LV is the Roman numeral for fifty-five. “Fifty-five” is FSB code for political murder. Not only that, but FSB protocol is to cite codes not in numbers but in Roman numerals.

This stirs a murmur.

Even Manning reacts.

Gleason notes that the FSB has been notorious since the end of the Cold War for the brazenness of its assassinations of foes of the Kremlin, both in Russia and on foreign soil. It has hit civilian targets including journalists, politicians, businessmen, even religious leaders, in England, France, Germany, and the States. It has poisoned them, asphyxiated them, caused them to die in car crashes, tumble from rooftops, expire of heart attacks, all in highly public ways and all clearly intended to send a message.

Gleason, up front, steps to a third whiteboard. This one holds mug shots, arrayed in the form of an organizational chart, of about a dozen Slavic-looking individuals, with names, aliases, etc. Board title:

RUSSIAN MAFIA—“BRATVA”

Atop the chart Gleason pins an MTA map of South Brooklyn with the neighborhood of Brighton Beach, the territorial province of the Brotherhood, circled in black grease pencil. He adds three photos—one NYPD drone surveillance shot and two Google Earth pix—of an urban compound, about a block square.

This, he tells his teams, is Bratva’s home field and its starting lineup.

A fourth board is headed:

MAP PROXIMITY

This board includes MS’s, movement scenarios, for various known Bratva gunmen in relation to the New York decedent Davis and the D.C. victim Justman. Charts trace the whereabouts, determined by cell GPS, street-corner surveillance cameras, and so forth, of three specific operators, including the notorious Alemany “Yoo-hoo” Petracek (nicknamed for the soft drink he favors), the American-born hit artist reputedly responsible for twenty-seven murders, six with his bare hands. Petracek’s profile is so high he has his own Wikipedia page.

Gleason reviews the map intersects for Petracek. They put him practically in the lap of the New York victim, Nathan Davis, on two of the nine days preceding the murder.

I find myself writing “WOW” on my notepad.

Gleason wraps his presentation. His tech sergeant distributes assignment envelopes to the four teams. The detectives stand, tucking their packets under their arms. The mob migrates to the Nespresso machine and the departmental kitchen. I fall in at the rear with the other Third Graders. Up front Lieutenant Kiriakin [Donat C., “Don”], one of the up-and-comers in the division, is saying something to Manning about the “LV” sign—that it indicates that the killer “is fucking with us.”

DETECTIVE KIRIAKIN

A special-case murderer wants to be caught. That’s what you always say, ain’t it, Manning?

Kiriakin is about thirty—twenty years younger than Manning. Manning draws up amid the group.

MANNING

No, that’s not what I say, Kiriakin.

Outside the Bunker we’re allowed to turn our phones on.

MANNING