Numerous picture windows welcomed the fall sun. Along most of the walls, a multitude of antique clocks ticked along happily. Others in various stages of repair covered a workbench. Kovalev was literally a clockmaker? I felt silly for my comments on the plane, hoped Sevastyan wouldn’t recall them. I gazed to the right, finding the man himself on the phone. Pavel Kovalev was so not what I was expecting. He had black hair with gray at the sides, ruddy cheeks, and a slim build. No tracksuit—he wore a crisp navy sport coat with a blue button-down that highlighted his twinkling eyes. Zero gold chains. Kovalev, the Russian mafioso, looked less like a Godfather and more like . . . a thin, dapper Santa Claus. He couldn’t be further from my imaginings. “Natalie!” He hung up the phone at once. With his blue eyes lighting up, he rose to hurry over to me. He was about five foot eight, maybe sixty years old. His arms were spread wide—like his infectious grin. But for all that we shared DNA, he was a stranger to me.
