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certain . . .” Akhnetzov paused, groping for the word in English. “ . . . understandings.”
    â€œWith the SVR and a back channel to the CIA?”
    â€œI have many friends,” Akhnetzov said. “Everyone, it seems, likes money.”
    Scorpion sipped his drink. Whoever Akhnetzov had bribed, it wasn’t Rabinowich. If Dave had given Akhnetzov a list of ports, it was because the CIA wanted him to talk to Akhnetzov.
    â€œSo now that you’ve impressed me with how rich you are,” Scorpion said, gesturing vaguely at the salon. “What do you want?”
    â€œI want you to stop something bad from happening.”
    â€œBad for whom?”
    â€œFor me,” he replied, tapping his chest. “Bad for my business. For my country, Ukraina. Bad for America too.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I’m American? Or that I give a damn about you or your country?”
    â€œI think you are American. You are CIA, but not CIA. My sources say you kill ‘the Palestinian,’ terrorist impossible to find, but you do in only two weeks. They say you are the best.”
    â€œWhat else do you know?” Scorpion said quietly. The question of how much Akhnetzov knew about him was still very open and very dangerous.
    â€œListen, drooh . This is maybe your first Ukrainian word. It means ‘friend.’ I am billionaire from a part of the world that is not so simple. I don’t get this way by being stupid. I own Ukengaz Company. We do maybe eighty percent of gaz pipeline, natural gaz from Russia for Europe. Also chemicals, steel, television, real estate. This team, Arsenal,” tugging at his football T-shirt, “I own. I begin with nothing. My maty , my mother, clean toilets in Metro so I can be student at Shevchenko Kyiv University. One night I take money from nightclub where I am working as dishwasher. The shef , the boss, send krutoy paren gangsters to get money back. They beat me with iron bar so bad I am in hospital. But I do not tell them where is money. I keep. Later, I use this money for my first gaz trade. You and I, Scorpion, my drooh , we are both wolves. We must understand each other or we must kill each other, yes?”
    The two men looked at each other. Akhnetzov leaned forward, his muscled forearms on his thighs. Scorpion sat casually, but he was ready to move. The code name Scorpion lay between them like a ticking bomb.
    â€œWhat do you know about Scorpion?”
    â€œLess than I want,” Akhnetzov said. “I know you were CIA then not CIA. Independent. It says you know Arabic from when you are child,” glancing at a tablet PC. “Real name unknown. Raised by Bedouin in Arabian desert.” He looked at Scorpion. “What is American kid doing in Arabia?”
    â€œMy father was an oilman. He was killed. The Bedouin saved me.”
    â€œIs true? You’re unusual guy. Also tough guy. What were you? Navy SEAL? Delta? Marines?”
    â€œGirl Scouts. I sold cookies.”
    â€œOkay, you don’t talk. Like I said, tough guy. Only one thing important . . .”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œI know your enemies respect you. There are worse ways to judge a man than by how his enemies fear or respect him. For you, both I think.”
    â€œSo this is a job interview?” Scorpion asked, taking a sip of his drink.
    â€œIn a way. One thing I must know,” Akhnetzov said, tapping a cigarette on a gold case and lighting it. “Why did you leave CIA? For money?”
    Scorpion smiled. “To tell you the truth, it never entered my mind. At the time, I hadn’t thought about making a living that way. I just quit.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œI don’t talk about that.”
    â€œListen, drooh . . .” Akhnetzov looked at Scorpion, his eyes ice cold, and Scorpion had a sense he was seeing the real man. “For what I am about to tell you, this is important. I don’t