Miller smiled and sucked another lung full of smoke from the cigarette. “Okay by me. Long as you keep me fed and I get a story out of this, I’m as happy as a pig in shit.”

Durov couldn’t help snorting as he spun on his heel and marched toward his private quarters. Zhurkov was hot on his heels.

“Keep that slob full of beer,” Durov muttered to his aide. “Tell him how we are fighting the elements, risking our lives, all to try to rescue our men. Put a tear in your eye every once in a while if you can manage.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Vasiliy, I trust the crew you gathered for this operation is just as incompetent as I ordered.”

Zhurkov smiled. “This bunch couldn’t drill through this ice if it were melted and sitting in a bowl on their mothers’ laps.”

“Very well. Very well. Let’s begin our desperate mission, my dear Vasiliy.”

Chapter 20

Carl Andretti sauntered down the hall to Alan Smythe’s grand office, in no particular hurry to answer his boss’s summons. He couldn’t help wondering what Smythe could be so upset about, but the CTO was certain of one thing. There was no way Smythe or anyone else could pin the failed hit against Goldman on him. That little scheme was far too well hidden. Not even Smythe knew of his ties to the New Jersey mob.

He winked at one of the young programmers as he passed her cubicle. What the hell? He probably was unhappy with the delivery schedule. Miffed that he was over budget on the QA salaries.

Or maybe it was just that his panty hose were riding up on him.

The flabby chief technical officer pushed open the door to Smythe’s office without knocking and strolled right in. He stopped, surprised to see Mark Stern seated there on Smythe’s sofa, huddled with his boss. Now, what in hell was “Old Moneybags” doing here? The two men seemed to be deep in a heated conversation, but the chat stopped the instant Andretti swung the door open.

No doubt about it. They were talking about him. Even if they weren’t, he wasn’t privy to whatever they were saying.

A large-screen television set was blaring away on the far side of the room, with some reporter doing a stand-up in front of the United Nations complex. There were some kind of anti-U.S. demonstrations going on behind him, people yelling, waving signs, surging against a line of police in riot gear. The reporter was babbling on about some submarine accident.

Andretti’s eyes swung back to the two men on the couch. Smythe glanced up and growled at him, “Most people knock when they enter a private office. At least they do in the civilized world.”