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up bars/safe houses as a manager, then moving on once the bar was established. Like most of the other bar managers, he had a crime in his past that he’d been wrongly accused of and cleared through the subtle influence of the Round Table. Mila’s report simply said he’d been wrongly tied to embezzlement from his employer. He’d eventually proven his innocence, but the scandal had ruined him; his wife had committed suicide over it. A tragedy. The Round Table had given him a new, fresh start far away from his old life. I hadn’t broached his past; he hadn’t asked about mine.
    It was the same story, I had found, with the managers of my bars in London, New York, Amsterdam, Brussels, and more; the manager’s life had been saved by this group in the shadows, and in return they were willing to help the Round Table fight its own war for justice in the world. They’d helped me find my kidnapped infant son. You cannot buy gratitude like that.
    “This…I don’t see how this connects to Dalton Monroe’s case.”
    “Maybe it doesn’t. But we have to know.” He didn’t look at me. “Can I ask you a question?”
    “What?”
    “You joined the CIA, right? Because of your brother.”
    I supposed Mila had filled Felix in on my history. My older brother Danny, a relief worker, had been slaughtered by extremists. He was trying to follow in our parents’ footsteps, and he’d wanted me to go with him to Afghanistan. I’d stayed at Harvard instead, and after he was killed I joined the CIA two days after graduation. “Yes.”
    “Did you do that because you wanted justice or revenge? They’re different things.”
    His questions surprised me. “Why do you ask?”
    “Because I think we’re in danger, and I want to know if you make decisions out of emotion.”
    I stared at him.
    “You don’t want the Monroe incident and tonight’s attack to be related. And I’m worried you’ll blind yourself to a possible danger, just because you don’t want there to be danger. You just want to serve drinks and run the bars.”
    Felix was right. Dead right. I couldn’t dodge this now.
    I picked up my phone. “I want to talk to Leonie,” I said quietly. But her phone was off. So was Mila’s. They might be in the air still, depending on when they’d been able to get on a flight.
    I stripped off the bloodied shirt, the ruined suit jacket. I washed down the fauxhawk, combed my hair smooth. I put on a black turtleneck and black jeans.
    First stop: find out more about the man with the knife. I pulled Grigori Rostov’s ID from my wallet. The address was in Outer Richmond.
    “Wait, where are you going?” Felix asked as I headed down the back stairs.
    “You’re right. We have to make sure this isn’t an attack on us specifically. I want to make sure this is a coincidence. And if it is, then it’s not going to be my problem.”

9
    Thursday, November 4, late evening
    I T HAD TAKEN JOHN BELIAS a while to decide he was willing to risk breaking into Grigori Rostov’s house, after what he’d learned about Rostov in a few hours on his computer. Glenn might leap before he looked, but not John Belias.
    Finally, he decided it was a necessary risk. Roger wanted to go, but this was an information issue—what did the Russian really know about him and his operation? And what might the police find once they identified the dead man? So Belias went instead.
    Grigori Rostov’s house was in Outer Richmond; it was on 35th Street, off Geary, north of Golden Gate Park. The street was on a gentle slope (for San Francisco) and Rostov, according to an online address search, resided on the top floor of the house. The front of the house had been redone in a modern look and featured a large metal trellis that led up to a small open patio. No cars were parked in the small driveway. Only the light by the door glowed. He walked up the driveway, up the stairs to the top-floor apartment. The lower apartment had a FOR LEASE sign in it, which would make it easier