Carl Andretti got so busy at the keyboard he forgot to refill his water glass.

The servant whispered into Boris Medikov’s ear, “A phone call, sir. The caller is most insistent that he speak with you.”

Medikov sat at the head of the huge mahogany dinner table that dominated the massive dining room of his penthouse. Dozens of candles on the table, the twin Georgian sideboards, and in the crystal chandelier, illuminated the richly paneled room with a warm, glittering glow. Huge wall mirrors reflected the flickering light as it danced off the polished silver.

The Russian Mafia leader stared at the waiter. His eyes flashed when he spoke. “Didn’t I say that I did not want to be disturbed while I entertained my guests? Can you not follow simple orders?”

“I am sorry, sir. He said I was to mention Kronstadt.”

Medikov started. It had to be Durov. He couldn’t imagine why the crusty old bastard would be calling now. Everything was moving along smoothly toward the eventual culmination of the intricate plan. Nothing new was supposed to happen for another couple of weeks while the world seethed and surreptitious profits were reaped.

The senile old admiral probably had some minor slight to grouse about. Like so many of the elderly, he could be such a child sometimes.

Medikov pushed back from the table. The small group of close associates and their “escorts” looked at their host. He smiled and murmured, “Please excuse me for a few seconds. Go on with your dinner.”

Medikov strode out of the dining room and crossed to his private office. He snatched the secure phone from its cradle and growled, “Da, it is Medikov.”

“Boris, good evening.” Alexander Durov sounded jubilant. “Mark your calendar. This is a historic day. Your great-grandchildren will ask you to tell the story of this night.”

“Admiral, what are you talking about?”

“The Kronstadt Operation has begun. You are to shift the OptiMarx operation into full-scale offensive mode immediately.”

Medikov held the receiver away from him and stared at it as if it had just grown a Medusa head. When he spoke again to Durov, his words were angry but measured. “What the hell are you talking about? Kronstadt will not begin for two more weeks. That was our agreement. Two weeks to make a profit. Then the operation will begin.”

Durov brushed the argument aside. “Even the best plans are subject to change. That is the nature of war. Smitrov is now our prisoner. It is vital that we act while this advantage is still ours. Now please go to the offensive. I strongly suggest that you stay there in that decadent apartment of yours if you do not wish to be caught in the cross fire.”

Medikov held a dead phone. The old bastard had hung up on him.

Chapter 32