Although Razov hardly spoke above a whisper, his seemingly gentle tone couldn't mask the cold menace in his voice. His pale white face could have been carved from Carrara marble, but no one would mistake the hard-edged profile as the work of a Renaissance sculptor. It was a face that countless victims had seen with their dying breath.

Two lean, white Russian wolfhounds lounged at his feet. When the tall man approached, they began to whimper. Razov hung the phone up and shushed the dogs, who crawled under his desk. Razov underwent an astounding metamorphosis. Unexpected warmth came into the slate gray eyes, the cruel lips widened in a smile and the rough-hewn features softened. Razov could have been anyone's favorite uncle. Career criminals like Razov become accomplished actors if they live long enough. Razov had cultivated his natural chameleon's talent under the tutelage of professional actors. In an instant, he could transform himself from a murderous thug into a hard-driving businessman, a charming host or a charismatic orator.

Razov's powerful shoulders and muscular thighs offered a hint of humbler beginnings. Born on the steppes of the Black Sea, the son of a Cossack horse breeder, Razov had ridden from the time he was big enough to climb into a saddle. He'd had a keen mind and quickly saw the disadvantages of the brutal farm toil that had killed his mother and was ruining his father's health.

He ran away to the city and put his muscle to work as an enforcer for a gang of extortionists. Razov's skill as a bone crusher and killer earned him top wages. He had forgotten how many times he had put a bullet into the kneecap of a recalcitrant merchant or the head of a tardy loan customer. He'd lost count of the wayward prostitutes he had strangled. In fact, he'd used his newfound wealth to buy a house of prostitution for himself.

Soon, by eliminating his former employers, he gained control of a network of brothels. He protected his investment with a private army of ruthless thugs and branched out into gambling, drugs and loan-sharking. With generous bribes and strategic killings, Razov put himself beyond the reach of Soviet authority and became a multimillionaire. He'd become the quintessential Soviet mobster, and it seemed as if he would go on until a more aggressive rival surfaced.

The bearded man came over and stood in front of Razov's desk, hands clasped in front of him. "You called for me, Mikhail?”

"Boris, my dear friend and advisor. I'm sorry if I disturbed your meditation, but there's important news."

“The test was a success then?"

Razov nodded. “The early damage reports are most impressive, considering the small scale of the experiment." He hit a button on the desk and an orderly appeared, as if by magic, with a tray, two glasses and a bottle of vodka. Razov poured the glasses full and handed one to Boris. Dismissing the orderly, he indicated a chair, took a seat opposite and raised his glass in toast.

Boris's large Adam's apple bobbled as he noisily slugged his drink down. He drained the glass as if the contents were no stronger than herbal tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hairy hand. "How many dead?" he said, hardly able to control his eagerness.

"One or two," Razov said, with a shrug. "Apparently, there was a warning."

The monk's strange eyes blazed with a killing anger. "An informer?"

"No, it was completely unanticipated. A fisherman warned the townspeople, and the harbor was evacuated."

"A pity," Boris said, with genuine sadness in his voice. "We must be sure next time that there is no warning."

Razov nodded in agreement and pointed to a large computer-generated monitor on one wall. The screen displayed a map of the world. It sparkled with lights that showed the positions of the far-flung Ataman fleet. Using a remote control, he zoomed in on the map to bring up a line of lights assembling off the East Coast of the United States.

"Our assets are moving into position." His eyes grew colder. "I can assure you that when we have accomplished our work, there will be many dead to count, and much more."

Boris smiled. "Then the North American project is on schedule?"

Razov refilled their glasses. He seemed troubled. "Yes and no. There are some matters of vital importance that I want to discuss with you. They have a bearing on our plans. We must deal with an unexpected problem. There have been intruders at our Black Sea operation."

"Moscow has heard of our activities?"

"The fools in Moscow are still unaware of our plan," Razov replied with unveiled contempt. "No, it was not the central government. An American television crew landed near the old submarine pen."

"Americans?" He lifted his arms toward the sky. "A gift from heaven," he said, eyes glittering. "I hope their necks felt the sharp edges of the Guardians' blades."

"To the contrary. There was a fight and the Guardians were driven off. Some of your men died in the struggle."

"How could that be, Mikhail? The Guardians are trained to kill without mercy."

"True, they are superb horsemen, Cossack warriors in the finest sense. Their weapons are traditional but effective."

"Then how could an unarmed television crew resist?"

"They were not alone," Razov said, scowling. "Apparently, they had help from an aircraft."

"Military?"

Razov shook his head. "My sources tell me the aircraft was launched from a ship called the Argo. The vessel is supposedly in the Black Sea to conduct a scientific survey for NUMA."

"What is this NUMA ?"

"I've forgotten that you were isolated from the outside world for many years. The National Underwater and Marine Agency is the largest oceanic science organization in the world. They have thousands of scientists and engineers spread across the globe. The pilot of the aircraft, the man who killed the Guardians, was one of those scientists."

Boris stood and paced the cabin. 'This report concerns me. How could scientists or engineers defeat armed warriors?"

"A good question. I don't know. I'm certain of one thing, however. This is not the end of it. I have ordered preparations made to move our operations. Meanwhile, extra guards will be posted. I have taken the liberty of arming them with more contemporary weapons. I'm sorry. I know how you feel about preserving the purity of our traditions."

"I understand the need to be ready to face impure forces. What of your source in Washington?"

"His power is limited, but I have asked him to do what he can without jeopardizing his role."

"We must know who and what we are dealing with," Boris said. 'This NUMA may not be what it says it is."

"Agreed. It would be folly to underestimate them, as the Guardians did."

"Tell me about these television people."

"I have confirmed that they were from an American network. Two men and a woman."

Boris stroked his beard in thought. 'This is no accident. The television people and this NUMA must be a cover for an American scheme. Where are they now?"

"On the Argo heading back to Istanbul. I've dispatched a boat to follow her."

"Can we destroy the NUMA ship?"

"As easily as smashing an insect, but I don't think it would be wise at this time. It might draw attention to our Black Sea venture."

"Then we must wait."

"I agree. After the Black Sea venture is done, then you may take your vengeance."

"I defer to your wisdom, Mikhail."