It would take O’Malley and Wallich a few minutes to rig the bridge before they could once again slip below the waves and proceed at all due speed to whatever it was that fate and the Russians held in store for them.

Glass dropped below, shaking his head as he went. He never did have a chance to have his chat with Dennis Oshley, the superserious young quartermaster.

Chapter 22

Admiral Alexander Durov accepted the snifter of dark amber brandy that Boris Medikov offered him. Both men stood at the window, considering the Moscow skyline.

“Beautiful view from up here, is it not? You fail to see the grime down there.”

Durov grunted. “No time for admiring the view, Medikov. It’s time for work. You may be assured that those dimwits over in the Kremlin are not passing their time gazing out the window.” He took a sip of the brandy. “We would all be better off if they were.”

A television set chattered away from the far corner of the room. Some minor politician in the Dumas was on his feet before a lectern, his face red with anger as he demanded that President Smitrov take stronger action against the murderous Americans. He screamed for a formal denouncement, for the breaking off of diplomatic relations unless the Americans admitted their fault and turned over the assassins for a war tribunal. He called for war if they did not. The camera panned until it found President Smitrov, sitting stolidly, eclipsed behind the president’s dais. He studied papers in front of him, ignoring the rabid speaker.

“The tension is building,” Durov muttered with what passed as a smile. “Our leader is showing his true colors, mostly a rather pallid gray.”

Medikov nodded, turned, and walked over to the long couch that rested in front of the fireplace, close enough for anyone seated there to feel the pleasant warmth from the crackling flames. The Mafioso had no interest in the polemics of revolution. Fine if Durov and his cadre wanted to win back some ancient, idealistic way of life they believed had once existed. Medikov and his partners were after one thing: profits. There was money to be made in upheaval, but only if one were quick and decisive.

Medikov set his brandy down on the end table and plopped down amid the plush cushions of the couch. Durov took a seat in an upholstered straight chair, crossing his legs and adjusting the crease on his immaculately tailored uniform trousers. The admiral was not comfortable in the decadent opulence of this penthouse suite. It did not seem right that his plan would somehow help support this lifestyle. He assuaged his conscience by reminding himself that he was restoring his country to its rightful place in the world order. It was necessary that he consort with Medikov and his type long enough to achieve a glorious return to power. He would deal with the man and his plunder later.