Ivan's echoing laughter stopped everyone in their tracks, even those who were too stoned or too ignorant to know who he was.

10.

I'm afraid I'm not following you." Colonel Korsolov massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers. The assassination of the head of the FSB, now a double murder. This night was one for the homicide books.

"It may be nothing," Pankin said. "But there are other reasons two men would meet at night under a Moscow bridge where no security camera would record the meeting."

"Such as?"

"Sir, these men weren't simply murdered. One shot each to the head. They were executed."

Korsolov peered darkly at his captain. "If you have a point, make it."

"Homosexuals would meet out of sight under this bridge at night, true," Pankin said. "But so would spies."

Korsolov looked from the two victims back to Pankin, then he snorted. "Captain, you've been reading too many American thrillers. You have no proof-not even a clue, is that correct?"

"Except for the manner of their murders."

Korsolov waved away his words. His mind was wholly occupied with General Karpov's garroting, which had not yet been made public even among the FSB rank-and-file, as well as with the wild card he had been dealt. He wouldn't wish Bourne on his worst enemy, but there he was, in Korsolov's face, like a hyperactive kid too damn smart for his own good.

"That isn't a clue," Korsolov said sourly, "that's extrapolation, Captain." He handed back the passports. "I urge you to reign in your flights of fancy."

"Yes, sir," Pankin said. "But here's the thing. We found no murder weapon. Further, we found no shell casings."

Korsolov shrugged. "So our murderer was careful. The American military call it 'policing your brass.' Have your people dredge the river here. Maybe our killer threw the pistol away." He looked out at the scimitars of moonlight on the Moskva. "That's what I would do."

Pankin gave the order, which sent his men scurrying to comply, then turned back to his boss. "Sir, I don't think this was a homosexual killing. As long as I'm here I'd like your permission to nose around a bit more."

"Jesus, Captain, you are one stubborn sonuvabitch," Korsolov said as he stalked away.

"That's what makes me a good detective."

Korsolov snorted again, but lifted a hand as if in salute. "As long as you're at your desk at nine this morning, knock yourself out."

- Three FSB agents were in the official Skoda SUV, two on either side of Irina in the backseat and the driver up front. As the vehicle lumbered through the Moscow night, Irina closed her eyes and took ten Zen breaths-sucking air deep into the bottom of her lungs through her nose, out again through her partly open mouth, completely deflating her lungs. When she opened her eyes she saw the FSB agent on her left staring down her cleavage. She arched her back slowly as if stretching, and his eyes almost popped out of his head. If there was one thing she had learned as a child it was how perfectly mesmerized men became with her female form, no matter how young. She could have been victimized-in fact, she had been victimized, multiple times-but eventually she had learned to put her degrading lessons to good use. She became stronger, smarter, more wily than any man she had ever had dealings with as an adult. Once she engaged a man's primitive lizard brain the rest just flowed toward her like liquid gold. She got what she wanted, and often more. That was her life-perhaps every beautiful woman's life-if they had the presence of mind, the will, the inner strength, the courage to reach out and grasp it.

She slammed her elbow into the left-hand agent's nose, at the vulnerable place where it met the upper lip, so rich with nerve endings. Blood spurted, the agent grabbed his nose, his eyes watering in pain, but Irina was too busy to notice. As she had been taught in martial arts classes, she had pinched the aortic carotid of the agent on her right, stopping the blood flow from his heart to his brain. The agent tried to swipe at her, but there was waning strength in his left arm, and she batted it away without trouble. He was reaching for his handgun when his eyes rolled up in his head and he pitched forward, slamming his forehead against the back of the front seat.

By this time, the driver, with one hand on the wheel, had his own pistol out, but Irina, leaning forward, slapped both palms against his ears with such force he almost blacked out. Taking his pistol from him was a snap. Now she held it against his temple, giving him instructions on where she wanted him to take her and by what route.

Fifteen minutes later, she told him to pull into the curb adjacent to a burned-out building. The street was deserted; the streetlights were blown out. A shadowed night had fallen over the block and its surroundings. Dogs barked, a gun was fired, followed by raucous laughter. High-decibel music shot out of an open window like water from a fire hose.

The driver licked his lips. "You sure you want to get out here?"

Irina clubbed him behind the ear with the butt of the handgun, and he fell sideways, insensate. She leaned across one of the unconscious agents, opened the door, then kicked him into the curb.

Stepping out onto the agent's broad back, she looked around, breathing in the soot and ashes that identified the block. Glass shards littered the sidewalk, garbage skittered everywhere, fetching against piles of dog shit. She had been here before many times, years ago. She had been taken into this building, now a rancid shell of its former self, just like the block. Her nostrils flared. Funny how strong some memories were. She could still smell the sweat, tobacco, liquor, and fine Italian leather that in her mind were associated with her uncle. At once overcome, she turned, gagging, and vomited onto the FSB agent sprawled in the gutter. Damn her uncle to hell, she thought as she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. The acrid taste of bile was in her mouth, along with the memory-taste of what her uncle spewed down her throat. His big hand pressing like a vise on the top of her head, so powerful, but for an instant trembling as he cried out. And then the hand pushing her roughly away into a shadowed corner of the empty apartment in the building he owned. Then him near her again, his rasping voice in her ear: "This is your fault, understand? If you weren't so damned pretty..." Breathing heavily, like an overheated engine. "If you tell anyone, your shame will be the death of you."

Irina looked into the interior of the Skoda. She knew she should kill these men; they were like the green-headed flies of high summer that would not give up trying to bite you until you brought the hammer down, flattening them. But there was another way, a better way.

She could feel them all around: the eyes watching her. Petty thieves, local drug dealers, the indigent, the long-suffering, all holding a grudge against the system that reveled in grinding down the have-nots to little nubs, shadows on a graffitied wall. She wondered what they made of her in her fabulous low-cut dress and satin fuck-me heels. Holding a handgun at her side. It didn't matter. She wasn't afraid. Why should she be? Like all predators they could smell what she really was, the wildness inside her. Despite her moneyed background she had more in common with them than she had with Colonel Korsolov's federal minions.

"Vs puchkm!" she yelled. It's all good. "They're FSB motherfuckers, boys!" Her voice echoed hollowly. But she knew they heard her, were listening with every fiber of their being, as she would have done had she been in their place. "There's a treasure trove inside this Skoda and no one to stop you." And then to herself, "Happy May Day, you poor shits."

As Irina strode swiftly down the block, she heard their furtive scurrying, like hungry rats awakening from a troubled slumber. Before she had reached the cross street, they had surrounded the Skoda, were picking clean the three unconscious agents, tearing and rending, stomping and kicking as they cursed through gritted teeth. At last, the sweet revenge of the underclass!

Irina continued on her way, leaving her memories behind with the new wave of violence. She felt free, redeemed, defiant. And why not? She knew precisely where she was going.

11.

Svetlana awoke to see Misha's pale, handsome face looming anxiously above her.

"Where-?" She winced at the pain in her jaw. Her head throbbed. It felt like it was three times its normal size.

"You're in the hospital," her brother said. "You were drunk, you stumbled and fell in the hotel room. Luckily, one of Colonel Korsolov's men found you."

"Yes. Lucky," she managed to get out, not without considerable pain. Then full consciousness overwhelmed her. She stared up at Misha with bloodshot eyes. "Boris," she whispered, her voice tremulous and reedy. "He's dead, isn't he?"

"Oh, Lana, I'm so sorry."

She squeezed her eyes closed. Even that caused her pain, or maybe it was the blood pulsing in her temples. Good God, she thought, how could so much go so wrong so quickly?

"Lana-"

"Don't," she said sharply. "Don't even."

Silence. Just the inhuman breathing that filled all hospital rooms, along with the sickly sweet smell of sickness, old age, and the aftermath of operations.

She opened her eyes. They were enlarged, filled with tears that welled up and cascaded down the sides of her face. Misha popped a tissue out of a box and wiped her eyes. She wanted to tell him to stop, but she lacked the strength. Or perhaps it was real desire. She loved Misha-despite everything.

"I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"You had cause." Misha balled up the damp tissue and threw it into a plastic can. Everything in the room seemed to be made of plastic. He cleared his throat. "Nevertheless, Lana, I am genuinely sorry. I know you loved him."

The ghost of a half smile lifted one side of her mouth, all she was capable of at the moment. "You never understood that, did you?"

"Considering who he was-"

"He was Boris Illyich Karpov, Misha. You mean what he was."

Misha nodded. "All right."

"You never knew him so you don't get to judge him, especially now."

"I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that. For God's sake."

"What do you want me to say, then?"

"Where's Mama and Papa?"

"Downstairs. Mama's in tears, of course. And Papa's pacing a hole in the linoleum. Still, I thought it better I came up to see you first, in case..." His voice drifted off into a kind of darkness Svetlana recognized.

"In case I was unfit to be seen, yes?"

He hesitated, but her eyes bored into his and, as usual, he acquiesced to his sister in warrior mode. He nodded. "I didn't know how badly you were hurt in the fall."

"I didn't fall, Misha."

"What? But we were told-"

"Since when do you believe what you're told by government goons?"

"But at your wedding... I mean, there was no reason to lie. Was there?"

"Don't be a fool. From their perspective, there's always a reason to lie."

He perched on the edge of her bed so he could be closer to her. "Tell me, then."

She licked her lips. "Water, please."

He filled a plastic cup from the plastic pitcher, pressed a button for the top half of the bed to lift her up. When she'd drained the cup, he said, "More?" She shook her head, winced again, and he took the cup from her, put it aside. "Now."

She closed her eyes again for a moment. She felt dizzy, the room was spinning, and she was falling, her stomach seeming to rise up into her throat so that she was certain she was going to vomit. She popped open her eyes, Misha saw her distress at once.

"Lana." His hand on her forehead, smoothing back tendrils of hair, soothing her, cooling her as it had when, as a little girl, she'd come down with a fever. Then he'd stay with her, tell her stories so goofy they'd make her laugh, no matter how ill she was. Now, looking at him, she wondered if he would have rather been out playing ball or running with his pals during her confinements, and a wave of tenderness she hadn't felt for him in many years overcame her.

"Misha." She took his free hand in hers. "I love you."

And there was that smile she had come to rely on all through her girlhood, radiating out, encompassing her, making her feel everything would be all right. But it wasn't all right-not now, maybe never. With Boris gone, everything changed. Everything had turned to ash. Boris had been their last, best hope, and now he was gone. Still, she wasn't powerless; she had made sure of that.

Misha leaned over, kissed her carefully on both cheeks. When he drew back, he said, "Lana, what happened to you? Please tell me."

She shook her head, though pain shot down her neck. "Absolutely not. Misha, you're the golden boy, the chosen one of the family. Papa counts on you as heir to the business. You must remain innocent-beyond reproach."

He shook his head. "I don't understand. What has that to do with-"

"I'm the black sheep of the family, Misha. The less you know about my life the better."

"Lana." He took her hand in both of his. "Don't do this to me. Don't shut me out."

"I'm protecting you, Misha."

"You've always protected me," he said with the kind of gratitude tinged with regret. "But this... I mean if it's true it wasn't an accident, I absolutely have to know. I'm your brother. You must tell me what happened. I know you won't tell Mama and Papa."

"Misha..."

"Please."

So she did. She told him how Lieutenant Avilov had held her captive, provoked her, at last told her what had happened to Boris. "Then he took me by force," she said.

"He... Lana, he raped you?"

"You should see what I did to his face," she said grimly. "No, I take that back. I don't want you anywhere near that pig. He's far too dangerous-for you, toxic."

"Bljkha-mkha!"

Svetlana tried to smile. Even his curses were G-rated. "My face will heal. I'll be fine," she said. "He's going to need plastic surgery to be able to look at himself in the mirror."

"Good for you." A wan smile flickered across Misha's face, was quickly replaced by his look of concern. "But, Lana, he raped you. Say the word and Papa will press charges."

"I'm not going to press charges, Misha."

He reared back. "What?"

Svetlana gingerly touched her wounded jaw and cheek with the tips of her fingers. "Avilov works for Timur Savasin."

"The first minister." Misha's face had drained of blood.

Svetlana nodded. "The first minister."

"It doesn't matter." Misha seemed to have recovered his equilibrium. "It doesn't matter who he works for, he can't-"

"You see, Misha, this is why I didn't want to tell you. You know nothing of this kind of business."

"I'll explain the situation to Papa. I-"

"No!" She gripped his hand, her nails making white crescents in his palm. "I forbid it. Misha, do you hear me? You'll tell Papa nothing of this. You'll go back to work and do nothing." Her eyes searched his. "Promise me."

Misha hesitated, then nodded. "All right."