“I’m on it.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Jupiter Island, Florida

  Volkov drove into Audra’s neighborhood on Jupiter Island, driving slowly. It was a heavily patrolled area, a quiet, sleepy strip of beachfront mansions and vast wealth. The last thing he needed to do was somehow involve law enforcement. Volkov drove a Toyota Tacoma pickup truck, meandering along South Beach Road at a slow pace. He passed Audra’s driveway several times, eyeing Markus, the guard in charge.

  Earlier, he had tried to call Audra several times to warn her that someone might be coming, but she hadn’t answered. Volkov had sent five men, putting Markus in charge and telling him to guard the perimeter. Markus had told Volkov that Audra was inside the house and safe. Still, despite the security Volkov had sent, he patrolled South Beach Road, on the lookout for the man the CIA had sent to find Audra. Volkov knew that Darré was right; if they got to Audra, they would get to him.

  Yet, other than a loud, crowded party a few houses down, South Beach Road was quiet.

  Slowly driving back to Audra’s house, Volkov called Markus to get a status report. After ringing several times, it went to voicemail. He tried again, and still, no answer. One by one, Volkov called the other men, though after the third guard didn’t answer he moved the pickup into the driveway and approached the fancy iron entrance gate. He had purchased the house for Audra. It was a geometric set of glass planes on stilts, $9.5 million.

  Volkov had ended their personal relationship once his wife, Leana, found out, though he still dreamed of Audra.

  He rolled down the window and entered a code into a small digital pad. The gates, however, wouldn’t open. He tried again and still nothing. She’d changed the code. He climbed out and tried a third time. When the gate still wouldn’t move, Volkov went up to the gate and looked through. He saw Markus on the ground, facedown, lying in a pool of blood.

  Volkov went back to the truck and retrieved his shotgun. He pumped the trigger and fired a round from the sawed-off twelve-gauge, blowing apart the keypad console, then walked to the gate and fired again, this time at the lock interface. A third blast sent the steel gate off its track and he moved in. He saw Leffen, one of his men, sprawled out on the lawn near the side of the home, on his back, gunned down.

  Volkov walked around the side of the house, coming at the gigantic living room from the terrace. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows were open to the warm air. Audra was seated on the sofa, naked except for a towel, with another man, Guillaume, one of Volkov’s junior lieutenants. They were wrapped around each other, naked. Volkov suddenly registered blood on the floor, beneath the sofa. He came to the sofa as if in slow motion. Audra’s beautiful face was destroyed.

  Volkov went back outside and down the driveway to the pickup truck. He removed a five-gallon red plastic jug filled with gasoline. He walked along the perimeter of the mansion, pouring gasoline in a stream along the stone foundation. He dragged the four other dead gunman onto the terrace. When he had them all lying in a pile, Volkov poured the last of the gasoline down on them. He tossed the empty canister, then he lit a cigarette and smoked it, trying to think. When he was halfway done with the cigarette, Volkov flicked the burning ember at the front of the house. A moment of silence was followed by an abrupt burst of low, blue flames. Soon, the mansion of glass and steel was engulfed in fire—mad, frenzied, billowing chutes of orange, red, white, and blue flames, though by then Volkov was in the pickup, driving away from Jupiter Island just as the first alarms sounded and the peaceful Florida night dissolved in heat and fire.

  CHAPTER 49

  The Darré Group

  New York City

  It was past midnight. Nathaniel was studying what was happening on the other side of the world, specifically the Nikkei 225, where the Darré fund had more than $4 billion invested. He saw a flickering signal on his screen. He went to the icon and tapped it with his finger.

  A photo shot up on the screen. It was a black-and-white photo of a man who’d arrived in Miami earlier that day. A single frame he’d managed to capture before someone somewhere wiped the security feed clean. The man was young and had a shaved head. There was a hint of light stubble. It covered a pale scalp. He wore dark sunglasses. Nathaniel stared at the photo for several seconds, then picked up his cell.

  “Mr. Nebeker, how may I help you?” came a stern female voice.

  “Get me Bruno,” said Nathaniel to one of Darré’s assistants.

  “It’s two thirty in the morning, Mr. Nebeker.”

  “Get him,” said Nathaniel coolly.

  * * *

  Darré was awakened by a high-pitched monotone alarm from his cell.

  He looked at the phone console beside the bed.

  2:33 A.M.

  Darré shook his head and then slapped himself hard on the cheek. He picked up the phone.

  “It’s Nathaniel.”

  “What is it?” said Darré.

  “I think you need to come down here, Bruno,” said Nathaniel.

  * * *

  Darré climbed into a waiting helicopter, whose rotors were already slashing the Connecticut air by the time he stepped through the front door of his mansion.

  Once on board and seated in the pressurized cabin, he lifted his cell as he rubbed his eyes, trying to get awake. He phoned Volkov.

  “What the hell’s going on?” said Darré.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he go to Audra’s house?”

  “Yes,” said Volkov. “I was just there. He killed her.”

  “Did he find out—”

  “I don’t know,” snapped Volkov. “Obviously, how could I know? Her head was blown off.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Darré. “I don’t mean to sound so selfish.”

  “It’s okay,” said Volkov. “It’s just that I brought her in. I sent her to New York and then to Washington. She was a very kind person.”

  “I know,” said Darré reassuringly, “but if he broke her?”

  “He didn’t break her.”

  “But if he did,” seethed Darré, “what does she know? She knows you, Andrei.”

  “What are you saying?” said Volkov.

  “You need to stay out of sight,” said Darré. “Remain at the port. You’re well guarded there. Hopefully you’re right and she didn’t give them your name, but we can’t be sure. In the meantime, I’m going to find out who this sonofabitch is.”

  After hanging up with Volkov, Darré looked up a different number. A number he didn’t like to call, a man whose name caused a cold, frightful feeling to grip him from the inside. He found Kaiser’s number and dialed.

  CHAPTER 50

  Eaton Square

  Belgravia

  London

  Kaiser entered his apartment at a little before 9 A.M. He flipped on the lights inside the door, then shut the door. On a gorgeous maple credenza sat a bowl full of golf balls. Surrounding the bowl, the top of the credenza was littered with destroyed golf balls, most crushed in half, plastic shards sticking out, as if the balls had been put in a vise and destroyed.

  Kaiser grabbed one of the golf balls from the bowl as he moved into the apartment.

  The apartment took up an entire floor, an elegant suite of rooms in one of London’s most prestigious buildings. The walls were crowded with windows that looked out on Grosvenor Square.

  The apartment was one of London’s most valuable. It was a dark, rainy day in the city. The lighting was low and warm, and it cast circles along hallways and rooms of fine furniture and art, like the Presidential Suite at the Hotel George Cinq in Paris.

  Hushed music came on, tripped by motion sensor, a Mozart violin concerto.

  Kaiser undressed in the master suite, taking off his tie with his left hand as he held the golf ball with his right, rotating it around in the palm of his hand. He had a neatly combed hairdo, a block of short, black hair. He resembled an undertaker. He stood at six foot nine. Though he stooped a little, at age fifty-eight Kaiser retained a fearsome look. He had a hulkish frame, a physicality that, combined with cold, black eyes, made him fearsome to look at. Kaiser unbuttoned his shirt with his left hand.

  He stood in front of the mirror as he removed his button-down. He was a large man, not typical looking, but human—at least to his right armpit. From his right armpit down was a prosthetic arm, black alloy to the elbow, then a synthetic-flesh-covered forearm and hand, with a thumb and fingers. He stared at his grotesque arm as he clutched the golf ball. It was thin, the flesh-colored synthetic, and while real-looking to most, it appeared utterly fake to Kaiser.

  He clutched the ball and slowly brought his mechanical hand together in a tight fist. The golf ball abruptly cracked into a mess of broken white ceramic plastic, as if it were a hard-boiled egg. Kaiser stared at it, then dropped it on a shelf in the closet.

  Back in the living room, Kaiser made himself a vodka martini and put on the television. He found the BBC, which was showing a report on the deaths of Nick Blake and John Patrick O’Flaherty. When he felt his cell phone vibrate, he turned the volume down on the television as he sat down and pulled out his cell.

  “What is it?” said Kaiser.

  “It’s Bruno Darré.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In New York City,” said Darré.

  “What do you want?” said Kaiser.

  “Volkov’s people killed the American, Cosgrove, but I’m afraid the matter isn’t closed yet,” said Darré. “Someone—presumably the Central Intelligence Agency—captured one of his men who revealed the name of Volkov’s primary contact.”

  “The woman?” said Kaiser.

  “Yes,” said Darré, “Audra Buczko.”

  “Let me guess,” said Kaiser. “You’re concerned because she can lead the CIA to Andrei, and Andrei can lead them to you.”

  “And I can lead them to you,” said Darré.

  “So kill her,” said Kaiser.

  “It’s too late. Someone got to her first.”

  Kaiser sipped from his martini and noticed the television, which was now silent. A news report showed some sort of crisis situation at Miami International Airport. The airport was shut down and surrounded by police cars, fire trucks, ambulances, and—behind security cordons—a swarm of journalists.

  “What happened at the airport?”

  “The man they sent, presumably the other member of the CIA unit, took down five of Andrei’s men,” said Darré. “He then went to Audra’s home and killed another group of Andrei’s men before killing Audra.”

  The phone was silent for several moments.

  “I understand,” said Kaiser.

  “We must cut off the threat,” said Darré.

  “By threat you mean Andrei?”

  “Yes,” said Darré. “If they get to him, they’ll torture him and use various pharmaceuticals. Ultimately, they’ll get to me. I don’t blame Andrei. He’s been my partner. Without him, the entire Eastern Seaboard will need to be rebuilt. But I would rather do that than spend the rest of my life in prison.”

  “I understand,” said Kaiser calmly.

  “I need you to kill him,” said Darré. “That’s not my area of expertise.”

  “We’re not going to kill Andrei Volkov,” said Kaiser.

  There was a long pause.

  “What?” said Darré. “Did you not hear me?”

  “I heard you.”

  “You started a war,” said Darré. “I did what you asked me to do.”

  “I didn’t start a war, Bruno. The war was started long ago, before you or I were even born. We’re not killing Andrei Volkov. He’s too valuable.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  “You must find the other American,” said Kaiser in a nonchalant tone. “Stop worrying about Andrei giving you up and start worrying about finding the other man!”

  “They’re coming after us,” said Darré. “The Americans are going fucking apeshit!”

  “Yes, they are,” said Kaiser. “But we are not going to start killing our most important people, certainly not someone as valuable as Volkov. Get off the phone and find the other agent.”

  “You started a war!” growled Darré.

  “We were already at war!” shouted Kaiser. “You’re now at the front lines! This isn’t a game, Bruno!”

  “You started a war and I’m the one who has to fight it!” yelled Darré.

  “You made more than one billion dollars last year,” said Kaiser. “Why? Because you’re paid to fight wars! If you can’t handle it, I’ll find someone who can.”

  “What good is the money if I’m in a jail cell—or dead?”

  “If either one occurs, well then, you did not deserve the money, Bruno Darré,” said Kaiser calmly. “Do not touch Andrei. Do you understand?”

  Darré was quiet.

  “Tell me you understand, you ungrateful fuck.”

  “I understand,” said Darré.

  CHAPTER 51

  Commonwealth Tower

  1300 Wilson Boulevard

  Arlington, Virginia

  “I found something,” said Igor.

  Calibrisi walked over to Igor as Katie stood up and joined them.

  The large screen in front of Igor showed a photo, taken from the sky.

  “I hacked into the FBI core,” said Igor.

  “I would’ve gotten you provisioned in,” said Calibrisi.

  “The point of hacking is to find vulnerabilities,” said Igor.

  The photo showed two men standing on the corner, on the sidewalk of a Manhattan street, surrounded by skyscrapers. They were arguing; it was clear by the anger in each man’s face.

  “Who is it?” said Calibrisi.

  “The big one is Andrei Volkov,” said Igor. “This was taken off a surveillance drone feed they had on him.”

  “Who’s the man on the right?” said Katie.

  “Exactly the question I asked myself,” said Igor. He reached forward and tapped his keyboard. Another screen came to life with a clearer photo, showing the same man, but from street level, HUMINT, a photo taken by an FBI agent during surveillance of Volkov.

  The man had thick blond hair that was parted in the middle and a sharp nose, and was dressed in a stylish white button-down. He was smiling. Across from him was the back of a head, a big man with a crew cut, his muscles pushing against the material of his shirt.

  “Volkov?” said Calibrisi.

  “Yes, the man on the left. That’s the back of his head.”

  “So who is this guy?”

  Igor hit the keyboard again and a series of photos appeared in a tile across the next screen. He tapped it again and several news articles appeared: Wall Street Journal, Financial Times, Bloomberg. In each article, a name was highlighted by Igor.

  “Bruno Darré,” said Katie.

  “You know him?” said Igor.

  “Of course,” said Katie.

  “Financier,” said Calibrisi. “Hedge fund guy. Billionaire. So why is he with Volkov?”

  “How the hell should I know?” said Igor.

  “Find out,” said Calibrisi.

  “Katie, can you call Rob and tell him we found Volkov?” said Igor. “He is in charge of a small shipping company at the Port of Miami. He needs to get inside. But it’s not going to be easy—their docks look heavily guarded. He’s not going to be able to wing it, he’s going to need a real plan.”

  CHAPTER 52

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  Jenna Hartford was working on a report. She was proposing an operation to take out a high-level British intelligence agent who was selling secrets to the Saudis. It needed to be seamless and clean, an “accident” that would be seen as an accident despite the fact that he was a spy and it wasn’t an accident after all. Yet, she couldn’t stop analyzing what was happening on U.S. soil; the killing of two politicians, and Cosgrove’s brutal murder. While she wasn’t supposed to know about Rob Tacoma, she always made it her business to know everything by one means or another. She quietly tracked Tacoma as he moved into Florida and began taking apart the outer circle surrounding whoever did this, the part of the Russian mafia responsible for the acts of war.

  Jenna was the CIA’s chief mission architect. At age twenty-seven, she designed all tier-one, high-value covert missions for the Agency. Jenna was British, on loan from MI6, the CIA’s counterpart in Britain. Jenna was widely considered the preeminent mission architect in Western intelligence, and her opinion was much sought after. As a result, Jenna had full access to all high-priority CIA activities, and she’d used it to surreptitiously monitor the unit from afar.

  She went looking for Calibrisi, but his office was empty. When she got back to her office, she called him.

  “What is it, Jenna?” said Calibrisi.

  “It’s this Russian mafia thing,” said Jenna in an aristocratic British accent. “There’s this rush to judgment just because Blake and O’Flaherty were enemies of the Russian mob, but look at the hits. One is a bullet through the forehead from approximately a third of a mile away and the other is a designer poison, administered with utmost precision. Does that sound like the Russian mafia to you, Hector?”

  Jenna was slightly worked up, putting her right hand to her yellow-blond hair and brushing it back, a nervous habit, but when she did it, it looked natural.

  “Jenna, I can tell you’ve been digging into things that are above even your clearance. But as you obviously already know, we’re going after the Russian mafia on U.S. soil,” said Calibrisi.

  “Hector, you’re making a mistake. These killings have the clear markings of a GRU operation,” said Jenna.

  “Bullshit,” said Calibrisi. “The Russian government is not behind everything. I’m sure there are close associations, but this was a Russian mob hit.”

  “Audra Buczko?”

  “I have no doubt the Russian mafia recruits from GRU,” said Calibrisi. “That doesn’t mean the Russian government is behind it all.”

  “This new unit—the one I’m not supposed to know about—its charter is the Russian mafia,” said Jenna. “Correct?”