Boston—about the same time
The doorbell rang.
Borya looked up at Mary Martyak.
“Think we should get it?” asked Martyak.
“Yes, of course,” said Borya, putting down her phone. Chelsea had had to hang up but had told her to stand by.
Stand by.
Borya left the phone on the table and ran to the door.
“Who is it?” she asked, pulling it open.
“Hey there, Borya,” said Johnny Givens. “You left this at work.” He held up the backpack.
“Oh wow, I totally forgot it.”
“Hello, Johnny,” said Mary Martyak from inside.
“Mary.”
“Come on in,” said Borya, grabbing Johnny’s hand. “I just talked to Chelsea.”
“You did?”
Across the street, Medved and the Russian intelligence operative got back into their car.
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” said Medved. “Stratowich should be able to keep his mouth shut until then.”
“He better.”
“You’re welcome to get rid of him, as far as I’m concerned,” said Medved. “Take him and Tolevi out. I’d sleep better.”
“What makes you think I’m not going to?”
Medved nodded. There was a little too much menace in his companion’s voice, he thought, the sort of tone that hinted he would be next.
“Let’s go to my club and have something to drink,” Medved said. “Relax with some wine and girls. Tomorrow is another day.”
“Tomorrow, yes,” said the man. “Tomorrow.”