Dewey crossed the lobby, looking quickly at his room key. The lobby was empty except for a woman behind the desk, who smiled and said goodnight to him.

At the elevator, Dewey heard footsteps, hard-soled shoes clicking on marble, approaching from behind him. A moment later, the bigger guard joined Dewey next to the elevator doors.

They were approximately the same size. The Russian stood close, waiting for the elevator. When it came, he stepped on first.

“Which floor, my friend?” he asked in English filtered with a sharp Russian accent.

“Four.”

As the doors shut, Dewey watched the guard carefully, spreading his legs in case the bodyguard wanted to engage him in the elevator.

The bodyguard instead pressed the button for four, then a button for a floor higher than Dewey’s.

When the elevator stopped at the fourth floor, Dewey stepped out. He walked down the dimly lit hall.

Dewey’s back was to the bodyguard as he walked away, trying to appear nonchalant but hyperaware of the man back at the elevator. With his right hand he reached inside his jacket, removed the .45, and clutched it tight beneath his left armpit, the suppressed muzzle of the gun aimed behind him, back up the hall, inside the leather jacket, so the man couldn’t see it.

Dewey heard the faint metallic click of a round being chambered.

At the end of the hall, he came to the last door. With his left hand, his free hand, he pulled a room key from his pocket.

Dewey inserted the card into the lock with his left hand while, with his right, he put his index finger on the trigger. The key slid into the lock. A red light came on. In the same moment, Dewey fired the Colt as fast as his finger could flex; several quick blasts, through the jacket, moving the .45 in a line without looking, left to right, across the hallway.

The scream from the Russian came from the second round, in the same instant a silenced slug sailed by Dewey, striking the door just above his head.

Dewey pivoted, ducking. The gunman lay on his back, a pistol at his side.

Dewey’s round had struck him in the stomach. His shirt was already drenched in blood. Groaning, the Russian reached for his weapon as Dewey moved toward him. Dewey watched as the bodyguard found the butt of the gun. Dewey stepped quickly toward the Russian, who now lay on the ground in a growing pool of crimson. Dewey had his gun out and he trained it on the killer’s head, saying nothing. Then Dewey fired. A slug ripped the Russian in the right eye.

Dewey heard the door to his right abruptly open, a curious hotel guest, then the sound of a chain. As the shocked occupant of the room screamed, Dewey booted his foot at the door, ripping the chain off, then lunging into the room.

Standing in a bathrobe was a man in his seventies. Dewey pointed at the bed, training his gun on him, holding a finger to his lips, telling him to be quiet.

Dewey stepped backward, gun fixed on the man. He opened the door and grabbed the ankle of the dead bodyguard. He dragged him into the room, keeping the muzzle of the Colt trained at all times on the old man’s head.

Dewey shut the door shut and left the dead thug just inside the room.

“Please don’t kill me,” the man stuttered.

Dewey said nothing. He came to the man, flipped him on his stomach. He removed his Gerber combat blade from his ankle sheath. He sliced apart a towel, ripping it into strips. He gagged the man tightly, then bound his arms and legs.

Dewey moved to the dead man. He had another gun—Walther PPK—and a pack of cigarettes. In a secret pocket in his left sock, Dewey found a plastic room key.

Dewey looked in the bathroom. On the sink was a plug-in razor.

Dewey took the electric razor and shaved his beard, mustache, and hair. It took him five minutes, and was rough. His hair was now short, a quarter inch of stubble. He looked in the mirror, and for a second, he didn’t recognize himself.

He checked the old man to make sure he wasn’t tied too tightly. He went to the door and looked out the peephole. The corridor wall had a small arc of wet blood. The beige carpet was pancaked in scarlet.

He had to move.

He exited the room and moved methodically down the hallway, soundlessly inserting the key, watching, at each door, as the light turned red. He took the fire stairs to the fifth floor, repeating the sweep. Near the far corner, a door lock suddenly flashed green and the lock clicked. Dewey removed his gun. He opened the door, then kicked with all his strength. The door swung violently in, crashing against the wall. The other bodyguard was sitting, shirt off, on one of the beds, the TV on. Next to him on the bed was a small submachine gun.

He looked at Dewey. His eyes shot, inexplicably, reflexively, to the closet next to the door.

Dewey turned the gun and fired into the closet as the shirtless guard reached for the SMG.

Dewey swept the Colt and fired again, ripping a slug into the man’s chest.

He yanked the closet door open. On the floor was another man. His chest was oozing blood. A gun was at his feet. He looked up at Dewey, whispering something in Russian as blood drenched his chest.

Dewey shut the door. He stepped to the window. In front of the hotel, at least a dozen police cruisers had arrived, red lights flashing, along with a growing line of black sedans.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

He stepped to a door connecting to the next room. He knocked.

“Da.” A woman’s voice.

Dewey said nothing. He waited, then knocked again. The door opened. Standing in the door was Katya. She had on a white terry cloth bathrobe.

Dewey raised the weapon and aimed it at her head.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t scream. Don’t try to run. You do that and I won’t hurt you.”

Katya nodded. She looked as if she was about to cry.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Put on some clothing,” said Dewey.

He shut the connecting door and walked to the window. Flashing blue lights dotted the road surrounding the hotel. The sound of sirens came in through the window.

He kept his gun trained on Katya as he pulled out his cell. He dialed the number of the Navy SEAL, Jacobsson, who was in the harbor waiting.

“Jacobsson, go.”

“I have the girl,” said Dewey. “We need to move.”

“Who are you?” she asked again.

Dewey ignored her question.

“Where are you?” asked Jacobsson.

“Four Seasons.”

“Go out the front entrance,” said Jacobsson. “Right one block to the canal. I’ll be there, beneath the bridge.”

“How long?”

Above the sirens, a sharp, high-pitched beeping noise suddenly roared. The hotel fire alarm. The Four Seasons was being evacuated.

“Five. By the time you get there I’ll be in position.”

“See you soon,” said Dewey calmly.

44

FOUR SEASONS LION PALACE

SAINT PETERSBURG

Dewey pocketed Katya’s cell phone. He ransacked her suitcases, purse, handbags, coat pockets, and anything else he could find. He went into the bathroom and dug into her toiletries kit, keeping the muzzle of his gun aimed out the open door at Katya.

“What are you looking for?” she asked. “Do you know who I am?”

Dewey returned to the living room of the luxurious suite, then stepped into the bedroom, the gun always aimed at Katya through the open door. He looked in the drawers of the bureaus, lifting up clothing. He went to a mahogany desk in front of the window and opened the drawers, finding nothing. He returned to the living room.

“Get dressed,” said Dewey. “Get some shoes on. Now.”

“Why are you doing this?” Katya asked, her voice trembling.

Dewey pulled out a sheet of paper and unfolded it. On it were photos of Cloud. He handed it to her.

Katya’s hand went to her mouth, covering it.

“Is that your boyfriend?” asked Dewey.