Nimkov started pounding on the bathroom door.

“Oleg Stefanovich, that’s enough. I have more questions, as does your father.”

It was time to face his accusers and his fate. Oleg flushed the toilet one more time. He washed his hands and his face and dried them with a plush towel. Then he took off his tie, rebuttoned his suit coat, and opened the door.

Nimkov was standing there waiting for him.

“Before you say anything, Dmitri Dmitrovich, I am ready to talk,” Oleg said, holding up his hand. “In fact, there is much I want to tell you. Perhaps you will call it a confession. I don’t see it that way.”

Nimkov said nothing but did step aside to let Oleg reenter the study. Oleg did so, careful to continue limping, then turned to look directly at his father-in-law.

“I am ready to talk, Father, and I am ready to face the consequences. I have not done what I have been accused of. I am not a traitor. But there are things I must say, and I will say them to you.”

“Very well, Oleg Stefanovich,” the president replied. “But first, let me say that I have spoken with Marina, and she confirms your story in every detail except one.”

“What is that, Father?”

“She says at one point in the night in question, you asked her to step into the bathroom with her iPod and her headphones and to wait there —listening to music —until you told her it was safe to come out. She did not question you. But I must.”

“I understand,” Oleg said softly.

“Good.” Luganov took his seat and ordered Oleg and Nimkov to take theirs as well.

Nimkov did. Oleg did not.

“If it’s all right with you, Father, I would like to remain standing,” Oleg replied, holding his sides. “I am very nervous —terrified, actually —and my stomach is weak, and honestly, I’m not sure I could remain still if I were sitting.”

“Sit, stand —it makes no difference to me. But start talking,” Luganov said. “Start with last Wednesday night at the Hotel National. What did you do from the moment you sent Marina into the restroom?”

Oleg could see both men were still angry. They’d taken a few steps back from the brink, but he had to calm them down, put them at ease. That might not be possible, but he had to try.

“If I may, I would like to begin with what I did not do,” Oleg said. “I did not betray Mother Russia. I did not betray the Russian people. But there was business I had to attend to that night that could not wait, business of the highest order that related to the security —indeed, the very future —of our country.”

“You made contact with Marcus Ryker,” Nimkov interjected. “You knocked on his door. You woke him up. You made contact with the American, and you told him what the president —your own father-in-law —was planning. Admit it, Oleg Stefanovich. No more lies. We have neither the time nor the patience for —”

At this Oleg erupted. “Silence, Dmitri Dmitrovich —silence. I told you I would tell you my story, and I shall. But you don’t even have the decency to hear me out. You’ve already been proven wrong once today. I was not having an affair. I was not being lured into a honey trap. I was not doing anything at that hotel for which I should feel guilty or ashamed. Now I’m ready to tell you more, but all you have are accusations, and slanderous ones at that.”

Nimkov was turning red and about to rise out of his seat but Oleg exploded again. “No, you will sit down, you will be quiet, and you will let me speak uninterrupted, Dmitri Dmitrovich!”

There was a knock at the door. It was Agent Kovalev. “Is everything all right, Your Excellency?” the bodyguard asked through the door. “May I come in?”

“No —I said no interruptions,” Luganov shouted back. “Disregard me again and I’ll have your head!”

Kovalev apologized profusely. The door to the study remained closed, and after a moment, they heard the second door —the one to the hallway —close as well. With Kovalev back at his post, Luganov ordered Oleg to continue.

During the interruption, Oleg had turned away from the two men and was staring out the bulletproof window at the snow falling in the courtyard, all lit up by a series of outdoor lamps ringing the colonnade. He nodded to confirm that he would continue, but he needed a moment to catch his breath and quiet the blood pounding in his head. His eye landed on a birdbath in the center of the courtyard that had at least two or three inches of snow piled up on it already. During the rest of the year, there was typically patio furniture set up around the pool. Now the pool was drained and covered.

Oleg remembered happier times out there. How many summer days had he and Marina swum laps or played with Vasily in the shallow end? How many truly lovely meals had they shared with the first couple before all the tensions with Yulia had reached the tipping point, before Yulia had been sent away and Katya Slatsky had entered the picture permanently?

Oleg’s life in this family had never been idyllic. He knew that all too well. There had been some moments he could cherish and wanted to hold on to, but they were far too few, and it was clear there could never be any more. Not where the president was taking Russia. The house was not yet burning, but the match was lit.

“Here I am, in your home, Father,” Oleg said softly. “The home of your daughter, my wife, a home I once thought was mine as well.”

He turned back around but could not bear to look at Nimkov. He looked only at Luganov, fighting to keep his voice calm and measured.

“I remember when the people elected you president. I remember standing at your side when you took the oath of office and swore to protect the people and lead us wisely —I remember every word. ‘I swear in exercising the powers of the president of the Russian Federation to respect and protect the rights and freedoms of man and citizen, to respect and defend the Constitution of the Russian Federation, to protect the sovereignty and independence, security, and integrity of the state, to faithfully serve the people.’ What happened to all that, Father? What happened to all that you promised us?”

The question hung in the air for a moment. Then Oleg unbuttoned his jacket, drew the pistol, and fired directly in Luganov’s face. A puff of red mist filled the air. Then Oleg pivoted to Nimkov, whose eyes were wide with shock, and pulled the trigger a second time.

Blood was everywhere. Oleg was covered in it. He stared at the two bodies slumped in their overstuffed chairs. When he saw one of Luganov’s legs twitch, he refused to be calmed by the possibility that this was merely a death spasm. Instead, Oleg stepped closer to the man who had believed himself a czar, placed the barrel of the pistol directly to his forehead, and fired again.