"Come on, Konstantin," said Gavallan. "Do as you're told. Don't make this tougher than it has to be."

Kirov looked back toward the exit. At the end of the hallway, a pair of the Exchange's security guards, clad in dove gray uniforms, their hands drifting toward their holsters, walked slowly, uneasily, toward him and his bodyguards. Passersby hugged the walls, sensing trouble.

Kirov took another look at Gavallan, then darted toward the exit. At the same time, his bodyguards moved in the opposite direction. They had no guns. They made no move to appear menacing. They simply walked rapidly toward the federal agents, obstructing their line of sight.

Passing the gray-clad security guards, Kirov murmured to his men, "Hold them here. I just need a minute."

Both men, soldiers belonging to the New York side of the Solnetsevo Brotherhood, nodded and took up position in the center of the hallway.

Kirov ran, not daring to look behind, as if he were being chased by the ghosts of his own conscience. He heard the sounds of a scuffle, Gavallan's voice calling after him. Strangely, he sounded more perfunctory than upset. The life seemed to have gone out of the man. Funny- he hadn't pegged Gavallan as a quitter. Passing through one door, then the next, Kirov emerged on the sidewalk. Twenty feet away a car door stood open, and a man inside was gesturing for him to hurry. He caught the words "Hurry, damn you. Run!" Kirov slowed only to lower his head and threw himself into the backseat.

"Thank God," he whispered, his cheek touching the cool black upholstery. "Get me out of here. Fast!"

One moment the Beechcraft was flying straight on its course, its speed a comfortable 250 knots, altitude 400 feet. It had lined up perfectly on its inbound azimuth. The landing site, a circle of knee-high heather sprouting from the snow, was visible. The pilot had opened the cockpit door. Leaning out of his seat, he offered a thumbs-up to the valiant warriors. "Godspeed," he said, though with the tumult of the air invading the fuselage and the propeller engines buzzing so close it was doubtful anyone heard him.

The next moment the plane was no longer there.

Three pounds of plastique ignited the four hundred gallons of jet fuel in the starboard wing, which in turn ignited the auxiliary tanks housed at the rear of the fuselage and then the fuel tanks in the port wing. Expanding at 7,800 meters per second, an enormous, wickedly powerful fireball engulfed the plane. Joint tore from joint, bolt from superstructure. In one-hundredth of a second, the elemental explosion shattered the plane and everyone inside of it into ten thousand pieces, showering the pristine Alaskan tundra with a black and silver rain.

Some attributed the melted tire and grotesquely twisted propeller that landed squarely in the infield of Pump Station 2's summer baseball diamond to a practical joke played by some local miners. Others offered no explanation at all, content to merely scratch their heads. No planes had been reported in the area. The explosion was heard only faintly and seen by no one. Alaska was nothing if not mysterious.

In Severnaya, Leonid Kirov removed his hand from the transmitter. He had tried and he had failed. There would be no bust in Red Square. No promotion waiting upon his return. The president had made his disappointment abundantly clear. The penalty for failure was as severe as the reward for success was generous.

Such it had been in Russia, and such it would always be.

His hand fell to his jacket, hanging on the chair behind him. His fingers probed the jacket's pocket. It was there, as he knew it would be. He felt the cool metal, the smooth expanse of the grip, the curled menace of the trigger. Slowly, he drew the pistol out and laid it on the table. He lit a cigarette, but the smoke tasted harsh, unwelcome.

Standing, he put on his jacket and straightened his tie. He spent a moment adjusting the tie clasp, his gift from Andropov, then drew himself to attention. And raising the pistol, he was careful to keep his chin raised just so, his eyes to the fore. The gun touched his temple, and as he pulled the trigger he made sure to lean his head sideways into the barrel.

Settled into the town car's backseat, Konstantin Kirov expelled a sigh of relief. He was hardly home free, but with a little luck, he'd make it to Teterboro and be airborne and en route to his private hideaway in the Exumas before the authorities could track him down. A man did not make it to his position in life without taking a few precautions, without setting aside a few dollars for a rainy day or establishing a place to keep his head down if the waters grew too rough. He'd lie low for a few years, cultivate his relations with the country's entrepreneurs, work on his memoirs. A return to Moscow was out of the question, at least until a new president took office. As for Mercury, that too would be put on hold. His plan to bring the company public had dissolved the moment he'd heard the words "FBI" and "under arrest."

Looking over his shoulder, he caught sight of Gavallan running down the stairs of the Exchange, pulling up in the middle of the street, arms raised high in exasperation.

"Yeb vas," he muttered. Fuck you.

He truly hoped he'd never see the man again in his life.

Suddenly, he was very thirsty. "Do you have something to drink? Some water, perhaps? Perrier? Evian?"

Two men sat in the front.

"Of course," said the one in the passenger seat. He turned and looked at Kirov. "Anything for my partner," said Aslan Dashamirov.

"But- why- how?" Kirov choked on his own confusion.

"You've been a naughty boy, Konstantin Romanovich," said Dashamirov, waving a slim silver disc between his fingers. "Have you never heard of honor among thieves?"

Kirov threw a hand to the door, fingers clawing for the release. He would make a deal with the FBI. He would show them the inner workings of the Russian underworld. He would forfeit his entire fortune.

With a sturdy thump, the doors locked, and Dashamirov laughed.

Konstantin Kirov cast a last look behind him. Katya had joined Gavallan, and the two stood in the center of Wall Street. He thought he saw his daughter raise a hand and wave, but he couldn't be sure. Tears had blurred his vision.

Epilogue

The gavel slammed with finality and a short, exultant cry went up from the executives gathered on the podium. Jett Gavallan shook hands with the Russian president, and then it was everyone else's turn, Meg's and Bruce's and Graf's. Each received the same firm grip, the same swift shake, the same sober nod. The president turned to Cate and kissed her on the cheek three times in the Russian custom. He had been learning English, and Gavallan overheard a few words.

"We are grateful to you both for saving our airline. I only hope the public will treat it as fairly."

"I'm certain it will," answered Cate graciously.

Novastar Airlines had begun the day trading on the New York Stock Exchange at $14 a share and had closed at $15.25. As thanks for returning to Novastar the money that Kirov had stolen, the president had awarded Gavallan the mandate to bring the company public a year later. Black Jet Securities had brought the $500 million offering to market at the upper end of its price range. A first day's jump of nearly 10 percent wasn't too bad for a Russian company, all things considered.

The president clapped a hand on Gavallan's arm. "Now we must talk about our aluminum industry. It is not in good condition. When can you come again to Moscow?"