"Thanks."

Above the French player's shoulder, he saw a woman in a white linen pantsuit standing in the entranceway, arms crossed, staring at him.

Fairweather walked across the court to his partner.

"I gotta go."

"Can't you hold it until the break?"

"No, I have to leave. Sorry."

His partner took a deep breath.

"We're in the middle of a-"

Fairweather didn't wait to hear the end of his partner's sentence. He ran to the court exit. In the underground passageway beneath the bleachers, he dropped his racket on the ground and fell into a full-on sprint, charging out through the central clubhouse to the street. A silver Volvo station wagon was idling.

He climbed in the back, joining the woman from the court, and the car sped away.

Panting hard, he looked at her.

"What is it?"

"Moscow," the woman said, nodding to a white duffel bag on the seat. He unzipped it, finding a change of clothes. Beneath the clothing was money, a passport, and a plane ticket.

As the Volvo headed for the airport, Fairweather undressed.

"What do you know?" he asked as he pulled on a pair of dry boxers. He glanced up, catching her appraising his body.

"Tina, what do you know?" he repeated.

"It's Emergency Priority," she said, looking out the window.

Fairweather's demeanor shifted. He stared straight ahead, watching the other cars on the road, lost in thought, a cold, blank expression on his face.

A few minutes later, the Volvo pulled into Poznaawica Airport. Fairweather looked at her one more time.

"Tell me what you know. I know you know something."

"We lost five men earlier tonight."

"In Russia?"

"Yes."

"How good is the paper?"

She looked back from the window.

"It's one of Mr. Coughlin's old aliases," she whispered. "The ones he kept in the safe. Bill insisted."

58.

HOTEL EUROPA.

MINSK, BELARUS.

Alina described to Brainard, for the second time that evening, the car accident. It had happened that afternoon, in front of her office near Victory Square. An elderly woman had been struck by a taxicab, then thrown in the air. Alina had been the first person to find her, lying facedown on the sidewalk, dead.

"Miortvych," she said in Belarusian, as again tears appeared on her cheeks. "Ja by biezdapamony, Todd."

Dead. I was helpless, Todd.

You get used to it, Brainard thought to himself.

"Jos, jos," he said.

There, there.

Brainard put his hand on hers, then noticed a man seated at the bar, staring at him.

"Ja chutka viarnusi," he said, standing.

I'll be right back.

At the bar, Carter, Minsk chief of station, was having a glass of wine and reading the newspaper. Beads of sweat covered his brow. Brainard stood next to him.

"Moscow," Carter whispered. "Vernacular House. Emergency Priority."

"What's going on?"

"I don't know. Bill called and told me to get you the fuck over there."

"FSB tagged me last week," said Brainard. "I won't make it through Customs."

Carter pushed a section of the paper toward him. The edge of a white envelope was visible.

"The passport's fresh," said Carter, "and it's off grid."

"How fresh?"

"Ten minutes old. Get moving."

59.

VERNACULAR HOUSE.

MOSCOW.

Christy Braga knocked on the door to the bedroom. There was no answer.

"Johnny?"

She was holding a field trauma medical kit, housed in a large stainless steel case. She opened the door.

Maybank was lying on the bed. He stared up at her. His face was bright red. He was drenched in sweat, even though the air-conditioning was cranked up.

"We need to remove the bullet," she said.

Maybank stared at her with bloodshot eyes.

"I'll be fine," he said.

She went to the side of the bed and pulled the blanket away. The mattress beneath Maybank's leg was covered in red.

Braga opened the trauma kit. She removed an electronic thermometer and waved it across his forehead.

His fever had spiked to 104 degrees.

"You will not be fine unless we remove it."

"Fuck off," he panted, weakly pushing her away. "I need a doctor."

Braga searched through the case, finding a syringe, and filled it with oxycodone. She held it in her left hand, thumb on the end of the plunger. She removed a scalpel, forceps, suture material, and a needle, placing them on the top of the case.

"Lie back," she said soothingly.

"You're not touching me," he wheezed.

She lifted the scalpel and moved toward him. He lurched at her, she ducked, then she slammed the needle into his neck. His eyes drifted back into his head and his eyelids shut.

She placed her hand on Maybank's torso, rubbing it gently. He was breathing very rapidly, unconscious but alive.

Braga cut away Maybank's pants at the top of the thigh, above the wound. She took the scalpel and cut four small incisions in the skin near the bullet hole. She put the forceps into the bullet hole, digging down, searching for the slug. After more than a minute, she felt the hard edge of a steel object. Carefully, she gripped it with the forceps, rocked it slowly back and forth, and pulled the slug from Maybank's leg.

Braga cleaned the wound, sewed the skin back together, then wrapped the thigh in a thick bandage. Finally, she filled a syringe with antibiotics and injected it into Maybank's leg.

Braga sat on the bed next to Maybank and placed her hand on his forehead. He was still hot. His eyelids cracked open.

"Get some rest," she said. "They'll be here soon. We need you."

60.

DURHAM DRIVE.

POTOMAC, MARYLAND.

At just before three, under a blazing sun, Calibrisi's black Lincoln Town Car pulled down a quiet road lined on both sides with white horse fence and palatial homes. The car came to a set of iron gates, which parted as his driver took him closer, then moved down a long pebble-stone driveway. The driveway led in a winding arc to a massive white house that looked like a palace.

"Jesus Christ," said Calibrisi, reaching for the car door. "What a fucking eyesore."

Calibrisi walked slowly up the driveway, then climbed marble steps to a pair of ten-foot-high doors. He rang the doorbell. When the doors opened, a young blond woman in a bright yellow tennis outfit was standing there.

"Mr. Calibrisi?" she asked, smiling.

"Yes."

"Follow me. John's in back. Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

Calibrisi trailed the woman through an entrance hall and out to a stone terrace. Below was a tennis court, a swimming pool, and a rolling lawn that spread out to a white fence several hundred yards away.

John Barrows was seated in a teak chaise. He was wearing white tennis shorts and a striped polo shirt. Barrows's hair was tousled. He had a blank expression on his face. He clutched a glass of lemonade.

"Hi, John," said Calibrisi, taking a seat next to Barrows. "Sorry to interrupt your tennis match."

Barrows was one of Washington, D.C.'s most powerful attorneys. Unlike most high-profile lawyers in town, he wasn't well known, except to the select few who needed to know him.

When The Washington Post attempted to write a piece on him a few years before, Barrows succeeded in doing something even U.S. presidents had failed to do, namely, get the story killed. Barrows didn't just have influence. He had power. His clients were the substructure that underlined most criminal activity in the United States. On the one hand, the U.S. government fought him, but at the highest levels, at times like this, they worked with him. They had to.

"What is it, Hector?" said Barrows.

"Before we start, I want you to send Alexei Malnikov a text."

"Why?"

"Tell him to do a sweep of all cell phones, computers, and any other appliances that are connected to outside networks. He needs to sanitize. He'll need a good IT person."

Barrows reached for his cell phone.