He bent, grabbed a poker, and stirred at the few remaining coals in the fireplace. A bright, angry flurry of sparks fled up the chimney and soon the blaze danced anew. In no time, it was roaring and crackling once more as it began devouring what was left of the logs on the grate. Its warmth soon filled the room.

There was a loud knock from the other side of the massive oak double doors at the far wall of the study. At Durov’s word, they eased open and his aide, Lieutenant Vasiliy Zhurkov, stuck his blond head inside.

“They are all gathered in the conference room, Admiral. It is time.”

Durov nodded. He remained there in front of the big fire a moment longer, warming his face and his wrinkled, drawn old hands at the flames. Then he strode to the great doors and swung them wide.

“Come, Vasiliy. You are about to witness history.”

The old gray admiral and the strapping young lieutenant stepped into the large conference room. Zhurkov shut the doors and took a seat, while Durov walked to the head of the large table. He stood there for a moment, gazing down at the scene before him. He could still feel the invigorating heat of the fire on his face, on his hands. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at each man seated along either side of the broad expanse of the teak conference table.

There were six of the mightiest flag officers in the Russian military, all old comrades-in-arms and men he trusted. They represented the Army, Air Force, Navy, and Strategic Rocket Force.

Beyond these six were seated three men who wore rather nondescript business suits. They might as well have been salesmen or low-level bureaucrats from Moscow. Boris Medikov was seated at the foot of the table, idly studying the closed velvet curtains that hid the full-length windows, sealing this conference room off from the rest of the world.

Durov drew in a long, slow, deep breath. This was the group of men who would lead the coup. Together, they would soon put the motherland back on the road to greatness.

Alexander Durov was their leader.