The water had reached Razov's chin, and his reply was unintelligible. He lifted the crown high and placed it on his head. The weight only served to push him under the surface more quickly. His face disappeared until only the crown was visible, seemingly floating on the water, its surface glittering with a silver fire. Then it, too, disappeared.

“Dios mio,” Zavala said, reverting to his native Spanish. “What a way to go.”

They heard a huffing and puffing. Dodson had retrieved his rifle and ran toward them with a flashlight.

“Where is that scoundrel?” Dodson asked.

“There.” Austin threw the useless branch into the river where Razov had disappeared. “The crown, too.”

“Dear God,” Dodson said. He pointed his light at the brown, muddy water. Only a few bubbles marked Razov's position and soon they, too, were swept away by the slow-moving current.

“Long live the tsar,” Austin said.

Then he turned and walked back to the house.

NUMA 3 - Fire Ice

-38- WASHINGTON, D.C.

AUSTIN ROWED IN the misty golden light, so intent on his strokes that he barely noticed the powerboat that crossed the river until it took up a position behind him. Austin stopped and the boat did the same. He wiped the sweat off his forehead, took a pull from his plastic water bottle and rested on his oar handles, squinting against the glare. As he gazed back at the unmoving boat, Austin began to wonder if life still pulsed in a stray tentacle of Razov's vast organization.

As a test, he started to row. He had only taken a few strokes before the boat stirred and followed him again, keeping an even distance. He let the scull coast to a halt. The powerboat stopped again.

A quick glance up and down the river told Austin he was on his own. The river was empty of boats, which was why he rowed so early. Austin set the scull into a wide easy turn and pointed the needle-sharp bow back the way he had come. He picked up the pace, keeping in mind that rowing was more technical precision than power. As he drew nearer, he saw that the boat had a white hull, although he couldn't tell how many people were aboard. He pulled harder, and the scull shot toward the boat with the unerring accuracy of a cruise missile.

He was nearing a section of shoreline that bulged into the Potomac like a beer gut. Austin knew that the current flowing near the knob of land described a peculiar curlicue that could suck an unwary boater in close to land before spitting him out. Although his rowing created a straight-line illusion, he was actually being drawn closer to the bulge.