Alexander Durov paced the hotel room nervously, stomping from one side of the suite to the other. He kept telling himself there was no need to worry. The news conference had gone well. The reporters had trampled each other in their eagerness to rush out of the briefing room, racing to get to a data link or to stand in front of their cameras with the Kremlin as a backdrop as they recorded the story.

Durov smiled. He had just handed them every reporter’s dream story. There was death, destruction, international intrigue, technology, and the real threat of war. Within minutes the story was screaming from radios, televisions, and Web sites around the world. In hours it would be the front-page story in every newspaper in the world. No one would be talking of anything else for weeks.

When his pacing took him to the street-side window, he could see the huge crowds heading to join the others who were already gathering in Red Square to mourn their brave dead sailors, to scream for retribution against the murderous Americans. Durov clutched dispatches from Washington, New York, London, and Tokyo in his hand. They told stories of similar gatherings in all the world’s major cities.

The Americans had been vague so far in their denials. They would not even confirm that they had submarines in the Barents. They said they had caused no Russian boat to sink.

It was the perfect plot. Everyone believed his story. Nobody would be able to prove anything different, at least until the ice edge receded north. That wouldn’t happen for several months yet. By then, it would be far too late.

Now, with the American military checked and “Professor” Smitrov distracted by all that was swirling about him, it was time to put the next stage of the plan into play. There would be a constant barrage of grieving widows and crying babies showing up on television to remind the world of the American treachery, to inflame the Russian people’s passion for revenge. Meanwhile, Admiral Durov would personally lead a brave but futile attempt to reach the downed submarines, only to be defeated by the Arctic ice. The Russian people would see the images of the brave old sailor doing all he could to attempt the perilous rescue while their president wrung his hands and called for calm. They would wish someone like Admiral Durov could be their leader in such perilous times.

And while all the furor was happening on the world stage, Boris Medikov’s little OptiMarx scheme would be unleashed on the American financial markets. The inevitable crash would spread panic around the world. In all the hue and cry, no one would take any notice of a few military maneuvers inside Russia. Not until it was far too late.

He stopped to check his visage in the room’s full-length mirror. He did, indeed, look the part of the strong leader his people deserved.