Faqir revved the trawler’s engine and put the boat into gear.

“Untie the boat,” he yelled through the window. “Two men, back in the crow’s nest. We need to hurry.”

18

VERNACULAR HOUSE

MOSCOW

Al-Medi looked up at Maybank as he struggled to catch his breath. He was drenched, pale, and barely alive.

“Where is he?” asked Maybank.

Maybank had been at it for an hour now. He was in a soundproof, windowless basement room, with Braga watching from the door, as he tried to get Al-Medi to break.

“I told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said Al-Medi, his Chechen accent thick. “I stole the phone.”

“We ran your prints. We know who you are. Stop fucking with me.”

Maybank slammed Al-Medi’s head down into the water. He looked calmly at his watch as he held him under. After a full minute, he lifted him back out.

Al-Medi was soaking wet. He stared lifelessly up at Maybank. Suddenly, his eyes rolled back in his head. He leaned left as he began to fall from the steel chair.

“Oh, no you don’t, motherfucker,” said Maybank.

Maybank lurched out and grabbed his arm, then lifted the now unconscious terrorist from the chair. Water and sweat from Al-Medi rained down on Maybank as he hoisted him up and hurled him as far as he could. Al-Medi slammed into the concrete wall, then dropped to the floor, grunting in pain. Maybank stepped toward him and kicked him in the knee. He let out a horrendous scream.

“Where is he?” Maybank asked calmly.

“Fuck you,” whispered Al-Medi. He coughed, and water poured from his mouth to the floor.

Maybank booted him in the other knee, harder this time. Al-Medi screamed and moaned, then coughed out more water.

Braga stepped to Maybank, who was growing increasingly frustrated.

“Can I try?” she asked.

Maybank towered above the diminutive Braga. He nodded.

“Sure.”

Braga walked to Al-Medi and stood above him.

“When did he give you the phone?” she asked matter-of-factly. “I mean, it is rather odd he would arrange for the purchase of a nuclear bomb with it, then pass it on to someone else versus, for example, disposing of it. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

Al-Medi said nothing. He panted, then vomited more water.

“Have you been asking yourself that question?” Braga continued. “I thought he was a famous computer hacker. Surely he’d know that anyone possessing that phone could be discovered?”

Braga paused, looked down at Al-Medi, then knelt to the ground next to his head. The terrorist looked dazed; it was difficult to tell if he was even listening.

“Alexei Malnikov paid Cloud one hundred million dollars to take the bomb off his hands,” said Braga. “Did you know that?”

She saw Al-Medi clench his fingers, the first sign of anger or emotion he’d displayed.

“We were trying to guess how much he shared with you,” continued Braga. “Johnny thought ten million. I guessed higher. I thought at least thirty million. Which one of us was right?”

Al-Medi shut his eyes.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “He didn’t share it with you, did he? He hands you a phone that he knows will get you either killed or locked up for the rest of your life, and he doesn’t give you a nickel.”

Al-Medi stared lifelessly at the ground.

Braga tapped her ear, triggering commo with Polk back inside Targa.

“Can I negotiate?” she whispered.

“Offer him whatever you have to.”

Braga took a can of Coca-Cola from the table and opened it. She leaned down in front of Al-Medi, put her hand beneath his head, then propped him up. She tipped the can of soda toward his mouth, pouring it slowly in. Al-Medi chugged it like a dog gulping water on a hot summer afternoon.

“You help us find him,” said Braga, “and we’ll set you free. No strings attached. We’ll also give you some money.”

“How much?”

“A few million.”

Al-Medi slugged down the rest of the soda until it was gone.

“I don’t believe you,” he whispered.

“But it needs to happen right now,” continued Braga, ignoring him. “You know it and I know it. Don’t be an idiot. Freedom and money or a concrete cell in a prison most people don’t even know exists. And if you’re one of these martyr types who think death comes quickly at the black sites, you’re wrong. We don’t let you die. You’ll live to be a hundred, chained to a wall, inside a dark room, alone. From what I hear, it’s not much fun.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t.”

Braga tapped her ear, getting ready to relay the information she knew Al-Medi was about to give up.

“What do you want to know?”

“What kind of boat is it?”

“A fishing trawler. Two hundred feet long.”

“What about Cloud?” she asked. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. But I know where he’ll be.”

19

NATIONAL CLANDESTINE SERVICE

OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

LANGLEY

Bond stepped into a small glass-walled office within the suite of offices reserved for the National Clandestine Service. Polk was standing inside, arms crossed, reading a sheet of paper. He looked up at Bond.

“You’re going to Saint Petersburg,” said Polk. “I know you haven’t been to Russia in a while, but I need you running second phase line.”

In NCS lingo, phase lines referred to stages of an operation. Often, one stage was predicated on the one before it either succeeding or failing. Second phase line meant Bond’s part of the operation would kick in only if the first stage—Phase Line One—failed or was aborted.

“I’m ready,” said Bond. “Why the phase lines?”

“We have a real problem,” said Polk. “A Russian terrorist is downrange with an operation to detonate a nuclear device on U.S. soil. We’re going to try and capture him in Moscow. If that part of the mission fails, you go live. This guy’s girlfriend is in Saint Petersburg. Phase Line Two is a hostile extract. It’s a two-man team, you’re running the in-theater.”

“Why are you being so cryptic?”

“The bomb is on its way to the United States.”

“Can’t we blockade?”

Polk shook his head.

“The coast is too big. Navy could maybe shut down two or three cities, but they’ll know that. We have one shot here. We have to catch him.”

“Who is he?”

Polk looked at Bond, then through the glass.

“Cloud? Who is he? That’s the scariest part of all. We don’t know.”

Bond was silent. He glanced around the office, looking out through the glass. Across the hallway, he saw Dewey talking with someone, holding a bag of ice to his eye.

“I need to know who you want with you.”

Bond looked at Polk, pausing for a few moments.

“Dewey,” said Bond.

Polk was motionless. He waited, thinking about his response.

“Dewey can be very charismatic, Pete,” said Polk. “A lot of guys have asked to be teamed with him. But in Iguala he froze up on a relatively minor project. He shouldn’t be running ops right now.”

“He froze in Mexico, but six hours later he almost killed the top-ranked amateur MMA fighter in the U.S. He’s ready. Trust me.”

“You cannot afford a second of doubt if Moscow somehow goes south and Saint Pete goes live,” said Polk. “At that point, the extraction of his girlfriend is all we have left before this nuclear bomb hits our shores. They’re calling this thing nine/twelve if we don’t stop it. Books will be written about the decisions we make this day. Do you understand that?”

“You asked me who I want,” said Bond. “I’ll work with whoever you put me with, but I want Dewey. Either put him with me or don’t. But don’t lecture me about what’s going to happen if things get fucked up. I’ve been there, and if it’s my choice, I want him next to me. You’re the one who taught me ‘trust your gut.’”

Polk smiled.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply that I am as close to the ground as you. But I’ve seen an operation or two. Your loyalty is admirable, but I think it’s going to be Joe I send over with you.”