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very well be shot. He thought they might be exaggerating, but he didn’t intend on testing it.
    Dean hadn’t volunteered to help Hadash, exactly. Hadash simply called and told him he had a job he needed done immediately.
     He just assumed—just knew —that Dean would drop everything and do it.
    And Dean, for reasons that included $2 million in a Swiss bank account, agreed.
    Bladder finally relieved, he emerged from the men’s room feeling invigorated. He girded himself for the second round of questions
     as he entered the room, but the shrink and technicians had left. Only Black Suit remained. He looked at the guards and lifted
     his forefinger. They nodded like a pair of matched robots, then backed through the door.
    “Dinnertime?” Dean sat in the wooden chair.
    “Not for you.”
    “This where you slap me around a bit, ask if I’m going to come clean?” Dean asked. “Or do you toss down a pack of cigarettes
     and offer to split the loot if I talk?”
    “You’re a real funny guy, Sergeant.”
    “You know what? I’m not a Marine anymore.” Dean stopped himself from saying that he didn’t really care to be reminded of his
     days in the service; no sense giving the guy a stick to hit him with. “I’m guessing you were in the Army. I can tell you weren’t
     a Marine. And you were an officer. Maybe you still are. A major, right? They always had something up their butts.”
    Black Suit smiled.
    Dean stretched his legs and wrapped his arms across his chest, starting to feel a little cold in his T-shirt. “So all right,
     you asking me more questions or what?”
    “We’re done.”
    “Same time tomorrow?”
    “No. You’re on the job, starting now.”
    “You mean I’m hired?” said Dean sardonically as he got up from the chair. “We going to go meet the boss?”
    “You don’t have time to meet anyone,” smirked Black Suit. “You have a plane to catch.”
    “Where am I going?”
    “Eventually, to Surgut.”
    “Surgut?”
    “You’re a businessman. Your passport and luggage are waiting for you in the foyer upstairs. Your driver will take you to the
     airport.”
    “Where the hell is Surgut?”
    “Don’t ask questions. Just follow the program.”
    “Surgut,” Dean demanded.
    “It’s in Siberia. But don’t worry; it’s not the really bad part of Siberia.”

4
    Eight hours and several time zones later, Charles Dean found himself at the counter of Polish National Airlines in Heath-row
     Airport, waiting as one of the ten ugliest women in the world pecked his nom de passport into the reservations computer. His handlers had chosen “John Brown” as his cover name, matching it to a cover story claiming
     he sold metal and plastic fixtures used for filling teeth. Undoubtedly they knew of his fear of dentistry, though if they
     had really wanted to be perverse they might have given him the first name James and sent him out as a record salesman.
    “So, Mr. Brown,” said the reservation clerk. “How long will you stay in Warsaw?”
    The woman attempted a smile. Dean realized that his initial assessment was incorrect—she must rank among the five ugliest women in the world.
    “Not long.”
    “Business or pleasure?”
    “Business.”
    “I have a brochure of restaurants,” she said, reaching below the counter.
    Dean took the pamphlet stoically, unsure whether the woman was moonlighting for the Polish travel board or—and here was a
     frightening thought—trying to pick him up. When he looked at the pamphlet a few minutes later in the boarding area, he saw
     that two words separated by several paragraphs in the densely packed jungle of ungrammatical English had been underlined—“King”
     and “Street.”
    His instructions had been to simply use his plane tickets and he would be contacted along the way. This couldn’t be their
     way of contacting him, could it?
    King Street?
    But what else could it be?
    Dean took the brochure and stepped away from the desk. Was King Street a destination