Paul merged through one of those exchanges concocted by a psycho highway engineer, ending up eventually on Highway 85. He then turned onto 280 north, in the midst of the great nondescript metropolis of San Jose, and began feeling an itching deep in his pineal gland, or whatever that thing was deep in his head that sometimes told him he was being watched. A brand-new Infiniti passed on the right, and the driver, a round-headed guy with a blond brush cut wearing dark-tinted driving glasses, gave him a hard stare.

Paul steered straight but his heart lurched from lane to lane. He had seen that round head before, in a back row of Courtroom 2. The guy had been leaning back with his eyes half closed as Paul passed him, just before the Wyatt trial opened. He had also seen him every day in court, and seen him get up and leave suddenly after Susan Misumi’s testimony, and again today after Alex’s. He had thought the guy was a reporter.

Very interesting. And…

He had seen this same car on Highway 1 and again on 17. The Infiniti pulled ahead, mean and matte, a black light-sucker. A rich gangsta car, Paul thought, and this thought got stronger as he watched it pull back into the left lane, one car behind Zhukovsky.

So now Paul was the tail on a tail. Excellent development. Endless possibilities.

The shadow-caravan whipped past tech heaven along Sand Hill Road and the rural wealth hidden alongside Woodside Road, continuing up and around the dry hillsides, rushing along at eighty miles an hour toward the city by the bay.

Denser housing appeared to the left and right of the scenic highway, the temperature dropped twenty degrees, and the blue sky dimmed as Paul entered San Francisco’s outer reaches. Zhukovsky appeared to know the way. He swerved left onto Nineteenth Avenue, keeping a steady pace. They passed Stonestown and San Francisco State University in the usual heavy traffic punctuated by red lights at each and every corner, and entered the Sunset District. Paul could swear the Infiniti driver had not realized Paul was three cars back. Luckily the black car had strange taillights, easy to pick out.

Paul didn’t watch for Zhukovsky anymore. The Infiniti driver would do that for him.

The black tree limbs in Golden Gate Park coiled over them like hanging snakes as they cut through. They forked left again onto Twenty-fifth Avenue and rode over a few city hills, past slightly decrepit rows of forties town houses to the lights of Geary Avenue in the Outer Richmond district.

The Infiniti nudged into a minuscule space between two narrow driveways. Paul had to pass it, but the roundhead was busy backing up, no problem.

Paul turned left and saw a big church across Geary with an enormous gold onion dome, an Orthodox cathedral, a beauty. It was a landmark he had passed on his way to the ocean many times.

He circled the block and located Zhukovsky’s Caddy, but found no sign of him. He parked and walked cautiously back toward Geary, digital camera hanging from his wrist, open and ready to shoot. A couple of girls with dyed black hair wearing tiny plaid kilts walked by arm in arm, laughing. Fog misted the neon signs. This part of town had so many Russian emigrants he could see as much Cyrillic lettering as Roman on the bakeries and coffee places, but the Russians must have been home cooking their dinners because few people were out.

Nobody loitered outside in front of the cathedral, and the big golden doors were locked. Paul zipped his leather jacket and put the camera in a pocket. He started walking the perimeter and passed several gates, all locked. There were more, smaller onion-domed wings, each with its own entry, each locked. The left side of the cathedral connected to a walled school yard.

As Paul turned the corner toward the back of the church, never leaving the shadows, he saw the Infiniti driver lurking against the back fence, and moved smoothly back and out of range.

He flipped open his phone, noting the time was only seven-thirty, and told Nina he had a plethora of riches-several leads, all interesting, to follow when Zhukovsky came out.

“What’s he doing in there?” she asked, very reasonably.

“I don’t know.”

“He’s not hiding. You’re sure…”

“He went straight there. But there’s no service.”

“It’s a Russian Orthodox church?”

“Yeah. More exactly, the denomination is the Russian Church of America. This place has been around a long time. It’s called Holy Virgin Cathedral.”

“So he’s seeing a priest,” Nina said as if to herself. “Feeling guilty about all those lies he told us today. The man who is following-any ideas?”

“You ready for a guess? I think he’s Russian. I think he might possibly be Christina’s old boyfriend, Sergey Krilov. Fits the description of somebody I heard was at the convention. He’s been watching the trial. Hang on.” The front door of the church opened. A priest came out, elderly, black beard, black robes, looking both ways. Paul shrank into his hidey-hole and flipped off the phone. The priest disappeared and then came back, gesturing with his hand toward someone inside.

Zhukovsky came out. The priest took both his hands in his own and shook them gently, nodded his head a few times, then went back inside and shut the doors. The priest had a funny walk, which reminded Paul of an R. Crumb truckin’ cartoon, stomach and legs leading the way.

Zhukovsky went to the light and waited for the green, and Paul caught a glimpse of blond hair down the street. He punched buttons on his phone.

“Where’d you go?” Nina said.

“Zhukovsky’s leaving. The Infiniti driver’s staying put, but watching. The priest is back in the church. Who do I follow?”

“The Infiniti,” she said instantly, and Paul thought, good girl.

“Right.” He shut down the phone cover and watched Zhukovsky crossing, the Infiniti driver just a gleam down the street, not moving. Zhukovsky climbed into his car and drove off.

The Infiniti driver waited a minute or two, then came out and moved back toward the church, hands in the pockets of his denim jacket, head down. He paused at the main entry, tried the door-locked tight. Pulling out a pack of cigarettes, he lit up and took a contemplative puff. His pants were too tight, shoes too pointed, hair too groomed-in a thousand ways he made clear that he was foreign. Straight outta Moskva, Paul thought.

Paul followed him to the Infiniti and saw him safely inside, then skulked rapidly back to the Mustang.

Which had two slashed tires, a bashed-in passenger-side window, a stolen CD player, which still must have been hoarding the precious new CD, a gaping glove compartment, and a short note in Cyrillic scrawled on a Post-it, stuck to the dashboard. Paul had a pretty good idea what it said.

He ran back. The Russian was just turning back onto Twenty-fifth. His windows were open, and a singer crooned. He had good taste in music. He liked Diana Krall, too.