Smitrov’s nose was inches from a bare brick wall. He stood stiffly erect, trying to manage some defiance in such an utterly hopeless position. He steeled himself for the shot in the back he expected.

There was another gravelly voice from behind him. A voice that was so familiar.

“Good evening again, Mr. President. I am pleased you have decided to enjoy still more of our warm hospitality here at Polyarnyy.” The man’s voice was at his ear, so close he could smell his foul, old man’s breath. “You see, Mr. President, I am doing my duty for the Rodina. We are, at long last, bringing an end to your cowardly rule, to your spineless, groveling behavior before the entire world, to the embarrassing way you have allowed the Americans to murder our sailors and openly laugh at us. With you under arrest, we will be able to bring Russia back to her rightful place of respect and begin to rebuild our glorious nation.”

Even standing there, shivering, his heart still pounding from the near-death experience, Smitrov had no trouble recognizing the distinctive voice of Admiral Alexander Durov. The bastard! So the old nationalist was staging a coup! He must be supremely confident of his power to risk this ambush.

Now, with the clarity of retrospect, it was all so obvious. The incidents with the submarines beneath the ice of the Barents had been part of the plan all along. This place would be the site where he would strike, here at his home base.

Smitrov could not imagine how Durov had advanced the plan so far along without being detected by the Federal’naya Sluzhba Bezopasnosti. The FSB, like the KGB that it replaced as the internal security force inside Russia, had operatives everywhere. Nothing moved inside this vast country without someone in the ugly yellow building on Lubyanka Square in Moscow knowing about it. This plan involved many people.

The president had no time now to ponder the intricacies of the admiral’s treachery. Hands grabbed him and spun him around to face the old submariner. He blinked against the brightness of the lights, trying to see the man, to see into his eyes.

“Durov, you are a fool if you think this will succeed,” Smitrov said, his voice high and quavering. He knew his words were not very convincing, but he had to speak them. “You will be shot for this, and so will each of your henchmen.”

Durov chuckled. “My dear Gregorivich, you do not understand. We have already succeeded, and now you will assist us in the next step.”

“I will never help you. You will push our country back into the Middle Ages.”

“No, I will be able to push Russia into its rightful place in the world order. We won’t cringe anymore in the face of the American imperialists. You can either help actively or you can help from the grave. It is your choice, Mr. President.”

“Never!”