Alexander Kurbsky-the greatest novelist of his generation, as far as she was concerned. On the Death of Men and Moscow Nights-astonishing achievements, born out of his experiences as a paratrooper in Afghanistan and then the years of hell during the first and second Chechen wars. And he was still only in his late thirties. Hardly anyone outside Russia had actually met him since the publication of those books, the government kept him on such a short leash, and yet here he was, in New York. It was going to be quite an evening.

She turned from the mirror, and the phone rang.

Dillon said, “I thought I’d catch you.”

“What time is it there?”

“Just after midnight. Looking forward to meeting Kurbsky?”

“I must admit I am. I’ve never seen George so excited.”

“For good reason. Kurbsky’s an interesting guy in lots of ways. His father was KGB, you know. When his mother died giving birth to his sister, an aunt raised them both for several years, and then one day Kurbsky just up and ran away to London. The aunt was living there by then, and he stayed with her, studied at the London School of Economics for two years, and then-gone again. Went back, joined the paratroops, and the rest is history or myth, call it what you like.”

“I know all that, Sean, it’s in his publisher’s handout. Still, it should be quite an evening.”

“I imagine so. How do you look?”

“Bloody marvelous.”

“That’s my girl. Slay the people. I’ll go now.”

“Love you,” she said, but he was gone. Men, she thought wryly, they’re from a different planet, and she got her purse and went to do battle.

IN A ROOM on the floor below, Alexander Kurbsky examined himself in the mirror and ran a comb through his shoulder-length dark hair, the tangled beard suggesting a medieval bravo, a roisterer promising a kiss for a woman and a blow for a man. It was his personal statement, a turning against any kind of control after his years in the army. He was a shade under five ten, much of his face covered by the beard, and his eyes were gray, like water over stone.