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smile became that much more bold. Yes, he was going to miss this country. But he was going to enjoy it while he still could.
    *
    Viktor Petrenko ignored the heaviness in his arms as he threw two left jabs and a right uppercut. The two jabs hit the heavy bag solidly, the uppercut lifted the bag half a foot. He stepped back and threw the same combination, making sure to concentrate on his footwork and the acceleration of his body as he let loose with the uppercut. He had been at the bag for over forty minutes, maintaining the same pace as he threw his combinations. Almost all of his punches hit solidly. The few that didn’t brought a thin brutal smile to his otherwise vacant expression.
    He had been boxing most of his life. When he was eleven he was enrolled in the Soviet youth boxing program. While punishing and powerful, by age eighteen it had been determined that he lacked the speed to be an elite boxer and he was dropped.
    Boxing had been his one true passion. There was something exhilarating about connecting a punch to your opponent’s ribs and feeling his body lift from the ground as his breath was simultaneously pushed out of his lungs. Later, when Petrenko became a chief interrogator for the KGB, he was able to experience that feeling many times but it was never quite the same. Now he had to settle for punching a heavy bag. At least most days.
    There was a knock on the door and Yuri Tolkov walked into the boxing studio that Petrenko had set up in his home’s basement. Petrenko ignored him and continued to hit the bag for another ten minutes before straightening up and removing the leather wraps from his hands. With pale, almost translucent blue eyes, he examined the hard calluses that had built up over his knuckles throughout the years. He grabbed a towel off a hook, wiped some of the sweat from his arms and neck, and sat at a small table in the corner where a bottle of Pravda Vodka was chilling in an ice bucket. After pouring himself a glass, he acknowledged Yuri.
    “So?” he asked.
    Yuri approached, stopping four feet away from Petrenko. “I spoke again with the Arabs. They have agreed to let us appraise the diamonds.”
    “I don’t like this. How did they get my name?”
    Yuri shrugged. “They claim they got it from Ekhardt.”
    “Ekhardt? That German bastard. What’s he doing giving those Arabs my name?”
    Yuri shrugged.
    “I don’t like it. This could be a sting operation. Perhaps FBI?”
    “I don’t think so.” Yuri smiled, showing off badly discolored teeth. “I checked. One of the Arabs is on the FBI’s ten-most-wanted list.”
    Petrenko considered that for a moment. “These diamonds are supposed to be uncut, correct?”
    Yuri nodded.
    “Then we will have them appraised.”
    Yuri turned to walk away, then hesitated. “Why don’t we simply steal them?” he asked.
    “These Arabs might have more they want to sell us.” Petrenko showed a thin smile, the type of look you might see on a rattlesnake before it strikes. “Don’t worry, we’ll steal them with our price.”
    Yuri had his hand on the doorknob when Petrenko stopped him.
    “Remember,” Petrenko said. “Tomorrow morning we have business at that market. Bring Sergei also.”
    Yuri nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Petrenko poured himself another glass of vodka and sipped it slowly.

6
    During most of the ride back from New Hampshire, Dan found himself seething over Joel punching him in the face. The guy was a hothead; he knew that about his friend, and here he was planning a bank robbery with the guy? The thing was, Dan was an only child, and over the years Joel had taken on the role of an older brother, at least in some ways. If you’re going to tell an older brother something he thinks is crazy, he’s going to do whatever it takes to snap you out of it, right? That’s what Dan needed to convince himself of anyway – as well as remembering that, when push came to shove, he could count on Joel. By