The pain came so quickly he hardly had time to clutch his chest. It ripped through his upper body as if someone had shoved a sword through him.

Durov groaned and stumbled to the desk at the far end of the hotel room. No time to call for Vasiliy. He yanked open the top drawer and fumbled for the little bottle of pills. The pain was so intense he had trouble sucking in a new breath. This was the worst attack yet.

The doctor promised they would get worse. But the pills would stop the pain. They always did.

He dropped the lid from the pill bottle onto the desktop. It rolled off, onto the floor. Durov shook out two of the little blue tablets and swallowed them. He shakily poured a water glass full of vodka, splashing most of it onto the desk, but chased the medicine with the clear drink. He was feeling better already, even as the fiery liquid streamed down his throat.

His raspy breath was coming a bit easier as the numbness in his throat and left arm subsided. The specialist said there was an operation to fix his damaged heart, but he also said that it would mean several months of recovery. There wasn’t time for that now. The Rodina needed him now, not in several months. He had convinced himself that there would be plenty of time for an operation afterward. After the course of history had been triumphantly redirected.

He slumped back into the heavy leather chair. That’s where Vasiliy Zhurkov found him sitting ten minutes later. His hands were still trembling and his uniform shirt, normally starched stiff, hung limp and sweat-soaked.

“Another attack, Admiral?” the aide asked, the concern heavy in his voice. “A bad one? That is the third one this week. You must see the specialist again.”

Durov summoned what little strength he had remaining and shook his head from side to side.

He growled, “For what purpose, so he can put me to bed like some used-up old man? There is far too much to do right now.” He forced a weak smile and lied, “Besides, it was a little twinge. Nothing to get upset about. I am all right now. Forget about this. It did not happen.”

Zhurkov knew better than to argue with the tough old sailor. He snapped to attention. “Yes, sir. It is time to leave. Your car is standing by outside and your plane is ready for takeoff for Polyarnyy. Boris Medikov will join you on board shortly.”

“Very good, Zhurkov. Very good, indeed.”

Durov stood and did his best to walk across the room to the coatrack without crouching over. He ignored the iron-tight band of pain across his chest.