The second screen mirrored the locations of the individual battles and displayed them in red dots on a digital map.

As if sensing the end, he leaned forward over the keyboard. A minute passed, then two. Then it hit. The first screen locked on to a 128-bit line of characters. Igor started typing furiously now, reprovisioning the key into his own, then instructing the remaining servers to metastasize. Like a fast-moving cancer, they pounced and started eating into Cloud’s network, spidering themselves across every packet, byte, and line of code in Cloud’s possession, locking down and freezing a lifetime’s worth of cybercrime.

The map zoomed in to a single address:

17 Vostochnyy

Elektrostal

Igor reached for his cell and speed-dialed Calibrisi.

84

SITUATION ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

Calibrisi remained quiet as Dellenbaugh spoke. He knew he shouldn’t have ripped Lindsay in front of the group, but he didn’t regret doing it. Calibrisi had a deep distrust of politicians, and that included former ones like the secretary of state. They weren’t all that way. He thought Dellenbaugh was growing into being a great president, and he practically worshipped Dellenbaugh’s predecessor, the man who appointed him to his post at Langley, Rob Allaire. But they were exceptions. Most politicians cared only about whether people liked them. Most ran for office out of some deep-seated need to prove—to themselves, to their parents, who knows—that people liked them. If they happened to do good things once they were elected, that was a bonus.

Calibrisi was tired. Except for a nap on the chopper ride down to D.C., he’d barely slept in days. Had he been rested, he would’ve ignored Lindsay during the meeting. Silence was always the best fuck you.

As he rubbed his eyes, he felt his cell vibrating. He read the caller ID:

:: JAGGER MICK::

He put the cell to his ear.

“Hi, Igor,” he whispered. “What do you have?”

“I found him.”

“You sure?”

“Sure as shit.”

Calibrisi looked at the president.

“What is it?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“I need to take a call, sir,” said Calibrisi, standing up.

“Anything you care to update us with?” asked Lindsay.

Calibrisi ignored the question.

“Come with me,” said Brubaker.

Calibrisi put the phone to his ear.

“Okay, I’m hanging up and calling you back from a tactical line. Stay by the phone.”

Calibrisi nodded across the table to Polk, telling him to come with him, then picked up his briefcase and followed Brubaker to the door.

85

BOSTON HARBOR

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS

Boston harbor was crowded with boats on a calm, sunny July afternoon, the day before Independence Day.

In addition to hundreds of sailboats, power boats, and fishing boats, there were dozens of police boats and Coast Guard patrol boats crisscrossing the water.

Faqir putted into harbor in the middle of the afternoon.

He noticed the many law enforcement vessels. They were looking, he knew, for the trawler, unless they had somehow discovered the theft of the second boat, though he doubted it.

Besides, at this point, Faqir didn’t care. He wanted to execute the plan, and then die.

As it was, he was vomiting every half hour or so. It had turned into dry heaves. He didn’t want them to catch him, but if they did, whatever pain or disappointment he might’ve felt at the beginning of the journey wasn’t there anymore. He was physically and emotionally numb with radiation poisoning.

Faqir steered the Talaria the way he imagined a wealthy American might during the summer, at the beginning of a holiday weekend. He cut straight across the water, pushing the boat in a measured way across the crowded harbor.

With the GPS on his phone, he navigated toward Revere. Past a marina filled with sailboats, he came upon an old chain-link fence that ran along the rocky, garbage-strewn waterfront. Behind the fence was an aggregates business. Piles of road salt and gravel dotted a dusty lot. Farther on, lashed to the pier, were several long, flat barges, used for hauling road salt to customers.

Faqir scanned the water for anyone who might see them, but there was no one within a quarter mile. He navigated alongside one of the barges, put the boat in neutral, and then moved to the stern and lifted a storage bin near the transom.

Inside were two nuclear devices, wrapped in a green tarp.

Faqir and the other man lifted one out of the boat, walked to the port gunnel, and lowered it to the deck of the barge.

A minute later, the Talaria was slicing smoothly through the calm water heading south.

86

THE WHITE NIGHT

AVENUE SVERCHKOV

MOSCOW

Malnikov exited the highway, then took side streets through a shabby-looking neighborhood. He parked in front of a bar.

“What are we doing?” asked Dewey.

Malnikov looked at him.

“Finding Cloud. Stay here.”

“No,” said Dewey. “Fuck that. What are we doing?”

“Seeing an old friend.”

“Why?”

“Something I realized this morning.”

“And what’s that?”

“That people are fuckheads.”

Malnikov reached for the door and climbed out.

“Let me do the talking,” he said as they approached the front door.

The White Night was nearly empty. Behind the bar was a mirror that stretched the entire length of the room, crowded with hundreds of bottles of liquor, beer, and wine. On the walls were framed photos of famous Soviet athletes: hockey players, soccer players, great sprinters, skiers, and swimmers from past Olympics, including a large black-and-white photo of the gymnast Olga Korbut, heroine of the 1972 Munich Olympics.

There was a lone person there. He was a short bald man with a beard and mustache. He stood at the bar, leaning down, counting out stacks of bundled one-hundred-ruble banknotes. Almost the entire surface of the bar was covered in bricks of the money, like a child’s table covered in blocks.

As Malnikov and Dewey entered, the man’s head jerked around, along with his right arm, which held a gun, reflexively training it on them. Seeing who it was, he quickly moved the muzzle away.

“Don’t shoot, Leo,” said Malnikov.

“Alexei,” said Tolstoy, putting the pistol back on the bar. “I’m sorry. Instincts. Who’s this?”

“Nobody,” said Malnikov.

He walked through the empty bar and stopped to Tolstoy’s left. Dewey followed behind him and took a seat at the bar.

“Have a seat,” said Tolstoy. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you,” said Malnikov. “We won’t be long.”

“You’re up early.”

Malnikov nodded.

“What is it?” asked Tolstoy, who went back to counting out money.

“I realized something this morning,” said Malnikov.

“Yes, Alexei?” said Tolstoy.

“After my father was arrested, you said something to me.”

Tolstoy turned. He reached his hand out and placed it on Malnikov’s shoulder.

“I said I am sorry he was arrested,” said Tolstoy. “You know I love your father.”

“You said I could be next. You said I need ‘leverage.’ Remember?”

Tolstoy nodded, smiling nervously. He removed his hand and reached for a cup of coffee. As he did so, his eyes shot to the gun on the bar.

“I still believe that,” said Tolstoy. “If something were to happen to you, we would all be affected. You know this.”

Malnikov stared at Tolstoy for several moments, studying him.

“Actually, I will take that drink,” said Malnikov. “Vodka.”

“Yes, of course,” said Tolstoy. “How about you?”

Dewey nodded.

“Whiskey.”

Tolstoy stood from the barstool. With his back turned to Malnikov, he picked up the gun from the bar. He took a step, then swiveled, gun out, toward Malnikov. But Malnikov was already standing, anticipating, and his left hand grabbed Tolstoy’s gun arm before it could complete its sweep.