Dodson composed himself. “Russia is in the midst of great turmoil. It is still seeking its identity. Beneath this bubbling cauldron is a fire of nationalism. Those who would go back to the days of Peter the Great and the tsars have touched a yearning in the Russian people, but all they have had to sell is a memory of a forgotten time. With an actual heir to the tsar, their cause would have focus. It is a country that still controls weapons of mass destruction and a major share of the world's natural resources. It will not be safe for the world if Russia lapses into a civil war and follows the lead of the worst kind of demagogue. British complicity in the plot against the tsar will stir up all those paranoid feelings against the West.” He affixed Zavala with a steely gaze. “Tell your superiors that they must be discreet. Otherwise no one may be able to control the consequences.”

Zavala was bowled over by the emotional reaction from this reserved Englishman. “Yes, of course, I'll tell them what you said.”

But Dodson seemed to have forgotten that Zavala was even there. “The tsar is dead,” he murmured. “Long live the tsar.”

NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

-26- WASHINGTON, D.C.

LEROY JENKINS CAUGHT his breath as he stepped from the wilting Washington heat into the cool interior of the thirty-story green glass tower overlooking the Potomac. The exterior of the tall tubular building was impressive enough, but nothing could have prepared him for his first glimpse inside NUMA headquarters. He craned his neck to gaze up to the top of the atrium lobby, then swept his eyes around the tumbling waterfalls and aquaria filled with exotic fish, taking in the huge globe of the world that rose from the center of the sea-green marble floor.

Smiling like a child in a toy shop, he started across the giant lobby, threading his way among the gaggles of tourists who trailed behind impeccably uniformed guides. An attractive woman in her twenties, one of several receptionists at a long information desk, saw Jenkins approach and beamed him in with a pleasant smile.

“May I help you?” Jenkins was struck dumb. On the flight from Portland, he'd rehearsed what he would say when he got to NUMA. Now his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. He was overcome by awe at being in the heart of the biggest ocean science agency in the world. He felt like Fred Flintstone visiting the Jetsons. As an oceanographer, he had long contemplated a trip to the Holy Grail of ocean science, but his teaching duties had intervened and later he was consumed by his wife's illness. Now, he'd reached the point where he didn't like to leave Maine, because, as he joked, his gills would close up if he ventured too far from the sea.