Cloud took a deep breath.

“I should also mention that if I’m not back to my dacha in”—Cloud checked his watch—“seventeen minutes, you will be destroyed. Forget your money for a moment. Your entire organization will be rolled up, then locked up. Everything! United States, Hong Kong, Europe, Russia, Brazil, Australia. Do you realize how much heroin you’ve sold to those poor little American schoolchildren? Not to mention the electronic signature of the entire transaction with General Bokolov? Actually, now that I think about it, you’ll simply be sent to Guantánamo Bay. If I’m not back in … sixteen minutes, my guess is you’ll be in shackles by dawn. And you’ll wear those shackles the rest of your days on earth.”

Malnikov stared at Cloud. He was beyond anger or hatred. He was speechless, numb, and confused. He lowered the gun.

“You can kill me right now, we both know it,” said Cloud reassuringly. “This is not about being a man and who is tougher, Alexei. You are tougher. But where I am going, it requires something different. It requires hatred.”

Malnikov took a small step backward. “You’re insane—”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” said Cloud, nodding. “So kill me. You have the gun. Just shoot me. The thing is, I wouldn’t care. I could take dying just as easy as getting up in the morning. You, on the other hand, do care. And that is why you will pay me one hundred million dollars to take this nuclear bomb off your hands, an amount that, I’m guessing, is about one hundred million less than I actually could pressure you into paying. But, you see, I’m a generous man.”

Cloud turned from the muzzle of the gun and walked to the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob.

“One more thing,” he said. “They will come to you. As soon as the bomb is moved, they will find out and they will somehow track it to you. This is unavoidable. My guess is, it will be the United States. You can attempt to lie, but it will be pointless. They will wire you up and, if you are lying, they will use various methodologies to elicit the truth and ultimately they will succeed. So do yourself a favor, Alexei, tell them everything you know. As much as you hate me right now, the truth is, I am grateful to you. I mean you no harm. And I wish you a long and prosperous life. You made a mistake, we both know it, the day you shook hands with Bokolov and acquired the bomb. Do what they say. It is the only way you will be able to put it behind you.”

“They’ll ask for my help to find you,” said Malnikov.

“Give it to them. I will not be found, at least not until it’s too late.”

“What will you—” Malnikov began to ask a question, then stopped, as if fearing what the answer might be.

“What will I do with it? Is that your question?”

“Yes.”

Cloud glanced back as he turned the doorknob and opened the door.

“Something I should have done a long time ago,” he said quietly. He paused and looked once again at Malnikov. “Sevastopol. Midnight. Don’t be late.”

2

THE CASTINE INN

MAIN STREET

CASTINE, MAINE

On the first Saturday of summer, at a little before eight in the morning, a crowd was gathered in front of the elegant, slightly dilapidated buttercup-colored Castine Inn. There were approximately two hundred men, women, and children, from infants in Baby Bjorns to grandparents clutching wooden canes, talking, laughing, catching up after the long winter, sipping coffee, hot chocolate, and cider, waiting. All were from Castine but one, the boyfriend of a Castine girl, a nice-looking fellow from San Francisco who’d come up with her for the weekend from Andover, in all likelihood unaware of the fact that his first visit to the pretty, remote, slightly ornery seaside town would feature a grueling six-and-a-half-mile race, and that he’d be expected to participate.

Thirty-three runners—thirteen men, twenty women—stood in the road behind a strip of yellow police tape, stretching, jogging in place, and getting ready for the race. They had on a motley assortment of shorts and T-shirts in a variety of colors and styles. The one unusual aspect to the group of runners was that no one wore running shoes. Everyone had on work boots.

At the back of the cluster of runners stood a big man off by himself. At six-four, he was the tallest in the group, and stocky. He had on beat-up Timberland boots, madras shorts, and a green T-shirt. His brown hair was long and looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks. His face was covered in a month’s worth of stubble. He leaned casually against the front bumper of a rusted light green Ford pickup truck.

At precisely eight o’clock, Doris Russell, Castine’s seventy-two-year-old mayor, stepped off the curb and into the road. Doris looked gentle, even matronly, but, as everyone knew, she possessed the wit, and the mouth, of a sailor. Doris waved her arms in the air, trying to get everyone’s attention. Gradually, silence settled over the crowd.

“Good morning, everyone,” said Doris in a high-pitched, slightly squeaky voice. She had a large smile on her face. “I hope you all had a wonderful winter.”

“It sucked,” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

Laughter burst out from the throng of people.

“Who’s that?” Doris asked, peering into the crowd. “Is that Tom? Yeah, well, mine was a stinker too, Tom, if you want to know the truth. I broke my hip falling down the stairs and my granddaughter was expelled from Miss Porter’s. But thanks for asking.”

“He didn’t ask,” yelled someone else.

Another ripple of laughter spread through the crowd.

Doris shook her head, trying not to laugh.

“If you don’t let me get this thing started, we’ll be here all day. Which means, odds are, I’ll be dead.”

“We’ll miss you, Doris.”

Doris laughed, shaking her head, along with the rest of the crowd. Finally, she raised her hand.

“Well, anyway, as you all know, today is the first Saturday of our beloved Castine summer, and thank God for that. I’m so goddam sick of winter I could kill someone.”

“My wife would like to volunteer for that,” yelled someone.

Laughter once again erupted from the crowd.

“I’d want to be dead too if I was married to you, Burt,” said Doris. “Now, as I was saying, it being the first Saturday following the beginning of summer, it’s time once again for the annual Wadsworth Cove Marathon.”

Loud clapping and a chorus of enthusiastic cheers swept over the crowd.

*   *   *

Like many towns along the beautiful winding, rocky coast of Maine, Castine tolerated its summer visitors, the wealthy people from away, who came in June and left at Labor Day. But the long, hard, bitter-cold winter months were the province of the people who lived there year-round: the fishermen, teachers, nurses, construction workers, bus drivers, farmers, electricians, plumbers, police officers, doctors, a lawyer, and even a few artists.

Most towns in Maine had their own peculiar tradition to mark the end of winter, the season they’d all just suffered mightily through, mostly pent up inside their homes. In Castine, it was the Wadsworth Cove Marathon. The course was a punishing six and a half miles to the cove, then up a dirt path along Bog Brook to a large, well-known birch tree, then back to town. Running shoes were not allowed, only work boots, symbolic of the fact that the race was meant for working people, not city slickers, though technically anyone could run if they wanted to.

This year, an unusually large crowd was gathered to watch the race. A celebrity was in town. Not a celebrity in the traditional sense, just a kid from town whom everyone knew—the thirty-nine-year-old kid with the mess of brown hair.

“Now, as many of you know, this is the twenty-fifth running of the Wadsworth Cove Marathon,” said Doris. “I can remember the very first race. It was that New York city slicker Jed Sewall’s idea. Jed’s son was the captain of the Harvard University cross-country team at the time.”