“Yes.”

  “But were it to spill into a larger scenario in which we were potentially exposing Russian government involvement in these crimes, I would bloody well hope you’d give a shit!”

  “Of course, I would. Look, we’re at a critical juncture in the current mission, and since you’ve decided to read yourself in, we could really use your help. We need to get someone into a relatively secure area and close to a Russian mafia figure who is both under guard and on alert,” said Calibrisi.

  Hector explained the situation with Andrei Volkov, giving Jenna all the details Igor had been able to dig up.

  “Can you design something for me fast?”

  “Of course. I’ll call you in hour.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Calibrisi’s cell phone rang. It was Jenna.

  “You have a design?” said Calibrisi.

  “Yes. I call it ‘The Russian,’” said Jenna. “It’s straightforward and yet it’s not. On one level, we are going after Andrei Volkov. He is the Russian. But what if he was told to do what he did? What if, in fact, it was dictated by someone else? Who is the one who told him to do that? And who is the man who told that man to kill these politicians, and Cosgrove? He, too, is the Russian. We need to see if the GRU was behind all this, and my design will do just that. Audra Buczko was recruited out of GRU. We’re going to lure the GRU out—or some other entity—and when we expose them, whoever it is, we should kill them. When I was at MI6, there were vague rumors of just such a man. Frankly, all we had were those few whisper-thin rumors and a name: Kaiser.”

  “Kaiser?” said Calibrisi, recalling his conversation with Alexei Malnikov.

  “You’ve heard of him?” said Jenna.

  “Yes.”

  “Kaiser might be a myth, or he might actually exist,” said Jenna. “The results for them so far would imply a higher architect. O’Flaherty, Blake, Cosgrove. Each killing was brutal and yet very clean. If it hadn’t been for Rob showing up at the wrong time, we would’ve had nothing on Cosgrove’s killing. There are clearly rings within rings and so far, we’ve only been able to attack the outer ones. But I have an idea about how to penetrate the inner circle. The baseline operation achieves the basic function: kill Andrei Volkov. But I believe in so doing we could expose those above him, including, potentially, Kaiser.”

  “In other words, according to your design, we can choose door one or we can choose door two, still get everything behind door one, but also get something potentially much bigger?” said Calibrisi.

  “Precisely,” said Jenna. “But with any operation that has different levels of real-time execution, the risk complexity is multiplied. We can simply kill Volkov. That’s actually fairly simple. But by doing it in the way I’ve crafted it, we can potentially get at the hierarchy behind this. Unfortunately, the risk to the operator is multiplied. This is an extreme-danger operation dependent on fixed kill ratio over a limited time frame.”

  “If anyone can do it, Rob can do it,” said Calibrisi. “What’s the idea?”

  “We know Volkov is at the port,” said Jenna. “Tacoma is going to go there to kill him and try and find out who he works for, correct?”

  “Something like that.”

  “So he’s just going to walk in and start shooting?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s his preferred method.”

  “Well, it’s not the ideal method. He might get to Volkov, but he’ll die,” said Jenna. “He should penetrate the port in a more restrained manner. I have a way to get to Volkov, but it will require a modicum of patience on Rob’s part. Use the passport Katie gave him, get a job, and watch. They’re searching for him. A day or two of pause will help us. They know we killed Audra Buczko and will assume we’re coming for Volkov. The port is where he’ll hide. From what I’ve been able to learn in the past few minutes, he’s probably already ensconced there. The first part of the design is simple. Infiltrate the port and wait for the right opportunity. It needs to be organic.”

  “I’m listening,” said Calibrisi. “Before you go into the details, let me try to patch Rob in before he does something rash.”

  CHAPTER 53

  APQA Terminal

  Port Boulevard

  Dodge Island

  Miami, Florida

  Tacoma’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out—it was a text from Katie. They had found Volkov’s location.

  Tacoma drove to South Beach and cut across the MacArthur Causeway into downtown Miami. He abandoned the stolen vehicle in a parking lot at Miami-Dade College. It was past midnight when he arrived. He walked down the empty, darkened street until he saw a neon sign outside a Holiday Inn on Biscayne Boulevard. It was a meager-looking motel. He had to wake up the night manager to get a room. The room itself was large but smelled of mold, though he was so tired he didn’t care. He climbed onto the bed in his clothing. He lay awake an extra few moments, on the bed. Despite his best efforts to fall asleep, he felt alert. In his exhaustion, he remembered Hell Week. It was the week during SEAL training you didn’t get to go to sleep. The instructors allowed one nap per day on the final two days of Hell Week, an hour each. Most of the men who rang the bell in Coronado, dropping out, did so long before that first hour-long nap. If you made it that far, chances were, you were going all the way.

  Then, as now, Tacoma hadn’t been able to sleep. Given the freedom to do so, he stayed awake, lost in his thoughts. During Hell Week, Tacoma had seen what he was capable of. On the final day of the week, Tacoma had set a record on the Coronado obstacle course. It wasn’t the fastest time, not even close—but it was the fastest time ever turned in on the last day of Hell Week.

  Tacoma’s thoughts were interrupted by his phone. He picked it up to hear Hector’s voice.

  “Rob. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything is fine. What’s up?”

  “We’ve got a design that will get you close to Volkov, but we’ve got to run down some details first. In the meantime, get a job at the port, with Volkov’s company. It’s called APQA. Once you’re in, let’s talk about how we’re going to get you out in one piece. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  Tacoma hung up. He fell quickly asleep.

  The next morning, Tacoma awoke to the sound of a siren roaring by the motel.

  Tacoma looked at his watch. It was 9 A.M.

  He showered and put his clothing back on, packed up, and left all of his belongings in a backpack in the room. A main thoroughfare ran alongside the outer edge of the port. The port was a massive property, covered in warehouses, large tracts of concrete and tar, with gantry cranes, trucks, reach-stackers, and railcars clogging the vista. The port was guarded at its perimeter by a high steel fence, flanged on top with razor wire. He came to the security gate and approached the guard.

  “Ya ishchu rabotu,” said Tacoma.

  I’m looking for work.

  Tacoma handed the man his Russian passport. The guard inspected it briefly, then nodded. The guard put his cell to his ear and spoke to someone.

  “Come back before five o’clock.”

  * * *

  At twenty to five, Tacoma returned. He found the same guard, who nodded and waved him over.

  “Idite k dveri s nomerom odinnadtsat. Ya ne znayu, priyedut li oni na rabotu.”

  Go to the door marked number eleven. I don’t know if they are hiring.

  “Thank you very much,” said Tacoma.

  “Walk along the fence,” advised the guard. “Otherwise you might get run over. The truckers are a bunch of fucking assholes.”

  Tacoma nodded and walked through the gate, past the guard station, beyond a tall chain-link fence.

  The sky was overcast but faintly blue. The temperature was in the fifties and a wind was blowing hard across the concrete and tar expanse of the port.

  A lot the size of a football field was filled with brand-new cars, ready to be moved to dealers across the Northeast and mid-Atlantic. Another area was filled with trailers, ready to be used when needed by APQA or one of its customers. The cars, pickup trucks, and motorcycles of workers were scattered about.

  APQA owned the port. It was a Swiss corporation with absentee owners, whose revenues ran through the Seychelles then back into the United States. APQA was a corporation owned by the Darré Group—through various phantom legal and financial entities. The letters stood for nothing. It was one of literally thousands of LLCs and corporations the Darré Group owned.

  Running down the middle of the huge lot was a two-lane road, demarcated on its outer edge by bright orange paint, as if to make sure the trucks stayed in line.

  The Port of Miami was one of the busiest ports in the United States, but like most ports it was a polyglot collection of individually owned and managed terminals, that is, piers capable of bringing in cargo ships and off-loading them. The port was an extended neighborhood of deepwater piers capable of welcoming the largest ships in the world. It was a gateway for the world’s products, brought by large ships—container ships, oil tankers, break bulk steamers, LNG ships, and a variety of other specialized cargo-bearing ocean vessels. Like a neighborhood, the port was made of unique individual operations, each pier specializing in certain specific products and services. A container ship coming from Rotterdam had to off-load its containers at a facility capable of handling containers, for example. An oil tanker needed an altogether different set of services.

  There were almost thirty thousand employees who went to work every day at the Port of Miami.

  There were approximately five hundred people who worked at APQA.

  It wasn’t an especially well-known operation. APQA handled break bulk cargo only. This was cargo that was not in containers, but was packed in a way that forklifts, cranes, trucks, and men could off-load to some part of the APQA facility, usually inside one of the two massive warehouses APQA owned—both warehouses painted green and sitting near the waterfront, just a few hundred feet away from the pier where the cargo ships tied up.

  A typical shipment worked in the following manner: A ship loaded with pallets of paper would arrive and dock up. Then the APQA cranes and forklifts would go to work, moving the eight-ton pallets of paper into one of the warehouses. It was up to the paper company itself to figure out who was going to purchase the paper. Until it was sold by the paper company, it sat in the warehouse. Once the paper was sold, one of the trailers parked alongside the warehouse would be driven to one of the cargo bays on the side of the warehouse. The paper would then be moved into one of the trailers and driven to the customer.

  It was the job of the owner of the ship to get the paper to APQA’s Miami facility. Hopefully, that same ship, after being emptied, would be reloaded with outbound product to be carried to some other port.

  It was APQA’s job to handle the logistics of whatever came in and went out as quickly and as smoothly as possible.

  Both APQA warehouses were the same, long buildings of corrugated steel, both painted dark green, facing each other across a two-lane road.

  * * *

  Tacoma walked to the warehouse on the right, where a sign said OFFICE next to one of the warehouse’s only windows. He opened the door. Inside was a bullpen of desks, copy machines, and people.

  A woman was seated inside.

  “May I help you?”

  “I am inquiring about work,” said Tacoma.

  The woman turned and nodded to a bald man sitting at a desk, typing into a computer. Tacoma walked to the desk and waited as the man finished and looked up.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he said.

  “I am inquiring about work,” said Tacoma.

  The man scanned Tacoma quickly, then stared into his eyes.

  “Otkuda ty?” the man said in Russian.

  Where are you from?

  “Moskva,” said Tacoma. “I arrived yesterday.”

  Tacoma continued to talk with him in Russian.

  “Why?”

  “I am moving to the United States,” said Tacoma. “I want opportunity for myself.”

  The man reached his hand out without saying anything. Tacoma handed him the passport.

  The man looked for a few moments at Tacoma’s fake passport, then handed it back.

  “Did you get questioned by U.S. Customs, yes?” said the man.

  Tacoma shook his head, no.

  “Save me the time,” said the man. “If I research you a little, what will I find, Evgeny? Trust me, you’re not the first, nor will you be the last, who committed a crime or two. We’re not looking for angels, just hard workers.”

  “I robbed a bank when I was fifteen,” said Tacoma.

  The man stared up at Tacoma. His face was blank.

  “Did they catch you in the act?”

  “No. A few days later.”

  “How did you get caught?”

  “My friend bought a Rolex with some of the money,” said Tacoma.

  “Are you still friends with this so called friend?” said the man.

  “He’s dead,” said Tacoma. “He died at Romegrant.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” said the interviewer. “How long were you there, Evgeny?”

  “One year, sir,” said Tacoma.

  The man nodded and reclined back in his seat.

  “So you want a job?” he said. “What do you know how to do?”

  “I know how to arrive early and to work very, very hard,” said Tacoma. “I know how to listen to supervisors. I don’t know how to complain, sir. I’m also very strong and can lift a lot of weight.”

  The man grinned slightly.

  “Good answer, Evgeny. So tell me, do you still steal things, Evgeny?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How much did you two idiots steal, if I might ask?”

  “A little over a million dollars.”

  “Okay, fine,” said the man. “We can always use more hard workers who don’t complain. By the way, my name is Victor.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Victor.”

  “You’ll go to a man named Grigor, on the docks,” said Victor. “He’ll tell you what to do. The shift starts at seven A.M. sharp. Gates open at six for anyone who wants breakfast. Work starts at seven. If you arrive at 7:01, go look for a job somewhere else. Pay is a few bucks over minimum wage, but we feed everyone two meals a day, and we offer training that lets you learn some higher-paying skills. We offer health insurance. A lot of guys have worked here for more than twenty years.”

  “I’m grateful, sir.”

  A loud, piercing horn sounded outside the warehouse. It lasted for ten seconds, then quieted.

  “Closing time,” said Victor.

  He reached into a drawer. He pulled out a thick envelope and removed a small stack of bills.

  “There’s a store in town that sells clothing. Go buy some better boots and a decent set of gloves,” said the man. “They’re open until eight. I’ll take it out of your first paycheck. See you tomorrow morning, Evgeny.”

  * * *

  As Tacoma left the warehouse, a group of workers was moving toward the area between the two warehouses. Soon, a crowd gathered, hundreds of dockworkers, all male, all ripped from years of hard platform work.

  The sky was descending into black.

  A pair of halogen lights shone down from a crane above. Suddenly, a man emerged from the crowd. It was a very large man. He was at least six foot eight, and wore a dirty T-shirt.

  Tacoma looked at Victor, who started walking to the human scrum.

  “What is it?” said Tacoma.

  Victor nodded.

  “Come. See for yourself.”

  * * *

  Every worker was gathered in the growing darkness, beneath the halogen lights. Tacoma saw bottles of vodka being passed around. It was a human circle, and the sound of conversation was a rowdy din, inflected with alcohol, the words in Russian or Ukrainian.

  Tacoma weaved into the outside of the circle, following Victor, then breaking off to the left, pushing past men much larger than him, trying to be polite, fighting to get to the center of the human scrum. It was loud, with laughter and yelling. A few rows back from the front of the circle, Tacoma encountered resistance. A bearded, thick man turned and swung at Tacoma. Tacoma ducked. As the man’s fist crossed above him, he hammered his right knee in a vicious lunge. His knee smashed hard into the man’s rib cage. The man dropped to the tar, at least two ribs broken, unable to speak, coughing for air, though amid the chaos no one noticed save for the man and Tacoma.

  Tacoma reached the front of the circle. The human ring was at the center of the pavement between the two warehouses. It was drenched in bright halogen. Tacoma stood at the front, along the line, one of many watching the coming attraction—though he alone didn’t yet know what that attraction even was.

  Shouting began from the other side of the circle as the abnormally large man walked about the ring, swinging his fists in the air, shadowboxing.

  The shouting from the circle became louder with each punch in the halogen air.

  The big man lumbered with a slow gait. His eyes were set widely apart. He was from the eastern part of Russia, Tacoma guessed, Mongolia or Siberia.

  Next to Tacoma, someone threw out a handful of bills. Tacoma watched as others around the circle reached for their pockets. Suddenly, bills began to flutter down on the open lot in the middle of the circle. A ring of green—of cash—enclosed the outer edge of the circle. He saw many one-dollar bills, but then also saw fives and tens.

  The yelling and shouting now was loud. It was hard to hear anything other than shouting as the large man walked slowly around the circle, looking at the crowd.

  Tacoma looked to his right. He saw Victor at the front.

  “What’s happening?” yelled Tacoma.

  “Just watch,” Victor mouthed as he threw down some money.

  Victor moved in front of the gathered ruffians, who let him by without a word. They knew not to say or do anything to Victor. He sidled up to Tacoma.

  “It’s a competition,” yelled Victor. “Whoever wins the fight, they get the money. If you pick someone weak, no one puts in money. If you pick someone strong, you can make thousands.”