“Please hold for the president.”

Dmitri Nimkov was still in his office, as was nearly every member of his staff. He was not surprised to receive another call from Luganov. They had spoken every few hours throughout the day as Nimkov provided his commander in chief continual updates on the movement of American troops pouring into Poland.

As of yet there was still no evidence that NATO members were working in concert. There was no announcement out of SHAPE headquarters in Brussels about positioning troops and supplies in the Baltics to create an adequately robust deterrent force. Indeed, most NATO sources were telling reporters, “No comment.” But uncertainty about official decision making had not precluded individual nations from following the lead of the Clarke administration and coming to the defense of their Baltic brethren. Now, in response to an urgent request from the White House, at least four NATO member states were moving steadily despite Moscow’s insistence that the West was “overreacting to normal and peaceful military maneuvers.” In recent hours not only had Polish forces been fully mobilized for war, but British, Czech, and Hungarian Special Forces, attack helicopter squadrons, and fighter jets were arriving in each of the Baltic states as well.

Luganov had become more outraged with every update Nimkov had provided. But what had truly shaken the president was when Nimkov finally broke the news to him that there was circumstantial but compelling evidence that his son-in-law had had inappropriate contact with Senator Dayton’s staff and might be the source of the leak of Luganov’s war plans. Thus, while the FSB chief was by no means surprised by this latest call, he braced himself for another volcanic eruption.

“Dmitri Dmitrovich, are you there?” Luganov asked as he came on the line, his voice far more calm than Nimkov had expected.

“Da, Aleksandr Ivanovich —how can I help you?”

Nimkov could hear Katya Slatsky giggling in the background. He rolled his eyes and held his tongue. He didn’t care what the president did in his private life, though he harbored concerns about Katya. She was too young and had far too many connections to the West from her years as an Olympic skater. The FSB closely monitored all her social media activity as well as her bank accounts and credit card usage. So far, Nimkov and an elite team of his most trusted men, led by Nikolay Kropatkin, had not found any evidence that Katya posed any direct threat.

“I still cannot get my mind off the suspicions your staff have against . . . you know,” Luganov said after harshly telling his mistress to be silent when he was on the phone. Clearly he did not want to use Oleg’s name in Katya’s presence.

“We are doing all that you have asked of us, Your Excellency,” Nimkov assured him. “My men have been interviewing employees at the Hotel National all day. We’ve also been digging deeper into Marcus Ryker, and I —”

“That’s not what I mean,” Luganov said, cutting him off. “I’m sure you’re conducting an aggressive investigation, and I want you to brief me on everything you’ve learned at our 9 a.m. meeting. But that’s not my point.”

“Forgive me, Your Excellency. What are your concerns?”

“If the Americans are targeting him as a possible intelligence asset,” Luganov said, “his life could be in danger, and then . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry, Your Excellency. I’m not following.”

At this, Luganov asked Nimkov to wait a moment. The FSB chief heard him excuse himself from Katya’s presence. He heard several doors open and close. And then Luganov reengaged the conversation, presumably somewhere he felt freer to talk openly, probably in his personal study.

“Listen, Dmitri,” the president began in a hushed voice. “Oleg Stefanovich has always been a good and loyal son. He has known and worked with me for years. I find it absolutely inconceivable that he would have willingly betrayed me. He certainly wouldn’t have reached out to the Americans. But can I imagine a scenario in which Ryker and the Americans lured my son into a trap? I have been thinking about it for hours, ever since you first broached the subject, and I cannot rule it out. Oleg is brilliant, but he never worked for the FSB. He has no training in counterintelligence. And at times, despite all his worldliness, I have found him shockingly naive for a man operating at the highest levels of our government.”

Luganov paused. Nimkov wasn’t sure where this was going, yet rather than ask, he decided to wait. The president had not called to explore Nimkov’s worries or his theories. He was a man of action. He had a plan, and if Nimkov was patient, he would find out soon enough what it was.

“Is Oleg at home with Marina?” Luganov asked.

“Well, he is at home, but Marina and Vasily went to stay with her for a few days.” Nimkov was careful not to mention the name of the president’s ex-wife.

“Does my daughter have security with her?”

“Yes, two female agents.”

“That’s not enough,” Luganov said. “Increase her detail to a dozen. What about Oleg?”

“His usual detail is with him, sir.”

“Four men?”

“Yes.”

“Again, that’s not enough,” Luganov said. “He could be in real danger. Give Oleg a dozen agents as well. Then bring him to me by chopper in the morning.”

“Of course, Your Excellency. What time would you like for him to arrive?”

“Have him here by eight. I’ll meet with him after breakfast. Then you and I can meet at nine. He’ll be safer here. Plus I want to confront him about this woman, find out who she really was, and ask him about any contact he’s had with this Ryker fellow.”

“Yes, Your Excellency,” Nimkov said. “It will be as you wish.”

“And one more thing, Dmitri Dmitrovich.”

“Yes?”

“Bring the tape from the hotel.”