“Follow me.” Which Kurbsky did.

IN THE NEXT room, he looked Luzhkov over. “And who would you be?” Behind him, the lieutenant smiled.

“Colonel Boris Luzhkov, GRU. I’m acting under Prime Minister Putin’s orders. You’ve just missed him. How are you?”

“For a man who’s just discovered that the dead can walk, I’m doing all right. I’ll be better if I have a drink.” He went to the cabinet and had two large vodka shots, then he cursed. “So get on with it. I presume there’s a purpose to all this.”

“Sit down and read this.” Luzhkov pushed the file across the desk, and Kurbsky started.

Fifteen minutes later, he sat back. “I don’t write thrillers.”

“It certainly reads like one.”

“And this is from the Prime Minister?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s the payoff?”

“Your sister’s released. She will be restored to life.”

“That’s one way of putting it. How do I know it will be honored?”

“The Prime Minister’s word.”

“Don’t make me laugh. He’s a politician. Since when do those guys keep their word?”

And Luzhkov said exactly the right thing. “She’s your sister. If that means anything, this is all you can do. It’s as simple as that. Better than nothing. You have to travel hopefully.”

“Fuck you,” Kurbsky said, “and fuck him.” But there was the hint of despair of a man who knew he had little choice. “Anything else?”

“Yes. Igor Vronsky. Does he mean anything to you?”

“Absolutely. The stinking bastard was in Chechnya and ran a story about my outfit. The Fifth Paratroop Company, the Black Tigers. We were pathfinders and special forces. He did radio from the front line, blew the whistle on a special op we were on, and the Chechens ambushed us. Fifteen good men dead. It’s in my book.”

“He’s working as a journalist in New York now. We want you to eliminate him, just to prove you mean business.”

“Just like that.”