"Anything you care to update us with?" asked Lindsay.

Calibrisi ignored the question.

"Come with me," said Brubaker.

Calibrisi put the phone to his ear.

"Okay, I'm hanging up and calling you back from a tactical line. Stay by the phone."

Calibrisi nodded across the table to Polk, telling him to come with him, then picked up his briefcase and followed Brubaker to the door.

85.

BOSTON HARBOR.

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS.

Boston harbor was crowded with boats on a calm, sunny July afternoon, the day before Independence Day.

In addition to hundreds of sailboats, power boats, and fishing boats, there were dozens of police boats and Coast Guard patrol boats crisscrossing the water.

Faqir putted into harbor in the middle of the afternoon.

He noticed the many law enforcement vessels. They were looking, he knew, for the trawler, unless they had somehow discovered the theft of the second boat, though he doubted it.

Besides, at this point, Faqir didn't care. He wanted to execute the plan, and then die.

As it was, he was vomiting every half hour or so. It had turned into dry heaves. He didn't want them to catch him, but if they did, whatever pain or disappointment he might've felt at the beginning of the journey wasn't there anymore. He was physically and emotionally numb with radiation poisoning.

Faqir steered the Talaria the way he imagined a wealthy American might during the summer, at the beginning of a holiday weekend. He cut straight across the water, pushing the boat in a measured way across the crowded harbor.

With the GPS on his phone, he navigated toward Revere. Past a marina filled with sailboats, he came upon an old chain-link fence that ran along the rocky, garbage-strewn waterfront. Behind the fence was an aggregates business. Piles of road salt and gravel dotted a dusty lot. Farther on, lashed to the pier, were several long, flat barges, used for hauling road salt to customers.

Faqir scanned the water for anyone who might see them, but there was no one within a quarter mile. He navigated alongside one of the barges, put the boat in neutral, and then moved to the stern and lifted a storage bin near the transom.

Inside were two nuclear devices, wrapped in a green tarp.

Faqir and the other man lifted one out of the boat, walked to the port gunnel, and lowered it to the deck of the barge.

A minute later, the Talaria was slicing smoothly through the calm water heading south.

86.

THE WHITE NIGHT.

AVENUE SVERCHKOV.

MOSCOW.

Malnikov exited the highway, then took side streets through a shabby-looking neighborhood. He parked in front of a bar.

"What are we doing?" asked Dewey.

Malnikov looked at him.

"Finding Cloud. Stay here."

"No," said Dewey. "Fuck that. What are we doing?"

"Seeing an old friend."

"Why?"

"Something I realized this morning."

"And what's that?"

"That people are fuckheads."

Malnikov reached for the door and climbed out.

"Let me do the talking," he said as they approached the front door.

The White Night was nearly empty. Behind the bar was a mirror that stretched the entire length of the room, crowded with hundreds of bottles of liquor, beer, and wine. On the walls were framed photos of famous Soviet athletes: hockey players, soccer players, great sprinters, skiers, and swimmers from past Olympics, including a large black-and-white photo of the gymnast Olga Korbut, heroine of the 1972 Munich Olympics.

There was a lone person there. He was a short bald man with a beard and mustache. He stood at the bar, leaning down, counting out stacks of bundled one-hundred-ruble banknotes. Almost the entire surface of the bar was covered in bricks of the money, like a child's table covered in blocks.

As Malnikov and Dewey entered, the man's head jerked around, along with his right arm, which held a gun, reflexively training it on them. Seeing who it was, he quickly moved the muzzle away.

"Don't shoot, Leo," said Malnikov.

"Alexei," said Tolstoy, putting the pistol back on the bar. "I'm sorry. Instincts. Who's this?"

"Nobody," said Malnikov.

He walked through the empty bar and stopped to Tolstoy's left. Dewey followed behind him and took a seat at the bar.

"Have a seat," said Tolstoy. "Would you like a drink?"

"No, thank you," said Malnikov. "We won't be long."

"You're up early."

Malnikov nodded.

"What is it?" asked Tolstoy, who went back to counting out money.

"I realized something this morning," said Malnikov.

"Yes, Alexei?" said Tolstoy.

"After my father was arrested, you said something to me."

Tolstoy turned. He reached his hand out and placed it on Malnikov's shoulder.

"I said I am sorry he was arrested," said Tolstoy. "You know I love your father."

"You said I could be next. You said I need 'leverage.' Remember?"

Tolstoy nodded, smiling nervously. He removed his hand and reached for a cup of coffee. As he did so, his eyes shot to the gun on the bar.

"I still believe that," said Tolstoy. "If something were to happen to you, we would all be affected. You know this."

Malnikov stared at Tolstoy for several moments, studying him.

"Actually, I will take that drink," said Malnikov. "Vodka."

"Yes, of course," said Tolstoy. "How about you?"

Dewey nodded.

"Whiskey."

Tolstoy stood from the barstool. With his back turned to Malnikov, he picked up the gun from the bar. He took a step, then swiveled, gun out, toward Malnikov. But Malnikov was already standing, anticipating, and his left hand grabbed Tolstoy's gun arm before it could complete its sweep.

Tolstoy yanked his arm back, trying to get free of Malnikov's clutch.

With his other hand, Malnikov reached down and grabbed his gun from the concealed holster.

Tolstoy, unable to get his gun arm free of Malnikov, thrust his leg forward, kicking Malnikov squarely in the crotch, and in the same instant Malnikov fired the Desert Eagle. The slug ripped into Tolstoy's knee, dropping him to the ground. Tolstoy howled in agony.

"Motherfucker!"

Malnikov stepped forward and drop-kicked Tolstoy beneath the chin, sending him tumbling against a barstool. He kicked him again, this time in the gut. Then he stepped calmly above him, keeping the long-barreled Desert Eagle trained on Tolstoy's head.

"Who told you to say it?" asked Malnikov.

"Why should I tell you?" groaned Tolstoy, clutching his blood-soaked knee.

Malnikov fired another round. The bullet struck Tolstoy's stomach. As Tolstoy groaned, both of his hands reached for his stomach, trying to stop the bleeding.

"I'll call an ambulance if you tell me right now," said Malnikov, the gun trained on Tolstoy's head.

"Sascha," whispered Tolstoy. "The man's name is Sascha."

Malnikov's face grew red with anger.

"Is he the one who gave you Bokolov's number?"

Tolstoy nodded.

Malnikov paused, looking down at Tolstoy, disappointment, betrayal, and hatred crossing his face.

"Where is he from?"

"Elektrostal."

Malnikov kept the gun aimed at Tolstoy. He pulled a phone from his pocket and hit a speed-dial number, calling a man named Goran, who ran operations in Elektrostal for Malnikov. As it rang, he hit the Speaker button.

"Alexei," came a groggy voice. "What time is it?"

"There's a man named Sascha," said Malnikov, staring at Tolstoy, the gun still trained on his skull. "According to Leo, he's in your city."

"There are many Saschas," said Goran, half asleep.

"He's a computer hacker."

"Yes," said Goran. "I believe I know this man. What does he look like?"

Malnikov looked at Tolstoy.

"Black hair," coughed Tolstoy. "Long. He has a ponytail."

"Yes, that's him," said Goran on speakerphone. "He likes fat girls. What do you want me to do with him?"

"Get me his address."

Malnikov hung up the cell. He kept the muzzle on Tolstoy.

"Please, Alexei," begged Tolstoy. "The ambulance."

"I to, chto ty, predatel'?" seethed Malnikov. And what did you get, traitor? "Some of the money? Some of my money!?"

Blood topped Tolstoy's lips and started dripping down his chin as he looked up at Malnikov from the floor.

"He knew everything." Tolstoy coughed through his clotted throat. "He said I would end up in the same prison as your father. I had no choice."