“The boys have a cold. Brittany doesn’t want you guys getting sick.”

“Are you going to the hospital?”

The hospital was in fact the Hudson Medical Clinic, an urgent-care facility on Dowling Street. When they had moved from the city Abby had tried to hang onto her job as an ER nurse at Downtown Hospital, but the commute – an hour each way, not to mention the expense – was killing them. Her work at the clinic was not nearly as challenging, but she had fallen into a rhythm there. Throat cultures, lacerations, flu shots, skinned knees – what the job lacked in challenge it more than made up for in satisfaction.

“No,” she said. “Not today.”

Abby suddenly saw movement to her left. She noticed that the young man at the back of the yard noticed as well. A flash of bright red in the woods behind the house.

Abby glanced over. Zoe Meisner was walking through the woods, down by the creek. Her golden Lab Shasta was following a scent. Abby saw the dog stop, glance up the hill, nose high in the air. Was he picking up the scent of the young man? Of Kolya? In a flash the dog came bounding up the hill, churning leaves, kicking dirt, vaulting over logs. Zoe called to Shasta, but the dog did not heed her.

Zoe – she of the outrageously bright floral gardening smocks and even more outrageous floral perfume – noticed Abby and the girls and waved. Abby lifted a hand to wave back, but stopped herself. If she acknowledged Zoe, maybe the woman would take it as a reason to walk up the hill for an over-the-fence hen session. On the other hand, if Abby didn’t acknowledge her, she might come over to see why. Abby waved back.

A few seconds later Zoe started to walk through the woods, up the hill, to the Roman house.

Shasta was already romping with the girls.

Abby saw the young man at the back of the yard toss his cigarette, stand a little straighter. His eyes flicked from the big dog, to the woman walking up the hill, back. He unbuttoned his jacket.

Inside the house, the curtains parted.

No, Abby thought.

No.

TWENTY-TWO

Joseph Harkov’s apartment was a third floor walk-up on Twenty-First Avenue, near Steinway. According to the report, Joseph Harkov worked night shift at the MTA station at Broadway and 46th Street.

Michael and Tommy stood across the street in a Super Deli, watching the entrance. Michael had met Joseph Harkov twice, but that had been a few years ago, and only in passing. He wasn’t sure he would remember the man if he saw him.

At just after one, Joseph Harkov walked out of the front door. Michael pegged him instantly. He looked like a younger version of his father and had already taken on the old man’s bent posture, although he was probably only in his forties. He waited at a bus stop on the corner for fifteen minutes or so, every so often dabbing his eyes with a tissue, then boarded a bus.

Michael and Tommy waited five minutes. Joseph Harkov did not return. They crossed the street, and entered the building.

The hallways smelled of frying foods, disinfectant, room deodorizers. The sound of soap operas poured out of more than one room.

Tommy Christiano had developed his techniques of breaking and entering as a street kid in Brooklyn. He perfected them as an undercover officer in the 84th Precinct before taking night law classes at CUNY.

Within seconds, they were inside.

VIKTOR HARKOV’S BEDROOM spoke of age and despair and loneliness. It contained a chipped mahogany dresser and a single bed with rumpled, soiled sheets. On top of the dresser were a pair of framed photographs, nail clippers, a pair of uncancelled postage stamps, cut from envelopes. The closet contained three suits, all an identical featureless gray. There was one pair of shoes, recently resoled. On the floor were a stack of folded, plastic dry-cleaning bags. Viktor was a saver. Michael’s mother had been the same way. Even something like a dry-cleaner bag had some worth.

“Mickey.”

Tommy Christiano was the only person who called him Mickey, the only person allowed. And he only called him that when something was important.

Michael went out into the living room. Tommy had the bottom drawer in the kitchen open. In it was a rubber-banded stack of 3.5 inch floppy disks, and a small stack of what were either CDs, or DVDs.

“Look.” Tommy held up three of the floppies. They were coded by year. The third disk was labeled TAYEMNYY 2005. “Any idea what this means?”

“I think it means ‘private’ in Russian. Maybe Ukrainian.”

“Private files?”

“I don’t know.”

Tommy looked at his watch. Michael followed suit. They’d been in the apartment more than ten minutes. Every minute they lingered put them in jeopardy of getting caught.

Tommy glanced at the old computer in the corner of the living room. “You know how to make a copy of one of these?” he asked.

Michael hadn’t worked with floppy disks for a few years, but he figured it would come back to him once he got in front of the computer. “Yeah.”

Tommy handed him the 2005 disk, and a blank. Michael crossed the living room, sat down in the old desk chair in front of the computer. A puff of dust rose into the air as he sat down. He turned on the monitor, pressed the ON button on the old Gateway desktop. The boot-up process seemed to take forever. As the screens scrolled by, Michael realized he had not seen DOS prompts in a long time.

As he waited, Tommy walked over to the window overlooking 21st Avenue. He parted the curtains an inch or so.

When the screen finally reached the desktop, Michael inserted the disk. Moments later, he clicked on the file that read TAYEMNYY. The file opened – launching a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet program. Michael’s eye scanned the data. His heart began to race. It was a list of adoptions from 2005. The list was only six entries long. Michael knew that Viktor Harkov brokered dozens of adoptions each year. This was a separate list. A private list. This was a list of people who had adopted illegally. He scrolled down.

There. He saw it. Michael and Abigail Roman. So there was a record, a record separate from the legal record.

“Mickey,” Tommy said.

Michael looked up. “What?”

“Powell just pulled up across the street.”

Michael pushed the blank floppy into the 3.5 drive. He heard the hard drive turn, heard the disk click into place. Each click was a beat of his heart.

“She just got out of the car,” Tommy said. “She’s headed this way. Fontova’s with her.”

Michael watched the progress bar move glacially to the right. It seemed to take forever.

Tommy tiptoed across the room, put his ear to the door.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

“It’s not done yet.”

“Just take it then,” Tommy said. “Let’s go.”

Michael looked at the remaining disks in the drawer. He wondered what data was contained on them. Were there back-up files of the disk he was trying to copy? This was more than simple breaking and entering, he thought. Making a copy was one thing – no one would ever know – but taking the actual disk was a felony. They were stealing someone’s personal data.

There was no time for debate. He popped the disk from the drive, then unplugged the computer. It shut down with a loud whirring sound, one Michael was sure could be heard from the hallway.

There was suddenly a loud knock on the door.

“New York Police Department,” Fontova said. “We have a search warrant.”

Michael and Tommy crossed the living room, into the small bedroom. They looked onto the alley behind the building. There were no policemen. None that they could see.

A second knock. Louder. It seemed to shake the entire apartment.

“Police! Search warrant! Open the door!”

Michael tried to open the window, but it was painted shut. Tommy took out his pen knife and began to cut away the dried paint, but Michael stopped him. If they cut away the paint, then closed the window behind them, police would know what happened. There would be paint slivers all over the sill, the floor. And it would be fresh.