by Ben Coes
Malnikov, who moved more heroin than any other mobster on the face of the earth, had let hubris take over. Not content with the money, the unfettered access to women, luxury homes, art, rare wines, and whatever else a black AmEx could buy, he somehow came to think possession of the bomb would insulate him from the one thing every mobster feared: the lawman. But he miscalculated. When you tried to buy or—God forbid—own a nuclear weapon, you were no longer fucking with the lawman. You were fucking with nations.
Malnikov had made a grave error and wanted desperately to get rid of it.
There were the jihadists. Already a representative from ISIS had made entreaties through an affiliate in Chechnya. Hezbollah would not be far behind. How ISIS knew about the nuclear device he didn’t know, but it scared him to his core. Eventually, if he was unwilling to sell, the day would come when the towel heads would send a suicide bomber to the nightclub or his home.
But the jihadists were not what worried Malnikov most. It was America, specifically the CIA.
His drugs and other vices were not a top priority of the CIA. They had bigger fish to fry. The nuclear bomb made him one of those bigger fish, and being a target of the CIA was the last thing he needed. If Langley suspected he possessed the bomb, his Russian ass could end up in a Guantánamo Bay sweatbox for the next decade. Unless the Americans decided to simply kill him and be done with it.
It was time to move the fucking nuke. And it was Cloud who held the key.
He took a deep breath and looked at Cloud.
“Let’s calm down a little,” suggested Malnikov. “We’re on the same page.”
Malnikov felt Cloud’s eyes on him. The genius computer hacker was either oblivious of the risk of owning the bomb, or he simply didn’t give a fuck.
Malnikov, like everyone who came into contact with Cloud, feared him. He was flamboyant, ruthless, and creepy. It was rumored that he’d helped manipulate U.S. air traffic control systems in the days leading up to 9/11, participating in the greatest terror attack in American history.
If he crossed Cloud, Cloud could do a great deal of damage, and very, very quickly. In Cloud’s hands, computers were weapons.
Malnikov took another sip of vodka, then glanced in Cloud’s direction.
“One hundred million dollars,” said Malnikov.
Cloud was silent. His eyes looked like a calculator as they blinked and darted about, his brain conducting calculations in his head. After more than half a minute, his eyes shot to Malnikov.
“One hundred million?” Cloud asked. “That sounds reasonable.”
Cloud leaned toward Malnikov, his hand outstretched.
“Good,” said Malnikov, smiling, relieved.
“When will you be wiring me the money?” asked Cloud.
Malnikov did a double take.
“What did you say?”
“When will you wire me the money?” Cloud repeated, an innocent smile on his face.
Malnikov stood up from the sofa. He took two steps, raised his arm, and started to swing at Cloud.
Cloud held up his hand, interrupting Malnikov.
“I assume it will come from your account in the Guernsey Islands?” continued Cloud, just before Malnikov struck him.
Malnikov caught himself, stopping his swing just inches from Cloud’s cheek.
“In fact, I took the liberty of taking the first fifty million before coming over,” said Cloud. “You know, these encryption keys are very difficult to penetrate these days. It took me nearly ten minutes to get inside the bank. They really are becoming much more sophisticated with these firewalls and other accoutrements.”
Malnikov stared at Cloud, his mouth agape, then staggered to his desk. He typed into his laptop, frantically signing into his bank account. After nearly a minute, he looked up at Cloud.
“What have you done?” he whispered, hatred in his voice.
Malnikov reached to the gun on top of his desk. He lifted it, chambered a round, then pointed it at Cloud.
Cloud stood up, clutching his crystal highball glass, staring back at Malnikov, then at the muzzle of the pistol. Cloud’s smile abruptly vanished. He shook his head.
“What am I going to do with you, Alexei?” asked Cloud empathetically. “You don’t seem to understand, do you?”
Cloud swigged the last of the vodka, paused a half second, then dropped the glass to the concrete floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces.
Malnikov moved around the desk and stepped in front of Cloud. He was half a foot taller than Cloud and dramatically wider. He could’ve broken Cloud in half with his bare hands. Any other man, and he would have. Malnikov moved the muzzle of the gun to within an inch of Cloud’s right eye.
“I want every cent of my money back, you little fuck!” Malnikov seethed. “As for the nuclear bomb, you can fuck yourself in the ass. Look into that muzzle, you little nerd, because it’s the last thing you’ll ever see.”
Cloud’s demeanor remained placid, even dismissive.
“Who do you think had your father thrown in jail?” asked Cloud. “The most powerful mobster in Russia, perhaps the world, and I had him set up, then chopped down like a weed. It was so easy I found myself laughing afterward. He will never leave the U.S. prison, not for the rest of his life.”
Malnikov’s mouth opened in shock and disbelief. He reached for his chest.
“Why…?”
“Why? Because I knew your father would never be stupid enough to acquire a nuclear bomb, and you would.”
Malnikov tried to speak, but couldn’t.
“If you want me to take the bomb, you will pay me, Alexei. If you complain, I’ll drain the rest of the account. Delivery of the nuclear device will be to a dock in Sevastopol tonight, at midnight.”
“I don’t even understand what you’re threatening,” whispered Malnikov, his hand shaking. “I don’t have the time to get it to Sevastopol by tonight.”
Cloud took a deep breath.
“I should also mention that if I’m not back to my dacha in”—Cloud checked his watch—“seventeen minutes, you will be destroyed. Forget your money for a moment. Your entire organization will be rolled up, then locked up. Everything! United States, Hong Kong, Europe, Russia, Brazil, Australia. Do you realize how much heroin you’ve sold to those poor little American schoolchildren? Not to mention the electronic signature of the entire transaction with General Bokolov? Actually, now that I think about it, you’ll simply be sent to Guantánamo Bay. If I’m not back in … sixteen minutes, my guess is you’ll be in shackles by dawn. And you’ll wear those shackles the rest of your days on earth.”
Malnikov stared at Cloud. He was beyond anger or hatred. He was speechless, numb, and confused. He lowered the gun.
“You can kill me right now, we both know it,” said Cloud reassuringly. “This is not about being a man and who is tougher, Alexei. You are tougher. But where I am going, it requires something different. It requires hatred.”
Malnikov took a small step backward. “You’re insane—”
“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” said Cloud, nodding. “So kill me. You have the gun. Just shoot me. The thing is, I wouldn’t care. I could take dying just as easy as getting up in the morning. You, on the other hand, do care. And that is why you will pay me one hundred million dollars to take this nuclear bomb off your hands, an amount that, I’m guessing, is about one hundred million less than I actually could pressure you into paying. But, you see, I’m a generous man.”
Cloud turned from the muzzle of the gun and walked to the door. He placed his hand on the doorknob.
“One more thing,” he said. “They will come to you. As soon as the bomb is moved, they will find out and they will somehow track it to you. This is unavoidable. My guess is, it will be the United States. You can attempt to lie, but it will be pointless. They will wire you up and, if you are lying, they will use various methodologies to elicit the truth and ultimately they will succeed. So do yourself a favor, Alexei, tell them everything you kno
w. As much as you hate me right now, the truth is, I am grateful to you. I mean you no harm. And I wish you a long and prosperous life. You made a mistake, we both know it, the day you shook hands with Bokolov and acquired the bomb. Do what they say. It is the only way you will be able to put it behind you.”
“They’ll ask for my help to find you,” said Malnikov.
“Give it to them. I will not be found, at least not until it’s too late.”
“What will you—” Malnikov began to ask a question, then stopped, as if fearing what the answer might be.
“What will I do with it? Is that your question?”
“Yes.”
Cloud glanced back as he turned the doorknob and opened the door.
“Something I should have done a long time ago,” he said quietly. He paused and looked once again at Malnikov. “Sevastopol. Midnight. Don’t be late.”
2
THE CASTINE INN
MAIN STREET
CASTINE, MAINE
On the first Saturday of summer, at a little before eight in the morning, a crowd was gathered in front of the elegant, slightly dilapidated buttercup-colored Castine Inn. There were approximately two hundred men, women, and children, from infants in Baby Bjorns to grandparents clutching wooden canes, talking, laughing, catching up after the long winter, sipping coffee, hot chocolate, and cider, waiting. All were from Castine but one, the boyfriend of a Castine girl, a nice-looking fellow from San Francisco who’d come up with her for the weekend from Andover, in all likelihood unaware of the fact that his first visit to the pretty, remote, slightly ornery seaside town would feature a grueling six-and-a-half-mile race, and that he’d be expected to participate.
Thirty-three runners—thirteen men, twenty women—stood in the road behind a strip of yellow police tape, stretching, jogging in place, and getting ready for the race. They had on a motley assortment of shorts and T-shirts in a variety of colors and styles. The one unusual aspect to the group of runners was that no one wore running shoes. Everyone had on work boots.
At the back of the cluster of runners stood a big man off by himself. At six-four, he was the tallest in the group, and stocky. He had on beat-up Timberland boots, madras shorts, and a green T-shirt. His brown hair was long and looked like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks. His face was covered in a month’s worth of stubble. He leaned casually against the front bumper of a rusted light green Ford pickup truck.
At precisely eight o’clock, Doris Russell, Castine’s seventy-two-year-old mayor, stepped off the curb and into the road. Doris looked gentle, even matronly, but, as everyone knew, she possessed the wit, and the mouth, of a sailor. Doris waved her arms in the air, trying to get everyone’s attention. Gradually, silence settled over the crowd.
“Good morning, everyone,” said Doris in a high-pitched, slightly squeaky voice. She had a large smile on her face. “I hope you all had a wonderful winter.”
“It sucked,” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.
Laughter burst out from the throng of people.
“Who’s that?” Doris asked, peering into the crowd. “Is that Tom? Yeah, well, mine was a stinker too, Tom, if you want to know the truth. I broke my hip falling down the stairs and my granddaughter was expelled from Miss Porter’s. But thanks for asking.”
“He didn’t ask,” yelled someone else.
Another ripple of laughter spread through the crowd.
Doris shook her head, trying not to laugh.
“If you don’t let me get this thing started, we’ll be here all day. Which means, odds are, I’ll be dead.”
“We’ll miss you, Doris.”
Doris laughed, shaking her head, along with the rest of the crowd. Finally, she raised her hand.
“Well, anyway, as you all know, today is the first Saturday of our beloved Castine summer, and thank God for that. I’m so goddam sick of winter I could kill someone.”
“My wife would like to volunteer for that,” yelled someone.
Laughter once again erupted from the crowd.
“I’d want to be dead too if I was married to you, Burt,” said Doris. “Now, as I was saying, it being the first Saturday following the beginning of summer, it’s time once again for the annual Wadsworth Cove Marathon.”
Loud clapping and a chorus of enthusiastic cheers swept over the crowd.
* * *
Like many towns along the beautiful winding, rocky coast of Maine, Castine tolerated its summer visitors, the wealthy people from away, who came in June and left at Labor Day. But the long, hard, bitter-cold winter months were the province of the people who lived there year-round: the fishermen, teachers, nurses, construction workers, bus drivers, farmers, electricians, plumbers, police officers, doctors, a lawyer, and even a few artists.
Most towns in Maine had their own peculiar tradition to mark the end of winter, the season they’d all just suffered mightily through, mostly pent up inside their homes. In Castine, it was the Wadsworth Cove Marathon. The course was a punishing six and a half miles to the cove, then up a dirt path along Bog Brook to a large, well-known birch tree, then back to town. Running shoes were not allowed, only work boots, symbolic of the fact that the race was meant for working people, not city slickers, though technically anyone could run if they wanted to.
This year, an unusually large crowd was gathered to watch the race. A celebrity was in town. Not a celebrity in the traditional sense, just a kid from town whom everyone knew—the thirty-nine-year-old kid with the mess of brown hair.
“Now, as many of you know, this is the twenty-fifth running of the Wadsworth Cove Marathon,” said Doris. “I can remember the very first race. It was that New York city slicker Jed Sewall’s idea. Jed’s son was the captain of the Harvard University cross-country team at the time.”
“Yale,” someone yelled.
“What?” asked Doris.
“Yale. He went to Yale.”
“Oh, for chrissakes, Harvard, Yale, it doesn’t make a goddam bit of difference as far as I’m concerned,” said Doris, shaking her head. “They’re both asshole factories. Give me a Maine Maritime Academy man and a glass of gin and I’ll be perfectly happy. Anyway, the point of the story is, Jed concocted this cockamamie race so Jed Junior could beat everyone in town.”
A low wave of hoots and hollers echoed from the back of the crowd.
Doris paused, smiling as she worked the crowd into a lather.
“Of course, Jed hadn’t considered the fact that a certain fourteen-year-old Castine kid might decide to enter the race!” Doris yelled.
A chorus of cheers erupted from the crowd. A few people even shouted out his name: “Dewey! Dewey!”
“A kid who, I’m happy to say, is back here twenty-five years later, and, from what I’ve heard, is prepared to defend his title.”
Doris raised her hand and pointed at the man leaning against the pickup truck. He didn’t move, in fact, he didn’t seem to be listening.
* * *
Dewey Andreas was Castine’s son, as much a part of the town’s fabric as the hard, wind-swept place was part of him.
He was born in the three-room Castine hospital, delivered by Doris Russell’s late husband, Bob. He was raised on a pretty rambling farm called Margaret Hill, up a winding dirt road behind the golf course. He was a boy like any other boy in town until that one day everyone saw Dewey wasn’t like every other boy in town. He was eight years old at the time. The occasion was the annual Independence Day picnic at the Castine Golf Club, attended by everyone in town along with all of the summer folks.
Dewey was playing tennis, barefoot, with his older brother, Hobey. At some point, one of the summer kids, a prep schooler named Hampton, told the Andreas brothers to get off the court. They weren’t supposed to be playing in bare feet. When Hobey told the older boy to wait his turn, he’d called Hobey a “townie.”
What happened next on the green-grassed #2 tennis court lives on in Castine infamy. Dewey charged over and slammed the fifteen-year-old in the
chest, knocking the taller boy over. When Hampton stood up, he lurched at Dewey, taking a big swing at his head. But Dewey ducked. Then he punched Hampton in the nose. Hampton dropped to the court, screaming in agony, as blood gushed from his nostrils. But Dewey wasn’t done with him. As horrified onlookers watched from the terrace, Dewey jumped on him, straddling him, then punched him over and over, beating the living crap out of him, stopping only when a combination of Hobey and their father, John Andreas, was able to pull him away from the bloody, bawling St. Paul’s freshman.
From then on, it wasn’t considered a wise move to fuck with the younger Andreas brother, the one with the mop of uncut, unmanageable brown hair, the kid who liked to ride his horse to school, the handsome, quiet one with the blue eyes as cold as stone. It wasn’t that people were embarrassed that day Dewey beat up Hampton. It was the opposite. Dewey had stood up for his brother and, by extension, his town.
They watched him grow up. By the time he was in sixth grade, he was six feet tall and had the gaunt, sinewy physique of an athlete. He had few friends, choosing mainly to hang out with his brother. Those friends he did have had been selected largely based on their interest in shooting things and by a shared dislike of talking, girls, and summer people.
By high school, he was six-four, two hundred pounds, and had the posture and gait of a prizefighter. After breaking every high school football scoring record in the state, Dewey ventured south to Boston College to carry the ball for the BC Eagles.
To say the town of Castine was proud of Dewey would’ve been an understatement. Every fall, twice a season, a bus was rented to ferry a crowd down to Chestnut Hill to watch BC’s hard-nosed 225-pound tailback tear through every defensive line in the Big East.
After college, Dewey returned to Castine long enough to steal away the prettiest girl in town, Holly Bourne, daughter of a professor at Maine Maritime Academy. Everyone in town went to the wedding. By then, Dewey was getting ready to try out for the U.S. Army Rangers. His hair was short. That was when some people started to recognize that Dewey’s aloofness, his standoffish demeanor, his confidence, the meanness in his eyes, the hint of savageness in his stride, that all of it had been given to him for a reason. No one was surprised when Dewey graduated first in his Ranger class out of 188 recruits.
