The fat man was sitting back into a couch—it looked like one of the leather ones down in the salon—at his ease, smiling at someone off camera. Music was playing in the background, and the setting had an end-of-the-evening feeling about it, two people sitting around relaxing after some larger group had said their good-byes and wandered off to their homes.
He was bald and bland, and had thick wet lips, disturbingly dark against his blue-white skin. His black eyes were small and sharp, like a gull’s, and his hands, folded around a glass of beer, looked like fat pink flippers, his fingers thick tubes of pink sausage.
The man seemed to be unaware of the camera, and, from the angle, it was likely the camera was hidden. He leaned forward to refill his beer glass, spreading the fly of his overstressed pants, his belly pushing out through it like a fleshy balloon. Then he sat back in the creaking, overburdened couch again, his thick legs spreading wide. When he spoke, his accent was heavy and Slavic, but the language was English.
“So, we are done, and you are ready . . . ?”
A reply, offscreen, barely heard, a younger voice, clear, French. The man listened, his small eyes glittering, and then showed his cheap yellow dentures in a broad, wet smile, stretching his thick purple lips wide.
“Good . . . What?”
He seemed to be reacting to a question the mike did not pick up, leaning forward and putting his head to one side, looking puzzled. The question was repeated, and the fat man’s smile went away, revealing the cold, calculating reptile that lived inside.
“None of us know the answer to that. And you should not ask. All you know—all
we
know—is that she must amend the transcript, and must do so without being in any way detected.”
Another muffled interjection, and the fat man frowned.
“She
will
know . . . And she will also know what happens if she does it wrong or puts in any kind of trick.” Here he sighed, and drained half his glass. “As for the old woman, she is to be an example. We have been over this. She is no longer an active member, but she is a
mentor
to them, a figure of reverence and affection. She is
cherished,
like a mother. What happens to her should be ambiguous, should be taken by the authorities as a natural death. That is
very
important, my friend, because—should you need it with your subject, to
complete
her motivation, you can then provide her with the visual proof that
you
in fact were the cause of her beloved mentor’s death. The shock? The fear? These will be your bona fides, so to speak. What? Of course you will be
with
her. You read the personality analysis—the psychologists in Marksa Plaz confirmed this, you saw the films—her husband’s betrayal hurt her deeply. She is a
physical
creature. Her husband said she was
insatiable
.”
The fat man stopped to run a wet white tongue, like the head of a blind cave snake, over his lips, his face creasing into an obscene leer.
“And look at
you
! How can she resist you? At any rate, one way or another, by charm or by force, you
will
be with her at the vital moment.
“Up until then, you must be
disciplined
. Your very generous remuneration will
depend
upon that, my friend, and you would not want to disappoint our employer. I mean that sincerely. Hear me. You do not want to draw their disapproving attention. But
afterward,
of course, indulge! A
bonfire
of indulgences, so long as she is dead at the end of them. Yes, at the end, a bonfire, a great cleansing fire, and then you can—”
The MPEG ended abruptly, the screen pulsing blue. Mandy pulled the chip out of the reader, her face solemn. The multifunction display flicked back to radar, and the screen came up again, the sweeping yellow bar, the tiny red blip of the
Shark
holding steady at two miles out, a few random returns at the outer limit of the arc, some high clouds far away in the west. Dalton stared at the screen, his face as solemn as Mandy’s.
“Well,” he said, “that’s the proof you were looking for. My compliments, Mandy. You were right all along.”
“We never actually see Lujac.”
“We’re not trying to prove this in a court of law. The film was taken on his boat. And we got a big reaction in Santorini when we threw his name around. And nobody knows where this Marcus Todorovich guy is. I’d say it was
his
body Sofouli pulled out of the Aegean. Levka seen this film yet?”
“Not yet. I’m not sure I want him—”
“I agree. Need to know. But we can take a slice, a still, of just the fat man, and show that to Levka. He has to be the Gray Man. Fits Levka’s description down to the lips, the sausage fingers—”
“Yes, he does. But—”
“Look, with this film we could just break off, take this to Hank Brocius. Back it up with everything we know. He can’t pass this off as more interagency bullshit. We could turn around now and go back to . . .”
He caught the look in Mandy’s eye, the sardonic smile.
“Well, I guess I’ve kind of burned that particular bridge—”
“Along with half of that particular Istanbul—”
“There’s an airfield at Yalta—”
“Micah, we don’t need to
take
this to the NSA.”
“Why the heck not?”
“God, and you a CIA agent. Because, you berk, I’ve already
sent
it.”
“
Sent
it? What? Mailed it?”
She tapped the onboard computer.
“Welcome to the age of the Internet, Micah. The
Subito
has a satellite-linked wireless connection. I sent the MPEG to Hank Brocius’s private e-mail address hours ago while you were on your way to blow up Sariyer—”
“Why not his office one?”
Mandy gave him a look.
“If we’re looking for a mole, we have to assume that everything is compromised. Including the NSA’s internal e-mail system. Brocius maintains a hardened and encrypted e-mail connection under his own code name—”
Dalton found himself staring up at her, a little slack-jawed.
“Which
you
have?”
“Pinky had it in his lockbox—”
He shook his head slowly.
“Along with half the state secrets of the Western powers, it seems. We’re going to have to do something about Pinky’s lockbox.”
“You go right ahead. I’m sure Pinky would
love
to have you fiddle around with his lockbox. I also sent Brocius the details about Beyoglu Trading and the Russian Inter-whatever Board thingy and their address at Dizayn Tower in Istanbul. And what happened at the warehouse in Sariyer. And the phone number too. I told him to run everything through his databases and, basically, to hold up his end.”
Dalton gave her back her own patented raised-eyebrow look.
“The Russian Inter-whatever
thingy
?”
“You know what I mean. Don’t be such a wanker.”
Dalton looked a little sheepish, and then his face hardened up.
“Did you tell him about Kerch?”
“No. I wasn’t sure what we were going to do about that. And I didn’t want him stepping all over our end of this investigation. He’s got what he needs.”
“Listen, Mandy, did you send all this to Cather too?”
Mandy’s face lost its teasing glow.
“No . . . not yet.”
“Because . . . you still have doubts?”
“Yes, I do. I mean, I
still
don’t think Deacon Cather’s a KGB mole, but until we can prove it I’d like to keep this between us. It looks as if the Russians are going all out to have an intercepted decryption altered, but we don’t know
why
. We don’t know who they’re trying to protect.”
“We
do
know that there’s something in the cable they really don’t want us to read. If Mariah Vale is right, it’s something that might lead to a KGB mole somewhere inside the CIA—”
“Inside American intelligence, anyway,” said Mandy. “What we don’t know is—”
“Who’s on Mariah Vale’s short list. Other than Deacon Cather.”
“Yes.”
“Which is why you haven’t sent anything to Cather. Just in case he actually
is
the mole. I have no problem with that. It was a good decision.”
“But now what should we do? I mean, here, right now, on the boat. Do we keep going, go to Kerch, or wherever this takes us?”
They were both quiet for a time, feeling the rhythm of the sea, the soothing rumble of the ship’s engines, the rush and ripple of the waves curling back from the cutwater, the heavy rise and fall of the ship.
“I think we push on, Mandy. You’ve given Brocius enough to stop this game on his end. All he has to do is take a good look at all his Glass Cutters and see which one has Kiki Lujac under her bed. But we can still take these Russians apart from our end. We broke up whatever Keraklis was doing. We took the
Subito
—you found that film—we torched their operation back in Istanbul, and now the survivors are on the run back to Kerch. We can follow that trawler, find the Gray Man, find out what that room in the warehouse in Sariyer was used for, maybe even blow the whole network out of the water. Hand the goddamned KGB their heads on a pike for a change. God knows, they’ve got it coming. We’ve taken it this far, Mandy. Let’s finish it.”
Mandy poured herself some more coffee from the thermos, offered Dalton a refill. Ursa Major, the Big Bear, was just visible above the northern horizon, and there was a violet glimmer along the curve of the earth that might have been the aurora borealis. Or perhaps the lights of Yalta bouncing off mist high in the stratosphere. Mandy put the cup down, stared out at the sea for a time, working it through.
“Yes,” she said, finally, “let’s finish it.”
For a long time, they said nothing, since everything that could be said was already understood and what couldn’t be said was better left that way.
After a while, Dalton switched the controls to Auto-Helm, an onboard computer linked to the navigation panel. Now the
Subito
would steer itself on the course he had already set. The GPS system was still monitoring the
Shark,
holding steady at two miles ahead, on a bearing directly for Kerch, the same course as theirs. He leaned back, stretching. His body felt as if it weighed three hundred pounds. His eyes were dry and burning.
“You should get some sleep,” said Mandy. “There’s a big, soft bed in the master stateroom. You’ve been up for almost thirty-six hours straight. Why don’t you go have a shower, lie down for a while?”
Dalton rubbed his face with his hands, looked out at the sea. The night had come down, a black vault, and all the stars were out, a shimmering field of cold clear diamonds, behind them the pink haze of the Milky Way. The reflection of the stars scintillated on the calm water all around. On the northern horizon, the lights of a freighter floated in a void between sea and sky. Directly ahead, the running lights of the
Shark
seemed to hang motionless in the middle of their windshield. In the northeast, looming massively along the farther shore of the Black Sea, was the invisible threat—almost the magnetic pull—of Russia itself, a rising threat in the opening years of the new century, much too close for comfort and drawing nearer with every mile under the keel.
He turned away from it, now very aware of Mandy, standing quite close. She smelled of spice and coffee and cigarettes. She was standing so close, he could feel the warmth of her body, hear her steady breathing. Mandy was looking out at the sea, her face calm and still, an amber glow on her from the navigation screen. She was extraordinarily beautiful—poised, elegant, sensual—and much too close.
And where was Cora?
At her father’s villa on Capri, a thousand miles away, a place as closed to him as the iron gates of a convent. Mandy felt his mood changing and turned to look at him, a surprised smile opening up, her gray eyes shining:
“Why, Micah, dear boy, I believe you’re weakening.”
part three
ISTANBUL
SARIYER
Nikki stayed well back from what was left of the warehouse, letting Sofouli deal with the Turkish cops. She had already gotten some sharp lessons in what the Turks expect from women. Her short skirt was offensive, she gathered, as was her blouse and her uncovered hair, and, as far as she could make out, her very presence here on the sacred soil of the homeland. Nikki, always sensitive to cultural nuance and Islamic male pride, had her BlackBerry out and was looking up the Turkish phrase for
“Go fuck yourself.”
Sofouli was standing in a circle of tan uniforms, speaking in a forceful rush of Turkish patois, with some Greek thrown in, to a tall, bent, dark-skinned man with a full white mustache and very sad brown eyes, the deep lines of his weather-beaten face seeming to melt around the cheekbones and run in channels down the side of his long, mournful countenance.