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that?” Scorpion asked.
    â€œA number,” still writing.
    â€œSix figures?”
    â€œSeven,” Akhnetzov said, turning the paper so Scorpion could see. It was a big number, enough for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life.
    â€œThat’s a lot of money,” Scorpion said carefully.
    â€œBNP Paribas is private bank near the casino in Monte Carlo. Monaco has the same bank secrecy laws and discretion as Switzerland. You can have half this money in your own account within thirty minutes. So, Mister Whatever-your-new name and nationality is,” Akhnetzov said. “As the Americans say, we got a deal?”
    Forget the money, Scorpion told himself. That isn’t what this is about. Rabinowich wanted this to happen or he never would’ve told anyone about the back channel. And the only reason he would’ve done it was because something absolutely vital to American security was about to go down. Rabinowich was the smartest guy in the American intelligence community. There was more to this than just some Eastern European politician. A lot more. And it was a lot of money.
    â€œWhen’s the election?” he asked, folding the paper and putting it in his pocket.
    â€œIn eight days. The assassination could happen any time.”

Chapter Six
    Bucharest
    Romania
    T he two men sat in the back of a café in Lipscani, Bucharest’s Old Town district. It was late and the café was almost empty. Through the window, Scorpion could see the wind blowing the falling snow, the occasional pedestrian holding onto his hat as he headed for home.
    â€œAkhnetzov. Who’s he fronting for?” Scorpion asked.
    â€œYou mean is he a shill for the SBU?” Shaefer said, referring to the Ukrainian secret intelligence service. A big lanky man, African-American, with a clipped mustache and a fullback’s shoulders, Shaefer was the CIA core collector in Bucharest, a backwater to which he had been posted for being too outspoken inside Langley. He was also Scorpion’s best friend. Sometimes, Scorpion thought, his only friend. They had been in the Joint Special Operations Command’s Delta Force together; the only two survivors of an ambush by the Taliban at Forward Operating Base Echo in the Chaprai Valley in North Waziristan—where, officially, American troops didn’t exist. FOBE had forged a bond between them; in Scorpion’s mind, a blood bond. It was Shaefer who had originally recruited him for the CIA.
    â€œOr the SVR?” he asked, meaning the Russians.
    â€œOr the SVR,” Shaefer agreed.
    â€œIs he?”
    Shaefer nodded. “He swims in pretty oily waters. He’s bound to get dirty.”
    â€œHe left messages for me at various marinas in Europe. Rabinowich was the only one who knew about that channel.”
    â€œWhat you’re really asking is, are you blown?”
    â€œAm I?” Scorpion said, his mouth suddenly too dry to swallow.
    Shaefer shook his head. “Dave provided a list of marinas to Akhnetzov.”
    Scorpion felt a flood of relief. “So I’m not blown?”
    â€œNot even your hair mussed. No one even knows which marina you picked the note up from, including me,” wiping beer foam from his mustache. “You have a boat?”
    â€œA sailing ketch. You get out at sea, it clears your mind.”
    â€œBullshit. In this business, if you think you understand something, you probably got it wrong,” Shaefer said, and they both laughed. He motioned Scorpion closer, holding the bottle in front of his mouth to cover what he was saying. “This thing with Akhnetzov—the Company can’t go near it, but Langley’s desperate to see you in Kiev.”
    â€œWhy? What’s going on?”
    â€œAbove my pay grade, but—” Shaefer hesitated. “It’s hot.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t be holding out on me, Top?”
    Shaefer looked at him sharply. “I haven’t