“Dr. Tretiak brings good news,” said Klimsov.

“Yes, Father,” said Pyotr.

“You have been granted entrance to Moscow Technological Institute,” said Klimsov. “Next fall, you shall move to Moscow.”

“You’re a very smart young man,” said Tretiak. “But then, you know that already, don’t you?”

Pyotr didn’t move, but not because he was scared, or rude, or indifferent. Instead, it was because he was transfixed by the sight of an object on Klimsov’s desk.

“Yes, I know,” said Pyotr, staring at the object.

“What do we say when someone compliments us, Pyotr?” asked Father Klimsov.

Pyotr didn’t look at Klimsov or Dr. Tretiak; instead, his eyes remained fixed on the thing on Klimsov’s desk.

“It’s not a compliment if it’s the truth,” said Pyotr.

*   *   *

That night, after curfew, Pyotr snuck into Father Klimsov’s office, where he turned on the computer, only to be thwarted by its demand for a password. It took almost a month’s worth of nights for Pyotr to guess it. But once he did, it was like stepping out of a cave and suddenly seeing the world for what it was. He read and read and read for what seemed like forever, newspapers and magazines from all over the world. He stared mesmerized at photos of places he had never heard of. And then, at some point, at the sight of an error screen, he went behind the Web site into its code base. He studied it for hours, then returned a night later and studied it more, going back and forth between the code and the Web site. He could never explain what happened then, but one night, at the sight of the white screen filled with meaningless symbols, words, and spaces, he suddenly felt it all coalesce. He could see vague outlines in the code of what was being created visually. Soon, he could pore over a wall of computer code and know exactly what would be created by its code.

Within a few months, Pyotr taught himself enough programming to hack into the Union Bank of Sevastopol, where he established a bank account and then stole $25,000 from an account inside the bank. He used the money to buy a laptop computer and a wireless router, which he arranged to have delivered to the post office down the street from the orphanage. After splicing the Internet cable that came into the building, he added the router to the orphanage’s dusty utilities closet. It was his escape hatch. Every night, he climbed through it, venturing out into a world beyond Saint Anselm by the Sea, beyond Sevastopol, beyond the shores of a country that had bequeathed to him a destroyed and hateful heart.

Sascha was the only person in the world who knew him from the orphanage. Sascha was the only one who knew the truth about Cloud’s father. That he hadn’t killed himself. That an American had done it, a man with a scar.

He trusted him because when you are orphans together, something happens between you that is stronger even than the ties of siblings. It is what you have when you combine self-hatred and anger, when violence and deceit are inflicted upon you at the youngest of ages; it is the feeling of trying to scratch an itch that will never go away, the itch that is the answer to the question: Why did they leave me?

Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?

The unsung chorus of the orphan.

Within the hell that is the sole real thing that an orphan possesses, misery pools like molten lava and eventually hardens into rock, then steel. It bonds orphan to orphan, and it can never be broken.

“Do you remember Klimsov?” asked Cloud, returning from his memory, looking at the chess game on the computer screen before Sascha.

“Yes. What about him?”

“He was such a crappy chess player,” said Cloud, studying the chessboard. It was his move.

“I never played him,” said Sascha.

“I did. He sucked.”

“Why did you think of that old bastard?”

“Because I was wondering if he taught you how to play,” said Cloud.

He leaned forward and typed into the keyboard.

“Checkmate, Sascha. Now go fuck yourself.”

7

ANDREWS AIR FORCE BASE

CAMP SPRINGS, MARYLAND

A white, unmarked Gulfstream V touched down at precisely two o’clock on a cloud-covered, brutally humid afternoon. Dewey followed Bond down the jet’s stairs as, in the distance, a black Chevy Suburban sped across the tarmac.

“Speak of the devil,” muttered Bond.

“Who is it?”

“Gant.”

The Suburban made a beeline for Dewey and Bond, stopping directly in front of them. Dewey and Bond stood still. Both men were still dressed in tactical gear.

The back window opened. Sitting in the backseat was Gant. He had a stern look on his face.

“How did Iguala go?” he asked, looking at Bond.

“Fine.”

“What happened?” asked Gant, his eyes scanning Dewey from head to toe as he waited for Bond to answer.

“We achieved the objective of the mission,” said Bond. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re both sort of tired.”

“Take me through the minute-by-minute,” said Gant.

“Sir, it’ll be in the brief.”

“Right now.”

Bond took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. He nodded at Dewey and they started to walk away.

The back door of the SUV suddenly opened. Gant stepped out and caught up to Dewey and Bond, stopping directly in their path.

Gant crossed his arms, fuming. His attention shot to Dewey, again looking him up and down. Dewey didn’t react. In fact, he didn’t look back, choosing instead to simply stare off into the distance, ignoring Gant.

“I want the first debrief,” said Gant, pointing at Bond.

Bond looked at Gant’s finger, pointing at him.

“No disrespect, but I report to Bill Polk,” said Bond, barely above a whisper. “He gets the brief, not you.”

8

GEORGETOWN

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Dewey sat at the bottom of a winding, carpeted stairway, on the first floor of an old, beautiful, impeccably designed town house, drinking a beer. It was his fourth beer. On second thought, it might have been his fifth. He was leaning against the wall, legs crossed in front of him, still dressed in tactical gear.

Dewey owned the town house now. Jessica had left it to him. It was the first time he’d stepped inside it since her death.

Next to him was a case of beer, five bottles missing. Two six-packs were Bud Light, two were Yuengling, a slightly heavier concoction. Dewey drank a Bud in between Yuenglings. He looked at Bud Light as being the equivalent to drinking water, a way to make sure he didn’t get too drunk. Of course, the bottle of Jack Daniel’s still inside the paper bag would soon make that whole thought process pointless.

His eyes were glued to the wall, at a large oil painting of a green iris. It was Jessica’s favorite painting. Dewey wasn’t thinking about the painting, however. He wasn’t thinking about Jessica either. He wasn’t even thinking about Gant, though he knew he’d likely come to Andrews for the sole purpose of eyeballing Dewey.

Dewey was thinking about Mexico.

He could count on one hand the number of operational failures he’d experienced. Invariably, they had been failures due to circumstances beyond his control. All of them occurred on complicated, difficult operations. Mexico should’ve been easy. It wasn’t particularly dangerous, complicated, or logistically challenging. It was a brilliantly planned operation, which is why it was so relatively safe and simple. Yet he froze like a deer in the headlights.

Dewey was searching for the meaning of it all. Why had he not grabbed the door handle? Where had that paralysis come from? But the harder he searched for an answer, the more elusive it became. Yet he knew he needed to find the answer. He didn’t have a choice. Calibrisi hadn’t come to Castine to recruit him. He’d come to rescue him.

Dewey pulled out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial number.