Once Yelena passes the table, the knot in my stomach unwinds a little. I’m still strung like a piano wire, every nerve pinging, but at least it looks like Yelena’s going to be safe.

She’s twenty feet away, then ten, and then she’s between two of the Humvees and staring around, bewildered, before she looks at me.

“Kostya,” she says, like she’s confused.

I take her gently by the shoulders.

“Did they hurt you?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Are you sure?” I ask, looking into her bloodshot blue eyes.

“I’m okay,” she says.

Someone else comes, takes her hands, and pushes her into a vehicle.

There. I’ve done one thing right, at least.

I look back at the table, and realize that Pavel is already there, standing behind his wooden chair. The whole setup is strangely formal — a table and chairs on a concrete slab? — But I wonder if they just want this to look as legitimate as possible.

We checked the table for a bomb five times, maybe six, even though I wouldn’t tell anyone why. I’m not superstitious as a rule, but that dream was hard to shake.

Dmitri hands me a small, sealed bottle of vodka and a glass. I take a deep breath, my kevlar vest tight against my chest, and I walk to the table.

Pavel straightens as I get closer, then holds out his right hand. I place my bottle on the table then take his hand in mine.

“Pavel Vasilovich,” I greet him.

“Your Majesty, Konstantin Grigorovich,” he says, very formally.

I gesture at the vodka. We’ve both brought bottles and glasses. It’s customary.

“A drink?” I ask.

“Please, you first,” he says.

This is all politeness. No one’s poisoned anyone with vodka for a long time now, but allowing me to pour first is a show of trust on his part, that I haven’t poisoned my bottle.

I pour into our glasses.

“To the light on the mountains,” I say. It’s traditional. We drink.

Then, at last, we sit. He pours two more shots.

“To the fish in the sea,” he says, his voice quieter now. Everything before now has been for show, but now it’s just the two of us talking.

“You came instead of the American,” he says.

“It’s a pretty bad king that lets defenseless Americans do his dirty work for him,” I say.

He just nods. I wonder if that was a test.

“I apologize about the kidnapping,” he says. “It isn’t what I wanted.”

“It’s a brutish way to make a point,” I say.

He nods once.

“Yes,” Pavel says.

We sit there for a long time, or at least it feels long. Slowly, Pavel reveals more and more of what his faction wants, and at the same time he tells me about the politics of the USF, the in-fighting. Everyone at each other’s throats, and the volki happy to come in and tear everything apart.

Without exactly telling me, he’s saying that there doesn’t have to be violence. He’s saying that most people don’t want things to change too much.

Pavel lists reforms. I’ve already uncensored the press and lifted the ban on meeting places, and we volley back and forth over taxes, elections, representation. He seems surprised that I’m willing to consider those things at all, and I tell him I’m not my father.

He considers this, and in the distance, I hear a rattle.

There’s something familiar about it, something that alerts the fight-or-flight, instinctual part of my brain, and I look around.

Nothing. I try to ignore it.

Pavel moves on to export tariffs, but the sound is getting louder and I can’t ignore it. I watch the open space to my right, desperately searching. I know something is there. I know something is going to happen.

“Konstantin,” Pavel says, trying to get my attention, but then it comes into sight.

It’s an old Soviet truck, and it comes out from between two factories and the driver guns the engine at top speed. Everyone is shouting. There’s gun fire, and the truck rocks from side to side, its thick steel body denting with pockmarks.

The driver just ducks and keeps coming, and Pavel is staring, open-mouthed.

I don’t think. I don’t plan. I just grab him by the shirt, pull him around the table, and we both run.