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trust of someone you want to retain as your lawyer.”
    “Ends and means, Mr. Littman. Ends and means. You’ve read The Prince , I assume?”
    “Yes. And you’re not the first person in your situation to recite that line to me. But I have to tell you, I’ve never found it to be a particularly persuasive defense. I’m more of a categorical imperative kind of guy.”
    Garkov smiles. “I’m going to enjoy working with you, Mr. Littman. I consider myself something of a student of political theory—it’s not every day someone invokes Immanuel Kant. I’m impressed.”
    “Don’t get too enamored with me. I doubt very much that I’m going to stay long.”
    “Then we should begin right away,” Garkov says.
    He leads Aaron into the apartment. An enormous fireplace in the shape of a roaring lion is the focal point of the room, with a four-foot-square opening for the lion’s mouth, inside which a fire crackles. They sit on sofas positioned on opposite ends of the fireplace, staring at each other.
    Aaron’s first impression is that Nicolai Garkov is every bit as intimidating as his reputation suggests. Ironically, it’s Garkov’s calmness that’s so disconcerting. It’s as if he could snap your neck without his heart rate changing.
    “Aaron. May I call you Aaron? And please, you need to call me Nicolai. I think we’ve gotten off to such a good start because we chose not to underestimate each other. Please don’t deviate from that now. We both know why you’re here and that you are going to stay.”
    Aaron looks to the ceiling. Garkov must understand what he’s thinking, because he says, “Not to worry. The surveillance is video-only when it’s a lawyer visit. Attorney-client privilege and all that. No one will know what we’re going to discuss, if that’s your concern.”
    Aaron’s tempted to say that he has no concerns, but that would be exactly the type of underestimation Garkov warned him to avoid. Instead he says, “But you could be recording it yourself, for your own use later.”
    Garkov nods, indicating that he understands the point. “Yes. Yes, I could. I could tell you that I’m not, but I appreciate that you’re not inclined to trust me. At least not just yet. So, allow me to prove it.” Garkov waits a beat. “I, Nikolai Garkov, am guilty of the crimes for which I’ve been accused, and of many crimes for which I haven’t. Specifically, I received one hundred million dollars from a Russian named . . . let’s do first names only, because we’re still getting to know each other . . . one hundred million dollars from a Russian named Yuri, and he is quite well-known in certain radical circles. In turn, I sent that money to a myriad of accounts that I control, and after considerable financial machinations, I arranged for those funds to wind up under the control of Arif Chedid.”
    Aaron is well aware that if Garkov is recording this as leverage for later, he could erase his confession and then digitally manipulate whatever remained as he saw fit. Nevertheless, Garkov’s statement certainly evens the scales a bit, in that it ties him to the reputed mastermind of the Red Square bombing. Besides, Aaron isn’t in any position to dictate terms, and so, like it or not, they are going to talk.
    “Okay. Get to the point, Nicolai,” Aaron says.
    “Of course,” Garkov says in an overly solicitous tone. “As I’m sureyou’re by now aware, Judge Brian Mendelsohn has withdrawn from my case, and he has been replaced with Judge Faith Nichols.”
    Garkov comes to a full stop. His only communication now is a sinister smile, which Aaron has the urge to smack off his face.
    “And . . . what does that have to do with me?”
    “You’re doing it again,” Garkov says. “One of the things I’ve read about you, Aaron, is that you’re quite the poker player. I was particularly intrigued by an interview you did a while back—I apologize, but I can’t remember the particular publication in which