Zavulon nodded. “We study every manuscript, scroll, and book on box for centuries. My people—similar to your DOPS—are ready any time.” He laughed and pounded his chest. “We will make you strong like bear.”

“What a strange thing to say,” said Salzman.

A couple of the guards moved their rifles up a few inches. Zavulon barked at them in Russian and they lowered them.

“Their English is good,” said Salzman, wanting to kill one of them more than ever.

“Yes. Much better than mine,” Zavulon said. “Pardon my earlier joke. But is not that what most Americans think of us? Borscht, circus, onions, and bears?”

Salzman drank his champagne and nodded. “Yes. And with a vibrant and flourishing kleptocracy.”

Zavulon frowned. “I don’t know that word. How do you spell it?”

“K-l-e-p-t-o-c-r-a-c-y.”

Zavulon took out a small pad and wrote down each letter. “Spasibo. I will reference later to improve my language.”

“Are there any details you’d like to go over?”

“Not this second. I think is it. Is it? It is? Sorry. English, it all sounds the same sometimes.”

“Champagne will do that to you.”

Zavulon poured them more. “When can you deliver box?”

“I’ll have to get in touch with my contact. It should be within twenty-four hours.”

“Excellent. We will be waiting. Soon you breathe air, see with normal eyes, and die like other men.”

Salzman glanced at the guards and back to Zavulon. “It sounds like Heaven. I’ll call my contact tonight.”

“Glorious.” Zavulon checked the bottle to see how much champagne was left. “Would you like to finish? It’s too good for their likes,” he said, nodding at the guards.

“Why not?”

Zavulon poured them each another round. He drained his glass and said, “Do mook people such as you, you get drunk?”

“Keep pouring and I’ll let you know.”

Zavulon laughed. Salzman smiled. The guard on the end, he thought. The one who moved his rifle first. He’s the one I’d kill. Or maybe Zavulon. Was that accent even real? Salzman wondered. He sighed. It wasn’t fair. The annoying guard had gotten him all worked up, but he needed to make the call. There just wasn’t time to stop off and strangle anyone on the way home. Salzman had another glass of champagne and thought of happier, deadlier times.

THIRTY-THREE

WHEN HE FINALLY REACHED LOS ANGELES, THE stranger took out his guidebook and walked to Griffith Park. Once inside the park grounds, he headed for a particular sycamore tree. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he picked up a stick and wandered the trails, peeking and probing under the bushes. Nothing. He went up another trail, past the observatory and the tourists taking selfies with the hazy city in the background.

Redecorating, he thought. That’s all this place needs.