Josef Bogatinoff held up his hand and gave his cohort a disgusted look. “Easy, my friend. Your Cossack blood is showing. Try using your brains for a second. If we start blasting away out here, the police will be on us before we get to the freeway. All of these trucks have radios. They will tell the world what they see. We will let them go for now.” He tossed the big Russian a pencil. “Get the license plate number. If we lose them, we will be waiting for them when the blond guy gets her to wherever they are going.”

Vujnovich jammed the Glock back in his belt. It rankled to see that bitch drive away when they had the drop on her. Especially after what she did to Mikhail. And what Medikov would do to them if they let her get away.

Josef was right, though. Blowing the SEC inspector away in the middle of a truck stop parking lot in broad daylight was not the discreet way to handle the situation.

He found a slip of paper and started writing: New York VXZ-692. Bogatinoff pulled the big Ford onto New Jersey 173. He headed toward Interstate 78 back to the city, keeping the car with the SEC inspector in sight. Vujnovich punched a number into the cell phone.

“Dmitri, find out who owns a car with New York license plates. Number is VXZ-692. We need it right away. Get an address.”

“Okay,” Dmitri Ustinov answered, then added, “Nicholas, it has started. Medikov has ordered us to start the attack on the stock market. We need you all back here right away.”

Vujnovich stared at the cell phone. This couldn’t be right. They had at least a week before the attack would be started. The time was meant to allow Medikov to build up profit and it also gave the pair time to clean up the loose ends they faced. Some of those loose ends would be news to Boris Medikov, Vujnovich thought as he watched the little Honda pull away from them.

“Clean up what you are doing so nothing points to you,” Ustinov continued. “There is lots of concern around here this morning about where Smythe is. Be real careful what you do with him.”

Admiral Alexander Durov looked up at the three submarine commanders who stood before him. They were at attention on the other side of his broad wooden desk from where he sat. Their working uniforms were dirty, stained with grease and sweat. The call from Vasiliy Zhurkov said not to waste time for military niceties, and they did not. The admiral wanted to see the trio right away.

Durov rose and stepped around the desk. He walked toward the sideboard, where he poured four glasses of vodka. After passing a glass to each officer, he held his own drink up as a toast.

“Gentlemen, it is time for action. You sail tonight to glory. For the Rodina!”