spends in his days in an FBI safe house answering questions and naming names.”
“Is it going to do any good?”
Hansen answered, “Eventually. Lambert was right. This goes very deep. The good news is, the Laboratory 738 Arsenal is sitting at the bottom of a sinkhole near Lake Baikal. It’s out of circulation. Permanently. Turns out Zahm leased the complex from one of the men I saw in Korfovka — Mikhail Bratus, former GRU. As for the other two, Yuan Zhao and Michael Murdoch, we’re working on it. The auction guests didn’t fare very well. Only six made it out of the complex, and all of them were scooped up by the FSB.”
“Ernsdorff?”
“About a week after Baikal he disappeared, and he took a few hundred million in investors’ money with him. Ten days ago they found in him a St. John hotel with his throat cut. Someone didn’t appreciate his accounting methods.”
“What about our old friend Ames?”
“No sign of him. If he’s dead, somewhere in the sinkhole, we’ll never know.”
“And if he’s alive?” Fisher finished. “He’s not the kind of guy to hide forever. You and the others watch your backs.”
“You, too.”
“How are they, by the way — Nathan, Maya, and Kimberly?”
“All good. They send their regards.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the ocean, before Grimsdottir said, “Sam, if you want to come back, I can arrange it.”
Fisher shook his head.
“Is that a no?”
Fisher looked around the deck for a few moments, then turned his face into the sun and took a deep breath. “That’s an ‘ask me again when my lease is up.’ ”
