The satchel was filled with thick packs of blank white paper cut to the approximate size of American banknotes and bound together with rubber bands.

He snapped his eyes up at the guerrilla leader, saw that his smile had tightened at its corners, then turned quickly to Molkov.

"These bastards have dared to cheat us," he said.

Molkov was staring at him without expression.

"Did you hear me?" Sergei's voice was furious as he upended the satchel, letting the rectangular bundles of paper spill to the ground. "There's no money!"

Molkov kept staring at him.

Gaping with bewilderment, Sergei spun toward Alexandre.

The Glock was in his hand, raised level with Sergei's chest. Its silenced barrel spat twice, and Sergei reeled backward and dropped to the road, killed instantly, his jacket stained red where both shots had penetrated his heart. A look of confusion and betrayal was frozen on his face.

Molkov glanced down at the corpse a moment, nodded approvingly, then turned to the guerrilla leader.

"Now," he said, holding out his hand. "Let's have the payment."

The outlaw gestured briskly toward one of his men, who stepped forward to pass him a leather satchel much like the one Sergei had been given. He opened the bag himself, then angled it so both Russians could easily see inside. This time it was stuffed with authentic packs of U.S. bills.

"It's all here. Send our regards and goodwill to your bochya, Vostov," he said, using the Russian slang term for godfather as he handed the satchel over to Molkov with a little bow.

Molkov removed one of the banded packs at random and riffled its edges with his thumb, holding it close to his eyes. Satisfied, he put it back inside, closed the bag, and slung it over his shoulder.

"Okay," he said to Alexandre. "Let's go."

They turned back toward the waiting Citroen, careful to avoid stepping in the blood that had pooled around Sergei's body.

It was Alexandre, chancing to glance through the windshield, who noticed that their driver was no longer in the car, his door flung wide open. Instantly realizing what that meant, he jerked his head toward Molkov.

But by the time he opened his mouth to warn him, it was too late for either of them.

Even as the Citroen had arrived and their leader and comrades-in-arms broke cover to meet it, a dozen other members of the Albanian fis, or outlaw clan, had remained concealed amid the vegetation uphill, their attention and weapons trained on the road.

Everything had gone wholly according to plan. When the Russian physicist was shot by his supposed body-guard, the Citroen's driver had taken advantage of the momentary distraction to exit the car unnoticed and plunge into the roadside brush, putting himself safely out of harm's way and leaving his brethren with a clear field of fire.