By the early hours of the morning, they had devised a plan.

  They had given up on any direct approach to Prishnikov, who was far too well defended, far too dangerous a target. The point of vulnerability, Tarnapolsky concluded, after making a few highly discreet telephone calls to former KGB colleagues, was Prishnikov’s senior deputy, a small, weedy man named Dmitri Labov. Prishnikov’s longtime lieutenant, Dmitri Labov was known in certain circles as chelovek kotory khranit sekrety —the man who keeps the secrets.

  But even Labov would hardly be a simple target. Tarnapolsky’s research had determined that the deputy was driven every day between his heavily guarded residence and the heavily guarded Nortek office, in suburban Moscow near the old Exhibition of Economic Achievements of the USSR on Prospekt Mira.

  Labov’s chauffeured vehicle was a bullet- and bomb-resistant Benfley— there were, Bryson knew, no truly bulletproof or bomb-proof vehicles— with almost two tons of armoring on the chassis. It was practically a tank, a Level IV armored vehicle, the highest level of protection that exists, capable of withstanding super-powered military ammunition including 7.62 NATO rounds.

  During stints in Mexico City and South America, he had acquired a familiarity with such fully armored vehicles. They were usually fabricated with a quarter-inch of 2024-T3 aluminum as well as a high-performance synthetic composite, typically aramid and ultrahigh-molecular-weight polyethylene. Mounted inside the 19-gauge steel car doors would be a 24-ply sheet of high-strength fiberglass-reinforced plastic, half an inch thick, capable of stopping a .30-carbine slug fired from five feet away. The glass would be a polycarbonate/glass laminate; the fuel tank would, be self-sealing, antiexplosive even when directly hit; a special dry-cell battery would keep the engine running after an attack. “Run-flat” tires would enable getaways at high speeds for up to fifty miles even when the tires were shot through by gunfire.

  Labov’s Bentley would have been modified specifically for Moscow, where gangs were likely to use AK-47 assault rifles. It would probably also be able to withstand grenades and small pipe bombs, probably even armor-piercing ammunition, high-velocity, full-metal-jack et rounds.

  But there were always vulnerabilities.

  For one, there was the driver, who was probably not professionally trained. For some reason, the Russian plutocrats tended to use their own personal assistants as drivers, not trusting professional ones and not bothering to have them trained in something they probably considered common sense, though it was not.

  And there was one more vulnerability—around which Bryson had devised his plan.

  Every morning at exactly seven o’clock in the morning Dmitri Labov left his apartment building just off the Arbat, a very exclusive, recently renovated nineteenth-century building that had once been reserved for ranking Central Committee officials and Politburo members. The apartment complex, now home to Russia’s nouveaux riches, mostly mafiya, was sealed off and well guarded.

  This consistency in schedule, the information obtained by Tarnapolsky, was an example of the slipshod security combined with flamboyantly showy protective measures that was peculiar to large-scale criminal enterprises, Bryson had learned. Security professionals knew the importance of varying their charges’ schedules, ensuring that nothing was predictable.

  Just as Tarnapolsky had been informed, Labov’s Bentley pulled out of the newly built underground parking garage beneath Labov’s apartment building and traveled a short distance before pulling onto Kalinin Prospekt. Bryson and Tarnapolsky, in a nondescript Volga, tailed the Bentley as it traveled the Ring Road all the way to Prospekt Mira. Shortly after the Bentley had passed the titanium-clad Sputnik obelisk, which soared majestically into the sky, it turned left onto Eizensteina Ulitsa, then proceeded three more blocks to the refurbished baronial palace that provided the headquarters for Nortek. There, Labov’s car entered another underground parking garage.

  It would remain there for the entire day.

  The only somewhat unpredictable element to Labov’s schedule concerned the time of his return home. He had a wife and three children and was known to be a family man who never missed dinner at home unless there was an emergency at work or Prishnikov summoned him back in. Most days, however, his limousine left the Nortek garage by seven or seven-fifteen in the evening.

  This evening, Labov was clearly intent on getting home in time for dinner with the family. At five minutes after seven o’clock, his Bentley emerged from the Nortek garage. Tarnapolsky and Bryson were waiting, in a grimy white package-delivery panel truck across the street, and Tarnapolsky immediately radioed ahead to his confederate. The timing would be tight, but it should be manageable. Most important, it was still rush hour in this congested city.

  Tarnapolsky, who had spent years in the early part of his career tailing dissidents and petty criminals around Moscow, knew the city intimately. He drove, following the Bentley at a discreet distance, only pulling up fairly close when the traffic was heavy enough to provide cover.

  When the Bentley turned left onto Kalinin Prospekt, it ran into a serious traffic jam. A large truck was jackknifed and stalled across all lanes of traffic, halting all cars in either direction. Truck horns blared, car horns honked repeatedly; there were loud shouts as frustrated drivers stuck their heads out of their car windows to hurl epithets at the obstruction. But there was nothing to be done; the traffic was frozen.

  The filthy white panel truck was stopped immediately ahead of Labov’s Bentley, cars hemming them in on all sides. Tarnapolsky’s confederate had abandoned his eighteen-wheeler truck, taking the keys with him, on the pretense of searching for help. Traffic would not move for a good long while.

  Bryson, dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck and wearing black leather gloves, crouched on the floor inside the truck and released the hinged trapdoor. There was enough clearance to the ground that he was able to drop to the pavement and belly under the panel truck and then under Labov’s Bentley. In the extremely unlikely event that traffic somehow was able to move a few feet, the Bentley could not, since it was blocked by the delivery truck.

  Moving quickly, his heart racing, Bryson slid under the Bentley’s chassis until he located the precise spot he was looking for. Although the undercarriage was mostly one solid mass of molded steel, aluminum, and polyethylene, there was a small perforated area where the air-intake filter was located. This was the second vulnerability: after all, even passengers of armored vehicles had to breathe. Swiftly, he pressed an adhesive-backed aluminum-alloy filter panel over the vent, a specially designed, radio-controlled device Tarnapolsky had been able to acqnire from contacts in the private-security industry in Moscow. Once he assured himself it was securely in place, he wriggled out from under the car and, still undetected, back under the panel truck, the hinged trapdoor still open. He lifted himself up and into the truck and shut the trapdoor behind him.

  “Nu, khorosho?” asked Tarnapolsky. Everything okay?

  “Ladno,” replied Bryson. It’s fine.

  Tarnapolsky called the driver of the jackknifed truck, ordering him to return to his abandoned truck and get it moving again, just as police sirens began to sound.

  Traffic started moving a few minutes later, the blaring horns stopped, the cursing came to an end. The Bentley roared ahead, gunning its engine, passing the paneled delivery truck as it resumed its course down Kalinin Prospekt. Then it made its customary left turn, onto the quiet side street, essentially retracing its morning path.

  It was then that Bryson pressed the switch on the transmitter he gripped in his hand. As Tarnapolsky maneuvered down the street after the Bentley, they could see an immediate reaction. The limousine cabin filled at once with thick, white tear gas. The Bentley veered crazily from one side to another before pulling over to the side of the deserted street; the driver had obviously been overcome. Both front and back doors of the limousine were flung open as both driver and Labov emerged, coughing and wretching, hands pressed over their stinging eyes. The driver clutched a handgun uselessly at his side. Yuri Tarnapolsky veered the truck over to the side of the road as well, and the two men jumped out. Bryson fired a projectile at the driver, who toppled at once. The shortacting tranquilizer dart would knock him out for hours; the amnesiac effect of the narcotic would ensure that he had little or no recollection of the evening’s events. Then Bryson rushed over to Labov, who had collapsed on the sidewalk, coughing and temporarily blinded. Meanwhile, Tarnapolsky hoisted the driver back into the driver’s seat of the Bentley. Taking out a bottle of cheap vodka he had bought on the street, he spilled a good quantity into the chauffeur’s mouth and over his uniform, leaving the half-filled bottle on the seat beside him.

  Bryson looked around to confirm that there was no one on the street who could see what they were doing; then he hustled Labov, half-dragging the small man, into the nondescript panel truck, a boxy vehicle like hundreds in the area, which would never be identified, particularly since its license plates, covered in mud, were illegible.

  By just before eight o’clock in the evening, Dmitri Labov was bound, in a seated position, to a hard metal chair in a large deserted warehouse in the Cheryomushki district, not far from the wholesale fruit-and-vegetable market. The city government had confiscated it from a Tatar clan that had been caught selling produce on the black market to restaurants without paying the requisite tribute to city officials.

  Labov was small and bespectacled, with receding, straw-colored hair and a round, pudgy face. Bryson stood before him and spoke in perfect Russian with a slight St. Petersburg accent, the legacy of his Directorate Russian-language tutor. “Your dinner is getting cold. We’d love to get you home before your wife gets frantic. In fact, if you play your cards right and cooperate fully, no one ever has to know you were abducted.”

  “What?” spat Labov. “You deceive yourself. Everyone already knows. My driver —”

  “Your driver is passed out in the front seat of your limousine, parked by the side of the road. Any passing militsiya will simply assume he’s dozing, drunk like half of Moscow.”

  “If you plan to drug me, go ahead,” Labov said, at once frightened and defiant. “If you plan to torture me, go ahead. Or just go ahead and kill me. If you dare. Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “Of course,” said Bryson. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “Do you have any idea what the consequences will be? Do you know whose wrath you are incurring?”

  Bryson nodded slowly.

  “Anatoly Prishnikov’s anger knows no bounds! It is not impeded by national borders!”

  “Mr. Labov, please understand, I wouldn’t think of harming a hair on your head. Or that of your wife, Masha. Or little Irushka. I won’t have to—there’ll be nothing left of them after Prishnikov is through.”

  “What the fuck are you saying?” Labov shouted, red-faced.

  “Let me explain,” Bryson said patiently. “Tomorrow morning I will personally drive you to Nortek headquarters. You may still be a little woozy from the tranquilizers, but I will help you into the building. And then I will leave. But everything will be recorded on the security cameras. Then your boss will become extremely interested in who I am, and why you were in my company. You will tell him that you told me nothing.” Bryson paused. “But do you think he will believe you?”

  Outraged, Labov screamed, “I have been a loyal aide to him for twenty years! I have been nothing but loyal!”

  “I don’t doubt that. But can Anatoly Prishnikov afford to believe you? I ask you—you know him better than anyone. You know what kind of man he is, how deep-rooted is his suspicion.”

  Labov had begun to tremble.

  “And if Prishnikov thought that there was even the slightest chance that you had betrayed him, how long do you think he would let you live?”

  Labov shook his head, his eyes wide with terror.

  “Let me answer my own question. He would let you live just long enough to know that your loved ones had died horribly. Long enough for you and everyone in the firm to be reminded of the price of betrayal— of weakness.”

  Yuri Tarnapolsky, who had been watching from the sidelines, stroking his chin idly, put in: “You remember poor Maksimov.”

  “Maksimov was a traitor!”

  “Not according to Maksimov,” Tarnapolsky said gently. He toyed with his service revolver, polishing its barrel with a soft white handkerchief. “Do you know he and Olga had an infant son? One would think that Prishnikov would spare the young and the innocent —”

  “No! Stop!” gasped Labov, ashen-faced. He was having difficulty breathing. “I know much less—much less than you must think. There is a great deal I don’t know.”

  “Please,” said Bryson warningly. “Evasion will simply waste our time and will add to the length of time you are gone—the period of missing time you must somehow account for. I want to know about Prishnikov’s alliance with Jacques Arnaud.”

  “There are so many deals, so many arrangements. They accelerate. There are more than ever now.”

  “Why?”

  “I think he is preparing for something.”

  “For what?”

  “Once, I heard him speaking on his secure phone to Arnaud and saying something about the ‘Prometheus Group.’”

  The name chimed in Bryson’s head. He had heard it before. Yes! Jan Vansina had used the phrase in Geneva, wondering whether he was “with the Prometheans.”

  “What is the Prometheus Group?” Bryson demanded urgently.

  “Prometheus—you have no idea. No one has any idea. I hardly know. They are powerful—immensely powerful. It is not clear to me whether Prishnikov follows their orders, or whether he gives them orders.”

  “Who are ‘they’?”

  “They are important, powerful people —”

  “You’ve said that already. Who are they?”

  “They are everywhere—and nowhere. Their names are not to be found on mastheads, on letterheads, on papers of incorporation. But Tolya — Prishnikov is among them, this I am sure of.”

  “Arnaud is one of them,” prompted Bryson.

  “Yes.”

  “Who else?”

  Labov shook his head in defiance. “You know, if you kill me, Prishnikov will leave my family alone,” he said reasonably. “Why don’t you kill me?”

  Tarnapolsky looked over, a wry smile on his face. “Do you know how they found Maksimov’s child, Labov?” He approached Labov, still menacingly polishing his revolver with the handkerchief.

  Labov jerked his head back and forth like a child unwilling to listen. Had his hands been free he would surely have clapped them over his ears. Quivering, he blurted out, “The Jade Master! He is making arrangements with … with the man they call the Jade Master.”

  Tarnapolsky gave Bryson a sharp look. They both knew whom the moniker referred to. The so-called Jade Master was a powerful general in the Chinese military, the People’s Liberation Army. General Tsai, based in Shenzhen, was famously corrupt and had facilitated the efforts of certain international conglomerates to establish a foothold in the immense Chinese market—in exchange, of course, for certain considerations. General Tsai was also world-renowned as a collector of precious imperial Chinese jade and was known to sometimes accept blandishments in the form of valuable jade carvings.

  Labov saw the look between the two men. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish,” he said contemptuously. “Everything is about to change, and you cannot stop it.”

  Bryson turned back to Labov quizzically. “What do you mean, ‘everything is about to change’?” he demanded.

  “Days remain—only days,” Labov said cryptically. “Only a few days I am given to prepare.”

  “To prepare what?”

  “The machinery has already been put into place. Now power is about to be transferred fully! Everything will come into view.”

  Tarnapolsky finished polishing his revolver, pocketed the handkerchief, and then pointed the gun a few inches away from Labov’s face. “Are you referring to a coup d’etat?”

  Bryson interrupted, “But Prishnikov is already the power behind the throne in Russia! Why the hell would he want something like that?”

  Labov laughed dismissively. “Coup d’etat! How little you know! How narrow is your view! We Russians have always been happy to give up our freedom for safety and security. You will, too, all of you. Every last one. For now the forces are too great. The machinery is already in place. Everything is about to come into view!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” thundered Bryson. “Prishnikov and his colleagues—do they now aspire higher than the corporate world—do they aim to take over governments now, is that it? Have they become besotted with their own wealth and power?”

  “We would appreciate some specifics, my friend,” Tarnapolsky said, lowering his revolver, the threat no longer necessary.

  “Governments? Governments are outdated! Look at Russia—what kind of power has the government? None! The government is powerless. It’s the corporations that make the rules now! Maybe Lenin was right after all—it is the capitalists who control the world!”

  Suddenly, with the speed of a cobra, Labov’s right hand lunged out a few inches, the maximum play allowed by the constraints. It was just enough for him to grab Tarnapolsky’s revolver, which was almost next to him. Tarnapolsky reacted swiftly, grabbing Labov’s hand, twisting it hard to loosen Labov’s grip on the revolver. For a moment, the gun was pointing upward and back, right at Labov’s own face. Labov seemed to be staring at the muzzle, hypnotized by it, a strange, sweet smile on his face. Then, just before Tarnapolsky was able to wrench it away, Labov pointed it between his own eyes and squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The suicide of Anatoly Prishnikov’s longtime aide-de-camp was a grim turn of events; Labov may have been a ruthless corporate functionary, the fax and the phone his deadly weapons, but he was no killer, and his death had meant the shedding of unnecessary blood. More than that, it was a complication, a deviation from their carefully laid-out plan.