Resolved to his fate, Oleg took a deep breath and limped forward.

The machine started beeping. He put out his hands, preparing to be wanded.

Just then Dmitri Nimkov came around the corner.

“That’ll be all,” Nimkov barked before any of the officers could begin the search. “How dare you treat the president’s own son-in-law like this, especially after all he’s just been through! What’s wrong with you men? Have you no respect for the family?”

The men froze. Oleg was ashen. None of them moved, but Nimkov put his arm around Oleg and helped him gather his belongings. When Oleg was finished putting on his shoes and belt, he collected the rest of his things and put them in his briefcase along with his computer. Then he put his suit jacket back on, draped his raincoat over his arm, and as calmly as he could, thanked the FSB chief, surely the last man he’d expected to help him clear security.

“My pleasure, Oleg Stefanovich,” Nimkov said. “Come. The president is waiting for you.”

“Then by all means, lead on,” Oleg replied, though he knew the route by heart.

When Nimkov saw Oleg moving so slowly, his left leg stiff as a board and pain streaked across his face, he asked what had happened. Oleg said it was nothing. He’d fallen during the rush to get to the panic room, inflaming an old hockey injury.

As they snaked through several hallways, Oleg noticed they were passing far more agents than were typically posted inside the residence. They were stationed every ten meters or so. Through the windows, Oleg couldn’t help but notice K-9 units roaming the grounds. Sharpshooters in arctic combat wear were visible on the roofs of the outbuildings. With each step Oleg felt his fears rising and his resolve weakening.

Finally they turned a corner and arrived outside Luganov’s private study. Stationed in that hallway were no fewer than six elite members of the presidential bodyguard division. None of Luganov’s team was more trusted than these, and trusted most of all was Special Agent Kovalev, posted directly in front of the door. Kovalev nodded as Oleg and Nimkov approached. He knew them both well. Nevertheless, he asked both to present photo IDs. This was unheard of, yet neither man argued. Both dug their IDs out of their wallets. Kovalev studied them closely, then studied the men’s faces. Oleg felt sure the man was going to see right through him, but he returned the IDs and stepped aside from the door to let them through.

The heavy, thick, steel-reinforced door opened into a short, carpeted, empty hallway —an additional security measure to make absolutely certain that no unauthorized person could approach the president. Nimkov, knowing his place, let Oleg enter first. When Oleg limped to the door at the other end of the hallway, he knocked twice. Only when he heard his father-in-law bid him enter did he open the door.

The president was sitting beside his desk in an overstuffed chair, gazing vacantly at walls lined with books of every kind, from esteemed Russian literature to military histories and biographies of great leaders to Western novels, especially political thrillers, for which Luganov had a weakness. He was dressed casually in blue jeans, a navy-blue V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, and boots, and he was smoking a cigar. There was a roaring fire in the stone fireplace. There was also an open bottle of Stolichnaya and a half-empty glass. That didn’t bode well so early in the morning, Oleg thought.

“Oleg Stefanovich, it’s you —finally —you live and breathe,” said Luganov, his speech slightly slurred, though that could have been as much from lack of sleep as an abundance of alcohol.

Oleg nodded but then turned on the FSB chief without warning. “I’m alive, but no thanks to the imbeciles this man assigned to me, Father. Dmitri Dmitrovich, how is it that you have such incompetents on my security detail? How is it that you have allowed my life to be put in such danger?”

Nimkov was completely caught off guard, and Oleg stayed on the attack. It was his father-in-law, after all, who had taught him the best defense was a good offense.

“Dmitri Dmitrovich, tell us, have you hunted down the filthy pigs who tried to kill me? Have you captured any of them? Have you killed any of them? Or is this too much for you and the sniveling, pathetic morons working for you?”

Nimkov tried to respond, but Luganov intervened. “Come, come; sit down, Oleg Stefanovich,” the president said. “Set aside your coat and your briefcase and have a seat. You have been through a terrible ordeal. I know you are angry. I am as well. But there is no need to take out your frustrations on the FSB or its esteemed director. We are on the same team, are we not?”

Luganov motioned to an unoccupied chair to his left. Oleg reluctantly took it. Nimkov sat in the chair to the president’s right. Then Luganov pushed a buzzer on his desk, and seconds later a steward entered.

“Bring some tea for my son and breakfast for us all,” Luganov ordered. “It has been a long night. I think we all need some sustenance.”

Luganov looked around the room. Neither Oleg nor Nimkov said a word.

“Yes, Your Excellency. Right away, sir.”

When the steward stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him, Luganov gave the FSB director the floor.

“I deeply apologize, Oleg Stefanovich,” Nimkov began. “This was a terrible breach in our security. I’m afraid we do not have any of the perpetrators in custody. But my men are thoroughly scouring the crime scene, and I guarantee we will make arrests sooner than you might think.”

The way Nimkov uttered this last sentence worried Oleg. Was this a threat, delivered right here in the presence of the president himself? Oleg wondered what mistakes Marcus and his team had committed, what incriminating evidence they had left behind, and how quickly —if at all —it could be linked to him. Even more, however, Oleg wondered how long Nimkov was going to stay. The plan Marcus had given him hadn’t factored in a second man in the room, least of all the head of Russia’s security services.

“Dmitri Dmitrovich, what do you know so far?” Luganov asked.

“For starters, Your Excellency, we have recovered one of the getaway cars the attackers used,” Nimkov explained. “Well, recovered probably isn’t the correct term. Located is more like it. A Mercedes. An SUV. My men found it six miles away from the Kraskin estate.”

“Where exactly?”

“At a Lukoil gas station the terrorists blew up to cover their tracks.”

“Blew up?” the president asked.

“Completely demolished, and the fire’s still raging,” Nimkov confirmed. “It will take some time to sort out the damage. One of my agents was found dead at the scene. Shell casings everywhere. Seems there was quite a shoot-out. It all went down just as our hostage rescue team was arriving to get you, Oleg Stefanovich. As best we can tell at the moment, our man was in hot pursuit of the Mercedes. The two vehicles may have crashed into the gas station. It’s not yet clear, but the roads were slippery in the snow.”

Oleg was aghast at the news, suddenly wondering if Marcus was even still alive.

“What else have you found?” he asked, convinced it was in his best interest to stay on the offensive. “How many attacked the house, and who were they? Chechens?”

“I’m glad you asked, Oleg Stefanovich, because that’s one of the strangest things about the attack,” said Nimkov. “We haven’t found the bodies of any of the terrorists in or around your family home.”

“None?”

“Strange, isn’t it? Twelve of my men are dead. Not a single perpetrator. Yet ballistics confirms all of them were firing their weapons.”

“More evidence of their incompetence, if you ask me,” Oleg fumed. He was trying to put on a good show, but he worried where this was going. He had no idea how many men Marcus had brought with him. He hadn’t asked ahead of time because he didn’t want to know. He hadn’t asked afterward because there hadn’t been time. But given the magnitude of the gun battle and the destruction caused to the house, surely there had been at least six or eight. That’s what Oleg had assumed, anyway, and it was inconceivable the FSB agents hadn’t taken out at least a few of them.

“Perhaps it was incompetence,” said Nimkov, rising to his feet. “Or perhaps there’s another explanation.”

“Like what?” Oleg asked. He noticed that his father-in-law was being unusually quiet during the conversation.

“Perhaps they were set up.”

“Set up? How?”

“Perhaps someone tipped them off, someone on the inside, someone trying to cover up a crime.”

“Only your men knew where I was going to be tonight,” Oleg shot back. “My own parents didn’t know. Nor did Marina. Is there a mole inside the FSB?”

“There’s a mole somewhere —that much seems clear,” Nimkov said. The FSB chief turned to the president. “May I?”

Luganov assented, so Nimkov walked over to a television console that Oleg noticed was hooked up to a laptop computer.

“I have some surveillance video footage I brought for the president to see. Now that you’re here, I’d like to show you as well, Oleg Stefanovich. And then, with the president’s permission, I may have a few questions.”