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Where before it had looked like a convincing mop of hair belonging to a Lebanese Arab, it now more resembled… well… just a mop. Somehow his nose prothesis was still attached, but his overall aspect was now more drug-addled homeless person than fearsome Hezbollah financier.

Rapp pushed past the FSK officer, forcing Zhikin to tag along behind him.

The floor was arranged like it was home to a corporation’s C-suite rather than a nation’s counterintelligence service. The hallway opened into a pod of sorts in which several offices branched off from a common area containing a wet bar, conference table, several richly upholstered leather chairs, and two sofas. A single desk was positioned in the center of the common area and behind the desk sat a very large Russian woman.

Rapp assumed she was a receptionist of some sort. Someone whose importance was derived by her proximity to power and the access she controlled to the people who resided in the trio of corner offices. The woman took one look at him and then directed a stream of angry-sounding Russian toward Zhikin. Rapp’s ability to speak the language hadn’t magically improved since his arrival in Moscow, but based on her tone and tenor, the woman was probably asking why the FSK officerhad allowed a street bum onto such hallowed ground. Ignoring her, Rapp was striding toward Petrov’s office when he heard a curse from the office to his left.

A curse rendered in German.

Leaving Zhikin to sort out the woman, Rapp turned left and followed theScheisseto its source. The office’s owner had done well for himself. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave an unobstructed view of Lubyanka Square, while an oil painting hung on the far wall side by side with a framed flag from the now-defunct German Democratic Republic, aka East Germany. Custom-made shelves held hardback books by German authors along with pictures and mementos from a country that no longer existed. Plush leather chairs abounded, and soft lighting muted whatever remained of the stodgy, government atmosphere. The office’s centerpiece was an ornate hardwood desk that probably cost twice Rapp’s monthly salary.

Behind the desk sat the man who’d uttered the curse word.

TheGermancurse word.

“Herr Schmidt?” Rapp said.

The man behind the desk looked from his computer monitor to Rapp. “Ja?”

Greta’s words came back to him in a rush.

It was a robbery. Do you understand?

He hadn’t understood then.

Not completely.

He did now.

Digitally stealing money from a bank wasn’t the same as sticking a gun in the teller’s face and demanding that they open the vault. Ohlmeyer’s holdings would have had account numbers, passwords, and security protocols. Someone would have had to verify the information Lebedev was extracting. Someone who had been on the phone with the assassin as he’d tortured to death an elderly woman with dementia while her husband had been forced to watch.

Ideally, that someone would have been a banker.

Or an operative who had once targeted West German banks on the Stasi’s behalf.

“Good to meet you,” Rapp said.

His job had always been purposeful, but never personal. He nibbled around the edges of the organizations who had funded or trained the men who had blown up the plane carrying Mary, but he’d never been face-to-face with her assassins. This was partially because the actual triggerman had perished in the crash and partially because Irene, Hurley, and Stansfield had constructed his target list with the idea of going after the low-hanging fruit first. While everyone he’d killed so far had deserved to die, he hadn’t felt a personal connection to them.

Until now.

Schmidt removed his gold-plated wire-rim glasses and set them on his desk. “Do I know you?”

“No, but we have a mutual friend.”

“Is that so? Who?”

“Herr Carl Ohlmeyer.”

Schmidt’s eyes widened.

He was reaching for something sequestered beneath his desk when a pair of suppressed 9mm rounds thudded into his chest. He jerked and then tumbled from his chair. Rapp stepped around the desk, lined up the stubby suppressor on Schmidt’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.

Kill shot.

“What have you done?”

Turning, Rapp saw Zhikin standing just inside the office’s doorway.