The Silent Man

“I’M ON MY WAY TO DULLES, ” Wells said to Shafer.

“You’re losing her, John,” Shafer said. “She’s disappearing before your eyes.”

“Can we not talk about that?”

“Then why are you here?”

“I may need your help in Moscow.”

“Why would I help you when I don’t want you to go at all?”

“Because you’d rather I don’t get killed.”

“Maybe. So sit for a minute, tell me what you’re planning.”

Wells explained. When he was done, Shafer shook his head vigorously, sending a small cloud of dandruff flying. “You’ve got no shot,” Shafer said.

“You must know someone. You always do.”

“I’ll think about it,” Shafer said.

“Tell her I’m gone,” Wells said. “She asked me not to tell her.”

“John—”

Wells walked out.

THERE WAS NO TRAFFIC on the way to Dulles. And the flight to Moscow left exactly on time.

PART TWO

9

ZURICH

The sapphire nestled in the V of Nadia’s black silk dress, glowing as blue as her eyes.

“Pierre,” she said. “It’s perfect.”

“Perfect,” the Tiffany’s saleswoman purred.

“Perfect.” What else could Kowalski say? Perfect was the perfect word to describe the necklace, the stone perfectly settled between Nadia’s perfect breasts. He could survey the bankers strolling down Bahnhofstrasse to their 100-franc lunches. Nine out of ten would agree that Nadia and her sapphire were perfect. The tenth would be blind.

Kowalski steered the saleswoman — Frederica, middle-aged and trim, her brown hair neatly bobbed, a more suitable match for him than Nadia would ever be — to the counter in the back room, where Nadia couldn’t see them. Unlike lesser items, the necklace had no price tag.

“Six cent mille,” she said, knowing the question. Six hundred thousand francs translated into about $570,000. Absurd, even by the standards of the $5,000 handbags and $10,000 dresses he regularly bought Nadia.

“But the stone is flawless,” she said. “It will never lose its value.” Frederica cocked her head and peeked into the front room. “And look at her.”

Kowalski followed Frederica’s gaze. Nadia caught him looking and smiled and folded her white swan arms across her stomach, lifting her breasts slightly so that the sapphire settled between them like a newborn about to suckle. She was jaw-dropping, breathtaking, all of her. The irony, of course, was that she would have looked just as good in a potato sack. The jewelry and the couture dresses helped less beautiful women, but they were wasted on her.

This thought had occurred to Kowalski before. Normally it pleased him enormously. But not today. Nothing was pleasing him today. For weeks, nothing had pleased him. Not since—

Frederica laid a hand on Kowalski’s arm. “What do you think, monsieur?”

“It is beautiful,” Kowalski admitted. He handed Frederica his black Amex card, idly wondering how much she would make on the sale. “Run it through, madame,” Kowalski said. “But quickly.”

Kowalski didn’t like being in public anymore. Not even in the heart of Zurich, one of the safest cities in the world. Not even with the door to Tiffany’s locked and his bodyguards outside. After all, John Wells had gotten to him in the Hamptons when he’d had five guards protecting him. And that was before Wells had a real reason to hate him.

Frederica disappeared into the back. The Tiffany’s on Bahnhofstrasse didn’t do anything as declasse as conducting business where customers might see it. Kowalski walked back to Nadia, who wrinkled her nose at him as if she didn’t know what he’d decided.

“Pierre? Did you decide?”

“Kitten. Even I have limits. But I spoke to Frederica and we’re getting you a very nice charm bracelet. You know, the silver.”

Nadia’s hands fluttered up to her neck.

“But it’s so pretty, Pierre. And you said—” She broke off. She looked like a puppy whose favorite toy had suddenly gone missing. Kowalski reached for her and squeezed her against him.

“Of course it’s yours. You know I don’t deny you.”

“Pierre.” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. They stood that way, a parody of a diamond ad, the fat middle-aged man clinging to the young sylph, until Frederica came back with the receipt.

KOWALSKI WAS IN HIS OFFICE that afternoon when Tarasov, his head of security, appeared. “May I?”

“Come.”

Tarasov walked in, followed by a tall, thin man in a red and blue tracksuit. The man was one of the ugliest creatures Kowalski had ever seen, with patchy blond hair and tiny deep-set eyes. “This is Dragon, the man I mentioned. Dragon, meet Monsieur Kowalski.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Dragon mumbled in sixth-grade French.

“You prefer I call you Dragon, or Monsieur Dragon?” Kowalski knew he shouldn’t mock this man, his newest employee, but he couldn’t help himself. Dragon. Had anyone ever looked less like a dragon?

Dragon tucked his hands under his arms. “Dragon is fine,” he said. “There’s no need for formality.”

“Dragon it is,” Kowalski said.

“I’ve explained the terms to Dragon and he’s agreeable,” Tarasov said.

“It will be an honor,” Dragon said.

“Bon,” Kowalski said. “Please wait outside, Dragon. And close the door.”

Dragon left, and Kowalski turned to Tarasov.

“That’s him? Your famous shooter? He doesn’t look like much.” Kowalski had told Tarasov to beef up security, and not with the muscle-bound cretins who had been so useless in the Hamptons. Tarasov had come back with Dragon, supposedly the deadliest shooter anywhere between Zagreb and Athens. Not just one of the deadliest, the deadliest. Kowalski wondered how he’d gotten the title. It wasn’t as if the Serbian paramilitaries could have held a competition. Or maybe they had, back in the 1990s, during the nasty little wars that had torn up the Balkans.

“He’s the best,” Tarasov said.

“Didn’t you say that about Markov’s men? Let’s hope he’s more successful with Wells than they were, if it comes to that.”

“I’ll take responsibility.”

“Anatoly. You take responsibility for nothing but spending your salary. If I want empty words, I’ll turn on the television. Just get that Dragon some suits. I don’t want him running around like a Serb gangster. Even if that’s what he is.”