A man’s voice said, “Hello, Joseph.”

Took Pike a moment to find him, hidden behind the lamps like a hunter hidden by undergrowth.

“Gregor.”

“It’s George now, please. Remember?”

“Sure. I’m sorry.”

George Smith materialized from between the lamps. Pike hadn’t seen him in years, but he looked the same—shorter than Pike, and not as muscular, but with the sleek, strong build of a surfer, a surfer’s tan, and pale blue eyes. George was one of the deadliest human beings Pike knew. A gifted sniper. An immaculate assassin.

George was Gregor Suvorov in those days, but had changed his name when he moved to Los Angeles. George Smith sounded as if he had grown up in Modesto, having what broadcasters called a “general American” accent, but Gregor Suvorov had grown up in Odessa, Ukraine, where he enlisted in the Army of the Russian Federation, and spent a dozen years in the Russian Special Purpose Regiment known as the Spetsnaz GRU—the Russian version of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces—which was run by the KGB. The KGB gave special schooling to their brightest troopers, and Gregor was exceptionally bright. Hence, his fluency with English.

After combat tours in Chechnya and Afghanistan, he cashed in to the private contractor market, enjoyed his newfound money and freedoms, and opted for even more. He moved to Los Angeles, where he enjoyed the sun, sold collectible lamps, and worked for the Odessa Mafia.

George offered his hand, and Pike took it. Warm iron. George smiling, welcoming Pike into his store.

“Man, it’s been forever. You good?”

“Good.”

“I was surprised when Jon called. But pleased. Watch your head. That’s a deco Tiffany, circa 1923. Eight thousand to the trade.”

Pike dipped sideways to avoid the light. Despite being filled with lamps, the shop was dingy and dim, with shadows lurking in the corners. George probably liked it that way.

Pike said, “Business good?”

“Excellent, thank you. I wish I had come to America sooner. I should have been born here, man. I’m telling you!”

“Not the lamp business. Your other business.”

“I knew what you meant. That business is good, too, both here and abroad.”

George still accepted special assignments outside of the Odessa work if the price was right, though his clients these days were almost always governments or political agencies. No one else could afford him.

Pike followed George to a desk at the rear of the shop where they could sit.

“Jon tell you why I’m here?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry about Frank. Really. I never met the dude, but I’ve heard good things.”

“You still involved with Odessa?”

George’s smile flashed again.

“You wouldn’t mind a quick scan, would you? Would that be all right?”

Pike spread his hands, saying scan all you want.