“Captain, the other American submarine, the first one, what happened to it?”

Glass stopped and looked into Andropoyov’s clear gray eyes. He answered without hesitation. “That was the Miami. She managed to report your condition and was on the way back to you to assist when she was attacked and sunk.” He swallowed hard and shoved his words through clenched teeth. “I had friends on that boat. The son of a bitch shot her while she was trying to help rescue you. The wreckage is a mile from your boat.”

Glass couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a flicker of sad resignation pass through those deep, sad eyes. It was as if some suspicion had just been confirmed. Sergei Andropoyov nodded solemnly.

“That’s what I thought. We talked with them on the underwater telephone. Then we heard explosions. And then, nothing. No one came. No one until you.”

Glass could not keep the anger and sorrow from his voice. “Why? Why would someone do that? The Miami was trying to help. Whoever sank them…and took the shots at us…what did they accomplish?”

Andropoyov looked around them. Another group of rescued Russians was coming up behind them.

“Captain, can we continue this conversation somewhere more private?” he asked.

Glass nodded and steered them on in the direction of his stateroom. As they walked, Pishkovski muttered to Andropoyov in Russian, “Captain, are you going to tell the American of our suspicions? You are guessing. It could be very dangerous.”

“Dimitriy, where we came from was as dangerous as it gets,” Andropoyov answered, also in Russian. “We must find the truth and seek justice, not only for ourselves but for our friends here and on the other boat, those who have both risked and lost their lives attempting to help us. The man who caused all this must be made to pay.”

Pishkovski nodded. “Da, I agree.”

Joe Glass piped up in his best schoolboy Russian. “Captain, I appreciate your sentiment. We must talk.” A wry smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he noted the two Russians’ surprise. “Three years of Russian at the United States Naval Academy. Pardon my accent.”

For the first time in days, the two weary submariners smiled.

Catherine Goldman hesitated for a moment before stepping through the front door to Harry’s Bar. The pseudo–English pub on the corner at Hanover Square was the historic after-market-close meeting place for Wall Street players. The atmosphere enveloped her while the clamor roared in her ears. Endless rumors and innuendo passed from lip to ear here at Harry’s. Fortunes were made and lost in the booths and private dining rooms of the venerable establishment.