"No problem. I assume you called to let us know you will be moving off-site."

"No, actually I called to check on your caviar supply." Petrov smiled. "It is more than adequate, thank you. Now let me ask a question. When will your ship be departing?"

"Your command of English isn't as good as I thought. We have no intention of leaving international waters."

"Then the responsibility for any repercussions will be on your head."

"Sorry, we're not accepting repercussions."

"Then we have no alternative but to force the situation."

"Let's see if we can settle this thing amicably, tovarich," the American replied casually. "We both know what's on that wreck and what a pain it could cause our respective countries. So here's my suggestion: We pull back while you go down and retrieve your, uh, stolen property. We'll even give you a hand if you'd like. When you're finished with your salvage work, you leave and we'll dispose of the evidence. What do you say?"

"Interesting proposition."

"I think so."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"Action speaks louder than words. I've given the order to move back a half mile."

Petrov watched the American ship lift anchor and reposition itself farther from the salvage site. Petrov judged that despite the American's lighthearted manner, he was determined to carry out his mission. The alternative to a deal was an escalation of force. Petrov was no gambler. If the American reneged, Petrov could use the armed men on his ship and the Soviet navy was on call. No matter what the outcome, however, he would not look good for letting the confrontation get out of control.

"Very well," he said. "Once we are finished with our salvage, we will leave and you may move in."

"Fair enough. What's your name, by the way? I like to know whom I'm dealing with."

The question caught Petrov off-guard. In a sense, he had no name, having been given one by the Soviet government He chuckled and said, "You may call me Ivan."

His answer was greeted by a deep laugh. "I'll bet half the guys on your ship are named Ivan. Okay, you can call me John Doe." He wished Petrov good luck in Russian and hung up.

Petrov lost no time sending divers down to the container ship. The torpedo blast hole allowed for relatively easy access to the hull, and two nuclear devices were extracted. There were a few dicey moments when currents snagged the lifting line, but they worked on rotating shifts and got the job done in less than twenty-four hours. Petrov ordered the ship to move out and signaled the Americans. The vessels passed within a few hundred yards of each other, going in opposite directions. Petrov stood on the deck and looked through binoculars at the American vessel. Through the lenses, he saw a husky man with gray hair looking back at him. At one point, the American lowered his binoculars and waved. Petrov ignored him.

Their next encounter was not as friendly. A commercial airliner from a third-world nation had been mysteriously shot down in the Persian Gulf. Paranoia was the reigning national psychosis of the Cold War, and for reasons as vague as they were far-fetched, both countries suspected the other of complicity. Again, Petrov and Austin located the plane at the same time. Petrov's ship came close to ramming the American vessel, shearing off at the last second so Austin could see the heavily armed men on deck. Austin called Petrov and warned the Russian to improve his driving or he'd get a traffic ticket. Austin stubbornly refused to move out. An international incident was avoided only when ships from the plane's home nation showed up at the site to claim the jetliner.

As the rival vessels steamed off in opposite directions, Austin radioed a good-bye message.

"So long, Ivan. 'Til we meet again."

Petrov had a short fuse in his younger days, and this arrogant American was annoying him. "You better hope that won't happen," he said with chilling directness. "Neither one of us will be happy with the outcome."

Eight months later, Petrov's prediction came true. During the Cold War, the United States pursued a daring intelligence operation. When the secret was finally unveiled years later, one writer called it Blind Man's Bluff, a dangerous game played by a few intrepid sub commanders and their crews whereby they would bring their subs within a few miles of the Soviet coast to gather intelligence. One scheme involved planting an electronic pod to listen in on underwater communications cables.

In his drab Moscow office, Petrov lit up one of the thin Havana cigars he had made on special order and puffed out a mouthful of smoke. His mind drifted back through the years, and in the purple cloud that swirled in front of him, he saw the morning mists rising off the dark, cold surface of the Barents Sea as his ship cut through the water at full speed.

He had been in Moscow trying to extract funds for new equipment from a strategically placed apparatchik who was complaining about tight purse strings. One of Petrov's assistants had called and said that a strange message had been picked up from an unknown ship close to Russian shores. The coded message was short, as if the operator were in a hurry. The Soviet cryptographers were trying to decipher the message. The only reason someone would risk sending a message would be if he were in trouble, Petrov thought, as the bureaucrat blathered on. Petrov was well aware that American subs had come into the Barents Sea. Could one of these boats be in trouble?

He broke off his meeting and caught a plane to Murmansk, where his survey ship was waiting. The vessel had supplemented its scientific gear with depth charges, guns and a trained complement of armed marines. By the time his ship was under way, the code had been broken. The message consisted of one word: Stranded. He ordered all ships and aircraft to be on the lookout for strange vessels on or under the surface.

Despite the Soviets' vigilance, however, the Talon carried out a picture-perfect rescue operation. The American ship came in during the night with a Russian-language expert on board who gave a phony identification when the ship was picked up on radar. The ID wasn't perfect, but it bought time. Another American submarine, whose propeller had been made to operate noisily, drew the Russians' attention away. The stranded submarine was in about three hundred feet of water, sitting flat on the bottom, its power out after an electrical explosion. The hundred-man crew was rescued in a matter of hours, using a special diving bell.

Petrov had finally figured out the decoy ruse and was speeding in his ship to the rescue site. The ship followed the communications cable until magnetometer readings showed a huge mass of ferrous material. It could only be the U.S. sub. A ship was rapidly moving out of the area, and Petrov recognized the Talon. Speaking in English, Petrov hailed the ship by its name and ordered it to stop.

A familiar voice responded over the radio. "Ivan, is that you?" said the man who called himself John Doe. "Nice to hear your voice again."

"Prepare to be boarded or your ship will be sunk."

A roar of laughter burst from the radio. "Hell, Ivan, I thought you Russians were better chess players than that."

"Frankly, I prefer stud poker."

"Which is obviously where you learned how to bluff. Nice try, comrade."

"This is your last warning. Aircraft will be overhead in five minutes, and your ship will be destroyed if you don't stop."

"Too little and too late. We'll be in international waters in three minutes. Our State and Defense Departments are aware of the situation. Looks like you're out of luck."