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Pyotr Alexandrovitch Russilov was a graduate from Protorov's Ural academy。 But he was special in many ways。 For one； he had graduated at the top of his class。 For another； he had adapted superbly to the field。 Protorov had found through bitter experience that academic life had little in mon with the awesome pressures at work in the field。 Many graduates did not make the adjustment and were 〃retired〃 to the Ninth's bureaucratic section； where they never again came into direct contact with Protorov。
But Gospadin Russilov was different in another way。 He was an orphan。 Early on the State…or； more properly； Protorov… had taken him over。 He was a reclamation project of the first rank。
Because Protorov was married to his job； and also perhaps because sex had never meant that much to him； there had only been one woman in his life。 She was someone he would have preferred to forget but could not。 Alena was the wife of a Jewish dissident。 After Protorov； then head of the First Directorate； had sent Alena's husband off to a gulag； he took her to bed。 It had been far more pleasurable for him than he had ever imagined。
Whether it was because of the peculiar circumstances surrounding the incident or whether it was something within Alena herself Protorov could not say。 He thought of himself as a basically dispassionate man； able to see clearly and objectively all situations。 Yet he had never been able to fathom this one。 It remained like a great ice floe； hidden beneath arctic waters； mocking him with its opacity。
But like it or not； Alena was all he had； in reality； and then； after he had her sent down in Lubyanka； in his memory。 Until Russilov。 Without quite knowing how it had happened Protorov had e to look upon his protege as family。 Son was not too strong a word to use。 When Protorov retired from the Ninth； which would not be very long now； he knew that Russilov would run it well。
Now that he had received the signal from Colonel Mironenko that the KGB…GRU summit was scheduled for a week away； his time at the Ninth was ing to an end。 But he had to have penetrated Tenchi by then。 Tengu； his second agent inside the Tenshin Shoden Katori ryu； had been mysteriously murdered as he was escaping with the prize that Protorov had been seeking since he had received the information that that particular ninja ryu was safeguarding Tenchi's written records。 It was a frustrating setback； Protorov thought now。 But not a fatal one by any means。
〃Sir？〃
Protorov looked up； his train of thought disturbed。 〃Yes； Lieutenant Russilov。〃 He liked the way the young man addressed him as 〃Sir〃 and not 〃rade。〃 Rank was important in the Ninth Directorate and； unlike the hypocrisy running rampant in the Kremlin； Protorov made no bones about it。
Russilov entered the soundproofed chamber through the vault…like door。 He held a sheaf of puter printouts in his hands。 〃I believe Sakhov IV has given us a clue after all。〃
Immediately Protorov cleared his desk of paper； stacking files。 Russilov set the sheaf down in the open space。 It was open to the fourth page。 Both men stared hard at the readout broadcast from the tracking satellite's onboard puter。 It showed a gridform geographical tableau approximately 150 by 200 kilometers。 The land…sea area was quite familiar to the Russians。 It was the section of sea between the northerly end of Hokkaido and the most southerly of the Kuriles； Kunashir。 Part of that area was Japanese territory； part was a Soviet possession。
The young lieutenant's finger stabbed out。 〃You see here； sir〃… the pad of the finger roamed across the Nemuro Straits…〃there is nothing。 Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary。
〃Now〃…he reached up and flipped to the next page…〃just here。〃 His finger hovered over one small point in the Straits。
〃What is it？〃 Protorov asked； knowing quite well what it was。 He did not want to deprive Russilov of the fruits of his victory。 That would have been unfair。
〃An emanation of heat；〃 Russilov said。 Protorov looked up at him for a moment。 He had to give the young man credit。 There was no triumph in his voice； though surely he must be feeling it。 〃Very strong。〃
〃Volcanic action；〃 Protorov offered。 It was the most plausible explanation。
〃Oh； this is much too localized for that。 Besides； the known northerly fault is here。〃 His finger moved off to the southeast。
〃I see。〃 Protorov sat back。
〃What is it； then？〃
〃Tenchi。〃
Oh yes； Protorov thought。 That's precisely what it was。 Because they knew from reliable sources that Tenchi was some form of monumental industrial or resource project。 What Protorov and his unit had been searching for all this time was some discrepancy。 Now Protorov felt it was here。 Then； as he glanced down at the readout； something else caught his eye。 He did some rapid mental calculations； then mulled it over for a time before saying anything。
〃Lieutenant；〃 he said meditatively； 〃this intense heat activity。 Where would you place it； exactly？〃
〃That's difficult to say； sir。〃 Russilov bent over the readout。 〃As you know； this es from a long way up。 And； of course； our technicians have had to piece it together to get the whole。〃
〃Nevertheless；〃 Protorov pursued； 〃I want your best guess。〃
Russilov took his time； producing a jeweler's loupe with which he routinely scanned the readout。 At length he stood up； dropping the magnifier into his cupped palm。
〃If I were put to it； sir；〃 he began； 〃I would have to say that part of the activity is ing from Japanese territory。〃 Protorov's pulse picked up a beat。 〃And the other part？〃 〃The other part； it seems to me； is ing from Russian sovereign territory。〃
Alix Logan was in the shower。 Croaker sat in an easy chair in the large； neatly furnished room。 He was sipping a bourbon and water that room service had brought up。
He was tired and he let his head fall back against the chair； closing his eyes。 He still felt the slight motion vertigo from having been in the car eighteen straight hours。 He would have preferred to fly out of Key West but that would have been suicidal； like putting a 〃e Follow Me〃 sign on their backs。
No； all things considered； a car had been best。 At the least it afforded them the option of changing destinations any time they pleased。
Dimly he heard the shower running。 He thought again of what it had felt like to have Alix Logan sitting beside him for all that uninterrupted time。 The sun…streaked hair falling now and again on his shoulder； those piercing green eyes； the model's lithe； taut…fleshed body； the skin tanned and smooth as cream。
And that led him to thoughts of Angela Didion； the other model and Alix Logan's best friend。 But none of the fame Angela Didion had amassed； none of the myriad rumors about her mattered a damn at the moment Croaker had entered her apartment and found her sprawled across her bed； naked save for a thin gold chain around her waist； and very dead。
She was no beauty queen then； no superbly madeup sex goddess； the vision of every man's fantasy。 Stripped so harshly of life she was merely a young girl； pathetic in her ultimate vulnerability。 And she had moved Croaker more then than she ever had in life。
He remembered that moment well。 How he had w