The larger guard registered the arrival of additional policemen. He muttered something to the other guard, now standing in front of where Dewey lay, covered in a pile of boots.

Dewey watched as the two Russians argued, voices rising as they barked back and forth at each other. The shorter Russian was still clutching a pistol, which was aimed at the ground. His legs were less than a foot from Dewey. Through the man’s legs, Dewey could see the larger guard, who held a submachine gun, targeted unknowingly at Dewey’s head.

Dewey’s left arm pushed out through the boots—quietly, quickly—creeping through the air unnoticed. Dewey snatched the muzzle of the guard’s pistol with his left hand as, with his right, he reached for the guard’s hand. The guard felt the tugging, yelled, and looked down, eyes bulging, as Dewey clutched the gun, and now his hand. The guard yanked at the gun, trying to pull it away, as he screamed. The larger guard looked back at his partner, an expression of confusion on his face, until he saw Dewey’s hand on the muzzle. He waited an extra moment, then swung his submachine gun in their direction, while in the same instant Dewey inserted his right index finger into the trigger opening, over the guard’s finger, and lurched up, boots tumbling off him, overpowering the guard. Dewey swung the guard’s arm, and the pistol, across the room, firing, just as the other guard triggered the submachine, blasting rounds into the wall to Dewey’s right. The pistol’s unmuted gunshot was like an explosion. The slug tore into the big guard’s forehead, splattering blood behind him. He fell to the floor, on his back, as Dewey forced the small guard’s arm to the left. The guard screamed, gripping the butt of the Skyph with both hands. But Dewey overpowered him. He forced the pistol skyward, so that the muzzle was aimed at the guard’s chest, then pumped the trigger. The bullet tore into the center of the guard’s chest, dropping him.

Dewey climbed onto the bench, glancing at the parking lot through one of the windows. Three police cruisers, lights still on, were surrounded by a cloud of dust. Several policemen moved across the parking lot toward the building, weapons out.

He charged down the hallway and dead-bolted the main door. He moved back down the corridor to the locker room. Dewey took off his damp jeans, removed the big guard’s green uniform jacket and put it on, just as the first fist, knocking against the door, made a dull pounding noise down the hall.

Frantically, Dewey took off the man’s weapons belt, boots, and pants and pulled them on. The pounding of fists grew louder, followed by shouting in Russian. Dewey pulled his jeans onto the big guard, then buttoned them, as a sudden, very loud explosion boomed from the doorway. Dewey’s eyes shot up, watching the door as it rocketed inward, slamming into the wall across from the doorway.

Dewey took the pistol from the first guard and stuck it in the big man’s hand. He grabbed the submachine gun with his left hand, and, with his right, dipped his fingers in blood from the dead guard, wiping it across his own cheek and forehead.

Calmly, as the first drumbeat of boots echoed from down the hallway, Dewey lay down, his head arched slightly up. He trained the muzzle of the submachine gun on the dead guard, waiting.

To an observer, the scene was mayhem, the conclusion simple: a battle had taken place, and the guard, Dewey, now holding the gun, had prevailed by a whisker, killing the intruder, after the intruder somehow killed the other guard.

Dewey looked up, pretending to be dazed, registering the arrival of a small horde of officers. His eyes met one of them, who said something, but Dewey didn’t respond. Instead, he shut his eyes, lowering the submachine gun to the ground, and let his head fall back.

They carried Dewey to one of the police cruisers and lay him across the backseat. The door shut, then the car started to move.

The driver said something into the police radio, which was followed by a sharp squawking noise, then a female voice, probably a dispatcher, telling the driver where to go with the injured officer.

Dewey felt the weapons belt, removing a handgun. He opened his eyes just a crack, glancing to the front seat. There was only one officer, the driver.

Dewey sat up and swung the muzzle of the Skyph to the back of the driver’s head. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, jerking back reflexively at the weapon held against his skull.

“Do you speak English?” asked Dewey.

The driver nodded.

“Yes,” he said in a coarse accent. “Little.”

“Keep driving,” said Dewey. “Do not pick up the radio. Do not adjust the lights. Keep your hands on the wheel. You understand?”

The police car was moving quickly. The daylight was rapidly turning the sky a light shade of blue.

“Tell me you understand.”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Who were you looking for?” Dewey asked. He already knew the answer, but some small part of him hoped perhaps he was wrong. He also wanted to find out how much they knew.

The driver glanced in the mirror, a look of confusion on his face.

“You,” said the policeman.

He nodded to his right. On the seat was a fake leather folder. Dewey leaned over the seat, keeping the gun against the driver’s head, and opened the folder. There on the inside was a sheet of paper. It was an all points bulletin. The top half was covered in Cyrillic writing. Dewey stared at the paper, then reached his arm down and lifted it up. Beneath it were two photos. One showed him. It had been taken at the Four Seasons, by security cameras, as he checked in. The other showed Katya Basaeyev.

Dewey pressed the gun hard against the driver’s neck, then held the sheet up.

“What does it say?” Dewey asked.

The driver glanced at the sheet, then looked at Dewey in the mirror.

“Multiple homicides,” he said. “As well the abduction of the ballerina.”

“Who put it out?” asked Dewey. “Saint Petersburg Metro?”

The driver glanced at the sheet.

“FSB,” he answered, referring to Russia’s notorious internal federal security force.

“Is it public yet?”

At this question, the officer turned, before Dewey placed the muzzle against his cheek and forced his head back around.

“You kidnapped someone famous. Your photo is everywhere.”

The officer reached to the radio and turned it on. A man was speaking Russian.

“I don’t speak Russian.”

“Well, it’s good for you that you don’t. He’s talking about you.”

“What’s he saying?”

“You’re wanted: dead or alive.”

49

BEST BUY

STERLING, VIRGINIA

Gant drove to an out-of-the way Best Buy store and purchased a new cell phone, paying for it with a Visa gift card bought under a fake name.

Back in the car, he rolled up his shirt sleeve. A phone number was written on his arm in ballpoint ink. He dialed the number.

“Hola,” came a soft female voice.

“Is he there?”

“No.”

“He needs to call me. It’s urgent.”

“Yes,” said the woman.

Gant read her the number for the new phone.

“Tell him it’s extremely important.”

Gant hung up. He glanced around the parking lot, then took out a pack of wipes from the glove compartment. He wiped the number from his arm, buttoned his shirt, then sped quickly out of the parking lot.

50

ABOARD THE LONELY FISHERMAN

INTERNATIONAL WATERS

Dawn was at least an hour away as Poldark trudged along the dank, musty corridor belowdecks. At the cargo hold where the bomb was, he slowly pulled on the hazmat suit.

Each time, the suit took longer and longer to get on, most likely because, despite the self-contained breathing apparatus, radiation from the bomb was getting through. But those small doses were about to become a thing of the past. Today, exposure for him and anyone else on the boat would escalate dramatically. Today marked the beginning of the end for him and the crew.