Sikari couldn’t believe his eyes. He was accustomed to violence, but not here, not at home, not now. He couldn’t process what was happening. He watched in horror as Harris crumpled to the ground, his legs bent gro - tesquely under him, his face crashing into the dirt. Instinct drove Sikari to the stricken boy’s side and he threw himself on the ground calling, “Harris, Harris, Harris.” He turned the boy over by the shoulders, but Harris was already dead, his eyes fixed at the sky, his mouth leaking his life’s blood. Cradling Harris, Sikari looked up in shock and bewilderment. Above him stood Archer, with Princess Ida tucked under one arm.

“I win,” Archer said simply, and Sikari found his voice.

“Why?” he asked, hushed.

“Because I’m stronger, smarter and better than him. And because my time has come.”

“But . . . He was your brother.”

“So? Don’t worry, Father. I can handle the responsibility. I know what’s required of me. I know everything.”

“What? How?” Sikari asked, astonished.

“I’ve been through your papers. I’ve hacked into your computer. I even broke the code on your passwords. I know everything I need to know. You understand what that means?”

Sikari understood, but he went for his holstered Berretta a split-second too late. The last thing he saw was the tip of Archer’s loafer, kicking forward to drive his nose into his brain.

Devras Sikari realized that his successor was now in place and that the new king was smarter, stronger, younger and even more ruthless than the old one.

And as he died, he thought: What have I unleashed upon the world?

8 - DAVID CORBETT

8

DAVID CORBETT

Harold Middleton regarded the crumpled butt of Korovin’s Marlboro, mashed into his plate of zakuski, and for some reason it brought to mind Felicia’s rebuke that he too often lacked the time or inclination to look beyond the obvious. He would have very much liked a view beyond the obvious at that moment: Bits of tobacco flecked the pickled onions; the charred aroma of cold ash lingered with the vinegary jolt of stewed beets and smoked herring.

A glance at his watch—what sort of phone call would demand so much time? Perhaps, Middleton thought uneasily, his secret entry into Russia at Domodedovo was no longer secret. Perhaps Korovin was being dragged across the coals by a younger, more officious and less forgiving man, his replacement in Russia’s new intelligence megalith, the FSB.

Then again, maybe poor Ruslan was merely arguing with his wife. Or his lover—and Azerbaijani perhaps, or a sultry Uzbek.

Look beyond the obvious, he reminded himself.