Dewey went to the bar and bought a whiskey. He’d never been to the ballet before.

A woman approached. Her long blond hair seemed to shimmer like water beneath the chandelier light, and her green eyes, as they scanned Dewey, widened, brightened, as she smiled at him with confidence. She leaned toward Dewey and said something in Russian.

“I’m sorry,” Dewey responded, “I don’t speak Russian.”

“I asked,” the woman said in English, with a pretty, soft Russian accent, “what do you think of the ballet?”

“I just got here.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. It was very beautiful.”

The woman was in her late twenties. Perhaps a model. The eyes of at least half a dozen men were on her. Yet the only person she could look at was the tall American.

“I’m Petra,” she said, extending her hand. “Are you from the United States?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like to have a drink afterward?”

“Thank you,” said Dewey, “but I have plans.”

*   *   *

Backstage at the Mariinsky, the dressing room was crowded. Dozens of dancers sat before mirror after mirror, staring at themselves, some smoking. The mood would have surprised most of the audience. It was raucous, with laughter filling the room, the occasional shout.

A half dozen makeup artists moved from dancer to dancer, reapplying powder and rouge for the final act.

“Ten minutes,” shouted one of the assistant directors.

A dimly lit corridor behind the cast dressing room had walls adorned with framed photographs of famous Russian dancers. Many were old, black and white, with a thin layer of dust.

The photo before the door at the end of the hallway was in color and showed Katya Basaeyev.

A hulking man with black hair and a mustache stood outside the door, guarding it.

Inside the private dressing room, a long table was cluttered with bouquets of freshly cut flowers, bottles of champagne, and unopened gifts. On the wall, dozens of articles had been cut out of newspapers and magazines, all of them showing photos of Katya and heralding her performances in Saint Petersburg over the last two weeks.

Katya was alone. She stood, naked, before an oval full-length mirror.

She shook a glass bottle filled with baby powder into the palm of her hand, then lightly dusted it into her brown skin, so that in the heat of the stage lights and the exertion of the dancing, perspiration would not make her slip in the hands of one of the male dancers there to catch her.

Katya pulled on her outfit for the final act.

A soft knock came at the door.

“A package, Katya,” came the voice of the bodyguard.

She said nothing.

She sat down before another mirror.

“Katya?”

“Who is it from?”

“He didn’t say.”

She shut her eyes and steeled herself. She stood and walked to the door, opening it slightly, and took the package.

The box was blue and was tied with white string. She sat down at her makeup table. She put the box on her lap, then yanked up on the string. She lifted the top of the box.

Inside the box was another, this one long and thin, wrapped in light blue velvet. She opened it. Inside was a stunning diamond necklace. It was anchored by a large yellow diamond. Katya pulled the necklace out and stared at it for several moments. She fastened it around her neck and admired it in the mirror.

A small note was stuck inside the box: I love you, my future wife.

A light tap came at the door.

“Two minutes, Katya.”

Katya let the note fall from her fingers onto the floor. She took the necklace off and placed it on the dressing table, then walked to the door.

“Yes,” she said, barely above a whisper.

The door opened. Katya walked past the bodyguard, saying nothing, as the lights from the theater flickered in the distance.

*   *   *

Bond was seated in the backseat of the red Mercedes limousine, at that moment parked one block behind the Mariinsky Theatre. He was dressed in a linen suit, his hair combed back and dyed black, a white handkerchief puffed out of his breast pocket. The get-up was perhaps overkill, but Bond had spent two years in Saint Petersburg working for the CIA, and Polk didn’t want to take the risk he might be spotted in the middle of a live operation.

In the front seat, Joe Oliveri had on a chauffeur’s outfit. A former member of Force Recon, the Marines’ elite deep reconnaissance unit, Oliveri was considered one of Langley’s top “escape men,” the agent charged in a dead zone operation with getting whatever individual or materials that needed to be extracted to a drop zone.

Tonight, if necessary, it would be Bond’s job to grab Katya, and Oliveri’s job to get her to water, where Navy SEALs lurked eighteen feet beneath the waterline.

Bond stared out the side window, in silence, as Oliveri tapped his fingers absentmindedly on the steering wheel.

“Your kid make that baseball team he was trying out for?” asked Bond.

“Yeah,” said Oliveri, keeping his eyes trained on the street ahead. “First game’s tomorrow night. Hopefully, this’ll all be cake and I’ll be there to watch it.”

*   *   *

An usher led Dewey to the orchestra section near the front of the theater. His seat was on the aisle.

Dewey sat next to a woman and her young daughter. Dewey smiled at the girl, who smiled back. Her mother stared at him.

His eyes scanned the left and right balcony boxes. Seated inside were elegant-looking groups of Russians dressed in evening attire. The men varied in their looks, but each woman seemed like she could have been on the cover of a magazine.

The curtain opened to the final act of Swan Lake.

At Katya’s entrance, a wave of hushed whispers swept the theater. Even Dewey leaned forward in his seat to get a better view.

The ballerina wore a simple white dress, which looked as if it had been painted onto her body. Her black hair was braided on top of her head and shone like leather beneath the stage lights. Her skin was dark and dusted with white makeup. She stood motionless near the back of the stage. She looked sad, vulnerable, even frail. And then her head moved slightly around and her gaze ripped across the crowd.

In an instant, what had appeared weak and frightened disappeared. Her beauty shot from the back of the stage like lightning across the night sky. Audience members reflexively moved forward in their seats. The little girl two seats away from Dewey shot her arm out, pointing. The electricity in the audience was palpable, and Katya had yet to take even her first step.

And then she began her run. She moved as if galloping on the wind, toward the center of the stage, then leapt high into the air as gasps arose above the orchestra music. She seemed to hold the air for an inhuman amount of time. The lights from behind her brightened, creating a dark silhouette of her soaring figure, like a five-pointed star crossing in front of the sun. Then, just when it seemed like she would remain airborne forever, she fell like a bird in flight, a bird who’s been shot, falling helplessly, listlessly, freely, with no concern for her own safety. She fell as if she had just died midflight. Inches from striking the stage, a male dancer caught Katya, swinging her up and around, landing her on one toe, upon which she proceeded to pirouette like a top, until at long last she stopped, raised her arm triumphantly above her head, then looked out across the audience. A mysterious smile creased her lips. The entire audience erupted in a cacophony of cheering as it stood up to welcome its beloved Katya.

She seemed to glow, to radiate, and yet her eyes met no one’s, not the dancer who caught her, not the audience that screamed in delight. She was in a different world altogether.

Dewey had never seen anything like it. He’d never seen a woman with such beauty as the woman standing on the stage before him.