Twenty minutes later, as he made his regular sweep of the courtroom, a bailiff noticed the envelope. Across the front, in a dainty feminine hand, was written “Dmitri Ustinov.” It smelled nice, clearly held no weapon, so he decided to give it to the defendant. Even Russian computer nerds could have secret admirers, he decided.

When Ustinov opened the envelope, he found it contained only a small card with a short message in Russian.

“Thank you, Dmitri, my love. It would have been spectacular. Good-bye.”

The late spring brought a smattering of cold rain to the fog-shrouded Arctic Ocean. Russian president Gregor Smitrov watched the gray swells rise and fall forlornly out ahead of the ship on which he rode. The wipers beat a slow rhythm as they cleared desultory raindrops from the bridge windows. There was no sign of any springtime rebirth in this dreary place. The cold, damp weather was causing his shoulder to ache dully. His wounds were still slowly healing. It was all too perfect for a funeral.

The bridge of the cruiser was crowded with dignitaries, civilians, and ranking officers from the Russian military. Their idle chatter almost overpowered the somber day. Here and there in the crowd men stood wearing the uniforms of lower-ranking naval officers. Even the most self-important dignitaries seemed to treat these men with deference.

As well they should. Those men were the survivors of the K-475, Gepard, and one of the reasons everyone was out here on this desolate stretch of sea. They were about to hold a memorial service, say their final good-byes over the site where Gepard and her dead now rested.

Smitrov noticed that Sergei Andropoyov, former commander of the Gepard and a true hero of the Russian Republic, stood apart from the others, his elbows resting on the sill as he stared out at the churning ocean. No one approached the silent captain. Something about his demeanor warned everyone away, told them that it was best to leave him to his solitude. After all, three hundred meters below them lay the wreckage of his submarine, the watery grave of twenty-one shipmates, the hulk in which he and the rest of his crew might well have perished.

When the captain finally turned from the window, Smitrov stepped over to the lone sailor. Andropoyov snapped to dutiful attention and saluted. The president waved it away.

“Sergeiovich, stand easy. We have been through much, you and I. You are remembering your lost comrades. I am mourning the many brave sons of the Rodina so needlessly sacrificed.”

“Not just sons of the Rodina, President Smitrov. Many brave men from two nations died needlessly before that madman was stopped.”