“It is exactly as you directed,” Dobiesz whispered. “When President Smitrov leaves the service, the media will see him enter his limousine and drive off. A squad of our naval infantry will direct him to the capture point. He will never suspect a thing until he is in our hands.”

Durov nodded again. “Good. It had better work out just as you have laid it out. We cannot afford your usual incompetence this time.”

Dobiesz bit his tongue and leaned forward, as if he was straining to hear his president’s closing words.

Up on the stage, Smitrov ended his speech and basked in the polite applause of the crowd. He spun on his heel and strutted off the stage, heading for the waiting press corps. They clamored around the little man like a flock of pigeons begging for bread crumbs. Smitrov shouted the answers to a few questions as he pushed through to the doorway where Admiral Durov waited. The president condemned the Americans for what had happened, alluded to some vague action against the aggressors, but promised nothing.

When he reached the spot where the admiral stood, he smiled politely and clasped the old man in an attempt at a bear hug. When he spoke, it was loud enough for the bristle of microphones that trailed him to pick up his words.

“Thank you for arranging this, Alexanderovich. I hope in some small way, this ceremony will bring closure to the families and tell the world of our suffering…of your own personal grief and suffering on behalf of your nephew, your brave sailors. Maybe the Americans will think twice before their reckless aggression causes them to crash into one of our boats the next time.”

Durov nodded and smiled wanly. Several camera crews had now panned lenses in their direction.

“You honor me, President Smitrov,” he murmured. “I only do my duty for my country, like any good Russian. America is a mighty country, but they should respect Russia as an equal.”

Smitrov pulled back and glanced into Durov’s eyes, as if he were reading something there. He started to say something but thought better of it. He shook his head, turned, and hurried out the doorway and into the bitter winter wind. He pulled his heavy fur coat tight around his body as he rushed across the narrow street to his waiting car and driver. He ducked into the limousine’s open door, and his bodyguard slammed it shut behind him. The car roared off down the alley, away from the building.

“Let us get out of this barren place before the storm grounds us here until spring,” he said to the man in the seat next to him.

“An excellent suggestion, Mr. President,” the elderly uniformed man responded, and tapped both the limousine’s driver and the bodyguard in the front seat on their shoulders to hurry them along.