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reappeared on Chukov’s chest.
    “…leave it.”
    Chukov took it. “All right. I’ll pay double, but only if I get the diamonds back.”
    “Then we’re in business again,” the Ghost said.
    Chukov looked down at his chest, waiting for the red dot to disappear. It didn’t. “You can take the gun off me now,” he said.
    There was no answer.
    Chukov sat there sweating, but the dot didn’t move. It took him a full minute until he realized—the dot was never going to move. The laser beam was on autopilot.
    Cursing, Chukov stood up and followed the red line through the steam to its source. It wasn’t even a gun. It was a cheap key-chain laser pointer resting on a block of wet tile.
    The Ghost, of course, was long gone.

Chapter 14
    Chukov showered, dressed , took a cab home, and begrudgingly transferred the money to pay for eliminating Zelvas.
    He poured himself a shot of vodka and downed it, then picked up the phone. He started to dial Nathaniel’s number but quickly hung up.
    He couldn’t face the wrath of Nathaniel Prince without a second shot of vodka.
    Times had changed. Forty years ago, Chukov had given the orders and Nathaniel had followed them without question. The two were cousins who grew up in the Sokol Settlement, a working-class neighborhood in Moscow.
    Nathaniel was a model student and an adored only child. His father was a cheese maker, and after school, the boy worked in the family stall at the Leningradsky Market, using his charm and good looks to sell the soft sweet Tvorog and Bryndza to the tourists and well-to-do shoppers.
    Vadim Chukov’s father was in prison, and by the age of twelve, Vadim was stealing cars on Arbat Street, where the wealthy parked. Luxury cars often yielded bonuses, such as cameras, watches, or the occasional gun in the glove box, and soon Vadim had a stash of hot merchandise. He showed it to Nathaniel, who had an idea. He would wrap each item in plastic and hide it in a tub of cheese in the family stall. Clued-in customers would ask for a particular batch of cheese, and before long, the smooth-talking Nathaniel was making more money in a few hours than his father made in a week.
    Once he got a taste, he wanted more, and he climbed the ranks of the Bratva rapidly. He was only twenty-nine when he approached the Diamond Syndicate with the idea that propelled him to the top of the ladder.
    The Syndicate trafficked in the illegal diamonds that had become the currency in war-torn African nations. Rebel armies funded their civil wars and armed conflicts by kidnapping the natives and forcing them to dig out the diamonds buried along the muddy riverbanks. Anyone who refused to cooperate would be mutilated or murdered, so the rivers ran red and the stones came to be called blood diamonds.
    Prince came up with a foolproof plan to smuggle blood diamonds into America. Cheese.
    He bought a small factory in Marseille where an exquisite Gruyère Fontu was made. When a shipment of blood diamonds arrived from Angola or Sierra Leone, they were cut, dressed, and molded into carefully marked wheels of the heavenly fromage.
    The cheese was exported to New York, where Zelvas and his crew extracted the stones and sold them to diamond merchants on West 47th Street who cared more about the black-market low prices than the fact that they came from the hands of murderous African warlords.
    The plan worked well until Zelvas got greedy. By the time Chukov realized that Zelvas was taking a few stones from every shipment, the man had amassed a fortune.
    Now Zelvas was dead, and the diamonds he stole were missing.
    Chukov’s job was to find them. He downed a third shot of vodka and dialed Nathaniel’s number.
    “This better be good news, Vadim,” Nathaniel said.
    “It is,” Chukov lied. “Rice and Benzetti are closing in on the diamonds. You should have them back in a few days.”
    “Rice and Benzetti?” Nathaniel screamed. “You’re counting on a couple of crooked cops to bring home a fortune in