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  “Let the punishment fit the crime,” said Marc. “That’s what Rubicon’s about, right? Justice. That’s the cornerstone of Solomon’s crusade.”

  “It’s why I’m here,” said Lucy, and the reply felt like a kind of confession.

  “Yeah,” Marc said, drawing out the word. “You and me both.”

  “We did a little good today,” she added. “Gave some desperate people a second chance. Took some bad ones off the board.”

  “It’s almost like we make a good team, yeah?”

  “Aw, you missed me. That’s sweet.”

  Marc chuckled, and the tension between them dissolved.

  “’Course I did. I mean, I reckon need someone around to warn me when I’m doing something risky.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes and smoothed back her hijab, a smile crossing her face.

  “Dane, where you’re concerned? That’s a full-time job.”

  They both heard wary footsteps behind them, turning to see Fatima hesitating a few meters away. Marc gave her a grin.

  “Hello.” He looked at Lucy. “Who’s this?”

  Lucy beckoned, her smile widening.

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  THREE

  A constant rain fell from the clouds over the 6th Arrondissement, driving Parisians indoors and leaving café tables and chairs abandoned beneath dripping awnings. The buildings throughout Saint-Germain-des-Prés glistened in the downpour as it rattled off the blinds across their windows, and from the upper floor of a spacious apartment on the Rue Bonaparte, the weather seemed intent on drowning out the sounds from the streets below. The antique frontage of the building was deliberately discreet, unadorned in such a way as to make the passing eye slip over it. Recessed doors concealed state-of-the-art security systems, and a set of wrought-iron gates provided entry to a large courtyard within, where security-enhanced cars patiently awaited their passengers. Viewed from above, clumps of umbrellas moved along the pavement outside the apartments, undulating like clusters of cells in a bloodstream.

  Pytor Glovkonin watched the motion from a window without registering it. He never really saw ordinary people, not as anything other than a resource or an impediment. Tall and stylish, with that indeterminate mid-fifties look that other men envied, the businessman showed the world a commanding, challenging manner and an easy charisma. But none of that was truly who he was. He hid himself down deep, bringing daylight to that only rarely. Alone at this moment, his focus was turned inward, his outward persona muted and sullen.

  It was always difficult for him to step outside himself, especially when something was irritating him. The Russian nursed his annoyance as if it were a lit match cupped in his hand, protected from a stiff breeze. With each minute that passed, the little flame of it burned brighter.

  The men he had come to see were making him wait. It was such an uncommon experience for him that at first he found it amusing, almost novel. But that had been thirty minutes ago, and Glovkonin had quickly crossed the threshold of his tolerance.

  Men like him did not wait for anything. He couldn’t remember the last time that a car had not been waiting for him, a meal had not been quickly served, or a want of his was not attended within moments.

  It was a well-constructed insult, this delay. Glovkonin was an extremely wealthy man, lord of his domain atop the mountain of money earned by G-Kor, the energy conglomerate that he owned. There were few commodities that men as powerful as Glovkonin could not control, but time was one of them.

  In order to show him that his power and his money mattered little to them, these men squandered his time, knowing that every lost second would remind him of who was in the superior position.

  He turned away and his gaze ranged around the room, never settling. The place had the clinical quality of an exclusive art gallery, unwelcoming to those who were not in the know and archly inviting to the select. Glovkonin imagined that the room was laced with monitoring devices of all kinds, so he gave nothing away, knowing that he was being watched every second that he stood there.

  From what he knew of this building, it had been in the possession of the Combine for generations, originally owned by the founders of the clandestine group. So the story went, their gathering had emerged a few decades after the end of the Franco-Prussian War, when a handful of moneyed industrialists had foreseen that another large-scale conflict between nation states was inevitable. Those first founders had opened lines of secret communication among their number, planting the seed of the global network that today’s Combine had grown into. It found its basis in a single concept—if warfare was a fundamental part of the human condition, it could be made profitable.

  At the beginning, the Combine were the quartermasters of conflict, selling guns and shells, fuel and materiel, even soldiers, to any side in any battle. By the latter half of the twentieth century the Combine were not just supplying conflicts, they were manipulating them. Prolonging them. Even creating them.

  The war on terror provided the greatest opportunity in their history—an asymmetrical battleground where victory could not be quantified or declared, an ongoing skirmish fueled by fears they were happy to stoke.

  Pytor Glovkonin was a man who looked at such an ideal and wanted a piece of it. No, more than that—he was the kind of man who wanted all of it. He had worked his way into the Combine’s periphery, drawing close to their inner circle, but it was taking too long, wasting too much of his time. He decided to set his own pace, and through guile and bloodshed, it had brought him here, to the inner circle. To a face-to-face meeting with the committee who sat at the Combine’s head.

  His anticipation briefly overrode his annoyance.

  I will be one of them, he told himself. I will make that happen.

  A door opened and a severe-looking Asian woman in a featureless gray dress stood on the threshold.

  “They will see you now.”

  She wore a wireless headset in one ear and she carried a digital tablet in the crook of her arm, tapping at it as he crossed the room to her. She matched the décor of the room, as if she was some sort of tailor-made appliance.

  “I appreciate the opportunity,” he replied, steely and cold.

  The woman ignored his tone and opened the door wider.

  The next room was dominated by an ornate antique table that seemed out of place compared to the rest of the apartment’s modernist-minimalist ethic, in the Louis XV style, detailed with gold and intricate marquetry in patterns of suns and moons. There were only three chairs, and they were arranged at the far end. Only one was occupied, by a wizened older gentleman in a suit of royal blue who seemed lost in the data streaming down another tablet, similar to the one held by the woman. Two other men stood by the window, laughing as they shared a joke. Both of them were around Glovkonin’s age, at a guess. One was a stocky fireplug of a man, balding and ruddy, with animated fingers that never sat still; the other was suave and rakish, wearing an impeccably tailored outfit and a manner that seemed so casual it was almost lazy.

  “Gentleman—Mr. Pytor Glovkonin,” said the Asian woman, as if she was presenting a debutante at some high society function.

  He gave a nod as they turned to study him. The woman melted away and then it was just the four of them.

  “I think I know you,” Glovkonin began, deciding to set the tone.

  When he had been summoned to the meeting, there had been no word of whom he was to see, but one could not move in the world of billionaires and oligarchs as he did, and not know the players in that arena.

  The suave man was an Italian engineering magnate known for his investments in aerospace and motorsports; his balding friend, an agricultural and biomedical industrialist from North America. The older man was a mystery, though.

  “No names,” said the Italian, before Glovkonin could say more. “We have no need of them.”

  His stiff smile didn’t reach his eyes, making it clear the new arrival had transgressed some unwritten rule.

  “We’re
all friends here,” said the American, with false joviality.

  “All friends,” echoed the old man, and Glovkonin detected a Swiss-German accent.

  A banker, then, he surmised. That fit the profile.

  “It’s good you could find the time to see us,” said the Italian. “We’ve been impressed with the work you’ve done, covering operations after the loss of our dear sister.”

  “Horrible business,” added the Swiss, with a grave shake of the head. “But not unexpected. She moved in dangerous circles.” He looked up at Glovkonin for the first time. “She frequently spoke about you.”

  He couldn’t help but wonder what Celeste Toussaint had said on those occasions. The woman was icy and unapproachable, resistant to any charms the Russian had tried to deploy. She, like Glovkonin, stood on the lower tiers of the Combine’s cellular power structure. Toussaint was the conduit for his dealings with the group, an assertive and uncompromising media heiress, whose control over news networks in the European Union allowed the Combine to subtly advance their agenda. But she had also been an impediment to Glovkonin’s ambitions. Combine “associates”—as the lower ranks were known—could only access the committee through a more highly placed senior member, and there was little opportunity for advancement.

  And so Glovkonin had chosen the only logical path. He removed her using an associate of his own, the terrorist assassin Omar Khadir, a surviving member of the near-eradicated Islamist extremist group Al Sayf. Glovkonin had Khadir in his debt because he had kept him alive, and now the man was the Russian’s personal knife in the dark.

  “The likely identity of her killer has been determined,” he said.

  Never one to waste an opportunity, Glovkonin made certain that Khadir left behind evidence at the murder—evidence that implicated Marc Dane, a key operative working for the Rubicon Group. Ekko Solomon and his band of vigilante-mercenaries were a constant thorn in Glovkonin’s side, and they had already made enemies of the Combine by interfering in the group’s activities. Implicating one to induce the other to destroy them was simply sound strategy.

  “I had my best people look into it,” he added.

  “So did we,” said the American. “The circumstances aren’t as clear-cut as you suggest.”

  Outwardly, Glovkonin’s expression remained unchanged, but inwardly the oligarch’s mind raced.

  Is it possible the committee know the truth about Toussaint’s murder? Did they summon me here to confront me with it?

  He dismissed the possibility. He had been careful, and Khadir was too methodical, too thorough, to leave anything to chance.

  “Rubicon…” The old man said the name with a shake of the head. “One of these days we will put the African in his place.”

  “But not today,” added the Italian, cutting off Glovkonin before he could seize the opening. “We’re aware of your personal issues with Ekko Solomon, but there are more significant matters at hand.”

  Glovkonin’s lips thinned. He had not come here to be humbled like some supplicant, and have his plans denied.

  “We have an opportunity to—”

  The Italian spoke over him. “You need to understand … What is the phrase? The bigger picture.”

  “It is imperative to remain focused on the Shadow project at this time,” insisted the Swiss. “For now, all other matters are irrelevant.”

  “With respect,” Glovkonin said, meaning nothing of the kind, “I do not agree.”

  “We know,” said the American. “But the decision isn’t yours to make. Rubicon is an impediment, yes. But they have utility.”

  “When the current project is successfully concluded, some of the blame will fall upon Solomon’s organization…” added the Italian. “Call it … a beneficial side effect.”

  “They have technological assets we can exploit at a later date.” The old man looked down at his tablet screen. “We will not waste what we can conserve.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  Glovkonin stiffened. The energy and money he had sunk into getting him into this room was too great for it to end with little more than a pat on the head for a job well done. His ploy was in danger of unravelling in front of him.

  “Rubicon should be eradicated. Give me the resources. Let me show you what I can do for the Combine.”

  “We are well aware of what you can do.” The Italian winced at Glovkonin’s mention of the group’s name, and his indolent manner turned colder. “Your lack of patience is apparent.”

  “Our association has not existed for over a century by moving without care,” said the old man, without looking up. “Had we been successful in our earlier bid to secure the Exile nuclear device, this operation would not have been required. But with all we do, there is always an alternative stratagem, a fallback. The Shadow project is in motion because of that … disappointment. This must now be our priority.”

  Glovkonin’s lip curled. The poorly veiled comment was solely directed at the Russian. He had been the one tasked with pressuring a disgraced Rocket Corps officer into selling the Exile weapon to the Combine, and responsibility for the failure to procure it had fallen on his shoulders—despite the fact that Rubicon’s operatives had been instrumental in preventing the acquisition. And before that, Marc Dane and Solomon’s agents had stopped a terrorist attack in Washington, D.C., which would have disrupted U.S. financial markets. G-Kor—and by extension, the Combine—would have made millions in shorted stocks. He reminded them of those facts, but it made little difference.

  “Let me spell it out for you,” began the American. “So that there’s no misunderstanding.”

  He walked away from the window and looked up at Glovkonin.

  The Russian entertained the thought of what it might be like to snake his hands around the shorter man’s pink, jowly throat and choke the life out of him. But he swallowed the urge and said nothing.

  “Toussaint’s loss created a vacuum. You filled it because you were there, not because it was decided upon. Taking her place doesn’t grant you her privileges.” The American paused. “That may come in time.”

  “But not today,” the Italian repeated.

  “Show us you can work toward the group’s interests and not just your own,” the other man went on, “and then your voice will carry further.”

  “You performed adequately facilitating the release of Verbeke,” said the Swiss, still refusing to grace him with a glance. “Your resources will continue to function as a firebreak between us and the operation. Monitor, but do not deviate from the plan. Is that clear?”

  In effect, the committee was telling Glovkonin that he was to retreat to the sidelines and have no further active involvement.

  “Clear,” he replied tightly.

  * * *

  It was a testament to Pytor Glovkonin’s iron self-control that he retained his rigid and emotionless affect after leaving the conference room, walking down to his waiting limousine, and riding away from the curb.

  The cracks in the façade only began to show as he poured a heavy measure of Stolichnaya Elit into a glass and drank it down, savoring the smooth burn. In his other hand, he gripped the bottle tightly, his knuckles whitening around it as the impulse he had denied in the room cut free.

  He swore in gutter Russian and smashed the bottle into the limo’s minibar, over and over, shattering glass and plastic, spilling vodka across the carpet and over his hands.

  Fire screamed through lacerations on his palm as the alcohol stung them, and Glovkonin turned his hand over to glare at the self-inflicted wounds, and the blood seeping out of them. He let the pain center him.

  How dare those debased old fucks believe they can dictate what I will and will not do?

  The limo slowed and the voice of his driver Misha issued out of the intercom.

  “Sir, are you all right? I heard—”

  Glovkonin stabbed at the intercom’s control, switching it off. After a moment, the limo picked up speed again. His men knew his moods well enough not
to question them.

  With care, he opened a panel on the wall and removed a first aid kit. Recalling the drills he had been taught during his conscription in the Soviet army, he cleaned and bandaged the cuts as the limo knifed through the traffic and turned on to Pont de la Concorde, heading north toward the airport at Le Bourget. His private jet would be waiting, ready to whisk him back to Moscow, where the committee expected him to remain and do nothing.

  When he was finished, Glovkonin picked up the encrypted satellite telephone mounted on the bulkhead behind him and spoke an auto-dial code. He heard the ghostly, metallic whispers of encoding artifacts as the call connected. On the third ring, the man he was calling picked up.

  “Go ahead,” said Saito.

  Glovkonin resisted the temptation to ask him where he was. It didn’t matter.

  “Status?”

  “Exfiltration occurred with no complications. Verbeke is now on his way to the mine.”

  Glovkonin scowled. “Why?”

  “He wanted to oversee the programming himself. He doesn’t trust us.”

  “As if a thug like him would understand it. Of course he doesn’t trust us.” Glovkonin shook his head, dismissing the issue. “It’s not important. I want you to proceed with the other matter.”

  There was a long pause, filled with the low buzz of static.

  “Are you certain, sir?”

  “Don’t question my orders,” snapped Glovkonin. “Toussaint is dead, so you report to me now.” He took a tight breath. “A data package will be sent to you. Find the Egyptian and give it to him, set him loose. Within twenty-four hours he will have recovered the asset I require, or he’ll be dead.”

  “And if Khadir is successful?”

  “Bring the asset to me.”

  Glovkonin cut the call. With this act, he was committed. Having Toussaint murdered was only the first test of his resolve. Only he and Khadir knew the full truth of what had happened, but there could be no turning back.