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The Knox, which had grown louder as the Russian reviewed the letters now stopped.

On the monitors, he saw one of the men start working on the lock.

In the bathroom, the Russian jimmied the collection of letters into his wife's makeup bag.

In his panic, he worried the letters would be discovered in the inevitable and painstaking search to come.

Why had he not seen to sewing them into her clothing,

perhaps a jacket, as he knew he should? But time was up. The front door squeaked open as he huffed upstairs to the spare bedroom. He sat at the old dusty desk, listened to the footfalls in the foyer,

the hushed murmurs, the sounds of men padding

up the stairs. For a fluttering moment, he wondered how he'd been made. He couldn't know. He

doubted the Americans ever would. The Russian threw open the desk drawer, picked up the Montblanc

suicide pen. My daughter is here, you animals, he bellowed in the direction of the

stairs, for God's sake. A young heavy, his hair shaved close on the sides like a punk idiot

burst into the room. A second man followed close behind, their eyes widened at the sight of the pen.

Shame on you, boys, he said, slipping the pen into his mouth, the Russian bit down into the barrel, sinking his teeth into the scy the pen. Shame on you, boys, he said. Slipping the pen into his mouth, the Russian

bit down into the barrel, sinking his teeth into the cyanide capsule snuggled inside. He heard

Jack's words from long ago, Bogotar. Three breaths, my friend, cup your hands over your face.

He did, taking the air and gulps. One, two, on the third, they were over the desk and on

him, crashing, shouting, grasping, rolling him over. One of the men unfastened the Montblanc from his

...