"Most kind of you." A brief smile flickered, as if he was amused at Miller's familiarity.

Dillon said, "It isn't vodka, but it will do to take along." He raised his glass. "To Vladimir Putin. That was quite a speech."

"You think so?" Lermov said.

"A bit of a genius, if you look at it," Dillon said.

Miller smiled. "Definitely a man to keep your eye on."

Lermov said, "Your friend, Blake Johnson, I expected him to be here, too. I wonder what's happened to him? Ah, well, I suppose he's moved on also." He smiled that odd smile and walked away.

At Mercy Hospital on the Upper East Side, the man known as Frank Barry lay in a room on the fifth floor, where he had been prepped to get the bullet out of his knee. His eyes were closed, and he was hooked up to everything in sight, the only sounds electronic beepings. A young intern entered, dressed for the operating room, a nurse behind him. He raised the sheet over Barry's left knee and shuddered.

"Christ, that's as bad as I've seen. This guy's going to be crippled." Barry didn't move. "He's been thoroughly prepped, I take it."

"The anesthetist on this one is Dr. Hale. The guy was in such agony, he was begging for mercy. Mind you, I caught him making a phone call earlier in spite of the pain, so I confiscated it. It's on the side there. He said his name is Frank Barry and he lives in the Village. Mugged in Central Park."

"Just when I thought it was safe to go there," Hale said. "The police have been notified?"

"Nobody's turned up yet, but they've been told he's going into the OR, so I suppose they think they can take their time."

"Okay," the intern said. "Twenty minutes." He went out, and the nurse followed him.

It was quiet in the corridor. The man who emerged from the elevator at the far end wore green scrubs, a skullcap, and a surgical mask. He took his time, checking the names on doors almost casually, found what he was looking for, and went in.