Maybank lurched out and grabbed his arm, then lifted the now unconscious terrorist from the chair. Water and sweat from Al-Medi rained down on Maybank as he hoisted him up and hurled him as far as he could. Al-Medi slammed into the concrete wall, then dropped to the floor, grunting in pain. Maybank stepped toward him and kicked him in the knee. He let out a horrendous scream.

"Where is he?" Maybank asked calmly.

"Fuck you," whispered Al-Medi. He coughed, and water poured from his mouth to the floor.

Maybank booted him in the other knee, harder this time. Al-Medi screamed and moaned, then coughed out more water.

Braga stepped to Maybank, who was growing increasingly frustrated.

"Can I try?" she asked.

Maybank towered above the diminutive Braga. He nodded.

"Sure."

Braga walked to Al-Medi and stood above him.

"When did he give you the phone?" she asked matter-of-factly. "I mean, it is rather odd he would arrange for the purchase of a nuclear bomb with it, then pass it on to someone else versus, for example, disposing of it. Don't you think that's odd?"

Al-Medi said nothing. He panted, then vomited more water.

"Have you been asking yourself that question?" Braga continued. "I thought he was a famous computer hacker. Surely he'd know that anyone possessing that phone could be discovered?"

Braga paused, looked down at Al-Medi, then knelt to the ground next to his head. The terrorist looked dazed; it was difficult to tell if he was even listening.

"Alexei Malnikov paid Cloud one hundred million dollars to take the bomb off his hands," said Braga. "Did you know that?"

She saw Al-Medi clench his fingers, the first sign of anger or emotion he'd displayed.

"We were trying to guess how much he shared with you," continued Braga. "Johnny thought ten million. I guessed higher. I thought at least thirty million. Which one of us was right?"

Al-Medi shut his eyes.

"Oh, my God," she said. "He didn't share it with you, did he? He hands you a phone that he knows will get you either killed or locked up for the rest of your life, and he doesn't give you a nickel."

Al-Medi stared lifelessly at the ground.

Braga tapped her ear, triggering commo with Polk back inside Targa.

"Can I negotiate?" she whispered.

"Offer him whatever you have to."

Braga took a can of Coca-Cola from the table and opened it. She leaned down in front of Al-Medi, put her hand beneath his head, then propped him up. She tipped the can of soda toward his mouth, pouring it slowly in. Al-Medi chugged it like a dog gulping water on a hot summer afternoon.

"You help us find him," said Braga, "and we'll set you free. No strings attached. We'll also give you some money."

"How much?"

"A few million."

Al-Medi slugged down the rest of the soda until it was gone.

"I don't believe you," he whispered.

"But it needs to happen right now," continued Braga, ignoring him. "You know it and I know it. Don't be an idiot. Freedom and money or a concrete cell in a prison most people don't even know exists. And if you're one of these martyr types who think death comes quickly at the black sites, you're wrong. We don't let you die. You'll live to be a hundred, chained to a wall, inside a dark room, alone. From what I hear, it's not much fun."

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"You don't."

Braga tapped her ear, getting ready to relay the information she knew Al-Medi was about to give up.

"What do you want to know?"

"What kind of boat is it?"

"A fishing trawler. Two hundred feet long."

"What about Cloud?" she asked. "Where is he?"

"I don't know. But I know where he'll be."

19.

NATIONAL CLANDESTINE SERVICE.

OFFICE OF THE DIRECTOR.

LANGLEY.

Bond stepped into a small glass-walled office within the suite of offices reserved for the National Clandestine Service. Polk was standing inside, arms crossed, reading a sheet of paper. He looked up at Bond.

"You're going to Saint Petersburg," said Polk. "I know you haven't been to Russia in a while, but I need you running second phase line."

In NCS lingo, phase lines referred to stages of an operation. Often, one stage was predicated on the one before it either succeeding or failing. Second phase line meant Bond's part of the operation would kick in only if the first stage-Phase Line One-failed or was aborted.

"I'm ready," said Bond. "Why the phase lines?"

"We have a real problem," said Polk. "A Russian terrorist is downrange with an operation to detonate a nuclear device on U.S. soil. We're going to try and capture him in Moscow. If that part of the mission fails, you go live. This guy's girlfriend is in Saint Petersburg. Phase Line Two is a hostile extract. It's a two-man team, you're running the in-theater."

"Why are you being so cryptic?"

"The bomb is on its way to the United States."

"Can't we blockade?"

Polk shook his head.

"The coast is too big. Navy could maybe shut down two or three cities, but they'll know that. We have one shot here. We have to catch him."

"Who is he?"

Polk looked at Bond, then through the glass.

"Cloud? Who is he? That's the scariest part of all. We don't know."

Bond was silent. He glanced around the office, looking out through the glass. Across the hallway, he saw Dewey talking with someone, holding a bag of ice to his eye.

"I need to know who you want with you."

Bond looked at Polk, pausing for a few moments.

"Dewey," said Bond.

Polk was motionless. He waited, thinking about his response.

"Dewey can be very charismatic, Pete," said Polk. "A lot of guys have asked to be teamed with him. But in Iguala he froze up on a relatively minor project. He shouldn't be running ops right now."

"He froze in Mexico, but six hours later he almost killed the top-ranked amateur MMA fighter in the U.S. He's ready. Trust me."

"You cannot afford a second of doubt if Moscow somehow goes south and Saint Pete goes live," said Polk. "At that point, the extraction of his girlfriend is all we have left before this nuclear bomb hits our shores. They're calling this thing nine/twelve if we don't stop it. Books will be written about the decisions we make this day. Do you understand that?"

"You asked me who I want," said Bond. "I'll work with whoever you put me with, but I want Dewey. Either put him with me or don't. But don't lecture me about what's going to happen if things get fucked up. I've been there, and if it's my choice, I want him next to me. You're the one who taught me 'trust your gut.'"

Polk smiled.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to imply that I am as close to the ground as you. But I've seen an operation or two. Your loyalty is admirable, but I think it's going to be Joe I send over with you."

"Why the fuck did you even ask me?" asked Bond.

Polk was silent.

"All right, fine," said Polk, glancing at his watch. "You're an argumentative son of a bitch, you know that? I'll think about it."

20.

BUTIKOVSKY PEREULOK.

KHAMOVNIKI DISTRICT.

MOSCOW.

The lobby of the apartment building was minimalist, elegant, and quiet. Its walls were paneled in walnut, with large, abstract geometric works of art. There was a pair of chandeliers in leaded crystal and a floor of rare white marble streaked with turquoise.

Two big men dressed in dark suits stood behind a security desk. They were both active-duty GRU, highly trained agents adept at close-quarters combat, face-to-face self-defense, and human intelligence. Russia protected its important citizens, especially the famous ones.

A soft chime told the guards that someone was at the steel-gated front entrance. On a video monitor behind the desk, one of the guards studied the man's face.

"It is Mr. Vargarin," he said.

The other guard pressed a button, unlatching the gate and allowing the visitor to come inside the building.

Cloud stepped through the front door. In one hand he held a bouquet of red chrysanthemums wrapped in silver foil and tied with a white ribbon. In the other was a small wooden box. Cloud smiled politely as he approached the security desk.

"Hello, Jonas, Mikhail," he said. "How are you?"

"Very well, Mr. Vargarin," said one of the men, grinning. "Are those flowers for us?"

"I'm afraid not," said Cloud, laughing.

The transformation in his appearance was shocking. Other than the sharpness of his eyes, he was an entirely different person from the creature who strong-armed the most powerful mobster in Russia into handing him a nuclear bomb. Cloud's hair was no longer a mop of blond curls. Rather, it was straight, combed neatly down the middle, and slicked back. He had on a white button-down shirt beneath a plaid blazer, khakis, and brown wingtips. He looked stylish, immaculate, and worldly.

Cloud had learned long ago how to use his appearance to his advantage. It was the fulcrum upon which his outward identity pivoted; one day a gentle-looking, exotically handsome man of culture, the next a scrawny outcast with hints of drug addiction and dark powers.

In theory, the guards at the Margaux were trained to profile all manner of potential security threats, the most important being possible kidnappers or terrorists. But they were oblivious of Cloud's true nature.

Cloud put the wooden box on top of the desk.

"We don't need to inspect it," said one, waving his hand. "We trust you."

"It's a gift for the two of you for all you do to protect Katya."

One of the guards opened the box. Inside were two nondescript bottles.

"You like vodka, yes?" asked Cloud.

"Of course."

"This is vodka from the personal collection of Nikita Khrushchev."

The guard on the right lifted a bottle and inspected it. The glass was a bluish-green hue and looked as if it had been blown by hand.

"Mr. Vargarin," he said. "I cannot-"

"Please," said Cloud. "I personally don't like to drink anything stronger than tea. I brought one for each of you."