Scull looked around and started opening likely-looking doors. Halfway down the corridor he found what he was searching for. A closet, stacked high with towels and cleaning supplies. He pushed the gangsters inside, whispering a chilling promise of what he’d do to them if he should hear a sound from this closet in the next hour or so. Then he closed the door, shutting them in, and propped a chair against the knob. They’d be able to break out eventually, of course, but not without making lots of noise—and they’d be too scared to do that for a while.

“Come on,” Blackburn said to Scull.

The sauna was on their left toward the back. They could hear groans coming from inside it. A man, at least two women. Blackburn nodded to Scull and reached for the door handle, pulling open the door to release some of the steam. The Smith & Wesson was in his free hand.

Yuri Vostov was naked. So was the woman on his lap, her back against his rolling middle, his hands on her belly. And so was the second woman with her head between both their thighs. The three of them looked up from the bench in shock and bewilderment, jumping apart as they saw the armed man in the doorway.

Scull pulled a couple of towels off hooks on the wall, tossed them to the women.

“Good-bye,” he said, cocking his thumb over his shoulder at the steamroom door. “Da svidaniya!”

They got out in a hurry, the towels draped haphazardly around their bodies.

Vostov started pushing up from the bench.

“Hold it.” Blackburn raised his palm, training his gun on Vostov. “You sit right where you are.”

Vostov’s small, flat eyes skipped between Blackburn and Scull like stones off the surface of a pond.

“Who are you?” he said in English. “What is it you want from me?”

Blackburn moved closer to him, his gun still aimed steadily in his direction.

“You’re going to tell us who ordered the bombing in New York,” he said. “Right now.”

“Are you mad? How would I have any idea—”

Blackburn shoved the gun between Vostov’s legs.

Hard.

Vostov flinched in pain. His back seemed to slide up the tile wall behind him.

“Tell us,” Blackburn said, and cocked the hammer of his nine.

Click.

Vostov looked down at himself, wattles forming under his meaty chin, and drew a ragged breath. His eyes bulged.

“Are you CIA?” he said. “My God, this is criminal!”

Blackburn rammed in the gun. Vostov mewled and cringed, tiny rosettes of color forming on his cheeks.

“CIA won’t blow your balls off,” Blackburn said. “I’m about to. Unless you talk.”

“Please ...”

“You’ve got three seconds,” Blackburn said. “One. Two...”

“Pedachenko,” Vostov said, and swallowed. “It was Arkady Pedachenko. And others from outside this country.” He swallowed. “Look, take the gun away from there, I’ve told you what you want to know.”