Whose head was totally empty. His body was cold. You know, I’m doing this for us, said Peter’s mother, stuffing a pair of lace underwear into her bag. She did have feelings for her child, but. Not particularly strong ones. Not so strong as to turn down the Russian. She relished the image of herself in a large apartment in London too much. With staff. With clothes. And Peter would be taken care of. He’d take care of Peter. Perhaps a tidy boarding school soon and then at some point,

but—

THE RUSSIAN

INTELLIGENCE: excellent

POTENTIAL FOR AGGRESSION: high

ETHNICITY: white

CREDITWORTHINESS: okay

NET WORTH: only 8 million left

planned to have—if at all—a few more children of his own. His interest in a disabled son not made by his own sperm was negligible. The Russian smirked whenever he encountered the prejudices of people from the so-called West toward simple, primitive, corrupt, brutal Russians. He saw their contempt and at the same time the fear in their eyes. He liked it.