Текст книги "Independence Day "

Автор книги: Ben Coes

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

16

NSA

Serena Pacheco was in line at the NSA cafeteria, buying a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Her cell phone started ringing. The ID indicated “June, J.”

“Pacheco,” she said, answering the phone.

“PRISM is going nuts up here,” June said.

“Be right there.”

Pacheco left her tray on the counter.

Back at her workstation inside the TAO suite of offices, Pacheco found two separate hits, or matches, based on the CIA sketch of Cloud. Both were photos of a woman with dark skin and long black hair. In one photo, the woman is seen walking out of a Moscow restaurant. Standing next to her is a man with straight blond hair, dressed in a tuxedo. The other photo showed the same woman, this time climbing into a limousine. The same man is behind her, holding the door. Pacheco zoomed in on the two photos, then placed them between the CIA sketch of Cloud and the photo from the nightclub. The first photo did not look at all like the Cloud depicted in the sketch or in the photo from the nightclub; he was handsome and clean-cut, his hair neatly combed and straight. But the second photograph gave her pause. It was his eyes. They were dark and suspicious. They were the same eyes. It was unmistakable.

Pacheco quickly ran the woman’s photo through PRISM. In less than a minute, dozens, then hundreds of photographs dominoed across her screen.

Basaeyev, Katya

CITIZENSHIP:

Russia

DOB:

c. 09/10/1990

Yakutsk, Sakha Republic, SIBERIA

HIST:

Convent of Good Shepherd, Yakutsk

Yakutsk, SIB 1990—2002

Bolshoi Academy for Performing Arts

Moscow, RUS 2002-07

Bolshoi Ballet, troupe ballerina, 2007–08

Bolshoi Ballet, prima ballerina, 2008–

Katya’s biography went on for twenty-seven pages. In all, PRISM was able to source more than a hundred thousand photographs of the famous Russian ballerina. Of these, only two popped Cloud’s photo.

One of the photos on Pacheco’s screen had been taken just an hour before, then posted by someone on Pinterest. Pacheco clicked on the photo. It showed Katya’s beautiful face on a large poster above the entrance to a theater. Katya’s blue eyes were like jewels. An enigmatic smile was on her face, her pure white teeth visible and contrasted against rose red lips:

The Kirov Ballet is proud to present Tchaikovsky’s

Swan Lake

with Special Guest Star

Katya Basaeyev

“The Siberian Diamond”

July 4–July 28

Mariinsky Theatre, Saint Petersburg

“I found his girlfriend,” said Pacheco.

17

ABOARD THE LONELY FISHERMAN

NEAR NADOR, MOROCCO

MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Faqir had the trawler running on only one engine, putting along the dark North African coast, a half mile or so offshore. Most boats in the area were moored for the night, anchors down, awaiting first light.

The Lonely Fisherman’s running lights were extinguished. Faqir navigated by a portable state-of-the-art sonar system, which was set on the wood shelf next to the wheel.

They were still in safe waters, but in a few hours, they would come to the Strait of Gibraltar. If they were going to get stopped, that’s where it would happen. That one of the crew left behind the explosives only added to the anxiety Faqir felt. This side trip was unnecessary. It would add several hours onto the voyage, hours that were precious.

The front window of the wheelhouse was open. In the crow’s nest at the bow of the ship, thirty feet up in the air, two of the Chechens were standing, each holding thermal night-vision binoculars, scanning the water in front and to each side of the trawler.

Their instructions were twofold. Warn him if they were approaching too close to a vessel. More important, look for a particular flag: Indonesia, Vietnam, Manila, Thailand, any African country.

Faqir tried not to think about the sheer stupidity of Guzny, but he couldn’t help it. It was unbelievable. Everything they had worked for could now be gone, simply because one man had forgotten a duffel bag.

Suddenly, one of the men in the crow’s nest started waving his arms and pointing to the right.

Faqir stepped from the wheelhouse and crossed the deck.

“What is it?” he yelled.

“Flag,” he answered. “Vietnam.”

“Get ready,” he ordered. “Every man.”

Faqir walked back to the wheelhouse and turned the ship toward the distant lights of a boat. It took twenty minutes to reach it. Faqir navigated to the smaller ship’s starboard side. It was a beat-up old thing, a double-ended fishing scow that sat low in the water. A few lights were on, but there was no movement. Atop an aft stanchion, a flag dangled. It was a rectangle of red with a yellow star in the middle.

Faqir had spent three years aboard a similar fishing scow. Most of the fish were caught legally, but when times were slow, his captain was not above dropping explosives into the water and seeing what came up. It was highly illegal, and Faqir quickly learned the countries that engaged in the practice. Of all of them, Vietnam was the worst.

As the Lonely Fisherman chugged closer, a swarm of Chechens stood on the port deck, weapons raised. Faqir cut the engine just as a crew member aboard the other boat appeared on the deck, carrying a flashlight. When he saw the approaching ship, his eyes bulged, then he screamed and turned to run. One of the Chechens fired. The staccato of automatic weapons fire interrupted the relative quiet. A burst of slugs hit the man as he ran, knocking him down, the flashlight tumbling onto the wooden deck.

The Lonely Fisherman drifted closer and closer until, finally, it slammed into the Vietnamese boat’s side. As two Chechens lashed the vessels together, the others leapt aboard the quiet scow.

“No witnesses!” yelled Faqir as his men sprinted across the deck toward the stairs that led below, to where the screw was sleeping.

Faqir stepped to the wheelhouse. As he entered the empty room, he heard screams, then the peal of submachine gun fire coming from directly below.

He ransacked the wheelhouse, ripping open cabinets, searching for explosives. Finding nothing, his eyes moved to the door. Above it was a steel box. He pulled the box down and opened it. Inside were several dozen sticks of gelatin dynamite along with a pile of blasting caps. He grabbed six of the sticks and all of the caps, then walked quickly to the door. As he climbed back onto the Lonely Fisherman, the first of the crew who’d gone below appeared back on deck, trailed by the others.

Faqir waved them over.

“Hurry!” he snapped.

The gunmen ran in a loose line back to the trawler, climbing aboard as Faqir started the engine.

One of the men stepped into the wheelhouse.

“It’s done. There were fourteen men in all.”

“You searched for anyone who might be hiding?”

“There’s no one. They’re all dead. Should we sink it?”

“With what, idiot? Explosives?”

“What about setting it on fire?”

“No,” said Faqir. “That will only draw attention. Cut the boat’s anchor line. Perhaps it will drift into the rocks and sink on its own.”

Faqir revved the trawler’s engine and put the boat into gear.

“Untie the boat,” he yelled through the window. “Two men, back in the crow’s nest. We need to hurry.”

18

VERNACULAR HOUSE

MOSCOW

Al-Medi looked up at Maybank as he struggled to catch his breath. He was drenched, pale, and barely alive.

“Where is he?” asked Maybank.

Maybank had been at it for an hour now. He was in a soundproof, windowless basement room, with Braga watching from the door, as he tried to get Al-Medi to break.

“I told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” said Al-Medi, his Chechen accent thick. “I stole the phone.”

“We ran your prints. We know who you are. Stop fucking with me.”

Maybank slammed Al-Medi’s head down into the water. He looked calmly at his watch as he held him under. After a full minute, he lifted him back out.

Al-Medi was soaking wet. He stared lifelessly up at Maybank. Suddenly, his eyes rolled back in his head. He leaned left as he began to fall from the steel chair.

“Oh, no you don’t, motherfucker,” said Maybank.

Maybank lurched out and grabbed his arm, then lifted the now unconscious terrorist from the chair. Water and sweat from Al-Medi rained down on Maybank as he hoisted him up and hurled him as far as he could. Al-Medi slammed into the concrete wall, then dropped to the floor, grunting in pain. Maybank stepped toward him and kicked him in the knee. He let out a horrendous scream.

“Where is he?” Maybank asked calmly.

“Fuck you,” whispered Al-Medi. He coughed, and water poured from his mouth to the floor.

Maybank booted him in the other knee, harder this time. Al-Medi screamed and moaned, then coughed out more water.

Braga stepped to Maybank, who was growing increasingly frustrated.

“Can I try?” she asked.

Maybank towered above the diminutive Braga. He nodded.

“Sure.”

Braga walked to Al-Medi and stood above him.

“When did he give you the phone?” she asked matter-of-factly. “I mean, it is rather odd he would arrange for the purchase of a nuclear bomb with it, then pass it on to someone else versus, for example, disposing of it. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

Al-Medi said nothing. He panted, then vomited more water.

“Have you been asking yourself that question?” Braga continued. “I thought he was a famous computer hacker. Surely he’d know that anyone possessing that phone could be discovered?”

Braga paused, looked down at Al-Medi, then knelt to the ground next to his head. The terrorist looked dazed; it was difficult to tell if he was even listening.

“Alexei Malnikov paid Cloud one hundred million dollars to take the bomb off his hands,” said Braga. “Did you know that?”

She saw Al-Medi clench his fingers, the first sign of anger or emotion he’d displayed.

“We were trying to guess how much he shared with you,” continued Braga. “Johnny thought ten million. I guessed higher. I thought at least thirty million. Which one of us was right?”

Al-Medi shut his eyes.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “He didn’t share it with you, did he? He hands you a phone that he knows will get you either killed or locked up for the rest of your life, and he doesn’t give you a nickel.”

Al-Medi stared lifelessly at the ground.

Braga tapped her ear, triggering commo with Polk back inside Targa.

“Can I negotiate?” she whispered.

“Offer him whatever you have to.”

Braga took a can of Coca-Cola from the table and opened it. She leaned down in front of Al-Medi, put her hand beneath his head, then propped him up. She tipped the can of soda toward his mouth, pouring it slowly in. Al-Medi chugged it like a dog gulping water on a hot summer afternoon.

“You help us find him,” said Braga, “and we’ll set you free. No strings attached. We’ll also give you some money.”

“How much?”

“A few million.”

Al-Medi slugged down the rest of the soda until it was gone.

“I don’t believe you,” he whispered.

“But it needs to happen right now,” continued Braga, ignoring him. “You know it and I know it. Don’t be an idiot. Freedom and money or a concrete cell in a prison most people don’t even know exists. And if you’re one of these martyr types who think death comes quickly at the black sites, you’re wrong. We don’t let you die. You’ll live to be a hundred, chained to a wall, inside a dark room, alone. From what I hear, it’s not much fun.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t.”

Braga tapped her ear, getting ready to relay the information she knew Al-Medi was about to give up.

“What do you want to know?”

“What kind of boat is it?”

“A fishing trawler. Two hundred feet long.”

“What about Cloud?” she asked. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. But I know where he’ll be.”

19

NATIONAL CLANDESTINE SERVICE

OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR

LANGLEY

Bond stepped into a small glass-walled office within the suite of offices reserved for the National Clandestine Service. Polk was standing inside, arms crossed, reading a sheet of paper. He looked up at Bond.

“You’re going to Saint Petersburg,” said Polk. “I know you haven’t been to Russia in a while, but I need you running second phase line.”

In NCS lingo, phase lines referred to stages of an operation. Often, one stage was predicated on the one before it either succeeding or failing. Second phase line meant Bond’s part of the operation would kick in only if the first stage—Phase Line One—failed or was aborted.

“I’m ready,” said Bond. “Why the phase lines?”

“We have a real problem,” said Polk. “A Russian terrorist is downrange with an operation to detonate a nuclear device on U.S. soil. We’re going to try and capture him in Moscow. If that part of the mission fails, you go live. This guy’s girlfriend is in Saint Petersburg. Phase Line Two is a hostile extract. It’s a two-man team, you’re running the in-theater.”

“Why are you being so cryptic?”

“The bomb is on its way to the United States.”

“Can’t we blockade?”

Polk shook his head.

“The coast is too big. Navy could maybe shut down two or three cities, but they’ll know that. We have one shot here. We have to catch him.”

“Who is he?”

Polk looked at Bond, then through the glass.

“Cloud? Who is he? That’s the scariest part of all. We don’t know.”

Bond was silent. He glanced around the office, looking out through the glass. Across the hallway, he saw Dewey talking with someone, holding a bag of ice to his eye.

“I need to know who you want with you.”

Bond looked at Polk, pausing for a few moments.

“Dewey,” said Bond.

Polk was motionless. He waited, thinking about his response.

“Dewey can be very charismatic, Pete,” said Polk. “A lot of guys have asked to be teamed with him. But in Iguala he froze up on a relatively minor project. He shouldn’t be running ops right now.”

“He froze in Mexico, but six hours later he almost killed the top-ranked amateur MMA fighter in the U.S. He’s ready. Trust me.”

“You cannot afford a second of doubt if Moscow somehow goes south and Saint Pete goes live,” said Polk. “At that point, the extraction of his girlfriend is all we have left before this nuclear bomb hits our shores. They’re calling this thing nine/twelve if we don’t stop it. Books will be written about the decisions we make this day. Do you understand that?”

“You asked me who I want,” said Bond. “I’ll work with whoever you put me with, but I want Dewey. Either put him with me or don’t. But don’t lecture me about what’s going to happen if things get fucked up. I’ve been there, and if it’s my choice, I want him next to me. You’re the one who taught me ‘trust your gut.’”

Polk smiled.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to imply that I am as close to the ground as you. But I’ve seen an operation or two. Your loyalty is admirable, but I think it’s going to be Joe I send over with you.”

“Why the fuck did you even ask me?” asked Bond.

Polk was silent.

“All right, fine,” said Polk, glancing at his watch. “You’re an argumentative son of a bitch, you know that? I’ll think about it.”

20

BUTIKOVSKY PEREULOK

KHAMOVNIKI DISTRICT

MOSCOW

The lobby of the apartment building was minimalist, elegant, and quiet. Its walls were paneled in walnut, with large, abstract geometric works of art. There was a pair of chandeliers in leaded crystal and a floor of rare white marble streaked with turquoise.

Two big men dressed in dark suits stood behind a security desk. They were both active-duty GRU, highly trained agents adept at close-quarters combat, face-to-face self-defense, and human intelligence. Russia protected its important citizens, especially the famous ones.

A soft chime told the guards that someone was at the steel-gated front entrance. On a video monitor behind the desk, one of the guards studied the man’s face.

“It is Mr. Vargarin,” he said.

The other guard pressed a button, unlatching the gate and allowing the visitor to come inside the building.

Cloud stepped through the front door. In one hand he held a bouquet of red chrysanthemums wrapped in silver foil and tied with a white ribbon. In the other was a small wooden box. Cloud smiled politely as he approached the security desk.

“Hello, Jonas, Mikhail,” he said. “How are you?”

“Very well, Mr. Vargarin,” said one of the men, grinning. “Are those flowers for us?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Cloud, laughing.

The transformation in his appearance was shocking. Other than the sharpness of his eyes, he was an entirely different person from the creature who strong-armed the most powerful mobster in Russia into handing him a nuclear bomb. Cloud’s hair was no longer a mop of blond curls. Rather, it was straight, combed neatly down the middle, and slicked back. He had on a white button-down shirt beneath a plaid blazer, khakis, and brown wingtips. He looked stylish, immaculate, and worldly.

Cloud had learned long ago how to use his appearance to his advantage. It was the fulcrum upon which his outward identity pivoted; one day a gentle-looking, exotically handsome man of culture, the next a scrawny outcast with hints of drug addiction and dark powers.

In theory, the guards at the Margaux were trained to profile all manner of potential security threats, the most important being possible kidnappers or terrorists. But they were oblivious of Cloud’s true nature.

Cloud put the wooden box on top of the desk.

“We don’t need to inspect it,” said one, waving his hand. “We trust you.”

“It’s a gift for the two of you for all you do to protect Katya.”

One of the guards opened the box. Inside were two nondescript bottles.

“You like vodka, yes?” asked Cloud.

“Of course.”

“This is vodka from the personal collection of Nikita Khrushchev.”

The guard on the right lifted a bottle and inspected it. The glass was a bluish-green hue and looked as if it had been blown by hand.

“Mr. Vargarin,” he said. “I cannot—”

“Please,” said Cloud. “I personally don’t like to drink anything stronger than tea. I brought one for each of you.”

“Thank you,” said the guard. “You’re too generous.”

“You’re welcome.”

“How did you obtain something so rare?” asked one of the men, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

At the question, Cloud’s demeanor shifted. For a brief moment, a dark look crossed his eyes. Then it was gone.

“It was left to me by my father,” he said.

“Your father must have been very important to receive such a treasure.”

Cloud had a cold look on his face. He looked at the ground.

“He was above all else a kind man, that is all. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”

In the elevator, Cloud pressed the button for the top floor. As he did so, he thought of his father. Were he alive, Cloud knew that his father would be proud of him, but only for this part of his life. For his other activities, his hacking, his thievery, his father would be deeply angry. As for the nuclear bomb and what was to come, words could not describe the shame and utter revulsion Dr. Anuslav Vargarin would feel toward him, were he alive.

Were he alive.

But he wasn’t alive. He was dead, killed along with his mother by the United States. Killed in front of him. Killed like a dog. All for … well, all for a reason Cloud still did not understand. A computer disk, that was all. Letters and numbers that represented his father’s life work. Data. Now he would turn their data back on them. The information hunters would become prey to disinformation. Their theft of his father’s science would metastasize into a creation far more abominable than they ever could have imagined.

A father’s debt: Cloud would repay it, even though the kindly man whose gentle touch he could never forget would not want him to.

The chime for the seventh floor awakened Cloud from his daydream. He stepped out of the iron-trellised elevator and walked to the only door on the floor. He knocked twice and waited patiently. A few seconds later, the door swung open.

“Pyotr,” a woman said, staring affectionately at him. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Katya,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I miss you already and I haven’t even left yet,” she said.

“I love you so much, Katya,” he whispered as he clutched her tightly in the frame of the open door, hugging her for more than a minute.

“I love you too,” she said. “You make me so happy.”

At age twenty-six, Katya Basaeyev was among the most famous women in Russia and was well on her way to being recognized as the greatest living ballerina in the world. She was from Yakutsk, the largest city in the remote Sakha Republic, a part of Siberia that bordered the Arctic Circle and was known for producing diamonds.

She had learned to dance at the convent, taught by one of the nuns who herself had been a celebrated dancer before turning to God. By twelve, Katya’s skills were well enough known to draw a visit from the director of admissions at Moscow’s prestigious Bolshoi Ballet Academy. After that, it took only a little while for her to sweep like a tidal wave across the ruthlessly competitive world of Russian ballet. Katya had done so effortlessly, without a great deal of strategy or deliberateness, as if it was simply meant to be, her rise predicated on a unique dancing style. Katya had an inner grace, a simplicity, really, that was almost untrained and a style that even those dancers she eclipsed admired. No one who knew Katya disliked her. Other dancers, choreographers, and conductors all loved her. The fact that she was also so pretty, and so kind, only added to her singularity.

Her nickname: “The Siberian Diamond.”

They stepped into the apartment and shut the door. Cloud handed Katya the flowers.

“They’re beautiful.”

“Would you like to go out to dinner?” he asked.

Katya buried her face in the chrysanthemums and took a big sniff, then turned.

“Do you not have a nose?” she asked playfully.

“What do you mean?”

“I made your favorite dinner.”

He suddenly became aware of the scent of chicken roasting in the oven.

“And for dessert, profiteroles,” she said, stepping to him and removing his blazer, then wrapping her arms around him. “I spent all afternoon making them. Your mother must have been a saint. They are very hard to make.”

Cloud looked into her eyes for several moments, expressing his gratitude, his love, silently, through his eyes.

“The day before you leave for Saint Petersburg, and you are cooking for me. I don’t know what to say.”

“It makes me happy to make you happy, Pyotr,” Katya said, kissing him on the lips.

Katya’s hair was jet-black. It dangled down to her shoulders, parted in the middle, and it shimmered in the light. Her skin was brown; her eyes were aqua, their unusual color like a flash of blue sky on a dark, cloudy day.

Her apartment was a rambling warren of odd-shaped rooms carved out of what had been the palace’s attic. Yet it was the most expensive unit at the Margaux. Katya had purchased the apartment for $12 million two years before. There were four bedroom suites, a dining room, a library, a formal living room, a more casual den, a media room, a wine room, and a small gymnasium, half of which had been turned into a practice area, with a barre, mats, and mirrors.

Katya put the bouquet of flowers in a large vase, filled it with water, and then placed it on a credenza against the wall of the living room.

They had met when she was a student at the Bolshoi and he was at the Moscow Technological Institute. They met on the first day of school, seated next to each other in the large dining room the two schools shared.

Like Katya, Cloud was a prized recruit. Moscow Technological Institute, Russia’s top academic institution, did not accept applicants. Like the Bolshoi, the institute scoured Russia, as well as the republics of the former Soviet Union, looking for the country’s most talented individuals. It was MTI that produced the country’s greatest scientific, mathematic, and computer minds.

Like Cloud, Katya no longer had parents, and they shared a similar loneliness. She had been sent to the convent at age four after her father was killed in Afghanistan and her mother died of cancer the same year. She didn’t know what it was like to have a father and mother. Cloud remembered. He knew what it was like to enjoy the love of two doting parents, as an only child, a beloved child. He also knew what it was like to watch those parents be murdered in front of his eyes.

In Moscow, like two birds caught in a windstorm, Cloud and Katya became friends first, then best friends, then lovers. As Katya’s renown increased, so too did Cloud’s. His ability with computers grew every bit as quickly and dramatically as Katya’s ballet skills.

So too did his hatred for the country that had killed his parents.

At fifteen, Katya had her first prima debut, in The Nutcracker at the Bolshoi’s Christmas performances. That same year, using a computer in the school library, Cloud helped to manipulate air traffic control systems in the United States on the morning of 9/11. Both performances, in their own way, were prodigal.

Now, after a little more than a decade, they remained inextricably linked. But Katya’s world was as transparent as Cloud’s was hidden. She’d become the most famous dancer in Russia. Her life was an open book to Cloud. Cloud, meanwhile, had become the most famous computer hacker in Russia. But to Katya, he remained Pyotr Vargarin, computer consultant, who made a great deal of money but did not like to discuss his work.

They ate dinner at one end of the large dining room table, enjoying a bottle of wine as Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake played softly in the background.

“Tell me about the Kirov,” said Cloud, referring to the Kirov Ballet in Saint Petersburg, where Katya would be headlining the summer production of Swan Lake. It was a highly anticipated series of performances for which she would be paid $5 million. The shows had sold out in less than an hour.

“I thought that perhaps you would consider coming,” Katya said.

“I would like that very much,” said Cloud. “I have a big project at work, as you know, but I am going to do my very best.”

“How long will this project take?” she asked.

“Maybe a week.”

“What is this project?”

Cloud leaned forward and put his hand on Katya’s.

“It’s a boring project involving computers,” he said.

“Computers, computers, computers,” she said. “You think I would be confused if you tell me, don’t you?”

“Not at all, just bored.”

“Try me.”

Cloud was silent for several moments. He didn’t like to lie to Katya.

“I am helping to redistribute certain scientific assets,” said Cloud.

“Why?”

“Well, these assets will help to bring a little heat and light to a part of the world that desperately needs it.”

Katya smiled, leaned forward, and kissed him on the lips.

“I am proud of you.”

“Not as proud as I am of you. I will try to see you in Saint Petersburg. Besides, I have seen you dance now about a hundred times. It seems only fair to let others have the chance to experience the wonder of your dancing.”

Katya smiled and blushed.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said. “But I must tell you, Pyotr, that when you are in the audience, I dance differently. I run faster. I am able to jump higher. Your eyes beckon me to try harder.”

Cloud looked at Katya’s hand on his, running her finger over his gold signet ring. He felt a spike of anxiety, not at the terrible thing he was going to do but at the terrible deception he’d allowed into the most important relationship—the only relationship—he cared about. He’d built a lie in order to project—and protect—an image of himself in her eyes. He knew that if she ever found out his true nature, it would destroy everything he had.

“May I ask you something?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Cloud looked at Katya. He reached to his pocket and removed a small red leather box. Hand trembling, he put it on the table.

“Katya,” he whispered. His eyes were red with emotion. “I love you more than any man has ever loved a woman. I would do anything for you. The thought of you being gone for a month causes me great pain, because I will miss you. But I am also deeply proud of you, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Katya smiled. A small tear came to her right eye as she reached forward to touch the red box.

“Forgive me for my meandering words, but what I am about to say is the most important thing I will ever say.”

Tears of emotion now trickled down Cloud’s cheeks.

“Will you marry me, dear Katya?” he whispered, looking at her with naked vulnerability.

Katya opened the box. Inside was a stunning object: a magnificently large yellow diamond the size of a person’s fingertip, set upon a platinum band scrolled in an antique design.

“It…” Katya started to speak, then went quiet. Her mouth opened in awe as she removed it from the box, and tears of happiness began to flow down her cheeks. “It’s so beautiful.”

Cloud slipped the ring over her left ring finger, then held her hand up, beneath the golden-hued light of the chandelier.

“It’s from Siberia,” he said.

She stared at it for several moments.

For Cloud, the moment was the most beautiful of his life, as he waited, doubt choking his heart.

“Yes,” she whispered.

*   *   *

Later, after watching Katya pack for Saint Petersburg, after making love to her, after she had long since fallen asleep, Cloud arose from the bed. He wrapped himself in a silk bathrobe and walked soundlessly out of the bedroom and through the apartment. In the front hall, he stared for several moments at the cherry credenza, almost as if he was admiring it. He got to his knees. Reaching down, he felt the bulge of a gun taped to the bottom of the credenza. Slowly, he pulled the gun out: Stechkin APS with a black silencer threaded into the muzzle.

Cloud went to the apartment door and waited, leaning against the door, listening for more than a minute but hearing nothing. He raised the Stechkin with his left hand and trained it on the door. With his right hand, Cloud turned the doorknob, slowly, until it cracked open. He spied the guard to the left, seated on the floor, oblivious. Cloud pulled the door open, then triggered the suppressed Stechkin. The slug struck the burly Russian in the temple, spraying blood and skull down the hallway.

He heard movement down the hallway, around the corner, near the elevator, out of view. He dropped his left arm to his side, concealing the gun, then walked toward the elevator.

“Miss Basaeyev?” he heard from the second guard.

Cloud stepped around the corner and found the guard, who was standing near the wall. He smiled.