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hunters.”
    “And has anyone shown any interest in the shard?”
    “Some, but nothing serious. So far the consensus is that it’s simply a broken piece of bottle, nothing more.”
    “Good. Where are you?”
    “New York, waiting to board my flight.”
    At this Bondaruk smiled. “Always taking the initiative. I like that.”
    “It’s why you pay me,” the Russian answered.
    “And if you manage to secure this piece there’ll be a bonus in it for you. How do you plan to approach the man, this antique dealer?”
    The Russian paused for a moment and Bondaruk could almost see that familiar cruel smile curling Arkhipov’s lips.
    “I find the direct approach is always best, don’t you?”
    Arkhipov knew about directness and results, Bondaruk thought. The former Russian Spetsnaz was smart, ruthless, and relentless. In his twelve years in Bondaruk’s employ, Arkhipov had never failed in a mission, no matter how dirty.
    “I do,” Bondaruk replied. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Just take care that you’re discreet.”
    “I always am.”
    Which was true. Many, many of Bondaruk’s enemies had, as far as the authorities could determine, simply vanished from the face of the earth.
    “Call me as soon as you have word.”
    “I will.”
    Bondaruk was about to hang up when another question popped into his head. “Just out of curiosity, Grigoriy, where is this man’s shop? Anywhere close to where we’d predicted?”
    “Very close. A small town called Princess Anne.”

CHAPTER 3

SNOW HILL, MARYLAND
    S am Fargo stood at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister, legs crossed at the ankles and arms folded across his chest. Remi was running late as usual, having decided at the last minute her black Donna Karan dress was going to be a bit much for the restaurant and returned to their room to change clothes. Sam checked his watch again; he wasn’t so much worried about their reservation as he was about his empty belly, which had been grumbling loudly ever since they’d gotten back to the B&B.
    The lobby of the hostel was quaint almost to a fault, done in Americana shabby chic and decorated with landscape watercolors done by local artists. A fire crackled in the fireplace and over hidden loudspeakers came the faint strains of Celtic folk music.
    Sam heard the stairs creak once and looked up in time to see Remi coming down the stairs in a pair of cream Ralph Lauren trousers, a cashmere mock turtleneck, and a russet-colored shawl draped over her shoulders. Her auburn hair was up in a loose ponytail, a few strands touching her delicate neck.
    “I’m sorry, have I made us late?” she asked, taking his offered arm as she reached the bottom of the stairs.
    Sam stared at her for a few seconds without replying, then cleared his throat. “Looking at you, I fear time has come to a standstill.”
    “Oh, shut up.”
    The squeeze on Sam’s biceps belied her words and told him that, corny line or not, his compliment had been appreciated.
    “Are we walking or driving?” she asked.
    “We’ll walk. It’s a beautiful night.”
    “Plus you run less risk of another ticket.”
    On the way into town Sam had let their rented BMW have a bit too much head, much to the annoyance of the local sheriff, who’d been trying to eat his bologna sandwich lunch behind a roadside billboard.
    “That, too,” Sam agreed.
    There was a slight spring chill in the air, but not enough to be uncomfortable, and from the bushes along the sidewalk came the croaking of frogs. The restaurant, a locally owned Italian affair complete with a green-and-white-checkered awning, was only two blocks away, and it took only five minutes. Once they were seated they took a few minutes to peruse the wine list, settling on a Bordeaux from the French region of Barsac.
    “So,” Remi said, “how sure are you about this?”
    “You mean about the you-know-what?” Sam whispered conspir atorially.
    “I think you can say the word, Sam. I doubt anyone