the streets, admiring the intricate Baroque and neoclassical architecture. His path took him onto the Nevsky Prospekt and across the narrow Fontanka River via the Anichov Bridge. He took a small detour to walk the grounds of the Alexandrinsky Theatre, filled with mothers watching their bundled-up children playing in the park. Taking a seat on a bench at the edge of the Mikhailovsky Garden, he packed his pipe and tried to relax. The city was alive. It was hard to believe there was a time not that long ago when Russia’s cultural capital was almost destroyed by the Axis powers in World War II, back when it went by the name Leningrad. Grey seemed to remember that snipers were somehow associated with the siege, or was that Stalingrad? The thought of snipers caused Grey to abruptly move from his bench and continue toward his destination. He looked up at the surrounding buildings, half-expecting to see James Reece behind a scope. The analyst in him attempted to banish the notion.
Reece could never find me here. I am now protected by the bratva.
Grey crossed the street and walked the remaining block to the Passage, an upscale shopping arcade that dated back to the 1840s. As he strolled through the long building, all marble and plaster, peering into the hand-painted plate glass windows of the various shops, Grey felt transported to a different era. The building was a striking example of Russian prominence with its intricate tile floor, detailed dentil interior trim, and vaulted glass ceiling. Most of the customers displayed noticeable signs of wealth: oversize ornate watches for the men and long furs, high-end handbags, and diamonds for the women. Everyone chatted on iPhones as they shopped. The proceeds of Russia’s raw materials—oil, natural gas, gold, copper, and magnesium—extracted by tough, filthy men who drank hard and died young, were converted by the nation’s elite into hard currency that flowed through luxury arteries such as this one. Grey’s family had always been at the base of this class pyramid, but he was working his way up.
He took his time shopping, carefully selecting the ties, socks, underwear, and T-shirts that would comprise his new wardrobe. He completed the ensemble with a frightfully expensive pair of shoes that put a significant dent in his stack of euros. Each vendor made change in rubles, allowing him to accumulate local currency without having to deal with the formality of banks.
He found a barbershop and spent some of his new money on a haircut and a beard trim. The heavily tattooed staff were all young men who obviously spent a great deal of time and effort emulating the appearance of American hipsters; it seemed that one could not escape the West’s cultural poison even in Mother Russia. Two men lounged on the black pleather couch in the corner, playing a soccer video game on a large LCD television monitor that hung on the exposed brick wall. Grey spoke little but listened intently, trying to gather as much practical knowledge as possible about his new home. He had done his best to enjoy the day, but a gnawing sensation that he couldn’t seem to erase continually interrupted his contentment.
The vodkas he downed with dinner did nothing to shake his feelings of impending doom. He stumbled more than once in his haste to return to the safety of his hotel, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow and rooftop to rooftop, the specter of James Reece his constant companion.
CHAPTER 9
Kumba Ranch, Flathead Valley, Montana
REECE CRANKED THE POWERFUL motor on his new Cruiser and listened to it hum. He pulled out of the garage and gunned the motor as he turned up the steep grade, testing the vehicle’s torque as it climbed. It responded instantly and flew up the gravel track, spitting rocks as it went. He crested the ridge and took it slowly down the switchbacks. No sense flipping his new ride on the first day.
He hit the ranch’s main road and turned in the direction of the refurbished barn that Raife used as his workshop, a twenty-minute trip by vehicle.
The two friends had joined the navy a year apart, taking separate paths until finally serving together in Ramadi, Iraq, at the height of the war. When their task unit lost two SEALs to a roadside bomb, Raife went off the reservation, using their tactical HUMINT network to find the IED cell leader responsible, a man named Hakim Al-Maliki. He then used that same network to deliver a package