Truth was, Russia was one successful assassination away from total dictatorship and a return to the cold war. And it didn’t have to be the assassination of a Russian leader, either. Kill the American president, and in the chaos, anything could happen.

What was the saying? In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity. Sun-Tzu, the Art of War. Required reading for any world-leader wanna-be.

Gregori finished his drink. Set it on the table. “Some said you were dead. Others said you’d retired, were living in some small town in the woods. But I said the Bird. He is still watching. Hunting.”

“I am. I’m hunting my fiancée. Can you ask around?”

“Without trouble?” His gaze followed a pretty girl who carried a tray of fries.

“Even with trouble.”

“I start asking and your enemies will know you’re alive.”

“I don’t care what happens. I just want her back.”

The Russian’s gaze came back to him. “If they find you, they take you. And I can do nothing.”

York nodded. Then he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a burner phone. “There’s one number on it.”

Gregori pocketed it. Stood up. Sighed. Then he held out his hand. “Posmatree Zadee.”

“Regards to Luda.”

Gregori. “I’ll buy her wine from Moldovia. She’ll know.”

He left his mug and headed out into the crowd.

“One million Euros. A guy could buy a small yacht with that.”

York glanced over at him. Reached for his plate, his appetite stirring, rousing. “What do you need a yacht for? You’re a professional tourist.”

“A guy can dream.”

“I’d rather have land.” And, oh, he should probably check in with his realtor, in Shelly, make sure the earnest money went through—

He closed his eyes. He needed to stop thinking like a man who had a life to go back to.

“With that face, you’re going to need something stronger than beer,” Roy said and shoved his half-full mug over.

“No. What I need is to…I don’t know —“

“Breathe. Think. You won’t do RJ any good if you keel over. You look a little white.”

York nodded. “I could use some shut-eye.”

Roy stared at him, almost unseeing. “I’m an idiot.”

“What?”

“Ziggy. It’s bugging me that she hasn’t called me. Not once. I’ve tried her phone—and I keep getting her voice mail. Hey you. You know what to do. È una bella giornata. Arrivederci.”

“I don’t speak Italian.”

“It’s a beautiful day. Not have a beautiful day but…a statement. It is a beautiful day.”

“Roy —“

“It’s what she says every morning when she’s at her home.”

York raised an eyebrow.