the U.S. government can't protect Konevitch, there's no hope for you. Khodorin will collapse."

After a brief call on her cell phone to Nicky, and a long meeting with a few American specialists in the Foreign Ministry, Tatyana barked at the Kremlin switch to do whatever it took to connect her to the director of the American FBI. It took three operators thirty minutes to track him down. He happened to be in an FBI field office in northern Jersey, clustered with a team of agents who had just broken up a large counterfeiting ring. An inside informant had been turned a year before. Unlike so many other operations during Tromble's tenure, the investigation had been a model of law enforcement skill and restraint. Every nuance of legal limit had been adhered to, no shortcuts. The evidence was overwhelming and, in the view of the Justice Department's sharpest experts, virtually unchallengeable in court.

The three counterfeiters had been slapped in cuffs an hour before. Tromble had arrived just in time for the press conference where he would make the announcement and bask in the glory. The podium was already set up, the large flock of reporters and cameras waiting with growing impatience.

An aide entered the room where Tromble was being fed enough information to fool the press into believing he had personally doted on every detail of the case, had personally overseen this masterstroke of crimefighting at its best. The aide cupped a hand to his ear and signaled his boss. Tromble cursed, then stepped out of the room and accepted the proffered cell phone.