"What you have here," said the merchant, "is a gemstone called alexandrite, quite rare. Named for Tsar Alexander II when it was first discovered in the Ural Mountains in Russia. When this stone is cut, it will be of green color during the day and red at night. Green and red, the colors of Russian royalty. You see? Some consider it the national stone of Russia. They are quite beautiful when finished properly."

"What else can you tell us about it?" Wally asked, starting to get excited-it felt like her search really was beginning.

"They are produced by small output mines mostly, and often the stones from a particular mine will have a signature composition. There is a barely noticeable thread of amber color through this stone. If I am correct, it is from the Lemya Mine, closed now for over twenty years. I am quite sure there have been no Lemya stones on the open market for almost that long, which is unusual," he said. "Very unusual."

"So it's valuable?" asked Wally.

"Yes. I would be happy to take this stone off your hands."

"How valuable, exactly?" asked Jake, obviously surprised. His skepticism about the contents of the Brighton Beach envelope had made him a.s.sume that the stone would be worthless.

The merchant leaned against his counter, rubbing his beard, thinking. He went to a laptop computer at the back counter and typed in some inquiries, his eyes searching the results, then returned to Wally.

"One thousand dollars per carat," he said. "Eight thousand."

Eight thousand dollars! Tevin, Ella, and Jake shot each other secret, excited looks, barely able to contain themselves. Ella swallowed a squeal before it reached her lips.

For her part, Wally wasn't really thinking about the impressive dollar number. She hesitated, wondering if selling the stone would be some sort of betrayal. Wally had just received this gift from her mother ... was she really supposed to just let it go?

Tevin leaned in close, gently gripping Wally's arm. It felt good to have him there, the warmth of his presence beside her. She felt less alone with her decision.

"Whatever you think is right," he said. "But she wanted you to use it, I think, and you'll need money to find her."

Wally thought about this, and reluctantly agreed. She turned back to the jeweler.

"And you'll write down what you know about the alexandrite for me?" Wally asked. Now the jeweler beamed, giving Wally a gratified smile as she exhibited interest in the stone beyond its monetary value.

"Well done," he said. "Yes. I will write it down."

They made the swap, gemstone for cash. The payment was in hundred-dollar notes, and the crew stared wide-eyed at the growing stack of clean new bills as the broker casually dealt them like cards from a deck. For a business transaction of this size, the dealer needed information about Wally, the seller. All of the appropriate paperwork was completed in short order; the merchant jotted down several details about the stone on his shop's letterhead estimate form, and Wally pocketed the note along with the cash. Finally, the jeweler held out his hand for Wally to take.

"I am Isaac Hamlisch," he said.

"Thank you, Mr. Hamlisch," said Wally, feeling good as she shook the man's hand.

"You're welcome, miss," he answered, not even bothering to verify the name Wally had entered on the provenance forms in front of him.

"And a good day to you, sir," Ella added, affecting her aristocratic tone and giving Hamlisch a curtsy.

Isaac Hamlisch gave Ella a gracious bow of his head, and the four youths exited the shop.

Isaac Hamlisch watched after the four kids as they reached the sidewalk and burst into a victory dance, all of them together jumping up and down with delight, their cheers loud enough to reach him inside the shop.

Isaac smiled, happy to make them happy, and then sat down in front of his laptop computer. He opened his Internet browser and went directly to an international gemstone exchange site, where he entered his user name and pa.s.sword. He clicked over to the open market page and began entering the exact description of his new offering. The gem's recent provenance was listed as "private family estate." With some further research on the site, Isaac confirmed the amber markings within the stone's crystal as characteristic of the Lemya Mine, a small placer mining operation in the northern Ural Mountains-long since closed-and Isaac added that information to the stone's description.

Within milliseconds, all this information would be officially posted on the exchange site, where the stone would appear as "offered for sale or exchange" to thousands of brokers, all over the world.

FIVE.

Five hours out of Krasnoyarsk, it had been more than a hundred miles since Tiger had seen any sign of human life. The stolen Benz kept good purchase on the icy road, steam bellowing from its exhaust as it consumed the distance at a hundred and twenty klicks. The gray glow of predawn produced just enough light to reveal an endless landscape of featureless permafrost on either side of the two-lane road. When the sun finally did rise, it would hover low over the horizon for no more than three hours before yielding again the leaden darkness of Siberian winter.

Tiger saw a hint of the compound in the far distance. It was almost time. He wondered if Klesko would even know him, nearly twelve years gone by. He flipped down the sun visor and regarded himself in the small vanity mirror. Seventeen years old only but with the look of a grown man, his maturity and strength already had been proved countless times on the streets of Piter. His eyes were the same deep gray as they had always been, of course, and his thick black hair poured down to his shoulders, just as he had worn it as a child. Klesko would know him ... if Klesko still knew himself. Twelve years in ITK-61 was a long time to count, and any man could lose his mind in that boundless, frigid abyss.

Half a klick away from the compound, Tiger slowed the Benz and approached at a non-threatening pace. ITK-61 consisted of two cell blocks-one completely empty and dark now-a guardhouse, and two towers. There had once been a stone wall surrounding the compound, but that had largely been eroded by the elements. Three layers of razor wire fence served as the perimeter, but the condemned men within were imprisoned by something far more forbidding: three hundred miles of icy, desolate wilderness and, beyond that, a world that no longer had any place for them. Tiger knew there were only eight surviving prisoners, all at least thirty years older than Klesko, and six resident guards who certainly had been a.s.signed there as punishment.

Tiger pulled to a stop outside the front gate and got out of the car, leaving the engine running. An armed guard inside the wire had stepped to the gate and waited there, his eyes never leaving the young visitor but his gun still holstered. Tiger pulled on his heavy leather car coat as he approached.

"Klesko," he said.

The guard considered the request and waited. Tiger produced a thick wad of bills from the chest pocket of his coat, American dollars, and pa.s.sed them through the wire. The guard took the bills and clumsily shuffled through them with his gloved hands, counting. He turned and disappeared into the nearest cell block, emerging a minute later with the prisoner, urging the shuffling man along with a swift, painful boot to his hamstrings.

At the first sight of Klesko, Tiger's heart sank. Time, isolation, and brutal confinement had taken their toll on the man, looking as if he had aged two years for every one on the calendar. Gray beard, face creased by exposure and hardship. Klesko had his bed blankets wrapped around him against the bitter cold. On his feet he wore a ragged pair of old boots, three sizes too large, with several layers of rags underneath, wound around his feet in lieu of socks. His breathing seemed labored, uneven.

All at once, Tiger was unsure of his plan, unsure whether he should have come at all. The stories he had heard about Klesko depicted a man of supreme strength and determination, a man who would rather die than give an inch of ground. Stories of fighting his way up through the ranks in Piter and holding point on border runs into Bulgaria and Slovenia, striking fear into the hearts of the local militia. Where was that man now? Everything about this Alexei Klesko-the one standing before him now-seemed defeated.

Klesko raised his eyes and stared through the razor wire perimeter. There was a long moment without recognition at first; then it came upon him, his eyes darting over Tiger's features, cataloging and comparing, testing them against an image in his mind of the boy, five years old. Twelve years gone.

"Tigr ..."

Tiger just nodded.

Klesko stood silent and motionless, his eyes still studying the young man before him. His mind raced with questions, with possibilities. With the guard still hovering nearby, the two men spoke in English.

"How much did he take?" Klesko asked. "The guard."

"Five hundred, U.S.," answered Tiger.

Klesko snorted his disgust. "Hooi morzhoviy," he spat the curse.

Tiger could see something emerging behind the man's eyes now, a flicker of life as his mind began to work again. Klesko's back even straightened-just a little-as his eyes scanned the yard around him.

"A stone has surfaced," said Tiger, feeling proud that he could bring this news and wanting Klesko to feel that pride in him also. He watched for Klesko's reaction and was not disappointed; the man's eyes locked on him now, intensely, searching for confirmation that the news was true.

Tiger nodded. It was true.

Klesko was quiet for a moment, and Tiger realized that he was calming himself, controlling his excitement. The moment was everything Tiger had hoped for.

"One only?" Klesko asked with outward calm.

"One," answered Tiger. "In America."

Klesko nodded, absorbing the information.

"These stones," he said, "they are a legacy, yes?"

"Da."

"For you. They belong to you. Understand?"

"Yes," Tiger agreed. "They are mine."

Klesko studied Tiger, as if looking for a sign of something. Resolve? Rage?

"You deserve less?" Klesko asked. "Less than what is yours?"

"No."

Klesko nodded, still unsure. "You have papers?"

"Yes," Tiger answered. "Arrangements have been made."

"Money?" asked Klesko.

"Some."

Klesko nodded.

"Good," he said, meeting Tiger's eyes once more before turning and walking away from the wire. Tiger turned away as well, as if returning to his car, but after a few steps he suddenly turned back toward the perimeter and in a flash his hand was out of his coat pocket, holding a gun. He hurled the weapon into a high arc over the razor wire barriers. Klesko looked up and saw the gun tumbling toward him through the cold air, a beautiful new Pernach.

Klesko threw off his blankets and reached out his hand, finding the grip of the machine pistol in mid-air. He spun toward the stunned guard and within a fraction of a second the Pernach's automatic blasts ripped through the man's throat, decapitating him. Klesko saw the gate guard turn and move toward him, the terrified man now flailing for the sidearm that he had probably not removed from its holster in five years. The delay was fatal; Klesko fired on him, spraying a lethal auto-blast of bullets across the guard's chest.

Just that quickly, Tiger's doubts were answered. The Alexei Klesko of legend-of Tiger's boyhood dreams-had been a dormant spirit all these years, laying low and feigning defeat, waiting for an opportunity to emerge again. Now he was back. Tiger's heart thrummed as he watched Klesko rip a key chain free from the guard's belt and step calmly to the front gate. Klesko used the key to trip the locks and then kicked loose the latch on the counterweight. The weight dropped, drawing down on the pulley and swinging the prison's main gate wide open.

In an instant Tiger was inside the compound, a machine pistol in each hand. Even at his young age, he had already been a street soldier with the Dobriks for years, and he was well prepared for this moment. He charged toward the guardhouse, where two more guards had just emerged, scrambling to lock and load their weapons. Tiger cut them down.

Four dead. Two more guards remained.

Machine gun fire erupted from the nearest tower, strafing the ground at their feet as Klesko and Tiger sought cover behind the corner of the guardhouse.

"Cover," Klesko said-speaking in Russian now-and dashed alone out into the open yard.

Tiger covered Klesko's move by blasting the tower with automatic rounds. Klesko reached the opposite side of the yard, where the prison trucks were parked, and jumped behind the wheel of the nearest vehicle. He cranked the starter but it sputtered, resisting. Now gunfire hit the truck from above, and the bullets ripped down through the roof of the cab in a line, ending with one round tearing into the outside of Klesko's thigh. He growled in pain but continued working the starter until the truck's engine finally roared to life. Klesko immediately threw the gearbox into reverse and slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The truck raced backward, crashing into the tower's support legs with a loud crack! The legs bent under the weight of the tower shed, and within seconds the tower reeled and toppled onto the yard with a thunderous crunch, blasting apart and spilling the two remaining guards onto the icy ground, their bodies now broken. They tried to crawl for cover but Tiger was already poised over them with his guns freshly loaded. With a final auto-blast from Tiger's weapons, the last of the guards were dead.

Klesko retrieved a set of keys from one of the fallen guards and turned away from the carnage, ignoring his own b.l.o.o.d.y bullet wound as he limped across the yard, Tiger staying with him as Klesko entered his old cell block. They opened the cell of Dal Yaminski, enemy of the state, thirty-year resident of ITK-61 and, other than Klesko, the youngest of the inmates.

Yaminski put up no resistance as Klesko herded him out into the pa.s.sage and into Klesko's own cell. Tiger was shocked at the sight of the s.p.a.ce, filthy and cramped and hopeless, only a few spare boards nailed over the open window to fight back the fierce cold. Years spent here would be a living h.e.l.l; Tiger wondered what kind of damage the experience would do to a man, what kind of father he had been left with.

Klesko shoved Yaminski down onto the rotten old mattress on the floor and, without hesitation, shot the man between the eyes.

Tiger understood. When the prison officials arrived later, Klesko wanted them to find a body in his cell, preferably one that would be difficult to identify. Tiger pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the mattress in several places. Within seconds the flames began to consume the corpse.

Tiger and Klesko departed the cell and moved through the rest of the block, opening all the doors to release the remaining prisoners. Most hesitated to leave their cells, clearly afraid. Tiger hoped they would eventually begin to disperse from the prison grounds, further confusing the work of the territorial police when they eventually arrived on the scene.

"Not men anymore," Klesko said to Tiger, shaking his head in disgust. Tiger saw Klesko lose focus for a moment, as if forgetting the job at hand. The man's eyes drifted past the fence, to the empty, frozen wasteland beyond.

"Too long in here," Tiger said, his words bringing Klesko's attention back. "They can't imagine freedom."

"Da," Klesko said, then barked, "Move or burn!" He waved his gun in the direction of the prisoners; as smoke from the mattress fire began to fill the block, even the most feeble of them began to run outside and scatter.

Tiger and Klesko left the cell block behind them and walked calmly out through the open prison gate. They slid into Tiger's waiting car-its engine still running-and drove away, Tiger steering them westward along the barren, icy road. The sight of ITK-61 retreated behind them, a column of black smoke rising up into the sky as Klesko's old cell block began to burn in earnest.

"You are ready?" Klesko asked Tiger as they raced onward.

They were headed for a landing strip near the sh.o.r.e of the Kara Sea and from there, in a matter of days, to America.

"Da, otyets," answered Tiger. Yes, Father.

SIX.

It was just after six in the evening when Detective Atley Greer arrived at the Central Park West address where Claire Stoneman-apparently a high-end real estate agent-was showing one of her properties. A doorman escorted Atley to a private elevator, swiping his security card to allow Atley access. The elevator climbed thirty floors in eerie silence, finally opening onto the plush, carpeted entranceway of the building's penthouse apartment. Atley found Claire Stoneman there, looking different than she had at their first meeting, seven days earlier. She seemed very professional and well put together now, dressed in an expensive blue-black suit, her hair recently coiffed, stylish but conservative.

Her look matched the setting perfectly: a ten-thousand-square-foot penthouse apartment, directly overlooking Central Park. The floors were dark bamboo parquet, waxed and polished to a rich, exotic gleam. The great room was two stories high, its outside wall made entirely of gla.s.s, stretching from floor to ceiling, offering a clear panoramic view of Central Park. Atley had wondered how Claire Stoneman-a single mother-could afford the affluent lifestyle he had observed at her own apartment, and now he understood: the realtor's commission on a topflight property like this one would be huge.

"Thank you for meeting me here, Detective Greer," Claire said as she stepped forward to shake his hand. "I've already had four clients to see this home today, and I haven't been able to get away once."

"No problem," said Atley. Claire took a deep breath and steeled herself, out of habit. "You have some news. ..."

"Just an update," said Atley. "It's a week since we found the victim in Riverside Park. We've identified her as Sophia Manetti. Does that name mean anything to you?"

"I'm afraid not. I never met any of Wally's friends-if that's what the girl was-so whether or not they knew each other, I couldn't say."

"So far, we don't have much on her," said Atley. "She was a habitual drug user-a long record of arrests for methamphetamine-but we don't have much else to go on at this point. Her autopsy revealed scars and broken bones that had healed on their own, over a long period of time. The result of serious abuse from an early age. Unfortunately, this is common among the street kids."

"Are you going to ask me if Wally was abused, Detective?"

"No. I'm confident that's not the situation with her."

Claire gave him the slightest nod as a gesture of thanks.

"The girl was frequently seen in the company of your daughter," Atley went on. "Up until several weeks ago, that is, but lately Sophia had been on her own. I made an effort to contact Wallis, in case she might have some information. She called me once, last Thursday, and left a message on my cell phone."

Atley saw Claire's ears p.r.i.c.k up at this news, and suddenly he was regretful that he didn't have more to tell her about her daughter.

"But she hasn't contacted me beyond that," he continued. "I can tell you that she sounded completely fine in her voice message. I've waited for her to call me again, but to be frank ... I doubt reaching out to a cop will rank high on her priority list."

"How did you locate her, Detective?"