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Americans. Strange bedfellows, but it might work. They were all in it for the money. No high principles to get in the way. Vlad and Anna could do the legwork; the Americans could get cozy with the young woman. Disarm her with their friendliness. A young American girl on her own might be drawn to them.
    Evgeny picked up the phone and dialed a number, then punched the speakerphone button.
    “We’re all here,” he said. “What have you got?”
    Vlad, Anna, Bob, and Marlene all leaned forward, as if they could discern who was on the other end of the line. But there would be no names used. Russian politicians like to keep their hands clean. And a wild card was always good in every game. It kept people on their toes. No one in Moscow could be identified if things went wrong, and that would make for an easier mop-up in the end. Evgeny would be the eraser on the chalkboard, so to speak.
    The voice on the phone was factual, calm, the accent thick.
    “We got the journal. They found it in the old storeroom of the Arctic
    Coal Mining Company up in Svalbard. We read every word of it and only found a few references to the land deed. There is not enough information for us to go on.”
    Vlad looked sideways at Anna. Staring at the phone, she didn’t move. The voice continued.
    “There is a guy digging around up in Svalbard, in the old graves. He appears to be a scientist looking for medical specimens. But he also might be looking for the deed. We are following him to see if he turns up anything.”
    “So what do you want us to do?” asked Evgeny.
    “We’ll keep an eye on the guy up in Svalbard. You need to keep track of the journal.”
    “Where is the journal now?” asked Evgeny.
    “We planted the journal in the archives of the Oceanographic Institute of Monaco. And, good little researchers that they are, they found it already,” said the voice from Moscow.
    “Then what?” asked Evgeny.
    “The Oceanographic Institute is going to give it back to Cordelia Stapleton, Elliott Stapleton’s only living relative. She will read the journal. It will make more sense to her. It’s her family, after all.”
    “What makes you think she will look for clues in the journal?”
    “We will send her an offer for the land. Big money. So she will start to look for the deed. She will lead us right to it.”
    “So we follow her, right?” interrupted Bob.
    Evgeny gestured with a dismissive chop of his hand for the American to shut up.
    “Who is giving the journal to her? The Oceanographic Institute?” asked Evgeny.
    “No. They are going to pass it to the Herodotus Foundation. The American philanthropist John Sinclair runs it. He doesn’t know anything about the significance of the journal. He thinks he is just returning it as part of the foundation’s award ceremony—as a courtesy.”
    “Good,” said Evgeny. “When do we expect the girl?”
    “She’ll be there at the gala tomorrow. And then she will go to the cruise ship after that.”
    “Good, so we will start surveillance tomorrow night, when she gets the journal,” Evgeny said, and looked over at the two Americans and the two Russians sitting on the couches of the yacht. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Monte Carlo, Monaco
    A s she stepped out of the Hôtel Hermitage, Cordelia checked her reflection in the glass of the lobby doors. The fabric of the midnight blue column dress was heavy and silky against her legs. The slight train gave her movements a new, stately glide.
    “The Sporting Club,” she told the limo driver. “But can you drive around a bit, take the long way, so I can see Monaco?”
    The driver held the door for her.
    “Of course, mademoiselle.”
    Cordelia slid onto the seat and had the ridiculous feeling that the car was way too big for just one person. The Herodotus Foundation had hired the limo and chauffeur for the evening. The driver took his place behind the wheel and looked at her in the mirror.
    “Where shall we go, mademoiselle? Anywhere you