“How do you know?”

“If he was, he wouldn’t have called me.”

“What is your advice, John?” asked Malnikov, a hint of anxiety in his voice.

“My advice? Be honest with him. There’s something going on here, and you’re involved. I have a feeling you know perfectly well what it is. The last guy you want to piss off is Calibrisi. You’ll disappear quicker than you can say ciao to that high-priced hooker in your bed.”

“How did you know—”

The phone clicked.

Malnikov took a deep drag on his Gitano. He walked into the hotel suite and picked up a red silk negligee.

“Get out,” he said, throwing the negligee at the woman in the bed. “Now.”

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face. Then his cell buzzed. Malnikov lit another cigarette and stepped onto the terrace.

:: CALIBRISI H.C.::

“Hello.”

“Alexei, this is Hector Calibrisi.”

“What do you want?” asked Malnikov.

“I’m going to be very direct with you. You need to understand something. It’s not a threat, it’s just fact. The moment you acquired that nuclear bomb, you became a terrorist in the eyes of the United States government.”

There was a long silence on the phone. Malnikov stared down at the sidewalk.

“I’m not a terrorist,” he whispered.

“That remains to be seen. Do you want to help us?”

“Do I want to? Of course not. Will I? Yes.”

“Who has the bomb?”

“His name is Cloud. He’s a computer hacker. I don’t know his real name. He’s Russian.”

“Was the bomb delivered to one of the ports?”

“Sevastopol.”

“Is that why you paid him a hundred million dollars?” asked Calibrisi. “To take it off your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you buy it in the first place?” asked Calibrisi.

Malnikov tossed the remainder of his cigarette into the air, watching as it floated down toward the busy street a dozen floors below.

“Protection. A poker chip to play if I was ever in danger of being arrested.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know where he’s taking it?”

Malnikov paused.

“No. I asked what he was going to do with it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘something that should have been done a long time ago.’”

There was a pause on the phone.

“Interesting,” said Calibrisi. “That might be helpful. What about the boat? Did your people see the boat?”

“No. They delivered it to a parking area outside Sevastopol. His men had on ski masks.”

“How do you communicate with him?” asked Calibrisi.

“It’s always different. Phone, e-mail, or else he just shows up. It’s always initiated by him. Somehow, he knew about the deal with Bokolov.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wanted the bomb. I thought he was offering to buy it.”

“But you paid him?” asked Calibrisi. “A hundred million, right?”

“Yes,” said Malnikov. “Actually, he took the first fifty before we came to an agreement.”

“Brazen.”

Malnikov laughed mirthlessly.

“He’s a scrawny little fuck,” he said. “There’s evil behind his eyes. They say he helped disrupt American air traffic control systems on nine/eleven.”

Calibrisi was silent.

“He said you would come to me and seek my help. He said to tell you everything I know.”

Calibrisi paused.

“He told you to help us?”

“He was quite emphatic.”

“My God,” said Calibrisi. “What else did he say?”

“He said he was the one who supplied the information that enabled the U.S. to arrest my father.”

Calibrisi was silent on the other end of the phone.

“Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“Do you have a photo of him?”

“No, I don’t.”

“But you’ve met him, right?”

“Twice.”

“Stay on the line, Alexei. I’m going to bring in a sketch artist.”

*   *   *

Five minutes later, the CIA’s top sketch artist was seated in Calibrisi’s office, listening to Malnikov and drawing a portrait of Cloud as the Russian mobster described him over speakerphone.

Calibrisi glanced at his watch; he was supposed to be at the White House.

He stepped outside and looked at Lindsay, his admin.

“Is Pete back?” he asked.

“He’s waiting for you in two.”

“Is Dewey with him?”

Lindsay shook her head.

Calibrisi walked down the hallway to the conference room. Seated, Prada wingtips up on the table, was Pete Bond. He stepped inside and shut the door.

“How did Mexico go?” asked Calibrisi.

Bond had a blank look on his face.

“We accomplished the mission.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“He froze up,” said Bond, “just like you said he would.”

Calibrisi nodded.

“Where is he?”

“I dropped him off in Georgetown.”

“Thanks, Pete.”

Calibrisi turned to leave.

“Chief, you need to know something.”

“What?”

“Gant met us at Andrews. He was waiting for the plane to land.”

Calibrisi’s head turned sharply back to Bond.

“What?”

“He was waiting on the tarmac,” said Bond. “He asked for a first look on the debrief. Gave me a rash of shit.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I probably shouldn’t have done this, but I told him I report to Bill and he could get my brief from him.”

“That’s exactly what you should’ve done. Thanks for the heads-up.”

Calibrisi reached for the door, then turned.

“Bring him in,” said Calibrisi. “Whatever condition he’s in.”

Bond nodded at Calibrisi.

“Will do, J.P.”

Calibrisi walked to the fire stairs, then descended, two steps at a time, to the fourth floor. He moved down a curving glass-walled hallway to the offices of Josh Gant, deputy director of the CIA.

Unlike Calibrisi, Gant had a fancy set of offices, complete with a large entry foyer adorned with framed photographs of Gant posing with President J. P. Dellenbaugh.

Gant’s assistant stood up as Calibrisi marched into the outer office and brushed past her. He stepped into Gant’s office and shut the door.

Gant held his hand over the phone. Gant had on a bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses. He was tan. His hair was brown and neatly coiffed. He had on a seersucker suit, a yellow button-down, and cordovan loafers.

“I’m on a call,” said Gant.

“Get off it.”

Gant stared at Calibrisi. He put the phone back to his ear.

“I’ll call you back.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” asked Calibrisi.

“I was trying to convince my daughter not to change her major from economics to French literature, if you want to know the truth.”

“I’m talking about Dewey Andreas.”

“Sinaloa is in my matrix, Chief. You’re the one who assigned it to me, remember?”

“I’m talking about that psych eval you got Furr to order up,” said Calibrisi.

“He’s got a screw loose, Hector, and I don’t like it when NOCs have loose screws. You shouldn’t either.”

“I’m not going to dignify what you just said,” said Calibrisi, barely controlling his temper. “You stay the fuck away from Dewey. Do you understand me? What you did—using the Senate Intelligence Committee to try and build an incarceration order on Dewey, on U.S. soil—is against the law.”

Calibrisi noted a slightly surprised look on Gant’s face.

“You’re not trying to incarcerate him, are you?” said Calibrisi, studying Gant. “You want a hit order on the man who stopped Alexander Fortuna?”

“That’s absurd,” said Gant. “I don’t want him dead. I just want the right thing to be done. If that means sending Dewey back out in the field, great, I have no issue with that. It’s not personal. If it means removing him to a clinic for a few months, or years, until his value as a breach target is diminished, then that’s what I’m for. We’ve had two NOCs punctured in the last year. It has to stop.”

Calibrisi walked over to Gant’s desk.

“Either you stay away from Dewey, or I’ll call Dellenbaugh and tell him what his little political hack has been doing. You’ll go straight back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”