Her apartment was a rambling warren of odd-shaped rooms carved out of what had been the palace’s attic. Yet it was the most expensive unit at the Margaux. Katya had purchased the apartment for $12 million two years before. There were four bedroom suites, a dining room, a library, a formal living room, a more casual den, a media room, a wine room, and a small gymnasium, half of which had been turned into a practice area, with a barre, mats, and mirrors.

Katya put the bouquet of flowers in a large vase, filled it with water, and then placed it on a credenza against the wall of the living room.

They had met when she was a student at the Bolshoi and he was at the Moscow Technological Institute. They met on the first day of school, seated next to each other in the large dining room the two schools shared.

Like Katya, Cloud was a prized recruit. Moscow Technological Institute, Russia’s top academic institution, did not accept applicants. Like the Bolshoi, the institute scoured Russia, as well as the republics of the former Soviet Union, looking for the country’s most talented individuals. It was MTI that produced the country’s greatest scientific, mathematic, and computer minds.

Like Cloud, Katya no longer had parents, and they shared a similar loneliness. She had been sent to the convent at age four after her father was killed in Afghanistan and her mother died of cancer the same year. She didn’t know what it was like to have a father and mother. Cloud remembered. He knew what it was like to enjoy the love of two doting parents, as an only child, a beloved child. He also knew what it was like to watch those parents be murdered in front of his eyes.

In Moscow, like two birds caught in a windstorm, Cloud and Katya became friends first, then best friends, then lovers. As Katya’s renown increased, so too did Cloud’s. His ability with computers grew every bit as quickly and dramatically as Katya’s ballet skills.

So too did his hatred for the country that had killed his parents.

At fifteen, Katya had her first prima debut, in The Nutcracker at the Bolshoi’s Christmas performances. That same year, using a computer in the school library, Cloud helped to manipulate air traffic control systems in the United States on the morning of 9/11. Both performances, in their own way, were prodigal.

Now, after a little more than a decade, they remained inextricably linked. But Katya’s world was as transparent as Cloud’s was hidden. She’d become the most famous dancer in Russia. Her life was an open book to Cloud. Cloud, meanwhile, had become the most famous computer hacker in Russia. But to Katya, he remained Pyotr Vargarin, computer consultant, who made a great deal of money but did not like to discuss his work.

They ate dinner at one end of the large dining room table, enjoying a bottle of wine as Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake played softly in the background.

“Tell me about the Kirov,” said Cloud, referring to the Kirov Ballet in Saint Petersburg, where Katya would be headlining the summer production of Swan Lake. It was a highly anticipated series of performances for which she would be paid $5 million. The shows had sold out in less than an hour.

“I thought that perhaps you would consider coming,” Katya said.

“I would like that very much,” said Cloud. “I have a big project at work, as you know, but I am going to do my very best.”

“How long will this project take?” she asked.

“Maybe a week.”

“What is this project?”

Cloud leaned forward and put his hand on Katya’s.

“It’s a boring project involving computers,” he said.

“Computers, computers, computers,” she said. “You think I would be confused if you tell me, don’t you?”

“Not at all, just bored.”

“Try me.”

Cloud was silent for several moments. He didn’t like to lie to Katya.

“I am helping to redistribute certain scientific assets,” said Cloud.

“Why?”

“Well, these assets will help to bring a little heat and light to a part of the world that desperately needs it.”

Katya smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him on the lips.

“I am proud of you.”

“Not as proud as I am of you. I will try to see you in Saint Petersburg. Besides, I have seen you dance now about a hundred times. It seems only fair to let others have the chance to experience the wonder of your dancing.”

Katya smiled and blushed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said. “But I must tell you, Pyotr, that when you are in the audience, I dance differently. I run faster. I am able to jump higher. Your eyes beckon me to try harder.”

Cloud looked at Katya’s hand on his, running her finger over his gold signet ring. He felt a spike of anxiety, not at the terrible thing he was going to do but at the terrible deception he’d allowed into the most important relationship—the only relationship—he cared about. He’d built a lie in order to project—and protect—an image of himself in her eyes. He knew that if she ever found out his true nature, it would destroy everything he had.

“May I ask you something?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Cloud looked at Katya. He reached to his pocket and removed a small red leather box. Hand trembling, he put it on the table.

“Katya,” he whispered. His eyes were red with emotion. “I love you more than any man has ever loved a woman. I would do anything for you. The thought of you being gone for a month causes me great pain, because I will miss you. But I am also deeply proud of you, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Katya smiled. A small tear came to her right eye as she reached forward to touch the red box.

“Forgive me for my meandering words, but what I am about to say is the most important thing I will ever say.”

Tears of emotion now trickled down Cloud’s cheeks.

“Will you marry me, dear Katya?” he whispered, looking at her with naked vulnerability.

Katya opened the box. Inside was a stunning object: a magnificently large yellow diamond the size of a person’s fingertip, set upon a platinum band scrolled in an antique design.

“It…” Katya started to speak, then went quiet. Her mouth opened in awe as she removed it from the box, and tears of happiness began to flow down her cheeks. “It’s so beautiful.”

Cloud slipped the ring over her left ring finger, then held her hand up, beneath the golden-hued light of the chandelier.

“It’s from Siberia,” he said.

She stared at it for several moments.

For Cloud, the moment was the most beautiful of his life, as he waited, doubt choking his heart.

“Yes,” she whispered.

*   *   *

Later, after watching Katya pack for Saint Petersburg, after making love to her, after she had long since fallen asleep, Cloud arose from the bed. He wrapped himself in a silk bathrobe and walked soundlessly out of the bedroom and through the apartment. In the front hall, he stared for several moments at the cherry credenza, almost as if he was admiring it. He got to his knees. Reaching down, he felt the bulge of a gun taped to the bottom of the credenza. Slowly, he pulled the gun out: Stechkin APS with a black silencer threaded into the muzzle.

Cloud went to the apartment door and waited, leaning against the door, listening for more than a minute but hearing nothing. He raised the Stechkin with his left hand and trained it on the door. With his right hand, Cloud turned the doorknob, slowly, until it cracked open. He spied the guard to the left, seated on the floor, oblivious. Cloud pulled the door open, then triggered the suppressed Stechkin. The slug struck the burly Russian in the temple, spraying blood and skull down the hallway.

He heard movement down the hallway, around the corner, near the elevator, out of view. He dropped his left arm to his side, concealing the gun, then walked toward the elevator.

“Miss Basaeyev?” he heard from the second guard.