When Moscow stepped out, the Mafia stepped in. The previous year, the cooperative received an unannounced visit from a group of the most frightening men Bulgarin had ever met. They wore black turtlenecks and black leather jackets, and they spoke softly when they said they were becoming partners in the business. Bulgarin was a petty thief, and he rubbed elbows with the more violent elements of the Russian underworld. When these hard men said he and his family needed protection, he knew exactly what they meant. He agreed to the arrangement, and the people from Moscow installed the two guards with machine guns at the door to protect their investment.

Bulgarin was puzzled as well as annoyed at the timing of the visit. As regular as clockwork, his partner showed up on the fourth Thursday of every month. This was the second Wednesday. Despite his annoyance, when he entered his tiny, cluttered office near the entrance to the warehouse he wreathed his face in a broad smile, expecting to see Karpov, the usual representative from Moscow. But the man dressed in the black suit and turtleneck was younger, and, in contrast to Karpov, who stole money with a tough-guy affability, his expression was as cold as Yakutsk on a winter night.

He glared at Bulgarin. “I don't like to be kept waiting.”

“I'm very sorry,” Bulgarin said, maintaining his smile. “I was at the far end of the warehouse. Is Karpov ill?”

“Karpov is only a money collector. We have serious business. I want you to get in touch with the men on Ivory Island.”

“It's not easy.”

“Just do it.”

Several days before, Moscow had called, and told him to assemble a team of his most hardened ivory hunters and send them to the island. They would find a scientific party working there, and were instructed to hold a woman scientist named Karla Janos. They were to hand her over to a team coming in from Alaska.

“I can try,” Karpov said. “The weather—”

“I want you to change their orders. Tell them to take the girl and transport her off the island.”

“What about the Americans?”

“Their people are unable to come. They were willing to pay a great deal of money for the job, so she is evidently of some value. We will talk to her, to see what she has to say, and hold her for ransom.”

Karpov shrugged. It was typical of the Moscow Mafia. Double cross. Crude and direct.

“What about the other scientists?”

“Tell your men, no witnesses.”

A chill ran down Karpov's spine. He was no angel, and had broken a few heads as a young smuggler. Ivory hunting was a cutthroat business. After the Mafia got into ivory hunting, they had recruited men who could be charitably called “scum of the earth.” Some of his competitors had conveniently vanished.