“Where is it?”

Pyotr looked up. It was the first time he’d ever seen his father cry.

“At the institute,” he said, sobbing. “Beneath the card catalog drawer. The letter ‘O.’”

Roberts yanked the gun from Pyotr’s mouth. He trained it on Vargarin and fired. The slug struck his chest, kicking Vargarin back, killing him instantly. He tumbled awkwardly to the dirt.

Pyotr’s mouth went agape. He screamed, but no noise came out. Then he fell to the ground, next to his father. He stared at his father’s face. Pyotr’s eyes were like blank pools, transfixed by the sight of his dead father, there on the ground.

“Put them in the boat,” said Roberts to one of the men. “Remove the cuffs, leave a gun, set it adrift a mile offshore. I’ll go to Moscow and get the disk.”

“What about the kid?”

Roberts aimed the gun at the back of Pyotr’s head. He kept it there for several moments. After almost half a minute, he lifted the gun and put it back in his shoulder holster.

“Bring him to the local orphanage.”

1

YERMAKOVA ROSCHA

RESNENSKY DISTRICT

MOSCOW, RUSSIA

TODAY

An orange-and-white Ducati Superleggera 1199 roared through the neighborhood called Presnensky—empty, dark, and deceptively quiet at a little before dawn on a balmy Moscow morning.

The superbike’s black-helmeted driver had the machine gashing down Rilsok at more than a hundred miles an hour, barely under control, as if he was testing the outer limits of his skills. He was an experienced rider, but know-how went only so far when crouched atop a machine that boasted the highest power-to-weight ratio of any motorcycle.

Presnensky was a clean, incongruous neighborhood of stunning mansions and luxury apartment buildings alongside industrial warehouses. The thunderous decibel of the bike’s Superquadro liquid-cooled engine was neither unusual nor even noticed. Here, more than in any other borough in Russia’s sprawling capital city, Presnensky’s inhabitants had long ago learned to keep their mouths shut, their eyes lowered, and their curiosity at bay.

At a street called Velka, the biker abruptly leaned to his right, leading the Ducati with him, nearly toppling over as he glided in a smooth arc around the ninety-degree turn at 86 mph. His knee scraped the ground but he didn’t slow down. In fact, he feathered the throttle, surging into the corner. Then, as his gloved fingers brushed the tar, he flicked his wrist yet again, juicing the engine on with a last-second splurge of speed that seemed to defy logic and gravity. A moment later, the rider pulled a powerful, dazzling switchback, banking abruptly in the opposite direction—hard left—then ripping the throttle to the max as the front tire burned a cloud of rubbery smoke and the back tire caught a squall of air.

He tore down the last half mile of empty, unlit street, then skidded to a stop in front of a three-story white brick building, its only window tinted crimson. He turned off the bike and put the kickstand down. He climbed off, then removed the all-black helmet. He left it on the seat. The Superleggera made a taunting statement, and the helmet, there atop the seat, was like the proverbial cherry on top.

Steal me, it seemed to say, and see what happens.

Presnensky was the neighborhood where Moscow’s mafia lived and breathed, a city, a government, unto itself. Everyone, including the police, knew it. Moscow was, for a certain precious few, lawless. Presnensky was the epicenter of that lawlessness.

The man walked toward the building’s entrance. A low beat echoed from inside.

He pulled the door open. Like a bomb going off, music exploded out into the dark street. It was a chaotic electronica of synthesizers, infused with a dull, seismic drumbeat.

Inside was a cocaine-fueled pandemonium of bodies, music, lights, and smoke, with a dark, dystopian edge. At least a thousand men and women danced frenetically beneath flashing blue, orange, and yellow lights as a bizarre, thunderous strain of arbitrary-sounding synthesizers and drums caused the floor to undulate. The air was fetid with sweat, cologne, perfume, and marijuana smoke.

He moved into the crowd. The drugged-out eyes of young Muscovites registered him as he pushed his way through, almost knocking people over as he cut straight across the jam-packed dance floor. He was charismatic; his blond Afro was flamboyant, with clumps of unmitigated curls bobbing about. The eyes of every female within ten feet were drawn to him. His face was thin and gaunt, youthful and, above all, captivating.

At the back of the massive dance floor was a red velvet curtain. The man pushed through, immediately encountering the muzzle of a silver MP-448 Skyph 9 × 18 pistol, clutched by a lone security guard. The gunman, hulkish and mean-looking, wore a tight black silk shirt unbuttoned to the navel. He eyed the stranger as he pushed through the curtain and moved toward him. He trained the gun on the stranger’s forehead.

“Sem’desyat dva,” muttered the man.

“Da.”

The guard holstered the Skyph beneath his left armpit. He patted him down, then nodded, without looking into his eyes, indicating he could pass.

The man descended a set of stairs into the basement, then moved along a dimly lit corridor. At the end of the hallway, a pair of gunmen stood like pillars outside a steel door. Both men clutched submachine guns. Reflexively, they trained the muzzles on him as he approached.

If being held in the sight lines of a pair of submachine guns bothered him, he didn’t show it.

The guard on the left repeated the pat-down, more invasive this time, looking for anything that the visitor might have been concealing. Finding nothing, he nodded to the other guard, who reached for the door handle.

The man stepped inside the room as the security guard shut the door behind him.

It was a large, windowless room, meticulously neat. On one side was a glass desk, empty except for a small laptop computer, a thin stack of papers, and a handgun. On the other side of the room was a seating area. A huge plasma screen hung on the wall. A video game was being played. In the specific frame was an image of a battlefield in remarkably clear relief, almost like documentary news footage. The vantage point was that of a soldier moving across the battlefield, shooting people.

On a black leather couch, directly in front of the screen, sat a man with slicked-back brown hair, parted in the middle, a tank top, and, around his neck, a mess of gold chains. He continued to stare at the screen and fire off rounds.

“Hello, Cloud,” said Malnikov, the thirty-four-year-old head of the Moscow mafia.

“Alexei,” said Cloud curtly.

Malnikov fired a few more rounds, then abruptly stopped the game. He turned and looked at his visitor. He smiled and stood up from the sofa.

“Can I get you something?”

“Vodka.”

“Sure.”

Malnikov walked to a bar in the corner. He poured two glasses, then returned.

“Please,” said Malnikov, handing Cloud the vodka and pointing to a different sofa, near the desk. “Have a seat, my friend.”

The sofa was long, curving slightly in a quarter-moon, and covered in light yellow leather. Malnikov and Cloud sat down at either end of the sofa, leaving a wide space between them. Each man took sips from his glass, glancing at the other in silence.

“Let’s make this quick,” Cloud said. He took a gulp from his glass as his eyes darted about the room. “I don’t like being here. How much?”

Malnikov laughed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking around the office, a hint of offense taken in his voice. “You don’t like my office?”

Cloud shot Malnikov a look of contempt, unafraid even of the head of the Moscow mob.

“I grow tired of your games, Alexei,” snapped Cloud. “If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve had one of your men put a bullet in my head. You have a nuclear weapon. There is precisely one individual on the face of the planet who can take it off your hands without raising the eyebrows of the Central Intelligence Agency. How much, you greedy fuck?”