Guilt lay on the back of his tongue, an oily horrible taste. “I’m an ordinary person. Just a normal guy. What could I possibly do in that?” He gestured at the screen.

“Die fighting to live instead of cowering.”

“Good-bye, Mariamna, it was interesting meeting you. Maybe I’ll get to testify at your trial.”

“If the world survives I doubt it will go that far. My legal team seems rather confident the blame will fall on the underlings who undertook this terrible criminal operation beneath the nose of a fragile and senile old woman.” The sharp expression in her eyes died and her face went slack. She suddenly looked like a woman lost to dementia. She shook it off and gave him one of her wintery smiles. “I will never see the inside of a jail. I have millions in Switzerland and the Caymans, and money can fix anything.”

“Except the end of the world,” Franny said and he left.

“Don’t be stupid, Marcus,” Olena said. “Eat. When was the last time you had a hot meal?”

“When was the last time anybody from the village had a hot meal? They should be in here with us. There’s room enough.”

He said this without managing the certainty he intended. The warehouse-like space they were in was crowded with people, buzzing with activity. There were bureaucrats with their air of importance, suits gathered in clusters, cell phones to their ears, gesturing to underlings who darted back and forth on various errands. There were the few aces he recognized, Bugsy and Tinker and the Lama, who were themselves engaged in a high-profile briefing at a table some distance away. Among all this even more people milled around. Military and civilian alike, they grazed the buffet tables, chowing down donuts and inhaling coffee. Worse, some stood with glazed expressions on their faces. If that was unnerving enough, there were the ever-present Russian soldiers, machine guns hung over their shoulders. They didn’t look happy to have any of the foreigners here, but they stared with particularly withering animosity at Marcus. He couldn’t tell what they hated him more for, being a joker or being with Olena.

For her part, Olena didn’t seem the least bit intimidated about them. “Russian pricks,” she’d called them. She shot a few choice Russian words at them on several occasions. Marcus assumed she was responding to insults to him. He couldn’t understand a word of it, but he didn’t have to. Their disdain for him was clear enough.

Olena picked up the spoon that Marcus had so far ignored. She scooped up a dollop of mashed potatoes and waved it before his mouth. Ignoring it, he said, “There must be someplace secluded in here. That’s all I’m talking about. Just let us have the corner of some old warehouse somewhere. Is that too much to ask? I should talk to—”

Olena shoved the spoon in his mouth. She grabbed his chin and encouraged him to chew. “Eat first. Then save the world.”