Navrozov said, spittle flying. The door to the room came open, and his security guards burst in. The one in front had a weapon in his right hand, a keycard in his left. They’d managed to get one from the front desk. “This bastard murders my employee!” The security men did a quick assessment, assured themselves that I wasn’t doing harm to their boss. They muttered hasty apologies, I guessed, and retreated from the room. “Who was that?” I said. “This is the whole point of cutouts!” he shouted. “I don’t know who it is.” “Where is he, then?” “I told you, somewhere in New Hampshire!” “Within a thirty-minute drive from the Maine border,” I said. “Right? We know that much. But do you know if he was based in the north part of the state, or the south, or what? You have no idea?” He didn’t answer, and I could tell that he didn’t know. That he was experiencing something he rarely felt: defeat. “Wait,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I do have something.
