Durov snapped stiffly to attention for a moment as the camera lights moved his way; then he turned to remove the cover from a chart that showed the Barents Sea. A red line stretched out from a point located two hundred miles north of the Norwegian border across the sea to a spot well north of the island of Novaya Zemlya. Inside the line, close to the frozen island, there were two bloodred crosses. Durov stood ramrod stiff as he began to speak in a deep, booming voice.

“Thank you, President Smitrov. This chart shows the area where our submarines were operating. As you can see, it is well within our historic territorial sea. As the president briefed you, the Gepard was conducting routine operations beneath the ice. The nature of those operations is highly classified and will not be discussed here. It is of particular interest to note that she was unarmed. The Volk was escorting her, in the unlikely possibility that she needed protection.” Durov paused and dropped his chin. His voice was much quieter now. “Gentlemen, my own nephew, Captain Second Rank Igor Serebnitskiv, commanded the Volk.”

Durov wiped what appeared to be a tear from his eye. Though he would have loved to smile at the scene in the room, he maintained a frown of deep hurt and sadness as the camera flashes exploded all around the room, as the zoom lenses on the television cameras whirred in closer to his face, trying to record an uncle’s tear of sadness. The assemblage of international reporters sat on the edges of their chairs, hanging on his every word.

He cleared his throat, as if the grief had stolen his voice, and went on.

“Subsequent analysis of the sensor tapes shows that an American Los Angeles–class submarine shadowed our boats very closely from the time they went under the ice until they disappeared from our sensors. It is quite evident to our experts that the American submarine was on a spy mission very similar to the ones they historically and quite typically perform in our territorial waters from time to time.”

One of the reporters, a Frenchman whom Durov knew to be sympathetic, raised his hand to ask a question. Durov nodded toward him.

“Admiral, would it be possible for us to hear the tapes you have mentioned? Will they be released to the press?”

Durov shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Pierre. Analysis of the tapes would show too much of our monitoring capabilities. I am afraid they must remain classified.”

The French reporter nodded. “Of course, mon Admirale. We recognize their sensitivity.”

Durov went on, ignoring several of the American reporters who now waved for recognition. “As President Smitrov has said, we monitored a series of loud noises. After that there was no one but the American.”