At the elevator, Harris pushed the button and waited. The door was shiny brass with ornamental panels that distorted his reflection. He took his long, practiced breaths, hoping to God he wouldn’t start to perspire. He didn’t want to use his carefully folded pocket square to mop his broad, endless expanse of forehead.

The elevator came. Harris got in, studied himself in the security mirror and patted a few straggles of thinning hair into place.

The doors along the hallway on Seventeen were some sort of rich dark brown wood. Mahogany, probably. The floor was smooth polished marble. He followed the signs to the attorney’s office, inhaled and exhaled, pressed the buzzer. The door opened and he went in.

A middle-aged receptionist at the desk. Graying hair, neatly dressed, a gold brooch on her blouse. She looked at him a moment. Looked at him some more. Gave him an efficient and amiable smile.

“I came to see John Gordon,” he said nervously.

“Yes, he’s expecting you.” She was still looking at him. “Mr. Harris, forgive me, but did we drag you away from an affair of some kind? If that’s so, we can reschedule—”

“Why would I reschedule?”

“Well, I only asked because—”

Harris thought he’d seen her eyes go to the front of his collar.

“They’re turtles,” he interrupted and tapped a finger to his bow tie. “I live with a box turtle.”

“Oh, ah...”

“He’s my pet. I picked him up off the road before he could get squashed.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet...”

“I don’t want to reschedule.”

“Yes, sir. I’d just thought of it because you’re—”

“I came about Charlotte Pemstein’s will. The late Charlotte Pemstein.”

“Yes, sir. I know...”

Harris inhaled, exhaled. “I’m her daughter Rachel’s godfather,” he said. “The judge’s daughter, I mean.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.” The receptionist smiled. “I knew Judge Pemstein for many years. She was a fine woman.”

Harris nodded.

“I don’t want to reschedule,” he said for the third time.

“Right, sir. I understand. And I do apologize for any confusion. If you’ll take a seat, Mr. Gordon should be ready in—”

“I want to adopt Rachel Pemstein,” he said. “That’s why I came. I want to be her dad.”

The receptionist smiled again. Harris reminded himself to breathe slowly. But it was no good. He was gasping for air and as terrified as he had ever been in his life.

Crimean Peninsula

Crimea was seven hours ahead of New York on the world clock, making it seven thirty at night inside the submarine bunker where Drajan Petrovik stood with Koschei on the concrete dock, the glow of the high overhead lights struggling to reach them through the shadows. It trickled down from the ceiling arches, weak and yellow, as if through some denser medium than air.