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sins caused differed from one to the next, like the structure of a snowflake, never to be
repeated. In Murat, what had it been? Not fear. Astonishment, yes, rage, surely, but something more,
deeper—sorrow at leaving a life's work undone. The dissection of the last look was always incomplete,
Khan thought. He longed to know whether there was betrayal there, as well. Had Murat known who had
ordered his assassination?
He looked at Stepan Spalko, who was holding out an envelope, heavy with money.
"Your fee," Spalko said. "Plus a bonus."
"Bonus?" The topic of money refocused Khan's attention fully on the immediate. "There was no mention
of a bonus."
Spalko shrugged. The ruddy moonlight made his cheek and neck shine like a bloody mass. "Khalid
Murat was your twenty-fifth commission with me. Call it an anniversary present, if you wish."
"You're most generous, Mr. Spalko." Khan stowed the envelope away without looking inside. To have
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done otherwise would have been very bad manners.
"I've asked you to call me Stepan. I refer to you as Khan."
"That's different."
"How so?"
Khan stood very still, and the silence flowed toward him. It gathered in him, making him seem taller,
broader.
"I'm not required to explain myself to you, Mr. Spalko."
"Come, come," Spalko said with a conciliatory gesture. "We're far from strangers. We share secrets of
the most intimate nature."
The silence built. Somewhere on the outskirts of Grozny an explosion lit up the night, and the sound of
small-arms fire came to them like strings of children's firecrackers.
At length, Khan spoke. "In the jungle I learned two mortal lessons. The first was to trust absolutely only
myself. The second was to observe the most minute proprietaries of civilization, because knowing your
place in the world is the only thing standing between you and the anarchy of the jungle."
Spalko regarded him for a long time. The fitful glow from the firefight was in Khan's eyes, lending him a
savage aspect. Spalko imagined him alone in the jungle, prey to privations, the quarry of greed and
wanton bloodlust. The jungle of Southeast Asia was a world unto itself. A barbarous, pestilential area
with its own peculiar laws. That Khan had not only survived there, but flourished, was, in Spalko's mind
at least, the essential mystery surrounding him.
"I'd like to think we're more than businessman and client."
Khan shook his head. "Death has a particular odor. I smell it on you." "And I on you." A slow smile
crept across Spalko's face. "So you agree, there is something special between us."
"We're men of secrets," Khan said, "aren't we?"
"A worship of death; a shared understanding of its power." Spalko nodded his assent. "I have what you
requested." He held out a black file folder.
Khan looked into Spalko's eyes for a moment. His discerning nature had caught a certain air of
condescension that he found inexcusable. As he had long ago learned to do, he smiled at the offense,
hiding his outrage behind the impenetrable mask of his face. Another lesson he had learned in the jungle:
Acting in the moment, in hot blood, often led to an irreversible mistake; waiting in patience for the hot
blood to cool was where all successful vengeance was bred. Taking the folder, he busied himself with
opening the dossier. Inside, he found a single sheet of onionskin with three brief close-typed paragraphs
and a photo of a handsome male face. Beneath the picture was a name: David Webb. "This is all of it?"
"Culled from many sources. All the information on him anyone has." Spalko spoke so smoothly Khan
was certain he had rehearsed the reply.
"But this is the man."
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Spalko nodded.
"There can be no doubt."
"None whatsoever."
Judging by the widening glow, the firefight had intensified. Mortars could be heard, bringing their rain of
fire. Overhead, the moon seemed to glow a deeper red.
Khan's eyes narrowed and his right hand curled slowly into a tight fist of hate. "I could never find a trace
of him. I'd suspected he was dead."
"In a way," Spalko said, "he is."
He watched Khan walk across the bridge. He took out a cigarette and lit up, drawing the smoke into his
lungs, letting it go reluctantly. When Khan had disappeared into the shadows, Spalko pulled out a cell
phone, dialed an overseas number. A voice answered, and Spalko said, "He has the dossier. Is
everything in place?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. At midnight your local time you'll begin the operation."
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
David Webb, professor of linguistics at Georgetown University, was buried beneath a stack of ungraded
term papers. He was striding down the musty back corridors of gargantuan Healy Hall, heading for the
office of Theodore Barton, his department head, and he was late, hence this shortcut