"If you want something to go unnoticed, then you should do it in public—as a matter of course, in full view of everyone." Fyodor Sokolov leaned back in the dingy, worn plastic chair, closed his eyes for a moment, and folded his hands in his lap. "My father taught me that. He was a great magician with the state circus. He taught me all about the art of deception!"

A smile flitted across Sokolov's face. As it always did when he remembered his father. Let them all say what they wanted. At home in Russia, where Sokolov had grown up as a teenager. His father had been a spy, a traitor who had let his own friends and colleagues fall by the wayside. But Fyodor Sokolov was indifferent to these rumors. He did not judge his father based on what was said about him. Even if it was all very probably true. For him, Artyom Sokolov was the man who had taught him what he needed to survive in the world. No matter how this world would change. And his father had not been squeamish about it. Not in the days when he had starved the young Fyodor to teach him the art of self-control. Not during the nights had he been exposed to the icy temperatures of the Russian winter outside in the shed to toughen him up. And not during the fights in which he had beaten his son until he finally knew how to defend himself. Artyom Sokolov had let many unpleasant witnesses from his team fall by the wayside before the political winds changed. But in the end, it had come as it had to for him. After all, the political change that had cost his father his life was to make his son rich. Even if not in espionage. Even though Sokolov was a very observant spy. Especially when he met people like Mike Fisher. And this woman who accompanied him didn't speak a word and hadn't introduced herself to him.

"Are you going to pull a rabbit out of your hat, or will we get down to business?" Mike Fisher also pulled a plastic chair towards him and sat opposite Sokolov.

His companion remained standing, as did Boris, Sokolov's assistant, who didn't leave his side for a second.

Sokolov gave the woman a quick glance. How incredibly well she knew how to look fierce and attentive simultaneously. She would undoubtedly have been a great sportswoman in Russia. Slim, trained, even muscles could be seen through her tight-fitting blouse. But still not a drug-addled Amazon, more of a natural sportswoman. It was too bad for a man's job, but unfortunately, the world hadn't changed where Sokolov liked it.

"What you're suggesting sounds impossible. And I'm interested in men who dare to do the impossible." Sokolov turned his gaze away from the woman and looked at Mike. What a random guy he was. Average height, a slightly above-average build, with that three-day beard all men over seventeen in Boston seemed to have. Dressed in a suit that cost a thousand dollars and looked no different than one you could order for pocket money on the Internet. Another herd animal trying to make it to the big boys.

"So you're interested in our offer?" Mike didn't bat an eyelid.

The tour boat glided gently over the calm surface of the water. It was already afternoon, but the summer temperature was still above average. It wasn't the hottest summer Boston had experienced recently, but the city's excursion destinations were still very popular, as was the somewhat outdated steamer.

Sokolov turned his gaze away from Mike and let it wander out towards the shore. As the sun-heated water mixed more and more with the beer and fast food, the safe mainland moved further and further away from them as the steamer carried them further and further out.

"Boston is in the hands of the Irish and Romanians, and they are supplied from Colombia." Sokolov did not lower the volume of his voice, even though the four of them were surrounded by all kinds of people running back and forth on the steamer. "You told my assistant Boris that the Russians will soon only buy their goods from me anyway. Since that's practically impossible, I wanted to hear how you came to this bold claim. So please, tell me more."

The roar of the men gathered further back on the steamer's deck rose from afar. Judging by their clothes, they belonged to a bowling club. Sokolov noticed in Mike's background how an elderly lady, who was drinking a cappuccino with a friend, looked over at the bowling brothers with an annoyed expression before turning back to her conversation partner.

"We can make it possible for you to offer the Irish and Romanians much better prices. And for goods of a higher quality."

"How is that possible? Our prices are calculated at the limit; the market is subject to the laws of supply and demand just like any other. We can't undercut the Colombians."

Mike pulled down the corners of his mouth and shrugged his shoulders. "Thanks to us, you will be able to. And still, earn a lot more than before!"

Three teenagers in shorts came rumbling onto the deck from below and sat down at the table just a few meters away from Sokolov, Mike, and their companions, laughing loudly.

The girls might have been fifteen or sixteen. One of them had an ice cream in her hand, and the other two were taking pictures with their cell phones. Sokolov looked over at them with a disdainful look and then continued speaking impassively.

"All right, what can you offer me?"

Mike leaned back. "As you know, only about half of the goods shipped in the producing countries make it through the American authorities' controls to Boston Harbor and thus to the buyers. Everyone involved calculates this value, keeping the sales price stable for the end consumer. This is exactly where we come in with our organization. Our infrastructure enables us to get up to seventy percent of the goods through the controls. And we alone can decide which retailers we provide this service to. So you can bring many more goods into the USA through us than the Colombians, and you would have more to sell. This would allow you to offer the Irish and Romanians better quality at lower prices."

Sokolov brought his right index finger to his mouth and closed his eyes. Without opening them again, he asked, "And what do you want for this service?" Even though he wasn't looking at Mike now, he could tell from the tone of his voice that he was smiling—probably confident of victory.

"We get a pure success fee. We get two percent for every extra kilo through the checks compared to the previous standard. We get another one percent from the Irish and Romanians on top of what we save them."

Sokolov opened his eyes. He looked at Mike as if he were one of the schoolgirls still laughing and playing with their smartphones at the following table. Even though this American with the boring beard seemed anything but stupid. Nothing was threatening about him; no visible tattoos, scars, or other signs that he had led a rough life outside of normal society. This slick guy looked like the son of a banker. Someone you could almost trust. If it weren't for the fact that Fyodor Sokolov trusted absolutely no one. And certainly not a varnish-clad futz with an apparently mute, serious-looking Amazon in tow, who had just made him an offer that sounded too good to be true - and therefore had to be. After all, who would dare try to trick Fyodor Skolov with such an unbelievable story?

"So you have contacts with the American border control?" Sokolov spoke as calmly as he could.

"We have all the contacts we need."

"But what will the Colombians say if they lose a few of their best customers to us? Or have you already negotiated with them and just want to see who makes you the better offer?"

Mike didn't even bat an eyelid as he replied: "We'll talk to you first. If you make the deal, then we're in business. We'll take care of the Colombians then."

Sokolov took a deep breath. The girls at the following table laughed out loud, and then he scowled at them. When one of the three noticed, she encouraged her friends to follow him back onto the deck.

"You want to take care of the Colombians?" Sokolov leaned over to Mike. "They're not exactly known for being easy to look after."

The man addressed seemed unimpressed. "I assume you've read up on us in detail, haven't you?"

Boris, who had stood there like a wax figure until then, straightened his back and tensed his body. Sokolov gestured for him to answer the question.

"Of course we did!" Like his boss, Boris spoke good English, albeit with a heavy accent, unlike Sokolov. "You are very well camouflaged; your tracks are hard to follow. It seems as if you are directly protected by politics, at least from the right places."

Mike let out a snorting laugh. "That's why we're operating out of Boston. You know the Boston Senate? The city is practically leaderless! The dealers are assigned zones by the government where they can sell their drugs. The governing coalition here has such a massive client policy that it practically paralyzes the executive branch simply because of its latent hatred of the police. Boston is a joke politically, and we've turned it into a business model! Of course, our arm also extends to Seattle."

"All right, then." Sokolov adjusted his coat. "So your protection of our shipment to the USA immediately begins. You'll arrange for us to supply Boston in the future and make sure that the Colombians keep quiet. You'll get a success fee for that."

"Exactly like that! When and where does the next shipment arrive?" Mike crossed his legs.

"I'll let you know as soon as all doubts have been dispelled." Sokolov twisted his face into a bitter grin.

"What doubts can we remove?"

A gentle breeze drifted over to them from the water.

"I chose this steamer as a meeting place for a reason." Sokolov smiled at Mike's assistant, leaned back, and interlaced his fingers on his neck. "Moby Dick is a story that has fascinated me since I was a little boy. He is a stupid, stubborn captain so blinded by hatred and anger that he engages in an unequal battle with an opponent he cannot defeat. And who sacrifices his life and his entire crew to do so. Why didn't Ahab approach his plan with a cool head? Then, he would have realized that he was running into his own ruin with this mission. I have learned a lot from this story. And I don't plan to run into my own destruction because I'm going blindly into some mission. You must prove to me that I can trust you with the information about my shipment with a clear conscience."

Sokolov rose from his chair, turned, and let his gaze wander over the deck. The bowling brothers had ordered another round of beer, the teenagers were still typing away on their cell phones, and six colorfully dressed women who were obviously celebrating a bachelor party were laughing and dancing. At the same time, a couple holding hands sat at the front of the deck and gazed dreamily into the distance.

"All right, what do you have in mind?" Mike asked with a furrowed brow.

Sokolov turned back to him. "Let me come back to my father. As I said, he was a magician. He taught me many important things. Also, it is about how to do business if you want to make it long and successful. He didn't just tell me you should go out in public if you want to do something unnoticed. He also taught me that there are things that are better done without publicity -"

"That's not a problem. When and where would you like your proof of confidence?"

Sokolov winked at Mike as if he had played a trick on him. "Here and now!"

"There are at least fifty people on this steamer; you can't be alone anywhere here."

"There are exactly fifty-three! But that's no problem because my father taught me magic too!" Sokolov spun around once and raised his hands in a grand gesture. "Observe!"

He clapped his hands—only once, but clearly and forcefully. And suddenly, it became quiet. The girls simultaneously put their cell phones down on the table where they were sitting. The bowling brothers put down their bottles of beer and stopped singing. The girls from the stag party stopped their drinking game. The waiter suddenly stopped moving, and everyone else on the steamer fell into a kind of stupor—as if they had been hypnotized.

"What are you doing now?" Mike looked at Sokolov uncertainly.

He waved him off. "Don't be in such a hurry; more to come!"

He turned in a circle once more, raised his hands again and clapped just as clearly and loudly as before. But twice now. And instantly all the passengers took off their shoes, pants and tops, under which they were all wearing swimwear. Then, they stepped up to the railing of the steamer without exception. Some to port, others to starboard. Depending on where they had just been standing.

"Now comes the best part!" Sokolov raised his hands and clapped three times.

And then they jumped off the boat. All of them. The men, the women, the older and the younger ones. The crew and the employees. They all jumped into the water and swiftly set about swimming to the left and right banks. Only Sokolov, Boris, Mike, and the woman at his side were still on deck.

"Fascinating!" Mike was obviously trying not to show any emotion. "You really are a true magician. And what's next? Now that we're alone?"

Sokolov bowed as his father had always done in the circus ring. Apparently humble, but in reality, full of pride and with a sense of grandeur. Then he turned his back to Mike and gave his assistant a wave.

Boris opened his jacket, pulled out a gun, and pointed it directly at the woman's head, who was still standing motionless next to Mike. Then he said clearly: "Now you're going to kill someone who knows too much!"