“We won’t,” Tanner said flatly. “I’m not interested. Who is it? Another scientist you’re trying to get out from under Putin’s thumb?”

“No, though that was a case of bullying in the extreme and would have ended very badly if you’d not gotten him out of Russia.” He paused. “This is more personal. Lara has nothing to do with politics. She’s just trying to survive.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a large manila envelope. He opened it and spread a group of passport photos on the desk in front of Tanner. “Lara Balkon.” He pointed to a beautiful dark-haired woman with high cheeks and slightly slanted eyes. “She’s the one I need you to extract.”

“Your mistress?”

“No.” He pointed to another photo of an attractive older woman. “Maria Balkon, her mother. She’s English, and she and Lara are very close. Lara probably won’t consent to be extracted without her.” He pointed to a photo of a dark-haired man in his forties. “Anton Balkon, Lara’s father. A total son of a bitch. He’s head of his own family business in the south Georgia area and does moderately well. Mostly drugs, he’s no problem for me. But Boris Volkov might be a different matter. He’s boss of a neighboring family and has recently taken over several other syndicates in the area and become a close friend of Balkon.” He threw down another photo of a tall, smiling man with sun-streaked brown-gray hair. “Volkov. He now controls the south territory except for a small area he allows Balkon to run. He’d like to move in on me in Moscow if he had the nerve.”

“Which he doesn’t?”

“No, but he keeps testing me. I think Lara might be part of that test.”

“You said she wasn’t your mistress.”

“But he knows I’ve stopped by the Balkon house and listened to her play every now and then over the years.”

“Play?”

“She’s a pianist. Remarkable. I heard her play at a recital in Moscow when she was eleven. She won first prize, which was a grand piano and a scholarship at the Moscow Conservatory. I thought she was a prodigy then. But she never used the scholarship. Her father took her back to the country the next week, and she never performed after that.”

Tanner’s eyes were narrowed on Kaskov’s face. “And therein lies the tale,” he said softly. “You couldn’t stand to see a talent wasted.”

“I won’t deny the idea makes me angry. But it’s a bit more involved than that.” He added curtly, “And it’s not been wasted. She’s still brilliant. She practices four or five hours a day when she gets the chance. She’s twenty-one now, and I heard her last year. I’d judge, if allowed another few years, she’ll be one of the top pianists in the world.”

“You’d be a good judge if you weren’t swayed by other factors.” He glanced at the woman in the photo. She wasn’t smiling but there was an intensity, an eagerness, an odd expectancy in those dark eyes that was fascinating. “She’s beautiful. You’re sure she’s not your mistress?”