“So where is this guy?”
“Don’t worry, he’s here, Bobby.” Micky turned and gave him what he no doubt intended to be a reassuring smile. “He’s the real deal. I met him in a hash bar in Amsterdam. Speaks Russian, German, Arabic . . . he’s got five Picassos. They’re all stolen, so he can’t show them, but that’s five more than I got.”
Bobby shook his head. “Was that supposed to be funny?”
Micky opened his mouth to respond—
All at once a spotlight flicked on above them.
The light, fixed high above on a huge smokestack, illuminated a stack of cargo containers—each the size of a small car—piled two and three high on the deck of the Russian ship.
Hanging nonchalantly to the edge of one of those carts, a man peered down at them with what Bobby could only think of as disdain.
“That’s Krieg,” Micky said. “Astrov’s right hand.” He waved and took a step forward. “Otto!”
Machinery whirred to life. The crate Krieg was standing on rose off the deck—Bobby traced steel cables back from it to a crane near the pilot house—and lowered toward the pier.
Bobby took a closer look at Krieg.
He wore a tan sport coat, a blue open-neck shirt. A cigarette dangled loosely from his mouth. Eurotrash, was Bobby’s first thought. He saw a hundred like this pass through Saints and Sinners every month—drugged-out, bored, looking for kicks anyway they could get them.
And then he saw Krieg’s eyes.
They were pitch black and focused on Bobby with needle-like precision. With obvious displeasure.
And all at once, that feeling of nervousness was back.
Krieg motioned to the pilothouse. The container stopped moving, a foot off the surface of the dock.
“Mr. Astrov’s trust is not gained easily,” the man said in heavily accented English. “Two years, it took me. He doesn’t like new faces. So tell me, Micky—” Krieg raised a hand and pointed straight at Bobby. “—why am I looking at a new face?”
Micky attempted a smile.
“Otto Krieg, meet my friend Bobby. He’s helping me with the financing.”
Krieg continued to glare.
Bobby nodded at the man, tried to look relaxed, unconcerned, as if he did this sort of thing every day. “Yo,” he said.
Krieg glared even harder. “Yo? Yo? Did they teach you to say ‘yo’ at the police academy? Bad vibe. Bye- bye.”
Krieg turned to the pilothouse again.
In a second, Bobby knew, the crate would start to rise once more, and everything he wanted—the jet, the villa, the girls, his freedom—would go with it.
“You got it wrong. Mr. Krieg. I’m not a cop.” He turned to Micky. “Tell him.”
“Mr. Krieg,” Micky began.
“Ah.” Krieg raised a hand. “You understand the position you’ve put me in here, Micky? Don’t you?”
Duka’s head bobbed up and down like a little doll’s. “Sure. Sure I do. Bobby—” Duka turned to face Bobby now.
“—see things from his perspective. He didn’t expect you here. Otto . . . Mr. Krieg . . . this is my friend. Not a cop.”
Krieg stared from one of them to the other, then climbed down onto the deck.
“You say that, but I don’t know that.”
He walked right up to Bobby, till they were practically nose to nose, inches apart, and just stared at him. His eyes cold, dispassionate, as if he couldn’t care less whether or not the deal went down.
Bobby stared right back.
Krieg took a drag of his cigarette, blew smoke out to the side, and then nodded.
“All right. You vouch for him; I’ll take your word.”
Micky let out a sigh of relief.
“You won’t regret it, Mr. Krieg,” Duka said. “Bobby here is connected, big-time, and—”
Bobby was about to tell Duka to shut up, he didn’t want to advertise who he was to these clowns, they’d probably hit him up for more money, but then he saw there was no need. Krieg wasn’t listening to Micky anyway. The German had already turned back to the boat, was motioning to the pilothouse. Machinery whirred again, and the crate clanged down on the deck.
And at that moment, the door to the pilothouse opened, and four men stepped out. Three in muscle T-shirts, goons who made Dante and Lincoln—who both ate nothing but protein shakes and eggs and went to the gym twice a day to stay cut—look like malnourished chickens.
The fourth was—Bobby knew without being told—Yuri Astrov. An older man, mid-fifties say, unshaven, unwashed, entirely unremarkable, in fact, except for the laserlike eyes he directed first at Duka, and then at Bobby.
Astrov exchanged a look with Krieg, then started forward with his men, heading toward the dock.
“Let’s see the money,” Krieg said.
Micky snapped open the briefcase. Krieg slipped on a pair of wire-framed glasses; from his pocket he drew out what looked like a long thin flashlight. He flicked it on.
A purple beam—ultraviolet light—shot from the end of the device. Krieg picked a stack from out of the briefcase at random and ran the wand over it, checking to make sure the bills weren’t counterfeit.
Heavy footsteps sounded. Astrov and his bodyguards approaching.
Krieg looked up at the newcomers, and a thin smile crossed his face. He said something to Astrov.
Bobby couldn’t make heads or tails of it. It sounded like Russian, he thought, and was about to ask for a translation when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Micky.
“Relax. Krieg told him you were okay, and so is the money.”
Astrov’s bodyguards stepped forward. They flipped open a series of latches on the cargo container and slid one of the side panels off. The container was full of wooden crates— Astrov’s men dragged them out on the dock and opened each in turn.
Bobby and Micky paraded past, studying the contents.
“Oh, man,” Micky said. “It’s all here.”
Bobby nodded. It was indeed all here, just as promised. AK-47s. RPGs. And the Kornets. Six of them.
“We have deal?” Astrov asked in heavily accented English of his own.
Micky smiled. “Oh, yeah. We have deal.”
He held up his hand to give Astrov a high five. The man frowned and, instead, took the briefcase out of Micky’s hands. Then he smiled.
And at that second, the dock was flooded with light. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, from all around them.
Bobby blinked. His eyes found Micky’s, and he saw sheer terror there.
His heart thudded in his chest.
“This is the FBI!” a voice sounded. “Do not move. Put your hands in the air!”
15 June 2200 Hours
Last thoughts. Clear my head. Stay focused, think about the op dispassionately. The setup, the endgame. Astrov, caught like a deer in the headlights.
Think about the look on his face when he realizes there’s no escape, no amount of money he can proffer to get out of this one. No judge is going to grant him bail. After tonight, he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.
That’s the goal here. That’s what I need to keep in mind. Astrov, in cuffs.
Not Donna.
Do not think about her-Agent Zebrowski-and what he did to her.
Do not think about Ferropolis.
Do not consider revenge.
Remember the law.
Weeks and I talked about this. He hinted that if Ares went down wrong, if something happened to Astrov, it
