Luganov was going to war, regardless of what the generals said.

Oleg lit a cigarette, shuddering at the implications, and concluded he had to talk privately with Petrovsky, and soon. The defense minister might not be the only man of reason in the entire cabinet. But if there were others who believed their leader was foolish for playing a game of nuclear chicken with an American president who had never fought a war nor ever served in the military yet prided himself in being “unpredictable,” they were keeping their counsel to themselves. Only Petrovsky had demonstrated the courage to speak his mind. The last cabinet member who had tried to do so was the army chief of staff, and he had been arrested and banished to the outer reaches of the empire.

If it was possible to dissuade Luganov from the disastrous path he was on, it had to happen fast, for they were rapidly running out of time. Perhaps together, Oleg thought, he and Petrovsky could devise a way to talk Luganov off the ledge. It was risky, but he resolved to find a pretext to call Petrovsky the moment the man returned to the Defense Ministry. Maybe they could meet later in the day to consider their options, meager and dwindling though they were.

Yet as everyone gathered their papers and rushed out of the cabinet room, Luganov summoned Oleg to meet with him privately in his office. He was as angry as Oleg had ever seen him, but the volcanic eruption was over. Gone was the spewing molten lava, replaced by an icy discipline that unnerved Oleg even more.

“I may have to sack Petrovsky if he cannot do his job,” the president said the moment Oleg shut the door behind them. “I will not abide disloyalty.”

“Should I go speak to him?” Oleg asked, sensing an opening.

But Luganov slammed that door shut. “No,” he said, walking over to the windows and looking out over the Kremlin grounds. “I made my expectations clear. If Petrovsky can’t meet them, there’s no use going to speak with him. Talk instead to his deputy, Shishkin. Make sure he understands his commander’s intent, and make sure Shishkin is ready to step into his boss’s shoes if a change must be made.”

Oleg said he would do that and asked if that would be all. But there was more.

“We need the word to leak that the crisis has, in fact, been defused and that what I said in Pyongyang was the truth.” Luganov turned back to Oleg and sat behind his desk. “Call the German foreign minister —what’s his name?”

“Frankel.”

“Right, you two are close, are you not?”

“Close enough,” Oleg said.

“Fine —reach out to him. Take his temperature. Let him know that you’ve just come out of a meeting with me and heard me issue orders to cancel all exercises near the Baltics and Ukraine tomorrow. Tell him Russian troops should begin pulling out on the first. Also imply —but carefully —that Clarke may be in over his head and in danger of seriously misreading the situation. Then call that guy in Madrid, the one who was here last month.”

“Galdós,” Oleg recalled. “Carlos Ruiz Galdós, the speaker of their parliament.”

“Right —call him,” Luganov insisted. “We funneled money to their party through the Venezuelans last year, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Don’t bring that up, of course. But he should be helpful.”

“Anyone else?”

“No, two should be enough. Coming directly from you, this will be given great weight. I guarantee the word will spread through the leadership of NATO before our heads hit the pillow tonight.”

Oleg had his notebook open. He was taking careful notes of every assignment and becoming nauseated with each word he wrote.

“But first, I want you to call Marina,” Luganov added. “Tell her everything is fine. Tell her war will not come. I don’t want her to worry. Better yet, tell her you’re taking her to Monaco next weekend, now that the threat of war has passed.”

“Monaco?”

“Yes, yes, tell her that —she will be thrilled,” Luganov continued. “Tell her I’ve been working you too hard. You’re not getting enough time with her. Tell her to start booking flights and a hotel. She’ll tell her girlfriends. I know my girl. Word will spread to all her friends and then to their parents that the clouds are lifting and the storm has passed. Her friends’ parents are bankers, hedge fund managers, CEOs. They have many friends and contacts in the West, and they will spread the news even faster than the politicians. And the effect on our markets will be very positive. We will make money today, Oleg, you and I. We will make a great deal of money.”

Oleg still could not believe how sanguine this man could be about taking the country into a completely unnecessary and highly risky war with NATO. Just then the intercom on the desk buzzed. Luganov’s secretary said the FSB chief was waiting to see him. The president said he would be right with him.

“That is all, Oleg Stefanovich. Check back with me when you’re done with all this. I will have more for you by then. There is still the matter of the traitor in my cabinet for us to deal with.”

“Yes, Father, but . . .”

“What is it, my son? Dmtri Dmitrovich is waiting.”

“I know, but . . . may I ask you a question?”

“Of course. What is on your mind?”

Oleg wasn’t sure this was a good idea, but he knew he couldn’t keep silent. This, after all, was very likely his last chance.

“I’m just wondering if, perhaps, you ever asked Dmitri Dmitrovich for . . .” He hesitated, almost certain he should not actually finish his sentence.

“For what?” Luganov pressed, a flash of irritation in his eyes.

“For an updated assessment of President Clarke,” Oleg finally blurted out.

“Why?”

“Remember the other day I said I was worried, not about your plan to go to war but about whether you were getting the best advice on how the Americans will respond?” Oleg said, walking right up to the line and hoping he wasn’t going over it. “What if the FSB is wrong?”

“They aren’t,” Luganov said flatly.

“But, Father, did Dmitri Dmitrovich tell you that Clarke was going to order forty thousand American troops to head for Poland and then possibly —even probably —into the Baltics in the next few days?”

Luganov said nothing.

“He did not, Father,” Oleg continued. “Nor did he predict Clarke would send an aircraft carrier battle group into the Baltic Sea or deploy squadrons of B-52s and F-35s to the theater. In truth, the FSB predicted the exact opposite. Don’t get me wrong, Father —I have great respect and admiration for Dmitri Dmitrovich and his entire operation. They are brave and courageous men doing a hard and thankless job for our country. But we must be honest —they have made some significant mistakes in recent days. What if they are reading Clarke wrong? It’s true the man has shown little commitment to Article 5 of the NATO charter. He has called NATO obsolete and suggested he might not care if it folds. But what if he surprises us again? What if he is not the caricature we have in our heads, the buffoon the media portrays him to be? What if we play nuclear chicken with him and he doesn’t blink?”

The room was silent. Oleg felt like he was going to vomit. He braced for the eruption.

Luganov abruptly rose from his chair and walked around the desk. Oleg stood frozen. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. His trembling hands grew clammy as he gripped his notebook and pen tightly and tried to steady his breathing. But then his father-in-law stunned him by putting his arm around Oleg’s shoulders.

“You are a good and loyal son, Oleg Stefanovich, the son I never had,” he said quietly. “I can see your concerns are genuine and that you speak what is in your heart. I admire this, and I value it more than you could possibly know. But in this case your fears are misplaced. NATO is compromised at its core, politically divided and militarily weaker than at any time since the Cold War. We have bought off more Western politicians than I have told you about. We have moles and sources everywhere —in Brussels, in Washington —I wish I could tell you all of it, but there simply isn’t time. Not right now. Believe me. We know what we’re doing. The American president is no match for me. I guarantee you he will not actually go to war over the Baltic states. And do you know why?”

Oleg shook his head.

“Because in the end he and everyone around him knows one thing —I will push the nuclear button. Indeed, I’m practically itching for the chance.”