Grigor looked at him. “Why wasn’t I given time to prepare?”

“One needs to know what one needs to know. I’m not here to negotiate. Or make a request. You are a prime investment of the Main Directorate. You’ve enjoyed the privileges your entire life. I would expect you to carry out your orders with gratitude.”

Grigor stared at him, his expression frozen. “When do I leave?”

Koschei reached inside his coat for a plain white six-by-nine envelope and handed it to him. “Your instructions cover it. Read them later tonight.”

Grigor put the envelope in a carryall slung over his shoulder. After a second, Koschei’s hand went back in his coat, then reappeared holding a small thumb drive. He held it out between himself and the other man.

“Here. In case you think I forgot your gift.”

The dark-haired man’s eyes narrowed. “You have the files.”

Koschei nodded. “I wouldn’t think of calling you out here this late unless I’d brought them. They came via email tonight. Captain Zhou’s people finally pulled them from the onboard system of the cable ship.”

“And they’ve since been scrubbed?”

“Yes. And not only from the ship’s computers. I’ve purged them from my email folder. The temporary drop vault from which I received them no longer exists. There’s only what’s on that drive in your hand and a second one I’ve kept for myself.”

“What of the captain?”

“I’m sure he’s made his own copy.” Koschei shrugged. “Call it a practical risk. There isn’t anything we can do about it.”

The dark-haired man looked down at the drive and held it in his open palm like a rare gem. His other hand went up to his neck, touching the soft flesh behind his ear with a single fingertip, an unconscious gesture.

Koschei had seen the small tattoo there before. It was a wheel or circular maze, like an ancient, artistically carved chariot wheel, with a six-pointed star in the center. He thought he understood its significance to the man, or mostly understood it, and had stashed that knowledge away for safekeeping. The more one knew, the better. Right now, though, he was enjoying the hungry expression on his face.

“So now you have it,” he said. “The key to everything.”

The dark-haired man dropped the drive into his pocket.

“For both of us,” he said, raising his eyes to Koschei’s.

Koschei gave no response. The truth being the simple truth, he had nothing to add.

New York City

Midnight Tuesday in Crimea was five o’clock Monday night five thousand miles away on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, where Carmody had just reached the small apartment building sandwiched between two larger ones on Mulberry Street. Tapping the fingerprint reader outside its entrance, he pushed through to the tiny lobby and then rode the elevator to the fifth floor.