In spite of his spartan surroundings, Petrov exerted wide power in the Russian government. The key to his influence was the anonymity that kept him from view. He remembered the old days when Pravda had dutifully printed photos of the Soviet hierarchy reviewing the May Day parade from Lenin's tomb. Any hint that someone in the lineup was a possible successor to the reigning tyrant of the day marked the unfortunate individual for liquidation. Petrov had mastered the art of fading into the woodwork. He was the bureaucratic equivalent of a shape-shifter, a legendary being that can change form at will. He had survived three premiers and countless Politburo members with his ability to avoid definition. He hadn't allowed himself to be photographed in years. The photos clipped to his personnel files were of dead men. He resisted attempts to give him a title. In the various evolutions of his long career, he was known simply as an aide.

In keeping with his façade, Petrov enclosed his athletic physique in one of the baggy monotone suits that had long been the uniform of the Kremlin's faceless gray men. His pepper-and-salt hair was worn over the collar of his cheap shirt as if he could not afford a regular haircut. The glass in his wire-rimmed spectacles was plain and intended to give him a professorial look. Disguise had its limitations, though. He could cover his scar, but no sartorial sleight of hand could hide the lively intelligence that glinted in the slate- blue eyes, and his chiseled profile projected a ruthless determination.

The caller was an earnest young man named Aleksei, whom Petrov had personally recruited as an agent. “There is a new development in the south,” he said, making no effort to hide his excitement.

The four cardinal directions had become a rough verbal shorthand in alerting Petrov to the general location of trouble in the vortex of assassinations, murders, rebellions and unrest that swirled around in the far comers of the old Soviet empire. Petrov thought he was about to hear more bad news from the Republic of Georgia.

“Go ahead,” Petrov said automatically.

“An American ship violated Russian territory in the Black Sea earlier today.”

“What sort of ship?” Petrov said, with barely disguised irritation. Far more weighty matters occupied his mind.

“It was a survey vessel from the National Underwater and Marine Agency.”

“NUMA?” Petrov tightened his grip on the phone. “Go on,” he said, trying to keep his voice level.

“Our observers identified the vessel as the Argo. I checked on the ship's permit. The vessel is only allowed to conduct operations in the open sea. Several communications were picked up between the ship and an aircraft. The pilot of the plane indicated his intention to enter Russian territory.”

“Did the plane actually cross our borders?”

“We don't know, sir. There were no radar sightings.”