Eight minutes later, the Lamborghini braked in front of a low brick building that housed Malnikov’s base of operations along with his nightclub. Malnikov stepped out of the car and walked to the door, which opened as he approached. Inside, a gunman stood.

“Hello, Alexei,” he said.

Malnikov ignored him.

The club was empty. It smelled of spilled alcohol, cigarette smoke, and body odor. He crossed the litter-strewn dance floor, walking toward the stairs at the back, where another gunman stood.

“Get me coffee,” snapped Malnikov as he stepped by the gunman and descended the stairs.

Inside his office, four men were gathered: Prozkya, Radovitch, Leonid, and Obramovitch.

Malnikov crossed to his desk and reached below, opening a small refrigerator. He took out a Red Bull, popped it open, then took a big sip, staring at his men.

“I want you to drop whatever you’re doing,” said Malnikov. “Right now, we have one job: we’re going to kill this motherfucker Cloud. Find him and kill him. I want to put a steak knife in the side of his head. Do you understand?”

“I told you not to buy the fucking bomb,” said Radovitch.

“Thank you for pointing that out,” said Malnikov. “Do you want a medal? Take your fucking attitude and stick it up your ass.”

“This is about the fact that he set up your father, and we all know it. You’ve put the entire organization at risk.”

Malnikov’s hand moved imperceptibly to his hip, then swung into the air and threw a knife in Radovitch’s direction. The blade somersaulted in a tight arc and landed in the leather of the coach, only an inch from Radovitch’s head.

Malnikov stared at Radovitch as a long, pregnant silence took over the room.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Malnikov. “Just be quiet. It’s not about my father. It’s not about the bomb. It’s not the money. This is about honor. My honor. Your honor. We’re going to find Cloud. We’re going to find him and we’re going to stab a steak knife into his fucking skull and cut apart that big brain of his. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes,” said Radovitch, who reached to his right and pulled the knife from the leather couch.

“What is the last information we have?” asked Prozkya.

Malnikov felt a small vibration in his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone and glanced at the caller ID on the screen:

:: CALIBRISI H.C.::

He stared at the screen for a moment, then answered.

“What is it?”

“Alexei, it’s Hector Calibrisi.”

Malnikov covered the phone with his hand. He looked at his men and nodded toward the door, telling them in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of the room.

“What do you want?”

“We need your help.”

“Haven’t I already helped you enough?” asked Malnikov.

“This is a zero-sum game,” said Calibrisi. “I’ll tell you when you’ve helped me enough.”

Silence took over the phone.

“Did you speak with your lawyer?” asked Calibrisi.

“Yes.”

Malnikov reached to the drawer of his desk and took out a pack of cigarettes, then lit one.

“The paperwork is in process. We have presidential sign-off.”

“How do I know the United States will keep its word?”

“That’s why you pay John Barrows so much money.”

“I don’t know where Cloud is.”

“You better start looking, then,” said Calibrisi.

Malnikov’s nostrils flared slightly. He took a sip of Red Bull.

“Look, I didn’t call to argue with you,” continued Calibrisi. “You already helped us. I want you to know I’m grateful.”

“Then why the threats?”

“Because that bomb you gave Cloud is on its way to the United States. I need you to understand that your life depends on us stopping it. You want to live? You want to see your father go free? Find Cloud.”

“I’ll find him for you,” said Malnikov. “And when I do, I will kill him myself.”

“You won’t touch him. We need him alive. He has information that is of vital interest to the United States of America. There’s an agent on his way to Moscow. He will direct the in-theater aspects of Cloud’s takedown.”

Malnikov shook his head, then took another drag on his cigarette.

“Do I make myself clear?” asked Calibrisi.

“What’s his name?”

“Dewey Andreas.”

“You want me to find Cloud and bring him to this agent, Dewey?” said Malnikov, a hint of contempt in his voice. “Treat him like a little baby?”

Calibrisi was silent for a few moments.

“I realize you think this is some sort of deal that’s gone bad for you, Alexei,” he said calmly, “but it’s much more than that, and you need to drop the attitude and accept the situation you’re in. If that nuclear bomb goes off inside the United States, we will scour the earth until we find you, and then you’ll die. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

62

IN THE AIR

Katie Foxx stared out the window of Delta flight 35, the 9:10 P.M. Chicago-to-Atlanta direct. She was seated in first class. Next to her was Rob Tacoma, leaning against her shoulder. He’d been asleep since taking off from O’Hare.

Katie imagined that everyone surrounding them thought they were married, or a couple, but Tacoma was like a little brother. In fact, his snoring was annoying the shit out of her. She flared her elbow up, cracking him solidly in the neck. He opened his eyes, looked at her with a dazed, confused look, then shut his eyes again and leaned even farther into her seat.

Tacoma and Katie had worked together for more than a decade, first at the CIA, where she ran Special Operations Group under Bill Polk. Tacoma was her most reliable paramilitary agent, a tough-minded, fearless in-theater operator with stunning athletic skills. He was the best face-to-face combatant she’d ever seen. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer by any stretch, but with Katie around, he didn’t need to be.

When Katie left Langley to start a consulting firm, Tacoma was the only one she took with her. The firm, which didn’t have a name, provided a wide complex of services to individuals and corporations alike, all under the general rubric of security. These services usually involved doing things, in foreign countries, that were against the law.

Katie and Tacoma operated with the express approval and permission of the CIA. In fact, Langley was their biggest client. The firm enabled Langley to occasionally move faster and with more savageness than usual.

The serenity of the first-class cabin was interrupted by an announcement over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentleman, this is Captain Fletcher. I’m afraid we have a slight change of plans. We are having a medical issue involving two of our passengers, nothing to worry about, but we’re going to land in Columbus and make sure everything’s all right. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

Tacoma opened his eyes. He looked at Katie. She returned his look.

“This should be interesting,” Tacoma said.

Ten minutes later, the Boeing 737 touched down at Columbus International Airport, then taxied to a stop in the middle of the tarmac. A set of mobile air stairs was driven from the terminal building to meet the jet. Behind it sped a black Chevy Suburban.

A stewardess opened the cabin door as the air stairs were moved into place. Tacoma and Katie stood up, grabbed their bags from the overhead bin, walked to the door, and climbed down the stairs. They sprinted across the tarmac to the Suburban. The Suburban crossed two runways, then came to a stop next to a shiny light blue Gulfstream G100, its engines humming. A minute later, the jet was ripping through the sky, toward New York City.

63

SHENNAMERE ROAD

DARIEN, CONNECTICUT

Just before midnight, under a dark sky, Calibrisi’s Sikorsky S-76C helicopter dropped from the sky upon a bucolic Connecticut estate, landing on a large, circular pebble-stone driveway before a rambling mansion, now dark, except for a lone light in a first-floor window. Calibrisi, Foxx, and Tacoma jumped from the cabin of the chopper as the rotors continued to slash the night air.