“Kat. She dug around on the black web. Also found your address.”

In fact, he’d gotten an earful from Coco on the wisdom of this plan, having known Gregori from her days as a black-hat hacker in Russia. She, too, didn’t trust him.

But he’d burned a few bridges when he’d left Russia, so he was out of options.

Gregori gave a nod. “Kat is working for you?”

He recognized digging. “She’s a friend. How’s Luda?”

“A grandmother. We have a granddaughter who lives in Potsdam.” Gregori shot York a look, lifted one side of his mouth. “She would probably want to tell you hello. But I won’t tell her that you were here.”

York wondered who he was protecting.

“I need to find someone.”

Gregori leaned back, took a sip of his beer. Glanced at the band. “They make no sense. Long hair, screaming. This isn’t music.”

“They’re angry. Frustrated. They say what’s inside.”

Gregori grunted. “Who are you looking for?”

“My fiancée. She went missing in Heidelberg two days ago.”

The Russian looked at him. “Another wife?”

York ignored him. “I think a man named Alan Martin took her.”

“Martin. The American spy who tried to kill the president.”

And of course, Gregori knew—the guy could have even been in cahoots with Petrov and his master plan to derail the American government.

But York didn’t care. “Yes. He escaped from prison during transport a little over a week ago, and turned up in Paris, outside a coffee shop where my gir—fiancée just happened to be.”

Gregori raised an eyebrow.

“He’s onto something—we stopped him from detonating an EMP bomb in Italy. With a man named Ruslan Gustov.”

“Gustov.”

York let that name sit for a second as Gregori’s mouth tightened.

“Word is that you killed him.”

“I did.”

Another beat.

“And this Ruslan —“

“Is his brother.”

Gregori shook his head. “Now, I understand.”

Understand? “Are you still in contact with the Bratva?”

“Of course.”

“And is Martin still involved with the Petrovs?”

He finished his beer and set it on the table. “Maybe I should just turn you in.”

York stilled. Across from him, Roy drew in a breath, ever so slight. But he kept eating.

Gregori laughed. “Ah, Voron, you are still so easy.”

York didn’t move.

“There is a bounty on you, tovarish. One million Euros.”

At this Roy picked up his glass.

“By whom?” York said quietly.

Gregori grunted. “Ruslan? Petrov? You have enemies, Voron.”

The list was long—probably started with the boss of the two goons that had worked York over a couple years back in Moscow. They’d wanted to know how much York knew about the attempted assassination of General Boris Stanislov. Why, York wasn’t so sure, but he’d bet the thread wound back to Arkady Petrov, standing in the shadow of Putin, his right-hand man.