The Volkswagen was partly in the right lane as the truck drove the van into it. The left side of the van's front fender struck the car, skidding and sparking along its right side. Pointed toward the side of the bridge, the van hit the low concrete barrier and rode up and over, propelled by the truck. The right tire exploded, the axle hooked over the top of the barricade, and the van plunged nose-first into the choppy river.

There was a hiss as it struck the water, the van standing upright for a long moment before falling over on its back. Steam and air bubbles rose from the sides, mixing with the dissipating green smoke as the van bobbed belly-up on the surface of the river. The rest of the van was entirely submerged.

The burly trucker and the young blonde woman who had been driving the Volkswagen were the first ones to reach the shattered railing. They were joined by other motorists who scurried from their cars.

Neither the man nor the woman said a word to each other. They just watched as the van drifted to the southwest, twisting slowly in the current, the air bubbles dwindling and the smoke now just a faint wisp. The vehicle was already too far away for anyone to dive in and attempt to look for survivors.

The two drivers assured those who asked that they were all right. Then they made their way back to their vehicles to await the police.

No one had seen the truck driver drop a small, rectangular box in the river as he turned away.

CHAPTER ONE

Saturday, 10:10 A.M., Moscow

Tall, powerfully built Minister of the Interior Nikolai Dogin sat behind the centuries-old oak desk in his office in the Kremlin. There was a computer in the center of the heavy, age-toned desk. To his right was a black telephone and a small, framed photograph of his parents sat on his left. The snapshot had a horizontal crease in the center. It had been folded by his father so he could carry it in his shirt pocket during the War.

Dogin's silver-gray hair was brushed straight back. His cheeks were sunken and his dark eyes looked tired. His plain, brown GUM department store suit was wrinkled, and his light brown shoes were scuffed-- a careful, studied rumpledness that had worked so well for so many years.

But not this week, he thought bitterly.

For the first time in thirty years of public service, his man-of-the-people image had failed him. With his characteristic intensity, he had given his people the nationalism they had said they wanted. He voiced renewed pride in the military, and fanned suspicion of old enemies. Yet the people had turned on him.

Dogin knew why, of course. His rival, Kiril Zhanin, had cast out a tattered net one last, glorious time to try and snare the flounder of Old Peter's fairy tale, the fish-of-the-sea that would make every wish come true.