He grabbed the pistol and cell phone, then climbed out into the pouring rain.

Scanning the street, he put his right hand in the coat and clutched the pistol, finger on the trigger. He took out the cell phone and turned it on, then dialed.

“Hi, Dewey,” said Calibrisi.

“I’m in Moscow.”

“We’re getting closer on Cloud’s location.”

“What about the team you were sending in?”

“They didn’t make it. You have two agents at the safe house. One of them is a case officer, and she’s smart. The other is an operator, but he’s badly injured.”

He walked several blocks, limping slightly, then ducked into a subway station.

“You mentioned someone else,” said Dewey as he moved through the brightly lit station, calm, eyes low to the ground, looking for signs of trouble, hand on the gun, ready, if necessary, to kill again.

“Alexei Malnikov.”

“Have him meet me at the safe house.”

Dewey hung up.

It was late and the station was empty but for a gray-haired woman behind bulletproof glass, waiting to sell tickets. He needed a ticket but didn’t want to risk the chance of being identified. He passed the ticket booth and walked to the turnstile and climbed over it. Looking back, he saw nothing to indicate she’d seen him break the law—or at least nothing to indicate she gave a damn.

On a bench near the tracks, he found a newspaper someone had left behind. It was in Russian, but there, above the fold, was his photo, next to a photo of Katya Basaeyev.

The train to Pobedy Park arrived a few minutes later. The car was empty. At the Pobedy Park station, he got out, then climbed the station stairs back into the driving rain.

The neighborhood was quiet and tree lined. Large stucco and brick homes were set back from the sidewalk, behind small gardens. Halfway down the block, across the street, he saw a white stucco town house with black shutters, four stories tall.

He scanned the quiet street. Except for a lamppost at the corner, it was completely dark. The rain had let up slightly. He waited beneath a large tree for several minutes, studying the house. Just as he was about to cross the street, a taxicab turned onto the road. Dewey flinched and stepped back behind the tree. He placed his hand inside the coat pocket, gripping the gun, finger on the trigger. He watched as the cab approached, then sped by.

In the quiet aftermath, he felt his heart beating fast.

Cool off.

Dewey’s eyes returned to the safe house. That was when he noticed a man. He was across the street, walking by the safe house.

How long had he been there? Was it Malnikov?

The man had a backpack and long hair. He walked quickly, with a slouch, down the block, away from the safe house.

At the corner, the stranger looked back at Vernacular House. He stared at it for several moments, then turned and kept walking.

Instead of crossing the street, Dewey followed him. When Dewey reached the corner, he crossed the street, just as the man jerked around and looked back. Seeing Dewey, he started to run.

Limping, Dewey charged after the man.

A block in the distance, he watched as car lights went on.

Dewey pulled the gun from his pocket, just as, from somewhere behind him, he heard a horrible explosion. A moment later, he sensed the ground tremor beneath his feet, then felt a violent wall of air kick him from behind. He was thrown instantly forward by the savage blast of air, the red taillights of the escaping car his last sight as he shut his eyes and braced himself for the fall.

76

PRESNENSKY DISTRICT

MOSCOW

Malnikov was seated on a leather sofa in his office. It was hot inside the windowless room. He was in a tank top and jeans, and was barefoot. He could’ve turned on the air-conditioning, but he didn’t. Not for any reason. The truth is, he wasn’t thinking about how uncomfortable it was. He was thinking about the conversation with Hector Calibrisi.

In his hand, he held a glass of 1986 Henri Jayer Richebourg, a Burgundy from the Côte de Nuits region of France that cost Malnikov €24,000.

Malnikov didn’t like being threatened. It was humiliating. What had started with the meeting with Cloud had only gotten worse. He knew Calibrisi was cutting him a wide berth, and yet there was no mistaking who controlled things. Langley did. He’d done something very wrong, but Calibrisi had laid down a sharp gauntlet.

Find Cloud or die.

“Fuck him,” he said, not for the first time, as he replayed his conversation with the CIA director.

Malnikov could take his chances. It would require a heightened level of security. If Cloud did succeed in detonating a nuclear bomb on U.S. soil, Malnikov would have a target on his head. Yet Calibrisi and everyone else in American government would be distracted for years to come.

His head ached. The internal struggle between love and loyalty to his father and absolute hatred at the feeling of being threatened tortured him.

He winced at the memory of Cloud’s words: I knew your father would never be stupid enough to acquire a nuclear bomb, and you would.

It was true. His father wouldn’t have done it. But if he had, Malnikov’s father wouldn’t shy away from responsibility for his actions.

“You made your bed,” Malnikov said aloud. “Lie in it. Be a man.”

He felt a vibration in his pocket. Pulling out the cell, he read the caller ID:

:: CALIBRISI H.C.::

“Hello, Hector.”

“I need you to go to our safe house and meet our guy.”

Calibrisi gave Malnikov the address of the safe house.

“Is this the guy all over the news?”

“Yes.”

Malnikov downed the rest of the wine, then stood up and walked to his desk. From on top of the desk, he took the gun, a Desert Eagle .50 AE, and tucked it into a concealed holster at the front of his pants. He pulled a leather coat from the back of the chair and pulled it on.

“What’s his name?”

“Dewey Andreas.”

77

GEORGES BANK

ATLANTIC OCEAN

80 MILES EAST OF PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND, CANADA

Four hours later, a boat appeared on the southwestern horizon.

Faqir raised the mike to his mouth: “Is that you, Dogfish?” he asked. “Over.”

“Yeah. We see you. We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”

“Roger that,” said Faqir. “Thank you.”

“By the way, you guys see anything?”

A small burst of anxiety hit Faqir in the spine. What did he mean? Was there a warning out for them?

He hit the mike.

“Come again.”

“Any bluefin? We’re headed north.”

“No,” said Faqir.

“Where you guys sailing out of?”

Faqir took a map of the eastern seaboard. He’d already studied it, but now he realized he could inadvertently get himself in trouble. If the Dogfish was from whatever port town he said, he could be fucked.

Faqir felt his stomach tightening.

“Portsmouth, New Hampshire,” he said, naming a bigger city where, theoretically, one ship captain might not be aware of another.

“Nice place. We’re out of Halifax. See you in a few.”

Faqir hung up the mike, then leaned over and threw up in a trash can beneath the console.

He walked down the stairs that led belowdecks. He went to Poldark’s cabin. Poldark was unconscious, though still breathing. Faqir tried to wake him, reaching his hand out and gently shaking his shoulder, but there was no response. Faqir covered Poldark with a blanket, then moved down the hall. He opened a door to the bunkroom.

“Let’s go.”

The approaching boat was smaller, less than half the size of the Lonely Fisherman, a purse seiner with a forward wheelhouse. It was dark blue, with long stripes of white along the hull. It was a neat-looking boat, with fresh paint and well maintained.

Faqir stood in the wheelhouse, looking out the window at the approaching boat. His eyes moved to his own deck, and he saw two of the Chechens. They were seated in between piles of ropes, slumped over, hidden by the side of the hull. Each man clutched a submachine gun. They sat in silence, still, watching for Faqir’s signal.