Dancer and Spy

By Michael Myers

When Sergei Shannin recruits Jay Hall, sparks fly. He's a Russian assassin posing as an American businessman. She's in the bedroom of the CEO whose Silicon Valley company has technology secrets Shannin needs. He didn't imagine he'd find the fighter in her so irresistible.

Jay is now off the streets and away from being an exotic dancer. She's looking for security in a chaotic world. Industrial espionage wasn't on her dance card. But Shannin has traveled the globe--Brazil, China, Egypt--and carries himself with sensual assurance and mystery.

Sergei promises to keep her safe; all she needs to do is trust him. It's a good thing the street taught her how to fight. His target is a Russian crime lord. Jay must betray her friends to help Sergei trap him. As they run a deceitful game against murderous men, Jay is forced to choose between the normal life she always wanted and the man she desires.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Myers
• Release date: Oct 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9780988575400

Book preview

DANCER AND SPY

by

Michael Myers

Copyright © 2012. All rights reserved.

One

The maples of Vangankovo Cemetery had gone crimson, their autumn foliage drifting to the ground. Constantin brushed red leaves off the gray faces of three bodies that had been dumped there. He issued a grunt when he saw each missing his left ear. A squad of police stood close, one bearing the face of a man who’d seen it all.

Con, don’t do that, the inspector said. You’re disturbing my evidence.

You called me, Genady, Constantin put on a gruff tone, yet took a step back. Bruises collared the corpse’s throats. "Vory," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Razborka, Genady said. Gangland payback. And a vengeful one at that." Among the vory v zakone, everything came down to respect—even the method of their assassination. These Russian crime bosses had been garroted, and humiliated by the process.

Piotr Ivanovich has escaped, Genady said.

So it would seem. Constantin held out a hand for his driver’s shoulder. Nikko. Nicholas offered support as Constantin limped on a weak hip to his Mercedes. It sat idling a tail of white fog into Moscow’s crisp autumn air. Constantin held fast to the passenger door, his face going hard as he glanced back in disgust at the bodies.

Yes, I trapped these men to testify against him, Constantin said. Now I have some work to do. He nodded to the inspector. You did the right thing. But there’ll be no investigation. I will take it from here. Have your captain call me to confirm my orders.

Nicholas helped him into the Mercedes’ rear seat. As a senior officer of the Foreign Intelligence Service, Constantin Yefremevich had a car with titanium armor in its doors and floors. All its windows had been removed and replaced with polycarbonate plastic. The cars’ tires could run flat at ninety miles an hour. Its massive engine could pull stumps. Soundproofing made for a deadly silence as they returned to his townhouse.

That damn Ivanovich, Constantin said. He bought his way out. I know it. He rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Put a security detail on Marta.

Yes, sir, Nicholas said.

Constantin and his wife Marta would soon celebrate their forty-seventh wedding anniversary. They lived in a splendid townhouse within a kilometer of the Kremlin, in a neighborhood with security cameras and patrols that kept watch over the street. But even with his armored car and capable driver, the patrols and cameras, Constantin still had a troubled frown on his face.

Nicholas’s hand hovered at Constantin’s back as they mounted the street-level steps. Marta stood at a window. Short and stocky like him, her white hair spilled loose over her shoulders. She wore a burgundy-colored housecoat and clutched it at her throat. Constantin waved to her and she gave back a small gesture of relief. He knew how she worried about his job.

A five by seven envelope lay on the landing. It bore a handwritten note scrawled across its face. When he went to reach for it, Nicholas said, I’ll get it, sir, and bent down to pick it up. Nicholas paused for a moment, reading the note, then handed over the envelope. I’ll get on that security detail immediately, he said.

The note read, Did you think you could eliminate me so easily? I said I would be back. P.I. The envelope held three ears. Constantin handed it back. He saw Marta still watching and smiled as warmly as he could.

And have forensics confirm these belong to the dead men. Stay on station with your sidearm until the security detail arrives. Do not worry. Even Piotr Ivanovich would not dare make a move against my house. He’s not stupid. Sociopathic in the extreme. But not stupid. I am taking these precautions for Marta. I can never hide these things from her. She has a sixth sense.

The car sat idling in the twilight, and no doubt would for a good while longer. Marta opened the door, letting a warm yellow glow spill out.

Ma’am, Nicholas said with respect.

Nikko. Kept my old fart standing upright, did you?

Did my best, ma’am.

Constantin took hold of the door jamb and shifted his weight onto his good hip. Marta offered him his house cane. She’d been exhorting him to use it outside, but he refused. They’d reached a truce concerning it. Only in the house. Once inside, he turned to face Nicholas.

Get Sergei in my office, first thing in the morning.

He’s just returned from Egypt, sir.

Constantin patted Marta’s arm looped around his in case he stumbled. I sent him there. And I brought him back. In one piece, I hope. She helped her husband inside, took his coat and hat, and pushed the door closed.

Colonel Sergei Shannin was a member of the Russian special forces known as spetsnaz. The term derived from their formal name: specialnogo naznachenigya. In the field he called himself Serge Shannon, making certain to pronounce it as ‘surge.’ He did so to confuse his targets. Very few knew him as Sergei.

The next morning, while they shared chilled vodka, Constantin laid out the details. He’d been working since dawn. Sergei brushed Egyptian sand from his clothes. He’d been going twenty-fours without sleep. Upon hearing the news, his face stiffened to a grimace.

I know what you’re thinking, Constantin said. But we must deal with the facts.

It had taken several years, at least one honorable life, and a keen game of vory betrayal for Constantin to lock up Ivanovich in the first place. Select members of the intelligence community knew the story. It hinged on the fact that Constantin controlled Colonel Shannin.

There yet remained though the problem of what had happened to Anna Poriskova in Brazil. Constantin had no desire for another such failure. Not when his wife had dead ears deposited at her front door.

Ivanovich has no doubt been planning this for some time, Constantin said. His stooge Golnokov is already in the San Francisco consulate. I need you there, Sergei. I trust no one else. We will both go. Expect an extended stay. We will build a trap to hold him.

You? Return to the field? Serge asked. A tall man, broadly shouldered, he had a rugged face and more scars on his body than he could count without using a mirror.

For this, yes. I will need the Americans. It must be made to appear I’ve been demoted to chief resident. But given our history with Ivanovich and Golnokov, will you disregard what you cannot change?

Sergei Shannin of the spetsnaz set aside his tumbler. I shall do my best. The subtle difference between ‘disregard’ and ‘not seek revenge’ lay silent as the glass.

Two

Three years later, Serge Shannon continued to search the streets of San Francisco for a piece of the puzzle he’d been given to solve. He had everything else in place, but couldn’t find someone willing and able to help him close his mission. As things turned out, she found him.

Jay Hall was small, even for a dancer. Her afternoon bath fogged her mirror. She pulled her hair up to keep it from her face, wiped condensation away, and then stood sideways to make sure her belly laid taut and flat.

Her study had nothing to do with vanity, but rather a professional habit. She’d been dancing a pole at a place men go to when out of town. Tired of feeling like a piece of meat, she’d taken a chance at a bachelor party.

She now had her own bedroom suite and private bath in the San Francisco Bay Area community of Woodside. It’s not like I’m ripping Glenn off or anything. At least, not yet. He’d put his business card in her jacket pocket and said call. So she did. And now, check it out. She had a bedroom suite bigger than the apartment she’d shared with Clarice.

Enjoy it while you can, she thought. This ride won’t last forever. Jay knew better than to believe in that fantasy. She trusted the street. It had taught her well. When her phone began chirping, she stepped over to her bedside table and dug in her purse. Hello?

Jay Hall? the man said.

Maybe. Who wants to know?

Serge Shannon.

Oh, you again.

From the bachelor party hosted by Glenn Colfax? We talked in the guard shack a few months back. Clarice at the Peach House gave me your number.

She would. So, are you ready to play my way?

I heard you’ve done well by Mr. Colfax. Would you care to follow up? I believe we share interests.

Jay cradled her cellphone and ran a towel across her slender back. What sort of interests?

I prefer to talk about it in person. Would you care to join me at the yacht club? You’d be my guest.

Jay went to select underwear from a dresser. Yacht club. My guest. I prefer the street. I said play my way.

Very well. Park dockside at Marina Green.

Jay heard formal cordiality in the way he spoke. Like some sort of salesman out for something. But she didn’t know what. Okay. Bring me some take-out. Broccoli beef, chow mein on the side. She felt good saying that, as if for once in her life she finally controlled something. Make sure it’s on the side. Don’t get it mixed up.

She ended the call, found a silk camisole, went back to her bed and sat in silence, wondering how this venture of hers would end. She had marble floors and high-count sheets. And a car. She’d often have to hitch a ride with Clarice to get home from the club. Jay now had a Jaguar sedan painted in British racing green. Glenn had signed the title over. Just gave it to her. Now this guy wanting to get inside her game. Jay made sure to take along her pepper spray and cue ball on a dog chain, just in case.

The first time Jay met Serge Shannon, she, Clarice, and two others from the Peach House had been assigned to work a private bachelor party on a magnificent white yacht. The party had consisted of twelve men and four hired attendants. When not serving drinks or teasing the groom, the women wrapped fashionable yellow jackets around themselves and stood around radiant heaters.

Glenn Colfax appeared to be in charge. Jay sidled up to him with a tray of wine glasses. She put on a pose and gave him a sultry look. He took a glass of wine and suggested she take one too. He began talking about Pegasys, his technology company in Silicon Valley. She didn’t understand a word he said about digital connectivity, but tried to show interest.

He’d funded the party and seemed intent on showing his Stanford MBA cohort how far he’d come, the first CEO among them. Jay in turn wanted to flirt with him. It made for a simple equation. Jay Hall had the moves and Glenn Colfax had the money.

They somehow clicked. He worked the deck, making social talk, but always managed to get near her and ask questions. Like how long she’d been doing this, and how she could handle the cold, dressed as she was.

You get used to it, Jay said. You can get used to a lot if you have to.

When the yacht motored back and the women put on their street clothes for the night, Glenn helped Jay with hers. He offered his business card. Call me. I mean it.

Jay had noticed one other man that night. He seemed more of a crewmember than a guest. He sat in a corner, but did nothing the whole time. When they disembarked, Jay saw him at the guard shack governing access to the boat slips. He seemed indifferent. She felt he waited for something. She kept her head down, and glanced again as she came near the gate, her street sense on full alert.

Miss Hall? May I have a word with you?

He opened the door to the guard shack. His presence so overwhelmed her that she accepted without thought. At the back of the shack, four chairs surrounded a table. He pulled out a chair for her, and pulled over an electric heater to keep her warm. Jay took the chair, but kept wary as a captured animal, alert to any threat, her eyes darting to every corner of the small space. He sat across from her and seemed to study her, as she studied him.

How come you know me, but I don’t know you?

I asked Clarice for your name.

Clarice knows you?

She and others do out-call work for me from time to time. Parties and catering, like tonight. No sex. They’ve never sent you though. You were a bit of a surprise.

I don’t do out-call any more. I’m senior enough, it’s about the only respect I get. Then one of the newbie girls got sick and they handed me this gig.

Your lucky day. How do you know Glenn Colfax?

Are you his bodyguard or something?

No, Miss Hall. Please answer my question.

Show me your ID. Why should I answer you?

I’ve no credentials you’d recognize. My name is Serge Shannon. He pronounced it ‘surge.’ I’ll rephrase the question. What is your interest in him?

I was just talking. He seemed to be in charge.

And what did you conclude?

He’s a player. Why the fuck am I sitting here?

Because you chose to do so.

Oh, I get it. You didn’t want to talk to me. I wanted to talk to you.

Something like that.

Choose this, asshole. If you want to play this game, you play my way. Got it?

Jay made sure the door slammed hard on her way out. She glanced back to see if she’d broken anything, but just saw him sitting in dim light with that mysterious look on his face, as if he knew something she didn’t.

The traffic down to Marina Green was crazy as usual. The sun’s last light streamed through the Golden Gate Bridge as Jay walked past sailboats in slips. She took a bench and listened to waves lap against boats while the sun set and fog rolled in under the bridge. Mothers pushing babies in three-wheeled strollers jogged behind her. Rollerbladers whooshed by, stroke by stroke. Joggers pounded along while she planned her next move. She put her purse in her lap, zipped it open and took a firm grasp on her pepper spray.

Miss Hall? The meal she’d asked for hung in a bag on his right wrist.

Jay didn’t make a move, staring straight ahead at the lights of Sausalito. It’s about time. She pretended to be more interested in boats and seagulls.

May I join you?

Jay nodded toward the far end. Sit there.

She pulled out her cue ball and made it prominent in her lap. His image flickered in her vision, but she could smell him, as that first night in the guard shack: a dry incense of a man’s cologne, and a faint odor of cigar. A drift of deodorant as if he’d just come from the gym.

You could kill somebody with that, he said.

That’s the general idea. Most people who carry guns can’t shoot for shit. But if I get close to them with this, their heads become mashed potatoes. She revealed her can of pepper spray. Got this in case you make a move. Stop them with the spray, put them down with the cue ball, and then run like hell. Works every time.

Serge set down the bag. Miss Hall, you should know that I too carry weapons.

He reached under his left sleeve and withdrew a knife with a strange emblem on its scabbard. He patted his left shoulder. I also carry a handgun.

Are you licensed for concealed carry?

I carry what I need.

Jay opened the meal Serge had brought. Damn it.

He lifted up hands in frustration. It was crowded and busy. The streetside buffet was faster. I wanted a box to put the chow mein on the side. They told me, ‘Two item, bowl.’ Serge shook his head. I could’ve called Grandfather Chang to the floor but it was a silly argument. He returned the knife to under his sleeve.

That’s okay, Jay said. It eats the same.

Jay continued on with her meal, watching him. You know the Changs? She knew it as a powerful family, with a long reach. The restaurant made for a good front.

We do business together. As you and I might.

She kept an eye on him as she hunched over the food, a small jungle cat glancing around for hyenas that might steal her meal. Old habits died hard. They were always good for a handout. He waited for her to finish. Thank you, she said, pushing the bowl back.

He went to drop the trash into a nearby bin. When he returned, Serge offered a hand up from the bench. Let’s take a walk.

She studied his hand for a moment. The back of it resembled turtle skin—tough, aging, and brown from the sun. She then took full measure of the man. Jay stood a bit over five feet while Serge Shannon stood much taller, a few inches over six. He had the short-cropped hair of a military man, graying with age, and wore a black leather jacket, a blue long-sleeved shirt and khaki pants. About fifty-plus she guessed. Maybe twice her age.

She studied him for so long that he asked, What?

You’re bigger than I remembered.

And you are a puzzling and hungry woman.

It had become dark enough that lights from Sausalito across the Bay made reflections over water. While they walked, Jay waited for him to speak, but he said nothing, as if he waited for her to make the first move.

I’m not hustling for a pimp, she said.

Is that what you think I wanted to talk about?

Who are you? What are you after?

Shadows from streetlights had begun to grow as the sun faded beyond the horizon, becoming more distinct with every passing moment. Their footsteps sounded private and close against the infrequent traffic.

I have the same questions. Among the women that night, I saw only you make a direct approach to Colfax. I’m given to understand you made good use of it.

Yeah, so? I’ve got a bedroom suite, good food and a car. It’s better than rubbing your crotch against a pole. I’m sick of that shit.

You said in the guard shack you were senior. Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t look it.

I started young. Lied about how old I was. I had no choice. It was the only thing I had to sell. She kept her purse firm over her shoulder, a hand inside.

I’m in the same business as you. Selling illusions.

"Not any more. I will get my ass out of there. I had this temp job once at a marine insurance company? Answering phone calls and what not. Then the full-time gal had her baby, her maternity leave ran out, so there I was, back at the pole. What do you sell?"

Access. I satisfy the lust of people in business. They all seek an advantage but don’t want to get their hands dirty. So I get my hands dirty on their behalf. In public, I’m an independent business consultant, and advise with analytical papers for cover. In private, I sell what they truly want. It’s known to both sides the merchandise is not legally obtainable.

They rounded a corner and headed back toward the boat slips and her car. Jay said, And for this you have to carry? She meant his handgun.

Some clients are more dangerous than others.

Have you had to use it?

Not lately.

Can you? She saw him watch her every move.

With extreme accuracy. You spoke about those who can’t shoot. I can. I’m not sure if it’s a gift or curse, but I kill what I shoot at. It is something I learned as a young man. You may close your purse. What you carry will be of no use to you in this instance. You are safe with me.

I could get used to that, Jay said.

A brief smile flashed across her face. She tried to hide it, tried to keep herself in control and cautious, but it slipped out anyway. They returned in silence to the sailboats. Mooring lines pulled creaks from timbers.

Serge drew out a small cigar. May I?

Go for it. She pointed to the boat in front of them. That’s a pretty one. She stood with her elbow on the railing. Hmm. Cutter rigged. Is she yours?

Yes. I’ve wanted one for some time. Do you know much about sailboats?

Only what I learned at the insurance company. The reflected lights from Sausalito were now more distinct over the water. For full disclosure? I have a record. A juvenile record nobody can get to. What about you?

Not in this country. But I’m not going back to Egypt anytime soon.

I’ve always wanted to go exotic places like that. Tell me about it. What happened?

I can’t tell you about Egypt because officially I was never there, and never did what I’d been assigned to do. Nevertheless, they put out a warrant for my arrest.

What were you assigned to do?

The glow of his cigar lit his face. Kill somebody.

Did you? She began searching for her car keys.

From three hundred yards. With a specialist weapon. It was an easy shot.

He escorted her to her car. Once in her seat, Jay lowered her window. Speaking of doing business together. Meetings happen at Glenn’s. I hear things.

As I had suspected. He puffed on his cigar, parsing shades of dark among the shadows.

Yup. Right there in the thick of it. So, I’m trying to make a living here. What’s it worth to you to know what they’re saying? I can get you stuff. If you pay for it.

He leaned in a degree, making a bit of laughter. You are indeed a puzzling and hungry woman. I’ll stay in touch. He patted her car and walked away.

In her bed, well before she expected Glenn home from the office, Jay Hall thought of Serge Shannon, how she’d felt him pulling at her, drawing her out. Even though she’d called him an asshole in the guard shack, it hadn’t seemed to faze him in the least.

Where else had Serge been? And what had he done in those far-off places? And why did he act like he could save her from what she could fight off herself? I have a gun. I shoot to kill. But I couldn’t defeat the buffet. Yet he had said, You are safe with me.

And she believed him. She turned over again, thinking about how courteous he’d been, a gentleman assassin with a warrant for his arrest in Egypt. And he spoke with such a calm, as if he commanded the whole thing and knew how she would react, how she would feel. Knowing something she didn’t. But she knew something too.

She tried to hide the fact he’d made Justine go away. It felt like such a relief, but he could not have known. The records had been sealed. Yet she felt such a pleasant absence that the smile came out. His self-confidence, his tone of voice had been so reassuring. You are safe with me. Like stroking a variety of fur. Oh, this is how mink feels. And this is how safe feels.

Was it a trick? Jay curled up under her sheets, staring into the dark. Should she accept what was now developing because it was better than starving in Golden Gate Park? Better than being Justine again? Think about that, sweetie. This Colfax ride won’t last forever.

She turned onto her pillows, concluding she’d found a door. A big, solid door carved out of timber that, when scratched, exuded the aroma of distant and exotic spices. And the streets of Cairo, dense with humanity. And one man on those streets, dressed as they dressed, but of such a stature he could not possibly hide among them. The glow of her phone’s screen lit her face. She stored and labeled his number.

Three

On Saturdays, Serge often strolled the farmer’s market at Ferry Plaza without regard to covert surveillance. If anyone watching him wanted to know if the Central Valley tomatoes came in fresh, fine. They came in fresh as garlic from Gilroy and the Mendocino herbs.

Upon his return, he found a length of white string tied to the front door of his townhouse across from Marina Green. He put his shopping aside and went to a tavern near Green Street and Baker. It was a short walk from the Russian consulate. He entered through the back door and stood in the hallway. The place had two-seat tables along the wall and stools at the bar.

Serge paused to study the situation. The old bartender washed glasses. A couple in a dark corner nuzzled over a candle and a bottle of Shiraz. An older man spun a tumbler of gin and spoke silent discontent. A younger man stepped out from a room in back, zipped up his pants, walked past Serge, returned to his beer at the bar where a soccer game played overhead on a small flat screen TV. Serge went to stand at the bar’s rear corner.

You wanted to see me? Serge said.

The bartender said, Constantin is under pressure to produce against Ivanovich.

So I’ve heard. How’s Marta?

Her scans are clear. The bartender wiped down the bar. She is in no danger.

And Katerina?

In labor as we speak, the bartender said.

He kept on about tending to his bar. Marta is thinking cranes for baby gifts. He paused with his rag. Con wants you at the Tea Garden. Tomorrow at 1500. About your proposed recruitment of that woman.

Serge headed toward the back. The bartender came to stand in the hallway. Sergei, the bartender said.

Serge turned to his born name. Yes?

"Golnokov might just be stooge to the vory, but Piotr Ivanovich is one dangerous vor."

Anna found that out the hard way.

Don’t get yourself killed.

That is not my intent, uncle Carl.

Serge stepped out the back, choosing not to speak to his uncle of his true intent. Constantin would hear of it, at which point Serge would be sent somewhere else, to kill someone else. Serge forced a practiced patience on himself. Breathe deep. Hold it. Wait for the shot.

Once back at his townhouse, he set about completing his summary of Jay’s utility to the Ivanovich objective. He sat in his recliner at the window overlooking Marina Green, trying to listen to unspoken words, to screams he did not wish to hear, to the sea beckoning him, to foghorns calling out the loneliness of their forced isolation.

Three years in a luxurious San Francisco townhouse had been by no means tortuous. The torture came in the nights, the memory of his most spectacular failure, a blot on his record and a tattoo on his brain. His sense of duty blinded him to the betrayal.

The screams and moans of Anna’s captors remained sharp in his memory. He had stormed through the hacienda in a furious rage, the odor of their deaths mingling on the stone floor. He could still smell it, even the stink of his sweat in the Brazilian heat.

The images too flashed through his brain in a fast-forward montage. The massive wooden doors flying past him, knocking him down, the body parts flung about the front hall, severed heads with their eyes blinking, not yet dead but dying, sucking for air like fish on a river bank.

He often entertained the fantasy of taking his rifle to a balcony across from the Russian consulate, where he would wait in the shadows for Vasili. It would be in the evening, with Vasili leaving his day job as a foreign intelligence officer of the SVR.

In the after-hours twilight, Serge would step out onto that balcony, center the crosshairs and call out: Vasili Golnokov. You are dead. Turning to his name, Vasili would meet his fate for betraying Anna to Ivanovich.

At three o’clock the next day, Serge stood in the gift shop of the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park, his report on Jay concealed in his jacket. According to their protocol, he’d buy a gift and put it in a small plastic bag. If he held the bag in his right hand, the site appeared clear. Better he clear it than risk Constantin’s exposure. Vice-Consuls and Chief Residents came as a rare lot; SVR Regional Directors, even more so.

They took their time. Serge bought a gift contained in a small cedar box and carried it out in a thin plastic bag. He slipped his report into the bag and made a slow stroll near the gift shop while Constantin pretended to shop for a souvenir. Once Serge confirmed site security, he transferred the plastic bag from left to right. Constantin then joined him under the maples.

Constantin broke their silence. Three years, Sergei. We bought you a townhouse, a beach house, your sailboat. Three years and what do I have to report? All you do is host parties and boat rides and soirees at the beach house. Given the progress to date, I am thinking to close this operation and try a different approach. It’s become embarrassing. We can do better with you back in China. Have you spoken with Xiayoi Chang?

No, sir, I have not. I don’t care to recall the China operation. Or Brazil. Serge knew better than to expect pleasantries from Constantin Yefremevich. They’re not parties. They are retreats and strategy meetings. By the way, I have clear title on the boat. Keep the houses. You will make a handsome profit when you sell them.

You’ve done well with English. No accent.

The voice coach helped. All I had to do was listen to myself. You should use your cane.

I die when I die. Have you been speaking to Marta? She’s still on my ass about that.

After a few moments of silent reflection, Serge said, I think I will just shoot the bastard. He put an index finger to his forehead. Right here. Get it over with.

Golnokov is just a stooge for Ivanovich. Don’t kill Vasili. Focus on the mission.

Moscow wants power, Serge said. I want blood.

Moscow wants control. It’s difficult when Ivanovich is shipping heavy arms out of Panama to insurgents with cash accounts. I knew it would happen.

Why not just bomb the place? It’s a clean target.

Constantin shook his head and assumed his diplomatic role. One, the presence of our military that close to America is dangerous. Two, news of the event would not be welcome in the Kremlin. Three, the Panamanian government has neither the will nor the resources to investigate what appears to be a legitimate fishing operation. Four, if we must, that will be your task.

Constantin paused to admire a tall stand of red azalea blossoms beneath the feathery canopy of a Japanese maple. He asked, Where is your Dragunov?

In my boat. She’s a very good boat.

Serge stopped, lifted his head and turned back a few degrees, as if there came to him a sound that shouldn’t be there, a snap of a twig, or footsteps too fast for a casual stroll. He reached up under his left sleeve but otherwise stood as a hunting dog on point. After a moment, he shook his head and moved on.

Anna could have shot him.

She agreed to carry no weapons into the hacienda. The guards would have found them. So I put you in the hills. She needed to be a loose woman.

She got fucked, no doubt. Golnokov, claiming a flat tire, giving her up . . . .

You did all you could to save her. But Anna is gone, Sergei. We must move on.

You don’t know that. Your report said as much.

You remain a romantic fool. Constantin chopped a hand through the air. The matter is closed. Give it up. They again began strolling in their practiced way. And you avoid the question. What do I show for three years? A few trinkets sold to petty criminals? Ivanovich, Sergei. I need Ivanovich.

It takes time to build a business reputation strangers can trust. I only need one more piece of the puzzle.

What then do you have for me?

Serge offered up his file on Jay Hall, Glenn Colfax, and Pegasys. This is my best yet. She is perfect. I have her in place and she is willing to participate.

Constantin accepted the folder. In the move, his foot slipped on a hollow in the gravel. He pulled to a stop and seemed as if he would fall. Serge caught and held his full weight. After a few steps, Constantin regained his footing. He flipped through the