He walked with a long-legged, hurried stride, as was his custom, and reached a flight of stairs that would take him to an exterior hatch. It was only when he passed through that door and stepped onto the open deck that he filled his lungs with air. The sun had long since set, and the breeze was freshening. The temperature stood at about forty degrees, and he knew from experience that once winter hit, minus forty would be the norm.

Another ramp led to the old Navy pier. The dock was failing concrete and frost-heaved pavement with gnarls of weeds growing wherever the cracks allowed. Obscuring his view landward were dilapidated warehouses whose paint had long been scoured off by the winds that shrieked down from Siberia. A car was waiting for him, its driver standing erect at the first sign of Kenin’s emergence from the dock.

The man saluted smartly and opened the rear door. Kenin slid into the rich leather seat and immediately pulled his encrypted cell phone from his pocket. There was no signal inside the sub, and he’d missed a dozen calls. For now he’d return just one, from his aide-de-camp, Commander Viktor Gogol.

“Gogol, it’s Kenin.”

“Admiral, how did it go?”

“They’ll sail tomorrow night.”

“I’ve been assured by the dockworkers that the device is ready,” Gogol said.

“How the Colombians ever thought I would allow them to buy a surplus submarine to haul cocaine to America is beyond me. Escobar seems capable enough, but the U.S. Navy would be on him five minutes after he left South America. It takes years to properly train a crew to evade American sonar. These fools actually think they’ve mastered their boat in just three months.”

“If you recall, Admiral, originally they wanted just a week of instruction before they took possession of the boat.”

“I do recall. They wouldn’t even have known how to get her out of dry dock. Like I said, they’re fools. It’s better this way. The cartel will make their final payment to me just before the sub sails, and then when it dives to a depth of two hundred feet, the ballast intakes will jam open and it will sink to the bottom of the Pacific. No witnesses, and no blowback from the cartel. So tell me, Viktor, why did you call?”

“We have a problem,” Gogol said in such a way that Kenin leaned forward.

“Go on.”

“Borodin has escaped.”

Kenin went from contentment to rage as though a switch had been thrown. “What? How did this happen?”

“A new prisoner was brought in, part of a routine transfer. It appears that this man was an impostor sent to free Borodin. He somehow smuggled in explosives. They blasted their way out of the prison and had a helicopter waiting to pick them up.”