But he wasn’t leaving until he had had his revenge. He’d been deceived and denied. Now he would strike back in a way that would get everyone’s attention in this smug, fraudulent country. And once home in Russia, he would offer his revenge as a gift to Vladimir Zhirinovsky, the true patriot of rodina, the motherland, who would surely return the glory of the USSR if given the chance.

Yuri’s musings were rudely interrupted by one of the back doors of his cab being yanked open. A passenger tossed in an ostrich briefcase and then climbed in after it.

Irritably Yuri regarded his fare in the rearview mirror. He was a small, mustached man in an expensive Italian suit, white shirt, and silk tie. A matching pocket square ballooned out of his pocket. Yuri knew the man must be a businessman or a banker.

“Union Bank, 820 Fifth Avenue,” the man said. He sat back and flipped open a cellular phone.

Yuri continued to stare at the man. He saw something he’d not seen at first. The man was wearing a yarmulke.

“What’s the matter?” the man asked. “Are you off duty?”

“No, I’m on duty,” Yuri said morosely. He rolled his eyes before turning the meter on and then gazing out at the stalled traffic. It was just what he needed: a Jewish banker, one of those creeps running the world into the ground.

While the man made a call, Yuri was able to inch ahead by one car length. At least now he was on the brink of the troublesome intersection. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He toyed with the idea of telling the Jew to get the hell out of his cab. But he didn’t. At least the creep was paying for him to sit there in traffic.

“Whoa, a lot of congestion,” the man said after he’d finished his call. He leaned forward and poked his head through the gap in the Plexiglas divider. “I could walk faster than this.”

“Be my guest,” Yuri said.

“I got time,” the man said. “It feels good to sit down for a moment. Luckily my next meeting isn’t until after ten-thirty. Do you think you can get me to my destination by then?”

“I’ll try,” Yuri said indifferently.

“Is that a Russian accent?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Yuri said. He sighed. This guy was going to drive him mad.

“I suppose I could have guessed by reading your name off the taxi license,” the man said. “What part of Russia are you from, Mr. Yuri Davydov?”

“Central Russia,” Yuri said.

“Very far from Moscow?”

“About eight hundred miles east. In the Ural Mountains.”

“My name is Harvey Bloomburg.”

Yuri glanced up at his fare in the rearview mirror and shook his head imperceptibly. He was mystified why people like Harvey wanted to tell him personal things. Yuri couldn’t have cared less what Harvey’s name was.

“I just got back from Moscow a week or so ago,” Harvey said.