“You'll get your story. I promise.”

“I'm not talking about a story. Look, Kurt,” she said with frustration, “I'm not some California Valley Girl whose biggest thrill was getting kicked out of the mall for smoking. I grew up in a tough hood and if I hadn't had an even tougher mother, I might be doing ten to twenty at Soledad now. I want to do something to help.”

“You've already helped by getting me on board.”

“That's not enough. It's evident to me that you want to nail this creep to the wall. Okay, I want my hand on the hammer.”

Austin vowed never to get caught in the crosshairs of Kaela's gunsight.

“It's a deal, but tonight we're on Razov's turf. You keep a low profile. I don't want to expose you and Mickey to any danger. I'll work the ship on my own. Agreed?”

Kaela nodded. “You'll have time while we're doing the interviews.” She grabbed his arm and guided him toward the salon door. “But first I'm calling in the IOU on that drink you've promised me since the day we met.”

They joined the throng moving into the immense salon. For a moment, Austin forgot that he was on a boat. They seemed to have been transported a hundred years back in time. The salon looked like a throne room designed by a Las Vegas casino architect. It was a curious meld of Western civilization and Eastern barbarism. Their feet sank into a plush carpet of imperial purple that was big enough to cover several houses. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings that were covered with figures of cupids and nymphs. On each side of the room was a row of square-built columns whose sides were carved and covered with gold leaf.

The crowd was a cross section of Boston's powerful and influential. Fat, red-nosed pols whose bellies strained at the buttons of their rented tuxedos jostled each other for room at the huge center table, which groaned under the weight of Russian delicacies of every description. At the other exreme, painfully thin women sat at rococo tables and picked at their food as if it were poisoned. Waspish businessmen gathered in knots to discuss how best to help the wealthy Razov spend his money. Legions of attorneys, financiers, Beacon Hill lobbyists and staff people flitted from table to table like bees in search of nectar. At the far end was a dais, but instead of a gold throne it held a band that played a lively Russian folk tune. The musicians were dressed like Cossacks, Austin noted with discomfort.