“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“There is a price,” added Borchardt.

“I figured that. What is it?”

“I want to know why you need to get to Russia so urgently.”

“You know I can’t talk about it.”

“Perhaps I can be of help,” said Borchardt. “I have many friends in Russia.”

“I’m sure you do,” said Dewey. “Probably a real hip crowd. But I think I’ve got it covered.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” said Borchardt. “I want to know what’s happening. That’s the price. Either tell me or find another way to Russia.”

Dewey shook his head.

“You’re a fucking asshole, Rolf,” said Dewey. He hit Mute, pretending to hang up on Borchardt.

“Dewey?” asked Borchardt. “Calling me names will get you nowhere.”

Dewey remained silent, listening.

“Dewey?” said Borchardt after a few moments. “Did you hang up? Dewey? Son of a bitch. If you’re listening, fine, you don’t have to tell me.”

Dewey unmuted it.

“Hi, Rolf. Glad we worked that out.”

“You really are a manipulative bastard,” said Borchardt.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” said Dewey. “Oh, one more thing.”

“What?”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“What is it?”

“Promise?”

“Fine.”

“Say it. Say ‘I promise.’”

“I promise,” snapped Borchardt.

“I need a ticket to the ballet.”

26

REKI FONTANKI

SAINT PETERSBURG

A warm wind off the Baltic Sea rustled the leaves of the ancient white birches that lined Griboyedov Canal. It was Saturday night in the oldest, most historic, and prettiest of Russian cities. Saint Petersburg twinkled in pockets of orange and yellow as cars moved quickly along the crowded streets, and people walked, laughing, some already inebriated, toward cocktails and parties and dinners, to meet friends and family and lovers.

The temperature was in the midseventies, the air dry. It was the nicest evening of the summer. A festive glow charged the night, from golden-hued windows of crowded restaurants, from gaslit lampposts radiating honey orange flames at street corners. It all pushed out against the Russian darkness. There was a sense of giddiness about Saint Petersburg this night, a devil-may-care attitude, anything goes.

Danger.

A dark red Mercedes limousine cruised slowly down Reki Fontanki Avenue. It stopped near the corner.

Fifty feet away, a tall man in jeans and a tan leather Belstaff motorcycle jacket stood alone on Nevsky Prospekt Bridge. He leaned against a waist-high granite abutment, looking down into the black water of the canal, deep in thought.

He was tall, at least six-four, but he loomed larger. He had the beginnings of a thick beard and mustache. His brown hair was long, parted in the middle, but unruly and unkempt, hiding the big man’s rugged good looks.

The man didn’t seem to notice the red Mercedes limousine that had just pulled up near the corner. But he had. He knew that inside were two agents; Joe Oliveri, a commando from Special Operations Group, and Pete Bond, from Political Activities Division.

The man’s demeanor was aloof, standoffish, taciturn. To anyone passing by, the message was clear: Leave me the fuck alone.

Had someone been able to look into his eyes, he would have found little except for a suggestion of loneliness, a hint of anger, and above all else a blank aspect. Most would mistake that for coldness, but those few with a certain type of experience would recognize it for the danger that lurked within.

He lifted a pack of Davidoff cigarettes from his coat pocket, removed one, then flicked a lighter and sent a small flame into the air. He took a long drag, exhaled, glanced at his watch, then looked across the canal at the red marble pilasters of Mariinsky Theatre.

The grand front entrance was alight as well-heeled Russians mingled outside. It was intermission of the Kirov Ballet’s Swan Lake, starring Russia’s most famous ballerina, Katya Basaeyev.

“Hi, guys, I apologize for the wait.”

In the man’s ear, affixed to a minuscule thread of tape, a two-way communications device the size of a Tic Tac connected him to a windowless conference room in Langley.

“We’re waiting for sign-off from the White House, but I need to get you briefed right now. We don’t have a lot of time.”

The voice was that of Bill Polk, director of National Clandestine Services at the Central Intelligence Agency.

“We’re in pursuit of a Russian,” continued Polk. “He’s a computer hacker known as Cloud. He’s also a terrorist. A few days ago, Cloud purchased a nuclear device and that device is now on its way to the United States of America. It’s big enough to do a lot of damage—a lot more than the one we dropped on Hiroshima. This may be the only shot we have at capturing this guy before it’s too late. Each of you was handpicked for this mission. We need flawless execution in the kill zone.”

The man on the bridge took a drag on his cigarette and stared down at the water as he registered the words in his ear.

“This is a two-phase line operation involving surgical penetration into Russia,” said Polk, “so we need to be extra fucking careful. Our comrades in Red Square would not be happy if they knew we were trespassing.”

The man on the bridge put a hand in his pocket, as if by reflex, making sure it was still there: weapon.

Know where your weapon is at all times.

“Phase Line One, Moscow, has the lead,” Polk continued. “The team consists of three commandos, who right now are thirty-five thousand feet above Ukraine headed for the Russian border. Johnny, you guys good to go?”

“Yeah, Bill, we’re good.”

The voice was Dowling’s, lead commando of the first phase line, Moscow, the front edge of the operation.

“Fifty miles inside Russia, you three say good-bye to your British Airways flight and perform a high-altitude high-opening parachute landing at a dacha outside Moscow. According to our intelligence, Cloud is attending a dinner party. You guys will grab him and move to a safe house about a mile away. We will interrogate him there. I repeat, this will all go down in-theater.”

“Why?” asked Dowling.

“We can’t risk anything going sideways during a border cross.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mission video will start running when you’re airborne,” said Polk. “You’ll get to see the landing zone along with a few more photos NSA was able to dig up.”

The man in Saint Petersburg remained quiet. He unzipped his leather coat. Beneath, he wore a red T-shirt with a faded Boston Bruins logo on it.

“Phase Line Two, Saint Petersburg, should already be active,” continued Polk. “Pete, you two there?”

“All set here,” said Bond from the red Mercedes.

“Saint Petersburg is our insurance policy,” said Polk. “Hopefully it’s unnecessary. Cloud’s girlfriend is in the city. She’s a ballerina named Katya Basaeyev. If everything goes smoothly in Moscow, we’ll leave her alone. But if something goes sideways at the dacha, we’re going to exfiltrate her. We will grab her when she leaves the theater. This is important. We don’t know where she’s staying or what kind of manpower she’ll have around her. We need to take her off the street and get her to water. SEAL Team 6 is already in the harbor. SDV will take her to the USS Hartford a few miles off the coast. We’ll bring her out of the country and see what she knows. But that’s only if Moscow doesn’t go as planned. Got it, guys?”

SDV stood for SEAL Delivery Vehicle, a small, nearly silent submarine used to ferry SEALs deep into enemy territory, just below the water’s surface.

“Affirmative,” said Bond.

“Can you give us any more background on Cloud?” asked Dowling from the plane.

“I told you what we know,” answered Polk. “This guy’s a ghost. Virtually unknown. Chief, you got anything more?”

“Yes,” said Calibrisi, joining the briefing. “There’s a rumor he helped disrupt air traffic control systems on nine/eleven.”