The room broke into a tumult of noise as each reporter tried to outshout his colleagues. Durov let the discord build to a crescendo before he waved at one of the reporters, a representative from Reuters, the British news agency.

“Admiral, are you implying that the American submarine attacked and sank your boats without any provocation?”

Durov shook his head and held up both hands to make his point. “Please understand, to make such an accusation, I would have to be certain of the analysis of the tapes. I cannot say that yet with absolute certainty. The explosions could possibly be from some other cause. Perhaps some horrible accident.” Durov stopped, surveyed the room to be certain he had the complete attention of each of the scribes there, then leaned forward, his eyes blazing into the cameras, his voice quavering slightly from apparent ill-concealed anger. “The one thing I can say for certain is that the American submarine ran away from the scene at deliberate speed. In so doing, they left over two hundred and fifty fellow sailors…including the oldest son of my dear sister…to die agonizing deaths at the bottom of the dark, cold Barents Sea.”

With that, Admiral Alexander Durov turned and stomped off the stage, ignoring the urgent, shouted questions that erupted from the writhing crowd behind him.

Stan Miller looked around before settling down on the bench that was hidden from the street by some untrimmed evergreen bushes. He angrily pounded in the numbers on the cell phone buttons. Afternoon Washington traffic whipped past him but the little park on K Street appeared deserted. The leaden gray sky illuminated the scene with the dull, depressing glow of a typical February in the city. A damp cold wind had sprung up, promising snow later tonight, and it was sharp enough to deter even the most determined late lunchtime jogger.

The news he had just gotten was impossible to comprehend. What in hell was going on?

Still fuming, he mumbled to himself as he listened to the number ring once, twice, then a third time. There was a click and then Mark Stern’s voice.

“Stern here. What do you want?”

Stern would have caller ID. The SEC deputy director swallowed hard before diving right in. “What the hell are those bastards at OptiMarx doing?”

The financier’s voice was soothing when he responded, “Stan, you sound upset. What’s the problem?”

“Stern, how in bloody hell do you expect me to help you get that bastardized system of yours through the SEC testing if those idiots are going to try to kill one of my inspectors?” Miller growled.

He could hear Stern gasp all the way across the continent. The venture capitalist was taken aback, caught off guard by Miller’s question.

“What are you talking about? Someone from OptiMarx trying to kill one of your people?”