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time, in exchange for a chance at a future.”
    Vasylenko seemed unmoved by this. “These are strong words. But are they true?”
    â€œA year ago, I would have said no. I may say no again tomorrow. But I will be in prison for the rest of my life. I have no fear of this, but I value my freedom and my invisibility. This is not how I want to die, and I have nothing else. But then again, you saw to that yourself.”
    As he spoke, Ilya tugged down the collar of his shirt, revealing the pale area of skin where a tattoo had been removed. Vasylenko eyed it dispassionately. “So what are you willing to do?”
    â€œWhatever it takes,” Ilya said, releasing his collar again. “At least for now.”
    Vasylenko smiled. “And later? Do you believe you can simply walk away?”
    â€œNo. I have no illusions. But I also know that Dancy would not consider taking such a risk without good reason. If you are willing to consider me, you must be out of options. And as I see it, neither of us has a choice.”
    Vasylenko glanced over at his men, who were watching from their table in the corner. “Perhaps. The world is full of those who think they have what it takes, but there are few with the proper detachment. In your case, I have no doubt that the skills are there, but it will be necessary to prove that you can be trusted.”
    Ilya had known that this moment was coming. “I understand. Then set me a task.”
    â€œVery good,” Vasylenko said. “As it happens, the task has already been set. A problem, shall we say, that I need you to resolve.”
    Lowering his voice, Vasylenko switched to Assyrian, the language used for the most secret communications between thieves. Ilya listened as the old man described what he had in mind, which took only a few words.
    When Vasylenko was finished, Ilya sat in silence for a moment, processing what he had just heard. “It can’t be done.”
    â€œThat’s a shame,” Vasylenko said. His voice was regretful, but in his eyes, Ilya saw a spark of amusement. “Because if you can’t do it, Ilyuha, you will never leave this place again.”

9
    T he next day, Wolfe and Asthana went to the library. Arriving at the St. Pancras branch near King’s Cross, they met the head of modern literary manuscripts, who turned out to be in his thirties and remarkably attractive. “We were quite lucky to get Rogozin’s papers,” the librarian said. “Normally, we focus on British authors, but given his longtime residence here, we were glad to make an exception.”
    After checking their warrant, which they had obtained, for the sake of expediency, by slipping it into a stack of others for the magistrate to sign, he led them down a marble corridor to the manuscripts reading room. Inside, past the rows of carrels, they continued into the stackroom, where Asthana eyed the tall white bookcases. “What’s the usual procedure when an archive comes in?”
    â€œWe put the papers in the freezer first, to get rid of bugs,” the librarian said. “Then we start sorting through the material, which can take some time.” He turned into one of the rows. “Here we are.”
    Following his gaze, Wolfe saw four long shelves, each containing fifteen flat boxes in stacks of five, the spines labeled with a number and Rogozin’s name. “Is there a catalog we can use?”
    The librarian smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid that what you see is what we have. It generally takes more than a year to fully conserve and catalog any collection. What are you looking for?”
    â€œWe aren’t sure.” Wolfe regarded the rows of boxes, sensing with a sinking heart that it would take weeks to go through it all. “What about nonliterary materials? Rolodexes, pictures—”
    â€œYou’re in luck. One of the first things we do is cull anything unusual. We’ve found some odd things