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Alex scanned the lobby again. No Federov. She brought out her cell phone and riffled through the day’s calls. She returned two, finished them, glanced at her watch, and saw that it was 6:32. She looked to the lobby again.
    She spotted Yuri Federov before he spotted her.
    Her first impression was that something had happened to him. His face looked haggard. He seemed years older than when she had seen him last. He walked without the same self-assurance that she had previously seen in Ukraine, Switzerland, Italy, and France. As he crossed the lobby, she saw that he still had a thuggish wise-guy charm about him, if there was such a thing. But he did look, she decided, worn and troubled.
    Then he spotted her. His expression changed and somewhere within him the sun seemed to emerge from clouds.
    He walked directly to her, smiling broadly. “Ah,” he said. “The most beautiful woman in the world.” He extended a hand and took hers. They exchanged a clasp.
    “Hello, Yuri,” she said.
    He drew her close to him and wrapped her in a quick hug, then released. She went with it.
    “What a pleasure this is,” he said affably, sliding his massive frame into the seat next to hers. For some reason, the image flashed before her of them together the previous February at the nightclub in Kiev, Yuri on his home turf in all his overly macho glory, she in a micro-mini dress prying him for information and getting increasingly soused as the evening went along. Well, all in an evening’s work.
    Federov turned and signaled to the waiter.
    “You have to try their specialty drink, ‘The Peacock,’ ” Federov said to Alex.
    “Named after the Shah of Iran?” she asked, making light of it. “He would have liked this place. He used to stay here, in fact, if I remember.”
    Federov laughed. “The place still stinks with Iranians,” he said. “They’re disgusting people.”
    “What’s the drink?” she asked. “The Peacock. What’s in it?”
    “It’s a vodka drink,” he said. “Cranberry-infused vodka and apricot brandy with a sour made from scratch. The vodka is Russian.”
    “Sounds lethal,” she said.
    “It is. Russians are lethal. You know that. That’s why I order it. I had three last night.”
    “Well, you’re still alive,” she said.
    “Ha! Just, hey.”
    The waiter arrived.
    “I’ll take your recommendation,” Alex said. “But I’m sure one will suffice for me,” she said.
    “Two Peacocks,” Federov said to the waiter. “Make mine a double.”
    The waiter nodded approvingly and departed.
    Federov turned to her and smiled. Now Alex got a good look, up close and personal, and he was indeed thinner than she remembered. She couldn’t yet tell whether it was a sign of good health, vigor, and exercise or something more ominous. She dug through the repository of facts on Federov that she kept in her head and tried to recall his age. Given a moment’s thought, she reckoned he was about forty-eight or forty-nine. Not a bad age for a man, depending.
    There was an awkward moment of silence between them. “So,” she said, quickly moving to fill it, “I thought I’d start with a basic question. Are you here in the United States legally?”
    He laughed.
    “Of course, I am,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to break any laws now that I have a clean slate.”
    “The tax thing,” she said. “That got cleared up, I hear. Completely?”
    Federov nodded. “Cleared up perfectly,” he said.
    “Try to keep current in the future,” she said.
    He made a dismissive gesture. “The future. What’s that?” he said. “I’m retired, enjoying the time I have left and the money I’ve stashed. I don’t make money anymore. I try only to keep track of what few millions I have. And you know I’m here legally. You’re the government and have all the computers and the records. You know I came in on a visa, and you even know where I’m staying without me telling you.”
    “Touché,” she said.
    “I hoped you’d get in