There was a knock on Wilson’s cabin door; Sherman, standing behind Wilson and Fox, looked up from the drawings when he heard the Count’s voice.

“One moment,” said Sherman. He went over and unlocked the door.

“Most industrious,” Korzhenevski said, looking at the growing sheaf of drawings. “I am pleased that our little voyage has begun so well. Now — I would appreciate it if you would turn over all of the plans, as well as the drawing instruments.”

“You have a reason?” Sherman asked, frowning.

“A very good one, my dear general. We are now in the heartland of a country which, while not an enemy country, would still object to the presence of foreign observers inside their military establishments. I am sure that Mr. Fox here will agree that the authorities would not take kindly to the presence of what they would surely see as spies in their midst. Commander Johnstone will be coming aboard soon, and our little ship must be Russian to the core. There are English as well as Russian books in my cabin — but that is to be expected. Mr. Fox, might I ask you to undertake a delicate task for me?”

“And that is?”

“Would you — I do not dare say ‘search’ — would you see to it that none of you possess any English documents? Or anything else — such as clothing labels — that might identify you as Americans.”

“That is a most reasonable request.”

His mien was most serious; Sherman nodded grim agreement. If they were discovered, it would be a severe and momentous disaster.

Dinner was a time of great stress. Commander Johnstone was no empty-headed aristocrat like the Honorable Richard MacTavish. He was a professor of navigation, well versed in astronomy and mathematics, and he shrewdly examined the three disguised officers when he was introduced to them. Johnstone only sipped his champagne as he and the Count became involved in a technical discussion of Russian and British naval merits. When the meal was finally finished and the port passed around the table, the Count gave them blessed relief.

“I’m afraid that Chikhachev here must relieve Simenov on the bridge — while Tyrtov and Makarov have their duties to perform.”

“A pleasure to meet you gentlemen,” Johnstone said; there was much heel clicking in return. As they filed out, Johnstone spoke to the Count. “You must write down their names for me for the invitations. Your arrival at this time was most fortuitous. There will be a formal dinner at the college tomorrow, celebrating the Queen’s birthday. You — and they — will be our honored guests.”

Sherman closed the door on the English officer’s voice and muttered a savage oath. Fox nodded agreement as they went down the passageway.

“Dangerous. Very dangerous indeed,” Fox said darkly.

Count Korzhenevski summoned them to the wardroom as soon as his guest had departed.

“This is going to be a situation where we must tread carefully,” he said.

“Any way of avoiding it?” Sherman asked.

“I am afraid not. But we can better the odds. Commander Wilson, for a number of reasons, should stay aboard. Lieutenant Simenov will abandon the engine room and go in his place. Mr. Fox is skilled in these matters and will play his role well. So it will be up to you, General Sherman, to be an actor in a game that is far removed from your career in the field.”

“I do not understand.”

“Let me clarify. If I am correct, when you as an officer are involved in combat, you receive reports, make decisions, and act upon them. It is legend that in the thick of battle you are the most cool, the most courageous of men. Now you must summon up your intelligence to face a different kind of battle. You must do the part of a middle-aged Russian naval officer — who may well have faced some of your fellow diners in battle. You don’t like them, perhaps you are suspicious of their true intent in having you there. We Russians can be very gloomy and suspicious — and that is how you must feel. Not displaying these emotions at all times, but feeling them. Do you understand?”

“I think that I do. It is something like being in a play, acting a role.”

“Perfectly expressed,” Fox said happily. “I think that tomorrow you will do fine, just fine.”

The meal, while a strain, went as well as could be expected. They were seated with the junior officers, far from the high table with its admirals and even a marine general. Toasts were drunk to the Queen, something the Americans had mixed feelings about. It was noisy and hot, which made it very easy to drink too much, so caution had to be shown. Sherman was seated across from a veteran naval captain who had many decorations and much gold bullion on his uniform. After his first terse nod of greeting, the captain had ignored the Russians and attended to the eating and drinking. Now, very much in his cups, he began to take a firm dislike to Sherman.

“You speak English, Russki? Do you know what I am saying?”

He raised his voice as though volume would increase comprehension.

“Nyet, nyet,” Sherman said, then turned away and sipped from his wineglass.

“I’ll bet you do. Sitting there and eavesdropping on your betters.”

Fox saw what was happening and tried to defuse the situation. “Pardonnez-moi, monsieur,” Fox said. “Mon compagnon ne parle pas anglais. Parlez-vous français? ”

“And none of that frog talk either. Your lot should not be here. We whipped you like curs in the Crimea, now you come crawling around like spies…”

Korzhenevski, farther down the table, stood up quickly and barked what sounded like an order in Russian. Lieutenant Simenov pushed his chair back from the table and jumped to his feet; Fox and Sherman saw what was happening and stood as well.

“I am afraid that our presence here is an embarrassment and that we must leave,” the Count said.

“You’ll leave when you are damn well told to leave,” the captain shouted, climbing unsteadily to his feet.

It was Commander Johnstone who appeared suddenly and tried hard to calm the situation.

“This is not the time nor place for this—”

“I agree, Mark,” Korzhenevski said, pointing his thumb toward the door. “It would be wisest, though, if my officers and I just left. Thank you for your kindness.”

They beat a quick retreat, anxious to be clear of the situation, relieved when the door closed behind them to cut off the captain’s drunken shouts.

“That was not good,” Korzhenevski said as soon as they were out of the building. “There is still much bad feeling here about the Crimea, and this sort of thing only stirs up old hatreds. We don’t dare sail tonight, much as I would like to. Too suspicious. But we will start back downriver in the morning as soon as I can get a pilot.”

No one slept well that night. At dawn, one by one, they assembled in the main cabin, where the steward had set out a steaming pot of fresh coffee.

“I shall return with the pilot as soon as is possible,” the Count said. He put down his cup and slapped his side pocket, which clanked heavily. “I am prepared to bribe my way if I must. A continental custom which has not yet caught on in this country. Though people do learn very quickly at the sight of a gold coin. Lieutenant Simenov is watch officer, which means that the rest of you can stay out of sight.”

Less than an hour later Fox had just finished shaving and was pulling on his jacket when he heard the shouting at the gangway. He hurried on deck to witness an angry encounter. An English army officer had climbed the gangway to the deck — with five armed soldiers behind him. Simenov was blocking his way and shouting at him angrily in Russian.

“Da!” Fox called out, all he could think of at the moment. Simenov turned and called out to him. Fox nodded sagely and turned to the angry officer.

“Excusez-moi, mais nous ne parlons pas anglais. Est-ce que vous connaissez français?”