Zhdanov nodded his understanding. Like many of those in this room, he maintained his own network of private, offshore bank accounts. So he was already intimately familiar with the methods required to shield certain . . . dubious . . . financial transactions from inconvenient public or regulatory scrutiny. His brow furrowed in thought. The fact that a relatively junior Air Force officer like Petrov apparently knew how to game the international banking system so effectively strongly suggested the colonel’s boast about having powerful backers was accurate.

He frowned, wondering who they might be. Between enemies he’d made here at home and enemies he’d made abroad, the list of possible suspects would be very long. Then he shrugged. First things first, he reminded himself. Right now, recovering the PAK-DA bomber prototype had to be his top priority. For the moment, vengeance would have to take second place.

Once more, Zhdanov ran his cold gaze around the crowded table. “Recommendations?” he snapped.

Of them all, bald-headed Gennadiy Kokorin was the first one with the guts to speak up. The elderly minister of defense was very close to retirement. Perhaps between that and his long years of loyal service, he felt he had relatively little to lose. “Meeting Colonel Petrov’s demands might be safest, Piotr,” he said quietly. “Admittedly, his price is very steep, but seeing the Americans or the Chinese get their hands on our new bomber prototype would be much worse.”

Zhdanov shook his head. “I will not pay this traitor so much as a single kopek, let alone two hundred billion rubles.” His jaw tightened. No matter how hard they tried to keep such a decision secret, word that he’d yielded so tamely to blackmail would be sure to leak out. It would make him appear fatally weak at a time of growing political unrest. Essentially, if he caved in to Petrov’s terms, he’d be signing his own political death warrant. Besides, such cowardice would also open the door to other greedy fools throughout Russia’s armed forces and other government ministries—fools who might decide to imitate the colonel’s criminal example for their own gains.

“But the Americans—” Kokorin began to protest.

“Screw the Americans,” Zhdanov said coarsely, cutting the older man off. “And screw the Chinese, too. For the record, Gennadiy, we’re not going to let Beijing or Washington buy the PAK-DA out from under our noses.”

“Then what do you want us to do?” the defense minister asked.

“If possible, I want the stealth bomber recaptured,” Zhdanov replied. “But if necessary, I want the aircraft completely destroyed. If we can’t have it, no one else will.” He saw his advisers nod enthusiastically in agreement. Of course they agree, he thought sourly. Now that I’ve made the hard decision on my own, they’ll back me up. And then deny having had any responsibility if things go wrong. He turned back to Rogozin. “Which means our first step must be to find out where Petrov has landed.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” the Air Force commander agreed. He sighed. “One thing is clear: this is an organized conspiracy. While it might be possible for the colonel and his copilot to have stolen the PAK-DA on their own, it would be absolutely impossible for them to find a suitable landing field and then conceal the bomber without substantial help on the ground.”