Igor straightened his jacket. He was carrying a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and he passed through the doors holding it out in front of him like a schoolboy presenting a gift to his teacher.

He’d been expecting to enter Timokhin’s office but found himself in yet another anteroom, with another desk and another secretary sitting at it.

“Direktor Aralov,” the new secretary said, getting to her feet.

Behind her were two more soldiers, two more flags, two more doors. To her left was an office full of women sitting at desks typing furiously.

This secretary, even younger than the last, led him through the next set of doors where he finally found himself in Timokhin’s presence.

Across a huge office, Timokhin was perched regally on a high-backed chair, a stunning vista visible behind him through the double-height windows.

“Sit, Igor, sit,” Timokhin said.

This was the top floor. This was where real power lived.

Timokhin had gotten there by stabbing people in the back. It was a well-trodden career path in the GRU, which made it all the more impressive that he’d made a name for himself at it. They called him Black Timokhin because of the number of his rivals who’d found their way to early graves.

He was dangerous. Even him knowing your name was dangerous.

Igor knew that. But he was dangling a key to the top floor in front of Igor’s nose, and that was something worth taking a risk for.

Igor placed the vodka on the table and Timokhin produced two crystal glasses from a drawer.

Igor filled them and said, “To the motherland.”

They knocked back their shots with a workman’s efficiency and Igor refilled them.

“So it’s done?” Timokhin said.

“I gave her your target.”

“She didn’t ask questions?”

“She trusts me.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I told her the new target came from the top floor.”

“You old cretin,” Timokhin said.

“Don’t call me that.”

“If you’re going to do this job,” Timokhin said, waving a hand to indicate the top floor office and all it entailed, “you have to accept what you are.”

Igor refilled his glass.

“Drink up,” Timokhin said, enjoying every second. “You’ll need it, selling your favorite slut down the river.”

Igor drank and refilled both glasses. “What will happen to her?” he said.

“Like you don’t know.”

Igor knew Tatyana was finished. A casualty of war. He’d accepted it. But what he wanted to know was how it had happened.

“She did it to herself,” he said.

“Of course she did, Igor. Of course she did.”

“You mock me, Fyodor.”

“You tell yourself what you have to. I want you to sleep well tonight.”