THE PRESIDENTIAL PALACE, NOVO-OGARYOVO, RUSSIA —29 SEPTEMBER

Oleg Kraskin was terrified, unsure if he could go through with it.

It was almost five thirty in the morning when the helicopter carrying him touched down on the freshly plowed landing pad beside Luganov’s much larger Mi-8 chopper. So far Marcus had been right every step of the way. From the moment the commandos had entered the panic room, he hadn’t simply been questioned; he’d essentially been interrogated. The lines between the two had been badly blurred, but Oleg’s story had held up.

No, he was not wounded, not seriously, though he’d banged up his knee in all the commotion. No, he had no idea who had attacked his parents’ home. No, he hadn’t seen a thing. Yes, the agents had done their jobs brilliantly and courageously. They’d immediately rushed him into the panic room and proceeded to fight bravely to save his life. In this, they had succeeded, and Oleg had gushed his profound gratitude for every single one of them. He’d literally wept when he’d seen the carnage and the destruction throughout the house. He’d bristled, even yelled back, when he’d felt treated like a suspect. In the end, there wasn’t a shred of evidence that he’d been complicit in any way. To the contrary, he appeared to have been the target of a sophisticated and brazen assassination plot.

Thus, as Marcus had predicted, Oleg had been cleared and brought to the palace, to his father-in-law’s side, both to recover and to assist with the war effort. All that had been the easy part. What was coming next would be infinitely more difficult, testing every ounce of discipline and cunning Oleg possessed.

Oleg grabbed his leather briefcase as six burly agents helped him out of the chopper. They created a tight cordon around him, and he limped inside the doors of the north portico. Waiting for them was another group of agents, manning a checkpoint Oleg had only seen used before for the staffs of foreign heads of state. Never for family. Never for him. This time, however, the checkpoint supervisor surprised Oleg by asking him to put his personal possessions —his watch, his wallet, briefcase, shoes, the change in his pocket, and anything else he had on him —through the X-ray machine.

“The president is expecting me,” Oleg said indignantly.

The FSB officer nodded again. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

“I have urgent matters to discuss with the president.”

“Of course —this will only take a moment,” the officer assured him.

This was not going as planned. Oleg could feel beads of perspiration forming on the back of his neck.

“This is ridiculous,” Oleg objected again. “I’ve never been subjected to such things.”

“My apologies, Mr. Kraskin, but these are the president’s orders for everyone entering the residence,” the officer replied while his colleagues looked on. “Given all that’s unfolding, we are operating under a heightened state of readiness. I’m sure you can understand. We cannot take any chances.”

Feeling trapped, Oleg moved directly to the officer and got in his face. “Can’t take any chances?” he asked. “Do you have any idea what I’ve just been through, what I’ve just survived?”

“I do, sir, and —”

“And yet you have the gall to speak this way to me?”

The tension in the air was thick. Several of the agents looked away. Still the supervisor humbly but firmly held his ground. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Kraskin, but orders are orders.”

The two men stood there for a moment, staring at one another. Then Oleg blinked. He untied his shoes and set them on the conveyor belt. He removed his belt and his cuff links and his watch and wallet and a fountain pen from his breast pocket and put them on the conveyor belt as well. The operator immediately moved the items through the machine.

“The briefcase, too, if you wouldn’t mind,” the supervisor said, noticing that Oleg had initially set the bag on the floor when he removed his shoes but hadn’t placed it on the conveyor belt.

Oleg’s heart was pounding. If he was stopped here, it would be disastrous. Not only would Marcus’s plan be ruined and the war proceed, but Oleg would be going straight to the bowels of Lubyanka to face the torturers of the FSB and a fate far worse than death. He picked up the briefcase.

“Do you have a laptop?” the supervisor asked.

“I do,” Oleg said.

“Please take it out and run it through separately.”

Oleg did as he was asked.

Time seemed to stand still as the X-ray operator studied every square inch of every item. When each one was cleared and emerged on the other side, a different agent examined it manually. He removed the battery of the notebook computer, studied it closely, and then replaced it and turned the computer on. When it flickered to life, the officer was satisfied. He turned it off again, then turned his attention to the briefcase, thoroughly checking every section. When he found an unopened pack of cigarettes, he carefully tore the cellophane away, opened the pack, and dumped the contents on the counter. Convinced nothing was amiss, he put each cigarette back in its place and the pack back in the pocket of the briefcase where he’d found it.

Next he pulled out a small digital voice recorder. The officer opened up the back and removed the batteries. Then he opened a drawer in a desk behind him, fished out batteries of the same kind, and put these in the device. He turned the recorder on, but no sound emerged. The device was new. No messages had yet been recorded on it. Satisfied, the officer replaced the device in the briefcase and nodded. “You’re all set.”

Oleg began breathing again and was about to work his way around the magnetometer like he always did. However, the supervisor asked Oleg to take off his raincoat and his suit coat and put them through the X-ray machine as well.

“Then I’ll need you to step through the metal detector,” he said.

Oleg just stared at him.

“Again, my sincerest apologies, Mr. Kraskin, but the president’s orders . . .”

Oleg paused, trying hard to look annoyed and not terrified. But terrified he was, and he could stall no longer. There was no way he was going to make it through the metal detector without setting it off. He would be immediately searched and quickly arrested when they found the gun.

Slowly, with a room full of agents watching him, he took off his coat and put it on the conveyor belt. Then he did the same with the jacket of his suit. When the operator turned on the belt and both items began moving through the X-ray machine, Oleg straightened his tie, wondering what to do next. There was no place to run, no place to hide. This was it, the end of the road.

Why hadn’t he fled the country with Marcus Ryker?