She could see it was a large black man dressed in a dark blue windbreaker. Gold letters on the front spelled out FBI.

“I’m Special Agent Decker. I think you called us.”

He helped Goldman to her feet and held her up by her elbows as she walked unsteadily back into the bedroom. He eased her down on the edge of the water bed. The sloshing movement made her even dizzier, but she looked at her rescuer and tried to croak out a question, to ask where the two attackers had gone.

“Don’t try to talk, miss. They’re both taken care of. Looks like we got here in the nick of time. The big one was fixing to throw you off the balcony. He went over himself when we shot him. The other one is…”

He nodded toward the bedroom door. She could see a pair of feet. Someone was lying facedown in the hallway. He was not moving. She looked back to the sliding door. The balcony outside was empty.

There was some kind of commotion with a great deal of shouting somewhere outside the apartment, in the hallway. Decker pulled a pistol from a holster under his Windbreaker and moved toward the bedroom door.

Charlie Gruver burst in, his hands held high. He stared at the FBI agent and at Catherine, sitting there on his bed.

“I live here! She’s my guest,” he said.

He rushed over, kneeled down, and took Catherine into his arms. She melted into his embrace, holding on to him for dear life.

Then everything was all right for Catherine Goldman.

“Admiral,” Vasiliy Zhurkov said for the third time, trying to break into Alexander Durov’s thoughts. “The Captain of the Admiral Chabanenko is on the radio. They have destroyed an American submarine that was trying to sneak into the Murmansk Fjord. Destroyed it on their first attempt. You were right, Admiral. Absolutely right.”

Durov walked around the desk in the middle of the command center and stood next to his aide, the slightest of smiles on his rugged old face. From here he could see and respond to everything happening in the large room. Dozens of men talked on radio circuits, plotted symbols on huge Plexiglas maps, or bustled about doing a myriad of jobs. Standing here in this spot reinforced for Durov the feeling that he was in control of vast forces, a powerful navy at his beck and call, ready to do his bidding at the slightest word. He had stood in this spot through too many crises to let the illusion become his reality. As much as he willed it to be different, now that all the players were in place and had their instructions, there was little more he could do. He might give a little guidance or issue a few menial orders, but they would have little effect on the outcome of his grand scheme. The die had already been cast.