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  “Manuel tells me that you are leaving Mathewson, Barber.”

  “True.”

  Vargas frowned. “Soon?”

  “Soon.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Got to go. The discounters are taking over our business. I’m on a train headed for a

  wreck.”

  Vargas shook his head. “Wreck?”

  “You’ve been my best and most loyal client, Humberto, but you’ll have to move to

  the cut-rate guys someday. It o nly makes sense.”

  Vargas hesitated. “That’s Manuel’s counsel, but I—”

  “You’ll have to do it. I just hope that we’ll still be friends.”

  “Never a concern there, Sam, but money management? I’ve heard the lecture about

  the number of mutual funds and money managers there are. What do you know that they don’t?” “I’m going to become a manager of managers. The money managers I choose will handle my customers’ money. If they don’t do well, I’ll replace them.”

  Vargas nodded. “I see. So, who will manage my account at Mathewson, Barber?”

  “Rose Hunnicutt, my sales assistant. She’s been running your account day-to-day forever anyway.”

  “I’ll try her. When can I move some assets to you?”

  “I’ll let you know when I think I can show you a way to earn more.”

  “Good enough, Sam.” He looked at his watch. “Time for one more glass.”

  2002

  Outskirts of Grozny, Chechnya, January 6

  A cold mist made the hillside difficult to see, but the two watchers were not

  concerned that the workers under their supervision would try to escape. A curtain of

  troops of Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti surrounded the area.

  Anatoly Maksimovich Parenko, Major of the Russian Federal Security Service, and

  late Captain of the Second Chief Directorate of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi

  Bezopasnosti, leaned against the side of a muddy, battered GAZR-1. Parenko was six

  feet tall and stocky. He wore his dark hair long, covering the remains of his left ear. His

  mustache was a match for that of his hero, Joseph Stalin. His black eyes were slanted. He shook his head. “It has always been my opinion, Sergeant, that people required to

  dig their own graves show a certain apathy.”

  “They do, sir, they do.”

  Parenko smiled. “My time is up soon, Igor Timorovich. The glory days of the KGB

  are behind us and my future in FSB is at best problematic. I believe that I shall leave this

  sort of work to you and move on to a career both less demanding and more rewarding.” A week later, in a smoky bar in Tbilisi, Parenko struck his glass against that of one

  Feliks Gregorovich Grashchenko. “Dyengee!”

  “Much money, indeed!”

  Moscow, January 12

  Six days later, Parenko dragged two duffle bags through the litter of Moscow’s

  Domodedovo Airport. The new regime had not improved the facility’s appearance. The crowd surrounding the pile of luggage failed to make way for him. He was

  accustomed to the respect that his FSB officer’s uniform provided. Perhaps the money he

  was to earn would provide a new source of respect.

  An older man stopped in front of him. He was small and wizened, but well dressed

  and looked well fed.

  “Yes?”

  “Parenko?”

  “Perhaps. You are?”

  “Puzinsky. Chief Moscow rab for Eugen Yakovich Staranov.”

  “Slave?”

  “He calls me such. I am well paid for the small tasks that I accomplish and so accept

  the slur.”

  Parenko cocked his head. “Small tasks? What are small tasks?”

  “Errands. Gunplay is seldom required.”

  “And today?”

  “I was given your picture. I have met you. I shall conduct you to his apartment.” “Which is where?”

  “The Frunzenskaya Embankment.”

  Parenko retrieved one of his bags and pointed at the other and then at Puzinsky. “And there?”

  “I shall deposit you and your bags, then provide you with the telephone number for

  Eugen Yakovich.”

  “He will not be there?”

  “He is in Odessa, sunning himself.”

  “After that?”

  “I suppose you will commence your duties.”

  “Those are?”

  “The usual. Drugs, extortion, arson.”

  January 17 The house at 17 Colonial Point was one of twenty-four luxury homes in an enclave off Paces Ferry Road in an Atlanta area known as Vinings. The Colonial Point houses shared a single architectural theme, New England in the early Eighteenth Century.

  The lots were large, averaging more than two acres. In keeping with the architectural theme, each lot was fenced with iron, spear-pointed pickets. The landscaping was suitable for the period and meticulously maintained.

  The Severus Company began construction in 1997 as part of a move to confirm its position as the premier designer and builder of fine homes in Atlanta. Based upon the success of the venture, Ralph Severus approached Larson in 1998 to secure a public offering of his company’s stock. Larson arranged a suitable commission for himself, then handed the proposed offering off to the corporate finance people at Mathewson, Barber in New York.

  As the date of the offering approached, Number 17 remained unsold. Selling the house was a problem because the architect—perhaps, it was said, to make a point about the lack of sophistication among Atlanta homebuyers—had interjected a late-century, Federalist design among the twenty-three Georgians. The prank had gone unnoticed until a failed architect-turned-journalist had pointed out the discrepancy in an Atlanta magazine. The result was that the salespeople were pessimistic about an immediate sale. Since the offering was based on the Severus performance at Colonial Point, a reduction in price or a no-sale would have to be described in the prospectus. Since neither was acceptable, Ralph Severus convinced Larson to exchange his prospective commission for the problem house. The value of the offer was three times the commission and the success of the offering was at stake. Larson agreed and left his beloved loft in downtown Atlanta. A year later he and his friends had become accustomed to the near mansion and the furnishing he had purchased out of the model house. As a bonus to him, the resale value of Number 17 had risen with its neighbors.

  Larson, at work in the bedroom-bathroom suite that was his new office, depressed his telephone’s second button. “Sam Larson.”

  “Sam, it’s Elizabeth.”

  “Hi.”

  “Just called to see how the departure and move are going.”

  “Finished with both. I turned the paperwork in on Tuesday, transferred all of my accounts to Rose, and settled with the financial folks today.”

  “When will I have a chance to see the new setup?”

  “Any time, but there’s not much to see. The telephone lines and satellite dish are in and the two new PCs are here, waiting for Bud Grogan to do his tricks. And the legal eagles are finished. Larson Interests, LLC, is ready to do business.”

  “Larson Interests? Doesn’t have a lot of pizzaz, Sam.”

  “It’s my observation that pizzaz and the solemn business of money management don’t go together.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “And Maggie Allen starts work on Monday.”

  “Maggie. Maggie? Do I know a Maggie?”

  “Tall and willowy. Light colored hair. Beautiful brown eyes.”

  Elizabeth didn’t respond.

  “Married, around sixty-two, and a grandmother of four.”

  “Sam!”

  “A retiring sales assistant from the old firm. Ready for a half-time job at the same time I need a halftime SA. Stroke of luck getting her.”

  “Sounds great.” She hesitated. “Well, that’s all I had on—�
��

  “How about you?”

  “The usual. The Douglas Foundation, Quarters for Quarters for Kids. Bridge at Olivia’s this afternoon. The usual.”

  “You still on for the Clifford’s?”

  “I hate playing inside, but a game’s a game.” “Correct.”

  Hotel Kotorsl, Yaroslavl, Yaroslavl Oblast, the Russian Republic, January 23 Parenko knocked on the door to Room 6, then entered. The room was small and

  dirty. The closet that had been transformed to a tiny kitchen smelled of many vegetables,

  some quite old and none fresh. A gray carpet, worn in places to the backing, was stained.

  The single window was frosted, allowing a slight penetration by the frail winter sun. A

  very few elegant pieces of furniture remained from the hotel’s existence before the

  Revolution, but they were battered and supplemented by unlovely pieces produced by the

  workmanship engendered by the communist work ethic.

  Eugen Yakovich Staranov, dressed, lay on one of the two single beds. His eyes were

  closed.

  Parenko looked down at him. The man was a tall dwarf. He was perhaps sixty-five

  centimeters tall. Not short, but he still looked like something that might live under a

  bridge or perhaps in a cave at the foot of a hill. A gnome or perhaps a troll. Parenko

  shuddered. Perhaps he should ask Grashchenko for a different assignment. “What are you staring at?”

  Parenko was startled. “Staring? I was not staring. I was attempting to determine if

  you were awake or not.”

  “I am awake, but I am resting. I function at very high energy levels and so need to

  rest often. I shall continue my rest. I shall be ready to work soon. Sit and wait. And do

  not stare. Staring is not polite. I am always courteous—as you also will be.” Parenko retreated to a battered lounge chair. He examined the peeling wallpaper,

  then studied the discolorations in the rug, and then wondered about the discolored patch

  on the wall above the unoccupied bed. He returned to examining his new leader. He was

  neither fat nor thin, though the dark gray, single-breasted suit had been cut for a stouter

  man. Perhaps he had been fat at one time. Yes, the skin at his neck was wrinkled. It was the ears that provided the elf-like look, they and the lack of a real forehead.

  The eyes were dark blue, under heavy blond brows. The skull was shiny, barely covered

  with blond fuzz. There was a thick blond mustache, perhaps serving to mask the greenish

  child’s teeth.

  Staranov stirred, his eyes still closed. “I am rested. Have you been staring?” “No. Thinking.”

  “About our task?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what is the answer?”

  “Answer? Oh—a van.”

  Staranov opened his eyes and bared the little teeth. “Van? Precision! You are no

  longer employed by the government. Lack of precision in your most recent assignment

  meant additional dead Chechens. Here, it may mean loss of life or, worse, loss of

  money.”

  “A UAZ3741.”

  “Location?”

  “Fifteen kilometers from Kastroma, heading this way.”

  “Take Evesky and Treshchkov and intercept it.”

  “The weather? The snow is heavy and drifting.”

  Staranov moved to the window and melted a clear space. “Correct.” “Then—”

  “Do you imagine that our business is subject to the vagaries of weather?” Parenko exited without replying.

  Staranov waited until the door closed, then dug into his left ear with his little finger.

  He examined the product in the pale light. He was disappointed.

  Parenko called four hours later.

  A fat woman in a voluminous green dress, her face white and doughy and pocked marked, her nose a mere nub, and her dirty blond hair pulled tightly into a bun, answered.

  “Naveeva.”

  “The man.”

  “Busy. Give me the message.”

  “I—”

  “Now!”

  “There was nothing.”

  “Hold.”

  She pressed the handset against a vast bosom. “It is Parenko. No goods.” “What do the people have to say?”

  She posed the question and waited.

  She lowered the handset again. “A driver and a passenger. The driver behaves as if

  the passenger were boss.”

  “What does the boss say about the goods?”

  “He is a turnip farmer. He has just delivered a load to Kastroma and is going home.” Staranov snatched the handset away. “I have evaluated the fable. Tell the boss I

  appreciate his imagination.”

  “Yes.”

  “Kill the driver and hide the van. After that—”

  “You have seen this country. The tallest thing here is a snowdrift. Where can I

  hide —”

  “You are correct. Arrange the van as if it had departed the road at high speed, then

  burn it, with the driver inside.”

  “I—”

  “Then bring the boss to me.”

  “How can I get him inside the hotel? He will make a scene.”

  Staranov laughed. “Arrive before dawn tomorrow. Call when you are here. Vera

  Davidovna will join you in the parking lot with her tools.”

  Chapter 4

  January 24 Staranov stood in the open doorway as Parenko and Naveeva entered the next morning. A middle-aged man in a peasant smock hung from their shoulders. His eyes were closed, his face bloody.

  “On the bed.”

  His captors swung the body over the second bed and dropped it.

  Staranov raised an eyelid. “How long will he be out?”

  “Ten, perhaps fifteen minutes.”

  “Too long. Inject him.”

  “He may not—”

  “Now.”

  Naveeva jammed the needle of a syringe through the man’s workpants and depressed

  the plunger. The man arched his back. Staranov turned to Parenko. “ You and the others remain in your rooms until I call you.”

  The captive moaned and tried to raise his head. “Where am I?”

  “Safe from the winter snows, turnip farmer.”

  “Why here?”

  “Because we did not find any turnips in your van.”

  “I—”

  “You were to deliver ten polyethylene packages of a magic powder to me this evening. I wish to know where they are.”

  “No idea what you are—”

  Staranov raised his hand. “Stop!” He smiled at Naveeva. “So, Vera Davidovna, what would you do in this case?”

  She grinned in return. “It may seem quixotic of me, but I would like to begin with the antique thumbscrew I purchased in Leningrad.”

  “St. Petersburg.”

  “Leningrad.”

  He chuckled. “Very well, Leningrad. A thumbscrew? Splendid idea. Summon our new friend. He will benefit from a little seasoning.”

  Half an hour later Parenko emerged from the bathroom. He wiped his face with a thin, ragged towel.

  “Recovered?”

  He nodded.

  “I am amazed at your behavior. I would have thought your training in the Second Chief Directorate would have inured you to the niceties of such interrogations.”

  Parenko slumped into a chair. He arranged his hair over his damaged ear and smoothed his mustache.

  “You must harden yourself if you wish to prosper in Galavna-ya Bohl. You must look forward to the day when you will be able to employ Vera Davidovna’s tools yourself. Torture is the basis of my success.”

  Parenko looked away.

  Staranov handed him a slip of paper. “Unless the turnip farmer resisted Naveeva better than I think, the produce is under the seat of the privy at this address i
n Kostroma. After you and your comrades retrieve our goods, inter the remains of the turnip farmer in its place.” He returned to the window. “The snow has stopped. You will make good time. Call me as soon as you have the material. I wish to inform Valubin of our success as soon as possible.”

  January 28

  Four days later, Laventri Edgardovich Stetin, former head of the Sixth Department of

  the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB and currently colonel of the FSB entered his

  commander’s office. The walls were painted the usual ochre and the furniture was new,

  courtesy of the Finns, who were flooding the Moscow market.

  The General’s office was smaller than that which had been assigned to him at 2

  Lubyanka Square, but the facilities at Number 1/3 were more comfortable and the

  building had the advantage of not having the horrors in its basement that Number 2 still

  retained.

  Stetin sighed as he shifted his considerable weight. General Richard Iosovich

  Redenenko, former head of the Second Chief Directorate, took pity on his lieutenant and

  reached for the proffered stack of photographs.

  The General, trim as ever and comfortable in his new uniform, shook his head. “You

  have traded your hair for flesh, Laventri Edgardovich.”

  Stetin grimaced and nodded.

  Redenenko looked at the first two photographs, then threw the stack in front of his

  subordinate. “You have ruined my day!”

  “I apologize, Richard Iosovich, but I wanted to underline the seriousness of the

  matter.”

  “Congratulations on your success! You are certain this is Staranov’s work?” “Or one of his merry band.”

  Redenenko stood, locked his hands behind his back, and paced. “Where was the

  body found?”

  “Under the seat of a privy behind a shack in Kostroma.”

  Redenenko shook his head.

  Stetin turned the photographs over and straightened the edges. “Forgive me for

  speaking plainly, Richard Iosovich, but it seems to me that you should have dealt with

  him when you had the chance.”

  “Liquidation was not an option.”

  “No?”

  “The quantity and quality of his associates were such that anyone involved in his

  death would face assassination.”

  “Associates?”

  “Fellow graduates of Palyeznee Ooneeverseetyet.”