He walked a few blocks, sat at a small outdoor café, ordered tea, watched the girls walk by in their springtime dresses, each a long-petalled flower. He had been in many ports in his time, from Kabul to Moscow to a brief tour in Shanghai. His business affairs had taken him many times to Helsinki to Riga to St Petersburg and beyond, yet he was never happy in a city, any city. He could tolerate it all for a few days. Perhaps a week. Sometimes, if his needs were met, he found himself flourishing. But he was not, nor ever would be, at home in any urban setting. His place was the forest, the valley, the hills.

The city of Tallinn sat on the northern coast of Estonia, on the Gulf of Finland. As the capital, it was one of the most completely preserved medieval cities in the world. Since the fall of communism in 1991 it had become one of the more cosmopolitan destinations in the Baltics, with its world class symphony, its thriving tourist business, and even a burgeoning fashion market.

Aleks had driven the E20 route to Narva, in central Estonia, past the rusting relics of Soviet occupation, past the ramshackle buildings, failed collectives, the rusting cars and farm machinery, the slag heaps and stilled conveyor belts.

He then took a small commuter plane from Narva to Tallinn, which meant he’d had to leave a good many things behind. These days, even in small airports, on small airlines, security was quite rigorous.

It was not a problem. He had connections all over Estonia. And he had business. A business that had been a smoldering ember in his heart for four years.

THE SCHLÖSSLE WAS A small elegant boutique hotel in the heart of the old town. Aleks checked in. He showered, shaved, dressed in a dark suit, open-collar, starched white shirt. He called the concierge, arranged for a table at the Restaurant Stenhus.

He had three hours before he had to meet Paulu. Before then, he had to make a purchase.

THE SHOP WAS AN old stone front on busy Müürivahe Street. The small leaded glass window facing the street offered an elegant display, a single sterling silver place setting, washed with a mini-spotlight. In the lower left-hand corner was a hand-painted sign, lettered in gold leaf:

VILLEROY TERARIISTAD

To the right of the thick oaken door was a brushed-chrome panel with a small button. Aleks pressed the button. Moments later the door buzzed softly. He stepped inside.

The interior was long and narrow and quiet, with gleaming glass display cases on both sides, an elevated counter at the rear. It smelled of polished wood, glass cleaner, and the sharp redolence of honing oils. As Aleks made his way to the rear he surveyed the merchandise. The knives were from all over the world, in all manner of styles – hunting knives, stockmen’s knives, Indian kukri. The display case on the right held more exotic wares. Here there were boot knives, diving knives, tanto and throwing knives, the showy but deadly butterfly knife, even a section devoted to neck knives, which were designed to be worn in a sheath around one’s neck.

On the walls were racks of gleaming scissors, kitchen cutlery, straight razors, and other tonsorial wares. Overhead, reaching toward the center of the aisle, in the fashion of a trellis, was a dazzling display of swords – military, ninja, medieval and Viking, as well as samurai katana.

As he reached the rear of the shop a man stood and emerged from behind the counter. He was in his sixties, with pewter gray hair, sloping shoulders. He was at least a head shorter than Aleks’s six-three, and meticulously dressed in charcoal woolen slacks, white broadcloth shirt, and highly polished oxfords. The ring on his left hand said he was married. The signet on his right hand said he was an alumnus of Moscow University.

“Kas sa räägid inglise keelt?” Aleks asked, inquiring in Estonian if the gentleman spoke English. Aleks was fluent in five different languages, including Russian, German and French.

The man nodded, folded his hands expectantly on the counter.

“You have an impressive selection here,” Aleks said.

“Thank you,” the man replied. “And how may I be of assistance today?”

“I am looking for a knife, something suitable for both city and forest. Something of great utility.”

The man thought for a moment. He gestured to his left. “I’m sure we will have something to please you.” He walked behind the counter, reached beneath the glass, removed a display rack. There, presented on a rich burgundy velvet, were a half dozen folding knives. Aleks lifted them one by one, feeling their weight, their balance. He opened them all, trying the action. After giving them their due, he replaced them.

“All fine quality,” Aleks said. “But I am looking for something special.”

The man returned the rack beneath the case, glanced at Aleks. “I am intrigued.”

“I am looking for a Barhydt.”

The man drew a quick breath in reaction, recovered. “I see.”

Jan-Marie Barhydt was a limited edition armorer from Holland, an artisan of the first order. He produced some of the finest and most sought after knives in the world.

“I’m afraid this is something quite expensive,” the man said. “We are a small, humble shop. We don’t carry these items.”

The dance, Aleks thought. Always the dance. He held the man’s gaze for a moment, then reached into his pocket and removed three money clips, each clasped around a stack of different currency. Euros, US dollars, and Estonian kroon. He placed the three stacks on the counter, like an expensive shell game.

For a few moments, no words were spoken. The man glanced briefly toward the door, and the street beyond. They were indeed alone. He placed his right forefinger on the stack of euros. Aleks put the other currencies away, unclipped the bills. He counted off 3,000 euros, roughly 4,500 US dollars. “If one of these items were to be available here,” Aleks said, “would this be adequate compensation?”

The man’s eyes flashed for a moment. “It most certainly would,” he said. “Would you excuse me?”

“Of course.”

The man disappeared into a back room, emerged moments later. In his hand was a beautiful walnut case. He opened it. Inside was a thing of beauty, a stunning specimen of craftsmanship. The blade was hot-blued Damascus, as were the bolsters. The scales were premium white mother of pearl, the titanium liners were anodized purple, the back bar was inlayed with four pieces of abalone. It was an authentic Barhydt.

“I shall have this,” Aleks said.

“Very good, sir.” The man brought the box to the rear of the store. He slipped the polished case into a felt bag, drew closed the gold twine. Moments later he walked around the counter carrying a handled shopping bag with VILLEROY TERARIISTAD on the side. He handed the bag to Aleks.

Before leaving, Aleks looked at his watch, a gold Piaget he wore on his left wrist, the crystal facing in. Being a purveyor of fine things, Aleks knew the man’s eye would be drawn to the timepiece. What Aleks wanted the man to note was not the expensive piece of jewelry, but rather the elaborate tattoo on Aleks’s wrist, the black star peeking out from beneath his shirt cuff.

When Aleks glanced up at the man, the man was looking at him directly. Aleks did not have to say a further word.

There was no box, no bag. There was no Barhydt. No money had changed hands, no commerce had been conducted. In fact, the tall man with the pale blue eyes and small ragged scar on his left cheek was never there.

PAULU WAS vennaskond, a fellow thief. But vennaskond were not merely thieves, they were brothers, and adhered to a strict code. Steal from one, you steal from all. A vennaskond was never without someone at his back.

In his early thirties, Paulu was slight of build, but quite robust, with fast movements and a nervous energy that never allowed him to keep still. He had grown up in the city and was therefore never at peace, never at rest. He wore his black hair straight back. A pair of gold hoops ringed his right ear lobe. He displayed his tattoos with unabashed pride on his forearms and neck.