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  For the next fifteen minutes, he drifted in and out of consciousness, wondering when the merciful end would arrive, if ever. Then, a sound.

  Yuri gathered his strength and called out. “Who’s there?”

  It was a faint call, but one that could be heard at the entryway of his home, one that Natalya responded to immediately as she hustled toward the voice. The sound of her heels pounding against the wood was magnified in Yuri’s ear, which was pressed to the cold floor.

  “Natalya,” he called, mustering his strength once again.

  “Oh, Papa!” she cried once she saw him. She rushed over to his side and knelt beside him. She ripped her shirt and put it on her father’s neck to absorb the blood.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It will be all right. I’ll be with Irina soon.”

  Natalya’s face twisted and contorted, a strained effort to halt a dam of tears from breaking loose. “You’re not going to die. You’re going to make it. Just hold on.”

  Yuri closed his eyes. “I can’t. It’s over. The FSB has spoken.”

  “No,” she said, losing her battle to contain the tears. “It’s not over. You’re going to beat this and make those bastards pay.”

  Yuri opened his eyes. He wanted one more look at his daughter, no matter how broken she would appear.

  “No, you’re going to make them pay,” he said. “Get that drive to the American journalist. He will avenge my death.”

  “How can you be so sure, Papa?”

  “Get the device to Cal Murphy when he arrives next week. That is my final request of you.”

  She threw her arms around her father. “I love you, Papa.”

  Yuri soaked in the final hug from his daughter. “I love you, too, my dear.”

  After one gasp of breath, Yuri closed his eyes and threw his head back. Thirty seconds later, he was gone.

  Kneeling beside her father, Natalya cried, hot tears burning her cheeks as they streaked down her face. Other than heaves of grief, she didn’t move for the next twenty minutes. But eventually, she stopped, dried her eyes, and stood.

  Natalya reached for the flash drive tucked into her bra. The device was still there. She planned on doing everything her father had asked her to do. Everything.

  She was going to find Cal Murphy.

  Chapter 2

  Seattle, Washington

  CAL MURPHY CHECKED HIS WATCH as he entered The Seattle Times office and depressed the up button on the elevator. For six months, he’d avoided any assignments that sent him farther than an hour away beyond the city limits. Staying close to home around his family was preferable to any assignment, no matter how it might advance his career. In such a short period of time, he’d grown accustomed to home cooked meals and nightly bedtime stories with Maddie. But this day wasn’t a surprise. It had been circled on his calendar for months. In less than twenty-four hours, Cal would board a plane for Russia to cover soccer’s grandest stage, the World Cup.

  The elevator dinged, and the door slid open. He stepped inside and patiently waited to rise to the fourth floor. Once there, he strolled into the newsroom and said hello to several colleagues before making his way to his editor’s office located in the northwest corner.

  A proud curmudgeon, Frank Buckman served as The Times’ sports editor. He was in the middle of gulping down his black coffee when Cal strode through the open door.

  “Morning, Buckman,” Cal said with a smile. “Finishing your breakfast of champions?”

  Buckman grunted. “It’s a half hour until noon, Murphy. I finished a fifth of Crown Royal two hours ago.”

  “As long as you’re maintaining your diet,” Cal quipped as he eased into a seat across from his boss.

  Buckman rolled up his sleeves and glanced at Cal. “Ready to visit Mother Russia?” Buckman asked, breaking into a mock accent over his final two words.

  “As ready as I am for a rectal exam.”

  “That excited, eh?” Buckman asked. “I could always send you to cover the Mariners’ upcoming road trip to Milwaukee and Cincinnati.”

  “No, no. I don’t need that kind of punishment.”

  “What?” Buckman asked. “Is it the locations or the baseball?”

  “I think we both know the answer to that question.”

  Buckman smiled and nodded. “Yes, watching all those teams just might be worse than slaving away in a gulag.”

  “I guess I’ll think about that when I’m trying to navigate my way through Russia.”

  “Well, you will be watching some of the world’s premier soccer players in the most-watched sporting event on the planet. There are worse assignments.”

  Cal nodded. “I know. You’ve given me plenty of them.”

  “Your bitterness is palpable, Murphy. Talking to you is like drinking a cup of this nasty office-brewed garbage.”

  Cal glanced at Buckman’s mug, the faded inscription of World’s Greatest Boss barely readable. “We live in Seattle. There’s this new little start up coffee store called Starbucks. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  Buckman cracked a smile. “Making smartass comments before noon—that’s why I hired you.” He paused. “Well, that and your award-winning reporting.”

  “Let’s maintain our perspective. Wit is never to be trumped by job performance.”

  “Absolutely,” Buckman grunted, raising his mug and tipping it back to drain the last few drops. “Now, back to Russia. Are you clear about what we’re looking for?”

  “I think so. Insightful features from the U.S. squad, profiles on Seattle Sounders players performing on the big stage for their respective national teams. Sound about right?”

  “Perfect. Just don’t get hacked or arrested and everything will be fine.”

  “It’s Russia,” Cal said with a shrug. “What could go wrong?”

  Buckman dismissed Cal with a backhanded wave. “Get outta here. And be careful. I can’t exactly pull strings for you in Moscow should you wander into any trouble.”

  Cal stood. “Oh, you know me. I only find trouble when I go looking for it.”

  “I do know you—and that’s exactly why I said that.”

  Exiting Buckman’s office, Cal headed toward his desk. He stopped to talk with a few of his colleagues about upcoming major sporting events before gathering his supplies and stuffing them into his bag. However, a tap on his shoulder interrupted him.

  “Cal, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” said a man.

  Spinning around, Cal was face to face with the paper’s publisher, Eric Fogerty. Fogerty was standing next to another man who looked familiar.

  Cal offered his hand. “Cal Murphy.”

  “Curt Daniels,” the man replied as he shook Cal’s hand.

  Fogerty leaned forward. “Senator Curt Daniels.”

  Daniels chuckled and shook his head. “I’m just a public servant, Eric. Same as you. Just trying to make the world a better place.”

  “If only the public really viewed our professions in such a light,” Cal said.

  “If only those we work with viewed our jobs in the same manner,” Daniels said with a correcting wag of his finger. “We’ve done little to engender the public’s trust.”

  “That can be changed,” Cal said. “We simply have to act trustworthy.”

  “All while we make boatloads of cash,” Fogerty interjected. “Am I right?”

  Cal and Senator Daniels both turned toward Fogerty and wore scowls on their faces.

  “Nevermind,” Fogerty said. “I thought the two of you would want to talk since you’re both headed to Russia next week.”

  Cal’s eyebrows shot upward. “Big soccer fan, are you?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, I support the Sounders, but I’m going to see my son who works at the embassy in Moscow. The timing is just a coincidence.”

  “It’s a good coincidence,” Cal said. “Don’t miss your chance to see the biggest collection of the best players in the world in one spot.”

  “Oh, I plan on catching a
few games here and there, especially the U.S. men’s national team.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you there then,” Cal said.

  “Sounds like a plan,” Daniels said. He handed one of his business cards to Cal. “Give me a call if you need anything while you’re there. Maybe we could get together and lament a U.S. loss over a bottle of vodka.”

  Cal laughed. “That convinced the U.S. is going to lose?”

  “Well, we are in the same group as Spain and Argentina.”

  “You have a point. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll try to remain optimistic until the final whistle sounds.”

  Daniels put a firm hand on Cal’s arm and winked. “You keep dreaming, Cal Murphy.”

  “See you in Russia, Senator,” Cal said as he waved goodbye.

  Cal finished gathering all his supplies and headed home. He was looking forward to the extra time Buckman gave him to spend with his wife Kelly and daughter Maddie before embarking on the long trip to Russia.

  When he arrived at his house, Kelly greeted him with a kiss and asked if she could help him pack.

  “Eager to get rid of me?” Cal asked playfully.

  “Not as quickly as you might think,” she said. “I still have this mayonnaise jar I can’t get open, and I really need it for tonight’s recipe.”

  Cal broke into a laugh. He was going to miss his family terribly.

  Chapter 3

  Kiev, Ukraine

  IVAN MORTUK TILTED HIS HEAD BACK and soaked in the warm sun. Reclining from his poolside chair, he didn’t feel the urge to look as the sound of a crowd drifted past. He closed his eyes and pictured what they looked like—summer’s first revelers to board a river cruise boat, the home for the passengers hoping to escape the harsh realities of living in the Ukraine. The summer solstice was still several weeks away, but that sound? The faint tunes from a house band covering popular songs, the hum of an expectant crowd, and the constant roiling of the water in the wake of the boat created a soundtrack that would be duplicated several times each day through September. That sound marked the official start of summer for Ivan. He’d grown accustomed to it over the past three years, even looked forward to it. Such was life atop the Du Monde Hotel overlooking the Dnieper River.

  Ivan abruptly stood and dove into the pool. Opening his eyes, he focused on the drain at the bottom. Once he touched it, he crouched low before thrusting his legs downward, propelling straight to the surface. He gasped for air once he reached the top.

  Boris Kovalchuk glanced at his watch. “Seventeen seconds,” he announced. “You’re getting faster.”

  Ivan swam to the nearest ladder and climbed out of the water. “I’m not training for a competition. This is just to improve my comfort level with staying beneath the water.”

  Boris rolled his eyes. “Everything with you is a competition, even when it isn’t. But in this case, I guess you’re right. I can do what you’re doing in fifteen seconds. It’s not even a real competition.”

  Ivan picked up a towel and blotted his face dry. “Then let’s see you do it.”

  Boris laughed nervously, the concern showing through the lines in his brow. He always tried to remain optimistic, but Ivan had seen right through his top lieutenant’s boast. And Ivan never missed a chance to knock someone down to size, even his favorite employee.

  For nearly ten seconds, Boris didn’t move, resulting in further chiding from Ivan.

  “What’s the matter, Boris? Did you forget to bring your webbed feet? Scuba tank? What else do you need assistance with before you get on with this ridiculous charade that you and I both know is only going to end in your embarrassment?”

  Boris held his hand out and grimaced as he swallowed hard. “It’s nothing like that. I just, I just—”

  “You just what? Opened your mouth too big?” Ivan asked, breaking into a mocking laugh as he moved closer to Boris. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

  “I don’t expect you to let me off,” Boris shot back. “I just don’t feel well.”

  “Oh. So you’re just hoping I’ll forget what I said? I never forget a bold and daring challenge.”

  Boris didn’t move.

  “Well, go ahead then,” Ivan said. “I don’t care if you’re sick.” He gestured toward the pool. “We don’t have all day.”

  Boris hesitated before taking his shirt off and stripping down to his boxers. He handed his watch to Ivan and reset the stopwatch.

  “Ready?” Ivan asked once Boris put his feet at the edge of the pool.

  Boris nodded.

  “Go.”

  Ivan waved at the voluptuous woman sitting at his table as Boris dove into the water. He swam toward the drain before racing back toward the surface. Ivan waited a moment before stopping the watch.

  “Eighteen seconds,” Ivan announced as he winked at the woman.

  “That’s a lie, you sonofabitch,” Boris said as he climbed out of the pool. “I kept time in my head. It was no more than sixteen seconds.”

  Ivan held the clock out. “The watch doesn’t lie.”

  Boris shook his head. “I know you started the clock early and waited to stop it.”

  In what seemed like a conciliatory gesture, Ivan nodded and used his left hand to give the watch back to Boris. But the act was nothing more than a ruse so Boris wouldn’t see what was really coming—Ivan’s right hook. His clenched fist landed squarely on Boris’s jaw, knocking him backward and into the pool. Submerged for a moment, Boris resurfaced for a deep breath and a scalding from Ivan.

  “Don’t ever accuse me of cheating or lying or anything else,” Ivan said. “You know I like you, but you are still expendable.”

  Ivan sauntered over to the table where the woman was seated. Once he reached her, he stooped down and kissed her hand.

  “I am greatly honored that you would join me,” he said before easing into a seat across from her.

  “Anything for my biggest fan,” she said.

  Ivan poured himself a drink and then reclined in his seat. He wanted to bask in the moment. Somehow he’d managed to persuade Alina, one of the Ukraine’s biggest pop stars, to have a private dinner with him. Ivan smiled, thinking about how jealous his wife would be about getting to meet Alina, though it was best that such marital indiscretions never became public. Ivan had only invited Alina for dinner, but he expected much more than a dinner companion.

  “So, tell me about your son,” Alina said.

  With the comment, Ivan felt a sense of pride, fleeting as it may have been. He enjoyed bragging about his son almost as much as he liked to flaunt his money. Fedir, Ivan’s eldest, was a star center midfielder for the Ukrainian national team. All the tabloids loved him, splashing pictures of him with his latest fling on the front page whenever the papers weren’t trumpeting the news of the latest Russian intrusion. Fedir had become a national icon, a larger-than-life personality. And Ukraine’s hopes in the upcoming World Cup were contingent upon Fedir turning in the performance of his life. While winning the World Cup would’ve been the realization of a distant dream, most Ukrainians simply wanted a shot to play—and beat—Russia. But the Ukrainian team had to advance to the second round to do that, which wouldn’t be an easy task.

  Ivan had launched into several stories about Fedir’s childhood before he realized what Alina was doing. She agreed to meet him, hoping that she might get a chance to meet Fedir. Ivan felt foolish when he realized he’d been played but decided to adapt to the situation. In an effort to keep her engaged, Ivan mentioned that Fedir might be dropping in to join them for dinner.

  Alina’s eyes widened, and she leaned forward. “When will he be here?”

  “In about an hour,” Ivan said, taking her hand. “Just enough time for you to sing me one of your songs in private.”

  She blushed and initially resisted his efforts to help her to her feet. Once she relented, she stood pat, awaiting his further instructions.

  “I’ll have one of the staff show you to your quarters,” he said. “Just ge
t comfortable, and I’ll join you shortly.”

  Ivan sat and watched her sashay toward the pool exit.

  Boris toweled off his head as he took the seat Alina had vacated.

  “Are you prepared to make the deal?” Boris asked.

  Ivan nodded. “As long as we are back in time to see Fedir play in Samara.”

  “I hope you don’t have any plans for when we are there. That’s not the time to make things messy.”

  Ivan wagged his finger. “Boris, you are having a very difficult time staying in your place today. When we are in Samara, that is the exact time I plan to strike. No one will ever see it coming.”

  “I’m afraid they will,” Boris countered. “It’ll be as obvious as a Russian naval carrier in the Black Sea.”

  “It won’t matter,” Ivan said. “We will still be victorious.”

  “What about Fedir?”

  Ivan shrugged. “What about him? He’s got a job to do—and so do I.”

  Chapter 4

  Volgograd, Russia

  SERGEI BAZAROV STROLLED DOWN the street before stopping in front of the city’s most historic icons. He glanced to his left and right to ensure his security detail was still with him and alert. A subtle nod toward the two men guarding him from afar satisfied Sergei. Turning his attention back toward the building, he glanced up at the inscription, which remembered the valiant acts that took place there during World War II. It read:

  In this building fused together heroic feats of warfare and of labor. We will defend and rebuild you, dear Stalingrad.

  The apartment building had served as a rallying point for the Russians when Germany’s blitzkrieg into Stalingrad was met by stubborn resistance. Russian Sergeant Yakov Pavlov commanded the platoon that seized the building and used it as a line of defense against the Germans. Situated near the banks of the Volga River, the four-story structure withstood German attack for two months before reinforcements arrived and secured the city. Much had changed since then, including the name of the city. But Pavlov’s house, as it became known, was still an apartment building, representing the fierce Russian resolve.