Catherine grabbed her computer bag and followed the big Russian, not to the front door but toward the back. The other two trailed behind to guard their retreat and so she would not have had any opportunity to turn and bolt, even if she had been so inclined. They passed through a swinging door into the kitchen. The staff looked the other way, pretending they weren’t there.

The four stepped into another dark side street. They hopped into a black Ford sedan waiting there, its engine running. Vujnovich sat in the driver’s seat while the other two slid in on either side of her in the backseat. The windows were tinted so dark she could hardly see out. And, she realized, no one could see inside, either. The doors slammed shut, cutting off the cold wind. It still seemed frigid inside the car. Catherine Goldman shivered again as she realized once more just how helpless she was.

The car pulled out into the street and merged into the traffic headed uptown.

Alexander Durov sat in the study of his Polyarnyy apartment and did something he rarely, if ever, did. He watched television.

The news anchor was reciting stories of more unrest in the vast outlying regions of Russia. Food was in short supply in central Siberia. Famines and food riots were inevitable now. The little food available was priced far beyond the means of most of the people. The local population was demanding Moscow’s assistance. They threatened armed rebellion right there on television if government aid wasn’t forthcoming before their families starved.

Durov snorted. There was a time not so long ago when anyone foolish enough to challenge the government would find himself in a gulag. That is if he were lucky enough to stay alive. Any reporter who dared to mention the story would soon find himself in the very next cell to the agitator. Those days were gone. Unrest was rampant, fomented by the restless rabble and encouraged by the reckless media.

It was outrageous, an insult to the Rodina!

Normally Durov would have risen and angrily snapped off the television before stomping out of the room. Tonight he merely smiled.

The scene on the screen changed. He recognized London’s Trafalgar Square, crowded with teeming masses of angry protesters. The cameras panned over large placards demanding an American explanation for the bloodthirsty sinking of the two Russian submarines in the cold Barents waters. A young reporter thrust his microphone into the face of a protester with wild purple hair, sporting nose, lip, and tongue rings. The angry young man screeched something about the imperialistic Americans who were threatening to start World War III for no other reason than to rub salt in the wounds of the crippled former Soviet Union.

Vasiliy Zhurkov was sitting in another of the room’s ornate chairs, staring at the television. He glanced up and caught Durov smiling broadly.