Tacoma looked at one of the two men in the room.

  “Take everything off. Remove the gag,” said Tacoma to one of the men.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything,” said Tacoma. “And tell the guys behind the glass to shut off the cameras.”

  Tacoma watched, pacing from the other side of the big interrogation chamber as the guards approached the big Russian. Slokavich coughed after the ball gag was out of his mouth and then leaned down pathetically, rubbing his wrists. It took him only a few seconds to acclimate and then become operational. He looked at Tacoma with a savage stare.

  “Leave us alone,” said Tacoma.

  “Yes, sir,” said one of the men.

  The two CIA agents left the interrogation room.

  Tacoma looked at the prisoner.

  “Hi,” said Tacoma enthusiastically. “I’ll be your host for the next few minutes. So just sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight. You might want to buckle up. I hear there might be a little turbulence.”

  “Chego ty khochesh?” said Slokavich in Russian.

  What do you want?”

  “Kto poslal tebya?” said Tacoma.

  Who sent you?

  “You may as well lock me back up,” said Slokavich. “Chain me up this time. That was a big mistake. I could’ve gotten out of here.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Tacoma. “I’m sure you could’ve. Thanks for not taking advantage of us, Slokavich.”

  The Russian looked momentarily surprised by the sound of his name.

  Tacoma registered Slokavich’s reaction to his name being said aloud. Tacoma’s hands moved to his side as he stepped into the heart of the room, in front of the Russian. He saw Slokavich’s eyes study Tacoma’s legs and arms.

  “Why’d you unlock me?” said Slokavich.

  “I’m establishing trust,” said Tacoma. “I need answers. You want to live? Start talking. Who sent you? Who was the woman?”

  “What woman?” spat Slokavich as he glanced desperately around the interrogation chamber.

  “The woman whose arm I almost tore off when I was beating the shit out of you two,” said Tacoma.

  Without any sign, the Russian suddenly charged at Tacoma, running at him despite the injured leg, collapsing the space between them. Slokavich raised his good hand and swung for Tacoma’s head.

  Tacoma looked surprised, then ducked and slashed his foot violently and low, catching the charging Russian in the knee, collapsing it. The Russian tumbled to the ground, headfirst, an awkward tumble, moaning in pain.

  “Get up, Slokavich,” said Tacoma.

  Slowly, the Russian stood, and as he did he swung at Tacoma again, fist cutting the air before Tacoma’s face, but Tacoma leaned back. He let Slokavich’s fist breeze by his face, then met the Russian’s forward momentum with a sharp fist to the chin, breaking his jaw, the snap of bone audible. Slokavich fell as blood coursed from his mouth.

  Tacoma stood above him.

  “I said, who sent you?”

  Slokavich was on the ground, his mouth gushing blood.

  “It only gets worse,” said Tacoma.

  “Go ahead and kill me,” said Slokavich. “I won’t tell you a fucking thing.”

  “Tough guy,” said Tacoma.

  He bolted both doors into the interrogation room—the door he’d entered through and the door to the technical lab overseeing it all, behind the glass—so that no one could come in. He saw Calibrisi in the control room and made eye contact just as he removed his P226R from a concealed holster at the front of his waist. He aimed it at Slokavich.

  “Did you kill Blake?”

  Slowly, Slokavich nodded, yes.

  “What about the woman? Was she the one who poisoned Senator O’Flaherty?”

  “Da.”

  “Who sent you?” said Tacoma.

  “Fuck off.”

  Tacoma pumped the trigger. A bullet ripped into the ground an inch from Slokavich’s knee.

  “Did you hear my question?” said Tacoma. “Or do you want me to install a listening device in your knee?”

  Slokavich looked up, saying nothing.

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “I met her on Tinder,” said Slokavich, grinning.

  Tacoma fired, blasting an oval off Slokavich’s knee into the carpet beneath. His scream was terrible, clotted with blood that was already in his throat. The Russian went from pain to an altogether different world. His face became serene, even as it was spattered in blood.

  Tacoma stepped above Slokavich, aiming the gun at his head.

  “Boris, if you want to live, tell me who sent you,” said Tacoma, staring down into the Russian’s eyes. “Something tells me you want to live.”

  “I swear I don’t know.”

  “What do you know?” said Tacoma. “I’m afraid if you don’t know anything there’s really no compelling reason for me to keep you alive.”

  “How can I trust you?” Slokavich mumbled.

  “You can’t,” said Tacoma.

  Calibrisi rapped on the door. Tacoma glanced at him through the window, then looked quickly back.

  “That’s my boss. He doesn’t want me to kill you.”

  “You should listen to your boss,” said Slokavich, panting.

  “Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” said Tacoma. “You have exactly four seconds to tell me something or I shoot out your other knee.”

  Slokavich screamed.

  “Well?” said Tacoma as he took aim. “Three, two, one…”

  “I only know the person who hired me,” said Slokavich. “The woman. Her name is Audra.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Florida. Miami.”

  “What’s her last name?”

  Slokavich shook his head, as if to say, I don’t know.

  “What’s her last name?” repeated Tacoma.

  “Audra,” groaned Slokavich. “It’s all I know. Audra.”

  “So someone calls you, you don’t even know her last name, and you fly out to Iowa and kill the governor of Florida?” said Tacoma.

  “That’s how it works, yes. Fifty thousand up front, a hundred on completion.”

  “And Cosgrove?”

  “Another hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Who does she work for?”

  “I swear I don’t know. It’s all I know.”

  Tacoma stared down at the Russian, the gun still aimed at the man’s head. He looked at the room full of engineers. He went to the door to the control room and flipped the dead bolt. The door to the interrogation room opened up and a woman in a white uniform entered.

  Tacoma abruptly turned back to Slokavich and fired a round into his other knee. Slokavich screamed.

  “He’s told us everything he knows,” said Tacoma to the CIA doctor. “Kill him and bury him.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  “No, wait,” said Slokavich. “I remember her last name.”

  “What is it?” barked Tacoma, aiming the gun at his head.

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Not if you tell me her last name.”

  “Buczko. Audra Buczko. She lives on Jupiter Island.”

  Tacoma holstered the weapon.

  “Keep him alive,” said Tacoma. “I want a new pharma package run on him, something that cuts through the pain. Find out if he knows anything more.”

  * * *

  In the driveway, Tacoma was climbing into the Charger when he heard Calibrisi.

  “Rob!”

  Tacoma paused and looked back.

  “Stop,” shouted Calibrisi.

  Tacoma shut the door and walked back toward Calibrisi.

  “You had to shoot him?” said Calibrisi angrily.

  “I told you I was going to kill him,” said Tacoma. “The only reason I didn’t is because he might know a little more. He’s a dead man.”

  “You can’t do this alone.”

  “So far it’s working,” said Tacoma.

  The CIA director was a large man, a former CIA agent himself, one of the first-ever recruits into Special Operations Group, which, at that point, didn’t have a name. Calibrisi was classified as a Bravo 4, a classification having to do with killing ability, i.e., Bravo, and geographic assignment. The “4” referred to Berlin, a hard assignment, crossroads of treachery, where, for various reasons, the fundamental cells of terrorism existed.

  Calibrisi was the hunter. He spent two years moving relentlessly across Europe, like a tourist with a Eurail pass. Killing. But he was an older man now. He stumbled as he approached Tacoma. Tacoma stepped toward him and put both hands on him, stabilizing Calibrisi just as it seemed he might stumble and fall.

  “You all right?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Calibrisi. “Look, Rob, if you want to do it alone, fine, but it means we’re out. You’re on your own.”

  Tacoma paused. He looked at Calibrisi, then at the ground.

  “I’m sorry,” said Tacoma quietly, shaking his head in a moment of regret. “You’re right. I’m just really mad. I feel responsible. Maybe if I’d been there on time he wouldn’t be dead.”

  “Leave the car,” said Calibrisi. “I just called a chopper. Let’s get back to Langley. We need to find Audra Buczko.”

  * * *

  Calibrisi called Polk from the back of the helicopter.

  “Hi, Bill,” said Calibrisi.

  “Chief,” said Polk. “What do you need?”

  “Can you handle everything outside this? I’ve already papered everything so that anyone with knowledge of the unit, or who performs duties for the unit on an ad hoc basis, is protected by presidential order.”

  Polk nodded.

  “I understand,” said Polk. “That wasn’t necessary, I’d do it anyway, but thanks. I’ll focus on all tier-one projects, you don’t need to worry about them.”

  “What I also need you to focus on, Bill, is a counterstrike,” said Calibrisi. “We have to be careful what we do on U.S. soil, but anything outside our borders is another matter altogether. This was a terrible failure of intelligence by the FBI. By, frankly, the United States of America. But we’re the goddam CIA! The Russian mafia is out there, and we can do something legally outside the U.S.”

  “So to speak,” said Polk.

  “I want hard target hits and I want them now. Don’t involve me, you run it.”

  “Ten-four, chief, you got it. You want Nagasaki or Pop Warner?”

  “Keep it tight,” said Calibrisi, “but make it violent. Trusted men, relatives, whatever hurts the most. If we have to burn a few nonofficial covers doing it, so be it. We can reassign them. Real wet work, our best effort.”

  “Got it,” said Polk. “You do understand this will create added problems for Rob?”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Calibrisi.

  “What about the Malnikovs?” asked Polk.

  “Keep them out of this,” said Calibrisi. “We might need them at some point. This was the Odessa Mafia.”

  “Will do. Safe travels.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Hart Senate Office Building

  Washington, D.C.

  Senator Peter Lehigh finished shaking hands in the large reception area. He was tired. He wanted to go sit down on the red leather couch in his large office that looked out on the U.S. Capitol.

  Carrie, his assistant, signaled to him, touching her phone.

  “He says it’s important,” she said. “A man named Barry.”

  Lehigh walked slowly, almost like a skeleton, into his office.

  “Put him through,” he said. “No interruptions.”

  Lehigh shut the door and locked it. He went behind his desk and picked up the phone.

  “Hello, Mr. Darré.”

  “I’ll keep this short and to the point, Senator,” came the voice. “Who’s the other American assigned to the unit?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid the offer—”

  “Shut up,” said Darré. “We need the name of the other agent that was assigned to the unit. SSCI has oversight of it. You’re a member of SSCI. What’s his name?”

  “The deal was information on the unit. I never promised you the names! I gave you Cosgrove’s name out of the kindness of my heart, and now he’s dead!” snapped Lehigh.

  “Give me the name or you’ll end up just like Cosgrove. Do you understand?”

  “They’re looking for where the leak came from,” snapped Lehigh. “We haven’t been told the other man’s name yet. If I ask the CIA for it, and tell you, you’ll just kill him. Then I’ll be arrested along with every other member of the committee and it’ll take the CIA approximately five minutes to trace it all back to me.”

  “Indeed, that is the situation, you’re right,” agreed Darré. “I told you to keep everything clean and make sure your affairs are in order.”

  “You murdered Cosgrove!” shouted Lehigh.

  “So did you, Senator,” said Darré evenly. “Now, get me the name of the other agent. And let me remind you, if you do get caught and you confess, your family will end up in the same place as Cosgrove, hanging from the ceiling. I don’t want to do that, Senator, but I will. I’ll hang them myself.”

  There was long pause. Finally, Lehigh spoke.

  “They’re briefing us later today. I’ll find out his name, Mr. Darré,” said Lehigh.

  “Good. You’re contributing greatly to American politics,” said Darré. “It would be a shame if you committed suicide, or had a fatal car accident. Your constituents would be very upset.”

  CHAPTER 29

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  There were several floors below ground operated by the Directorate of Operations. All were windowless. The lowest floor, called T2, held mission theaters—large amphitheaters designed for the live running of missions. There were five theaters, and this one, Gamma, was sparsely populated but busy.

  The room itself was composed of a curvilinear set of rows of seating on one side and a massive screen on the other.

  The amphitheater seated fifty and it was approximately a half full, with various CIA and White House staff members along with all fifteen members of SSCI, the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.

  On the screen were four large photos. The top photos showed a pair of older men and the lower photos showed younger individuals. The older men, at first glance, looked similar. Each was in his sixties or seventies, with wrinkled, pale skin and thinning gray hair. But upon further examination, they were very different.

  As for the younger men, the photos were decidedly different.

  On the left, the large face shot had writing below.

  ODESSA MAFIA

  NET WORTH: (Est) $17.9 BILLION

  BERGEN FAMILY

  NIKOLAI BERGEN 73

  NIKITA BERGEN 34

  NET WORTH: $7.9 BILLION

  Nikolai, the elder Bergen, had a thin face, his eyes calculating and intelligent, like a lawyer’s. Nikita Bergen had a shock of black hair, longish, swept from a part on the right over to the left. He had thick eyebrows and an athletic, muscular face, handsome.

  There were two dozen individuals seated inside the theater, including Calibrisi, Polk, Katie Foxx, and various specialists from inside Langley who were privy to the covert action.

  The door to Gamma opened and Tacoma stepped inside.

  Tacoma’s hair was wet and combed back, parted in the middle. He wore a short-sleeve white button-down and jeans.

  He scanned the room, yet he said nothing. He walked to a chair near the door and sat down, without acknowledging Katie, Calibrisi, or anyone else.

  Katie’s eyes met Calibrisi’s in a silent moment, then Calibrisi stood.

  “Let’s begin,” said Calibrisi, walking and standing in front of the large screen. “Everyone, this is Rudy Laveran from Russia Special Activities Division.”

  A tall but slouched man with glasses stood up.

  “I went to Columbia as an undergrad. When I graduated in 1987, the first stories about the Russian mafia started coming on the news,” said Laveran.

  He hit a remote and to the right of the photos a map came up and zoomed in.

  “Brighton Beach,” said Laveran. “That was their official beachhead, but there were others. By then, the writing was on the wall. The Soviet Union was collapsing. The smart ones, the toughest, the real animals from Moscow, then Odessa, then the prisons, they all came to Brighton Beach.” Laveran paused. “The Russian mob is a truly American story. It’s about opportunity and freedom. Capitalism. The only problem is, the Russians—the real Russians, the descendants of the Cossacks—they obey no rules except live or die. That’s it. The Cossacks are the ones who came to Brighton Beach. In 1991, when they broke up the Soviet Union for good, when the central government dissolved, every thug, gangster, and scumbag from anywhere in what had been the USSR came here. Be careful what you wish for. We destroyed the Soviet Union but in so doing we created the Russian mafia, at least the one on American soil.”

  “Thanks for the history lesson,” said Tacoma. “Get on with it.”

  “Yes,” said Laveran, “but it’s relevant, and I apologize if it’s boring, but it’s important.”

  “We get the point,” said Tacoma. “I want to know about what’s going on right now.”

  Tacoma scanned the theater, his eyes catching Katie’s but ignoring everyone else’s.

  Laveran clicked the remote and the photos disappeared, replaced by a map of Russia colored to indicate the range of operations of each individual crime family.

  “As you can see, Yuri Malnikov built a truly wide swath of control throughout the Eastern Bloc leading up to the dissolution of the USSR,” said Laveran. “By the time the Soviet Union collapsed, the Malnikovs controlled organized crime in Moscow and the most populated and wealthy regions north of Europe. The Bergens, however, refused to give up St. Petersburg, They allied with a family in Odessa and created the Odessa Mafia,” said Laveran, pointing at the map. “The Malnikovs control sixty percent of organized crime, by our estimates, in the former Eastern Bloc, approximately eight billion dollars a year in activity just from the former USSR. The Bergens run nearly three billion in illicit activity inside the region. But we know little about the various factions that have been spawned by the Odessa Mafia. It’s rumored they are approaching the Malnikovs in terms of sheer size.”