A decorated naval officer, Svengrad had proved himself a shrewd politician as well. With the collapse of the former Soviet Union, Svengrad had unexpectedly transferred to oversee naval operations in the Caspian Sea, considered an undesirable posting without political clout. It was only later his true motivations had been recognized. As the senior military officer in charge of the Caspian, he had seized control of its waters and filled a power void as management of the Caspian slipped from Mother Russia’s firm grasp. With no fewer than five newly formed governments claiming rights to the Caspian and her all-important sturgeon, Svengrad brutalized his way to dominance, quickly owning the Caspian’s lucrative, multimillion-dollar caviar business. Svengrad’s friends back in Moscow allowed this, even encouraged it, as poachers nearly ended the caviar trade by slaughtering immature fish for their famous eggs and pushing the sturgeon toward extinction. No doubt, Svengrad made sure his friends in Moscow both ate and lived well for allowing a monopoly that continued to this day. From what he’d read, Boldt considered Svengrad both a man of vision and one unafraid of using force to get what he wanted. Many a poacher vessel had been “lost at sea” during the early years of Svengrad’s power grab.

He’d settled in the United States seven years earlier and had been granted citizenship not twelve months ago, a discovery that made Boldt suspect either the intervention of diplomats or the exchange of hard cash. Svengrad had nonetheless never personally been arrested, had never spent a single night in so much as a drunk tank. Most such “Teflon thugs” found themselves targets of federal or state undercover investigations at some point, and as far as Boldt could determine, Svengrad’s time had now come.

Boldt played it carefully. They came without a warrant, and he kept this firmly in mind-if asked to leave they would be obliged to do so. “Lost something? We’re just a pair of public servants doing a favor for INS.”

“A Seattle Police Department lieutenant and sergeant doing a favor for INS?” So the man knew how to read. He handed back the credentials, still not offering them chairs.

“You don’t think our captain, doing a favor for the feds, is going to send a detective to see you, do you?” He could see that Svengrad actually considered this, though not for long.

“How long do we keep this up?” Svengrad asked.

Boldt threw his hands out in an inquisitive gesture that asked, How should I know?

“If you have business here, state it,” Svengrad said. “Or should I play along? What can I do for INS, gentlemen?” He asked this in a schoolgirl voice that instead of comical, Boldt found threatening. “Remind me: Don’t you need a subpoena, a writ, a warrant? Should I call a lawyer?”

“Why so jumpy?”

“We’re here informally,” LaMoia said, jumping into the fray.

“You are at that,” said the man wearing the designer suit as he looked them over. “Do you press those yourself, or send them out?”

LaMoia’s infamous blue jeans finally took a direct hit; if Boldt hadn’t been working to understand, and possibly undermine Svengrad, he might have celebrated the moment.

Boldt calmly removed Malina Alekseevich’s INS sheet and placed it in front of Svengrad. “You’re listed as the employer of record.”

“As I should be,” Svengrad said, not batting an eyelash. “Were that I was.”

Boldt thought he was actually doing OC a favor by making Alekseevich into a suspect, and therefore above consideration as a double agent. Never mind that entities like OC and Special Operations and the INS liked to run control on their civilian informants; Boldt didn’t see much harm coming of this.

Svengrad continued, “Malina’s a hard worker. A good man. He might even have avoided being laid off if Fish and Wildlife had played fair.”

“Laid off?” LaMoia inquired.

Boldt paled. Played fair? Fish and Wildlife? Depending on when Alekseevich had indeed been laid off his job, they had little or no way to connect Svengrad to the tortures of Hayes and Foreman, even if Alekseevich were responsible. Svengrad would simply claim that, unemployed, Alekseevich had resorted to his old ways. More’s the pity. Boldt quickly looked for a bridge that might keep himself and LaMoia in the room long enough to stir the pot. He didn’t see anything obvious.

“He drives for us, or did, before layoffs,” Svengrad answered LaMoia. “He has not gone and gotten a parking ticket or something, has he?” The man grinned smugly. “Date of termination-because that’s the next thing you’re going to ask, yes? Ninety-three days. You may ask the Fish and Wildlife Department.” He met Boldt’s surprise. “Not INS, Fish and Wildlife. They will tell same date.”

“Ninety-two days,” Boldt said, misquoting him. “You track all employees with such enthusiasm, or is Alekseevich special to you?”

“Ninety-three days, Lieutenant. We, our caviar, is under a lockdown. Forbidden from making business. Big mix-up on government’s part. And yes, I do keep track. Certainly. When this affects one’s livelihood, one keeps count of such things.”

“A lockdown,” Boldt repeated, spinning on his heels to look once again at the quiet warehouse behind them. Svengrad’s explanation fit the human emptiness of the place.

Svengrad flipped through a Rolodex and fixed on a card. “We have the same address-for the home of Alekseevich-as does INS.” He handed Boldt back the sheet of paper. “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

“You said we were missing something,” Boldt said.

“My mistake. Fedor will show you out.”

“Something, or someone?”

Most people shrank some from a cop’s gaze. Not this man. Svengrad fixed his attention onto Boldt and asked, “You like dirty movies, Lieutenant?”

It wasn’t often that Boldt had to contain himself from striking out at a man.

Svengrad said, “I find them quite a turn-on myself. The home movies on the Internet are the best. Crude lighting. The women always trying too hard to look sexy. The men trying to look hard. Much better than cheap porn, don’t you think? Gives reality TV a new meaning.” He added, “But to answer your question, no: something, not someone.”

Boldt asked, “Do you get these films off the Internet, or do you have the originals?”

“I have my sources,” Svengrad said. “Mature women are the best, don’t you think? They know what they want-what it takes for them-and they aren’t afraid to say so.”

Boldt’s stomach squirted some bile into his esophagus. He coughed through the burning and swallowed it down. He’d have bloody stool if he continued to keep this tension inside: ulcers the size of golf balls.

“Where would I get such a home movie?”

LaMoia shifted on his heels, uncomfortable. He whispered, “Sarge.”

Boldt did not so much as look in his direction. “John,” Boldt said, still eye-to-eye with Svengrad. “Ask the guy out there for a cigarette, would you please?”

LaMoia withdrew from the room, though reluctantly. Once he was on the other side of the glass his attention remained on Svengrad and Boldt, as did the attention of Svengrad’s man.

“You like caviar?” Svengrad asked Boldt, ignoring Boldt’s inquiry. He swept his arm to encompass the warehouse.

“No,” Boldt confessed. “I never acquired the taste.”

“Too bad. Your wife, where do her tastes lie?”

“I will not now, nor at any time, discuss my family,” Boldt said. “And neither will you. To misjudge me in this regard would be a terrible error on your part.”

“I thought we were already discussing your family,” Svengrad said. “Or at least home videos.” Boldt kept the death stare on him. “No matter,” the other said. “Even if I wanted to, I could not give your wife our best Beluga Negro. This is because of some very good forgeries of my company’s labels. These have caused the… interruption in my business.”