“Why the fuck did you even ask me?” asked Bond.

Polk was silent.

“All right, fine,” said Polk, glancing at his watch. “You’re an argumentative son of a bitch, you know that? I’ll think about it.”

20

BUTIKOVSKY PEREULOK

KHAMOVNIKI DISTRICT

MOSCOW

The lobby of the apartment building was minimalist, elegant, and quiet. Its walls were paneled in walnut, with large, abstract geometric works of art. There was a pair of chandeliers in leaded crystal and a floor of rare white marble streaked with turquoise.

Two big men dressed in dark suits stood behind a security desk. They were both active-duty GRU, highly trained agents adept at close-quarters combat, face-to-face self-defense, and human intelligence. Russia protected its important citizens, especially the famous ones.

A soft chime told the guards that someone was at the steel-gated front entrance. On a video monitor behind the desk, one of the guards studied the man’s face.

“It is Mr. Vargarin,” he said.

The other guard pressed a button, unlatching the gate and allowing the visitor to come inside the building.

Cloud stepped through the front door. In one hand he held a bouquet of red chrysanthemums wrapped in silver foil and tied with a white ribbon. In the other was a small wooden box. Cloud smiled politely as he approached the security desk.

“Hello, Jonas, Mikhail,” he said. “How are you?”

“Very well, Mr. Vargarin,” said one of the men, grinning. “Are those flowers for us?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Cloud, laughing.

The transformation in his appearance was shocking. Other than the sharpness of his eyes, he was an entirely different person from the creature who strong-armed the most powerful mobster in Russia into handing him a nuclear bomb. Cloud’s hair was no longer a mop of blond curls. Rather, it was straight, combed neatly down the middle, and slicked back. He had on a white button-down shirt beneath a plaid blazer, khakis, and brown wingtips. He looked stylish, immaculate, and worldly.

Cloud had learned long ago how to use his appearance to his advantage. It was the fulcrum upon which his outward identity pivoted; one day a gentle-looking, exotically handsome man of culture, the next a scrawny outcast with hints of drug addiction and dark powers.

In theory, the guards at the Margaux were trained to profile all manner of potential security threats, the most important being possible kidnappers or terrorists. But they were oblivious of Cloud’s true nature.

Cloud put the wooden box on top of the desk.

“We don’t need to inspect it,” said one, waving his hand. “We trust you.”

“It’s a gift for the two of you for all you do to protect Katya.”

One of the guards opened the box. Inside were two nondescript bottles.

“You like vodka, yes?” asked Cloud.

“Of course.”

“This is vodka from the personal collection of Nikita Khrushchev.”

The guard on the right lifted a bottle and inspected it. The glass was a bluish-green hue and looked as if it had been blown by hand.

“Mr. Vargarin,” he said. “I cannot—”

“Please,” said Cloud. “I personally don’t like to drink anything stronger than tea. I brought one for each of you.”

“Thank you,” said the guard. “You’re too generous.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How did you obtain something so rare?” asked one of the men, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

At the question, Cloud’s demeanor shifted. For a brief moment, a dark look crossed his eyes. Then it was gone.

“It was left to me by my father,” he said.

“Your father must have been very important to receive such a treasure.”

Cloud had a cold look on his face. He looked at the ground.

“He was above all else a kind man, that is all. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”

In the elevator, Cloud pressed the button for the top floor. As he did so, he thought of his father. Were he alive, Cloud knew that his father would be proud of him, but only for this part of his life. For his other activities, his hacking, his thievery, his father would be deeply angry. As for the nuclear bomb and what was to come, words could not describe the shame and utter revulsion Dr. Anuslav Vargarin would feel toward him, were he alive.

Were he alive.

But he wasn’t alive. He was dead, killed along with his mother by the United States. Killed in front of him. Killed like a dog. All for … well, all for a reason Cloud still did not understand. A computer disk, that was all. Letters and numbers that represented his father’s life work. Data. Now he would turn their data back on them. The information hunters would become prey to disinformation. Their theft of his father’s science would metastasize into a creation far more abominable than they ever could have imagined.

A father’s debt: Cloud would repay it, even though the kindly man whose gentle touch he could never forget would not want him to.

The chime for the seventh floor awakened Cloud from his daydream. He stepped out of the iron-trellised elevator and walked to the only door on the floor. He knocked twice and waited patiently. A few seconds later, the door swung open.

“Pyotr,” a woman said, staring affectionately at him. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Katya,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I miss you already and I haven’t even left yet,” she said.

“I love you so much, Katya,” he whispered as he clutched her tightly in the frame of the open door, hugging her for more than a minute.

“I love you too,” she said. “You make me so happy.”

At age twenty-six, Katya Basaeyev was among the most famous women in Russia and was well on her way to being recognized as the greatest living ballerina in the world. She was from Yakutsk, the largest city in the remote Sakha Republic, a part of Siberia that bordered the Arctic Circle and was known for producing diamonds.

She had learned to dance at the convent, taught by one of the nuns who herself had been a celebrated dancer before turning to God. By twelve, Katya’s skills were well enough known to draw a visit from the director of admissions at Moscow’s prestigious Bolshoi Ballet Academy. After that, it took only a little while for her to sweep like a tidal wave across the ruthlessly competitive world of Russian ballet. Katya had done so effortlessly, without a great deal of strategy or deliberateness, as if it was simply meant to be, her rise predicated on a unique dancing style. Katya had an inner grace, a simplicity, really, that was almost untrained and a style that even those dancers she eclipsed admired. No one who knew Katya disliked her. Other dancers, choreographers, and conductors all loved her. The fact that she was also so pretty, and so kind, only added to her singularity.

Her nickname: “The Siberian Diamond.”

They stepped into the apartment and shut the door. Cloud handed Katya the flowers.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Would you like to go out to dinner?” he asked.

Katya buried her face in the chrysanthemums and took a big sniff, then turned.

“Do you not have a nose?” she asked playfully.

“What do you mean?”

“I made your favorite dinner.”

He suddenly became aware of the scent of chicken roasting in the oven.

“And for dessert, profiteroles,” she said, stepping to him and removing his blazer, then wrapping her arms around him. “I spent all afternoon making them. Your mother must have been a saint. They are very hard to make.”

Cloud looked into her eyes for several moments, expressing his gratitude, his love, silently, through his eyes.

“The day before you leave for Saint Petersburg, and you are cooking for me. I don’t know what to say.”

“It makes me happy to make you happy, Pyotr,” Katya said, kissing him on the lips.

Katya’s hair was jet-black. It dangled down to her shoulders, parted in the middle, and it shimmered in the light. Her skin was brown; her eyes were aqua, their unusual color like a flash of blue sky on a dark, cloudy day.