9 October 1881

I did not sleep well yesterday. Too much was riding on my shoulders. It was Saturday, and if I failed to do my job, and the Germans killed the tsar, the next day might explode into a huge European conflict. It was hard to believe; I could be the only person standing between the tsar’s death and a disastrous war.

I did not feel confident, but I could do nothing less than carry on. The odds were against our small group, but then, Dr. Bell and I had saved the American president from a Confederate plot during our journey to America. The thought renewed my confidence.

Early in the morning, I dressed in a dark sweater and high boots and took Bell’s telescope in a leather case. With Sasha, I loped along a path leading to the harbor. When the great fleet came into view, I dodged into a clump of trees and tied Sasha to a branch.

The Russian cruiser, Nakhimov, was on the far side of the harbor, perhaps five miles from the German ships. The Queen’s royal yacht was anchored a quarter-mile off the cruiser’s stern, and other ships were arrayed about the harbor.

According to the colonel’s informants, tomorrow, the ships will pass in review, firing salutes to the tsar on the far side of the cruiser. Short of a long, cold swim, I could see no way to get near the German ships or the submarine boat. If there was a plan to kill the tsar and his family and set Europe ablaze with war, I had no idea how I might prevent it. I got Sasha and returned to my room.

Later, I had a substantial supper, alone, since Bell and the colonel were at the embassy. It was with some misgiving at my rather hasty decision to join the students that I ventured into the unknown for the midnight rendezvous. It wasn’t until then that I wondered, with great anxiety, Great God, what have I done?

I was to meet with both Vera and, perhaps, Penelope. I hesitated, unsure whether to brave the love - or was it the wrath - of two women. But then, a deeper emotion, a sense of duty, won over. I went ahead, not knowing what to expect, but with the full knowledge that I had no choice but to continue walking down a potentially deadly path.

The streets under a fine, misty rain were deserted. I stood in the shadows, observing the Palace Square. A few minutes after midnight, two figures and then a third strolled past, turned back, and huddled on the side of Alexander’s Column facing the Winter Palace. I eased forward and joined the group.

I did not recognize Penelope, who wore a dark, wool cap that obscured her face, a shapeless sweater, and trousers. “Why is he here?” she hissed.

“You requested four crewmen to help the count,” Vera said.

“Damn, why didn’t you bring a Russian student?”

“The reliable ones are all dead or in prison. Dr. Doyle has aided us in the past. I trust him,” Vera said.

“It will be very dangerous. We might all die.” Penelope said.

I listened to the exchange, totally flummoxed. Neither woman cared a good damn whether I lived or died. I called on my Irish backbone. “It is a good cause,” I said.

Vera shook my hand. “We are all together. Wear this.”

I put on a dark student’s jacket and pulled a visored cap over my eyes.

“Excellent,” Vera said.

We walked towards the Neva where we met a four-horse carriage coming along Dvortsovaya Street. “Get in, quickly,” Penelope ordered. I hesitated but climbed into the closed carriage.

The two men wore naval uniforms. When my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I recognized the German, Count von Wittenberg, and Gritz, the American engineer. We clipped along, in silence, for over an hour, turning into one street, then another, apparently to avoid followers. It was a dangerous mission, but there was no other way to see the submersible vessel.

The driver doubled back to the square and paused for long minutes. “Good, we are not being followed,” the count said in English, which I presumed was for the benefit of Gritz.

At the wharf, the guards came to attention, saluted the count, and waved us on. We alighted from the carriage, crossed a gangway to the cargo ship, and climbed down a ladder to a landing stage where the submersible was hidden. I immediately noted how three sections were bolted together and recognized the breathing tubes and the periscope.

We descended through an open hatch into the belly of the beast, which was dimly lit with two Edison electric bulbs. I quickly scanned the interior, which was truly an engineering marvel. The navigation station was near the center, just forward of a huge electric motor connected to a series of batteries. Further aft, there were gauges, levers, and electrical devices I could not recognize. There was no doubt, however, about the rack containing new Mauser repeating rifles next to the navigation station.

When we reached the bottom of the ladder, Penelope gave the count an enthusiastic embrace. “This time, we must not fail,” she said.

The count pushed her away. “If we prepare properly, we cannot fail. First, we assign stations, and then, we practice for the final run.”

“We shall test the motor, but must save electricity. Hans, Fritz, Adolph, show this young man how to pedal,” Gritz said.

Ivanov joined the German sailors at a series of pedals that turned the propeller shaft. The count led Vera to the forward-breathing tube pump and, for a moment, left me near the navigation station.

I peeked through the periscope for a minute and noted the steering wheel and depth control levers. While the count and Gritz were busy demonstrating the various pumps and pedals to the students and Penelope, I studied the compass. Whether or not the American, Gritz, was as much of a drunk as he appeared when we had first met, it was clear he was an experienced engineer.

Evidently, the captain navigated with the compass while submerged below periscope depth. It was a larger version of the simple magnetic compass I had used during hikes in the highlands. The black end of the needle pointed north, while the white aimed south.

Gritz came aft, pulled a switch, and the electric motor started with a whine. The deck vibrated, and immediately, the compass needle reversed itself. After the test, when he switched off the engine, the compass returned to normal.

“You,” the count ordered. “Man the aft breathing-tube pump.”

My job was to sit on a sort of saddle and turn bicycle pedals that, through a chain, ran a pump which brought in draughts of fresh air. This will be hard, monotonous work, I thought. The count seemed satisfied with my efforts, then took Penelope by the hand and went forward to what I deduced to be the torpedo firing station.

“Penelope, dear, you may have the honor to press the trigger to fire the torpedo that will kill the tsar,” the count said. Would Penelope go with their plan or was she playacting? It was hard to tell. I had no choice but to let things play out.

The hatch remained open, and after the practice session, the count ordered us to rest. Meanwhile, he had turned the steering wheel and worked the lever, which moved a rod near my station.

I dredged up a memory from my brief look at the diagram. When the rod moved forward, the fins turned downward, so the boat went deeper. Moving it backward made the boat return to the surface. Could I move the rod by hand to control the boat’s depth? There had to be a better plan.

Hours went by. I hated this ship, but tried not to let anybody see my distress. It was impossible to stand erect in the horribly cramped space. The atmosphere was hot and dense with humidity, even with the open hatch. I had been in dangerous situations during our American trip, but being entombed in an iron coffin was far worse. To make matters worse, I was far away from home and family and, not for the first time, yearned to return to dry land and lovely Edinburgh.

Then, I thought about how even Dr. Bell was unaware of my whereabouts. Sweat rolled down my face, but I shivered with cold fear. No one would know if I died.

I had been such a fool to meet these lunatics at midnight. What was I thinking? It was the day of the Naval Review. I was in this crowded space, close to Vera and Penelope - once, or perhaps, still, the love of my life - but visions of being in the open air with Ferguson on his yacht beckoned. The rascal would be sipping champagne with a couple of ballet dancers while he watched the parade of ships.

Then, I kept reminding myself that my comfort was of no consequence today. My task was to save lives at all costs. These people hated the tsar, but I knew him to be a good and kind father to little George, and the lives of everybody back home might be at risk if I failed.

Then, with a start, I thought of Sasha. Would someone care for her, or would she be returned to Pavlov’s dreadful laboratory?

I felt sluggish and developed a headache. The air smelled stale. Nine people used a great deal of oxygen. I pedaled and, immediately, there was a breath of fresh air. I sucked in several lungs full and my headache cleared. The others sagged or held their heads in their hands.

In a flash, I realized that I controlled the amount of fresh air in the boat. If I pumped slowly, there was enough air for me, since the vent emptied out close to my head, but not enough for the others. The chemical, sodium hydroxide, would take up carbon dioxide too slowly to clean the air breathed out by nine people. This might turn out to be a valuable bit of knowledge.

Hours went by until I judged the sun to be nearly overhead. “Start the pumps and close the hatch,” the count suddenly ordered.

In the dim light cast by the Edison bulbs, I watched the German crewmen and Ivanov pump pedals that turned the propeller. The boat moved sluggishly, then gathered speed. The count was glued to the periscope with his hands on the steering wheel. He moved the lever forward and the deck inclined downward.

“Five feet, continue to descend. Ah, good, maintain ten feet. At this level only the tips of our tubes are visible,” Gritz said.

I pumped for all I was worth to maintain fresh air in the boat.

“Course, thirty-two degrees to the Nakhimov,” the count said. He turned the periscope one hundred and eighty degrees and watched intently for several minutes. “Ah, right on schedule, our cruiser is following us. After we fire the torpedo, she will provide cover for our escape.”

Gritz went forward and tapped a gauge connected to a large steel cylinder. “Good - two thousand pounds pressure, enough to fire the torpedo.”

The count and Gritz kept up a steady patter. “Clear of the wharf. Five miles to target,” the count said. “You fellows, more speed.”

The big German sailors and Ivanov pedaled furiously. Sweat dripped down their faces and they gasped for air.

“Let us start the engine,” the count said.

“Not yet. We must conserve electricity for our escape,” Gritz replied.

I gradually slowed my pedaling until there was only a soft draft of fresh air on my face, but hardly enough for the others. Vera’s head drooped, and the German sailors took in great gulps of air. All of them sagged and lost great quantities of sweat in the hot, closed space. Hans, one of the German crewmen, stumbled and nearly fell.

“Damn, the air is stale in here. You, British boy, pump harder!” the count shouted.

I pedaled furiously for a few minutes, but when the count went back to the periscope and attended to steering the boat, I slowed my pedaling and the intake of fresh air diminished to a trickle.

“Ah, my dear Gritz. Come, see a beautiful sight. There she is, less than a mile away,” the count said.

Gritz took the wheel and put his eye to the lens and system of mirrors. “Ah, yes. Very good. The tsar’s cruiser is anchored, broadside to us. The other ships are passing in review on the far side. At a range of six hundred yards, go deep and navigate by compass. No one will see us.”

Gritz shook hands with the count. “Our approach is perfect. When we close to three hundred yards, fire the torpedo.”

“Penelope, dear girl, see for yourself - the fruits of all our planning.”

Penelope was pale and stumbled when she went to the count’s side and peered through the periscope. “I feel ill,” she said.

“The air is rotten. You, boy, pump harder!” the count glared at me. “Pedal, pedal, pedal faster. We need oxygen.”

I went through the motions and pumped furiously, but when he turned his back, I slowed.

“Close the breathing tubes. It is time to descend to twenty feet,” the count said.

Gritz studied his depth gauge, and the count pushed the lever controlling the fins. The deck inclined downward. The Germans and Ivanov pedaled furiously to maintain speed.

“We are below periscope depth!” The count shouted.

“Level the ship,” Gritz said.

“Target, three hundred and fifty yards.”

Gritz opened the oxygen cylinder. The gas hissed but the air was still dank.

A long two minutes elapsed. I waited, furiously thinking of a way out, but it seemed helpless. My mind was foggy, but when the count shouted “Fire!” I reacted by instinct and screamed. Penelope had both of her hands on the firing mechanism. Her eyes were glassy with fatigue and lack of oxygen. “NO, Penelope! Don’t!” Penelope dropped her hand from the mechanism and turned those lovely eyes on me.

I left my post and lunged forward, down the middle of the crowded boat, brushing against the count. He swung a clenched fist that grazed my head. The violence of his attack knocked away my visored cap. I nearly went down but regained my feet and continued plowing ahead.

There was no escape. “You damn English! Curse you, Penelope, for bringing saboteurs on my boat!” he shouted, between ragged breaths.

In an instant, the count pulled a Mauser rifle from its rack and pressed the barrel against my chest. I kicked him in the groin. He fell backwards, but the deadly rifle was still aimed at my chest.

“Stop! Don’t shoot! You will put a hole in the boat!” Gritz yelled.

The American lunged forward and pushed the rifle barrel upward. The count’s features contorted into a dreadful mask of hatred and fear as he pulled the trigger.

A terrific boom! reverberated inside the iron hull. The powerful blast drove the bullet through the hull over my head. There was an immediate trickle of water, which increased to a stream the size of my finger.

“Hans, the plugs, get the plugs. SURFACE, SURFACE!” Gritz yelled.

Hans gazed at the thickening stream of water and drew his finger across his throat.“Kaput,” he said.

Gritz pointed at the hole. “HANS, THE PLUGS!”

Hans smiled. “Ah, Verstopten.”

Hans fumbled in a tool box, found the wooden plugs, and, with dull German efficiency, hammered a wooden bung into the bullet hole. The leak stopped, but the deck inclined upward so rapidly, I rolled in a heap against the air pump. “Surface! Surface!” Gritz cried.

The count lunged forward and struck Penelope across the face, grabbed her hair, and pulled her head back.

“You damned traitor! You brought him and the others. Saboteurs!”

“No! No! NO! They are loyal to the cause,” she said.

“There isn’t enough air for all of us if we descend again,” said the count. “When we surface, leave the damn traitors to freeze in the water. We can still fire the torpedo and be gone,” Gritz growled.

The count peered through the periscope. “We have surfaced. Open the hatch.”

Fritz leaped up the ladder, twirled the opening bolts, and in a moment, we had air and sunshine. Vera and Ivanov, dull from lack of oxygen, slumped in the arms of the German sailors who carried them up the ladder. Penelope was next, then me. I offered no resistance when the three muscular German sailors dragged me up to the deck, barely awash with the sea.

In a moment, I was sprawled on the deck and gasped for air. Gritz slammed the hatch, and the submarine started its slow slide beneath the waves. Instantly, the four of us were floating in the freezing sea. We couldn’t last long. I prayed for rescue.

My first thought was to shout and wave at the Russian cruiser, only three hundred yards distant, but sailors at attention looked to the starboard side where ships passed in review. Their backs were turned, and the booms of saluting cannon drowned my feeble shouts.

The cold penetrated my flesh like deadly, icy daggers deadening my limbs. I could only think of death by freezing; the blood congealed, the heart slowed to a standstill, and the brain became a lifeless pound of flesh.

I was on my back, nearly covered with arctic water, when Vera’s face floated into view. Her lips were blue and she seemed lifeless. I struck out and slammed my open hand into her face. “Wake up, damn you! MOVE! Don’t give up!”

She opened her eyes. I rubbed her arms and legs with as much energy as I could muster until she moved both arms and feebly kicked with her legs.

Ivanov had the good sense to grab the periscope tube and was making feeble efforts to stay above water. The effort brought life back, and I vigorously beat the water with both hands while taking great gulps of fresh air. But the icy water was so frigid that I feared I couldn’t last long.

It was like a blow to the solar plexus when I again realized the Russian cruiser with the tsar was within firing range of the submarine.

Penelope started off, thrashing the water with strong strokes as if she planned on swimming to the distant shore. Her efforts soon diminished, however, and she paddled back to where the three of us clung to the periscope tube.

Penelope sucked air. “Damn, you Doyle! We will drown or be killed by the blast. Do something!” Her voice dwindled to a pathetic whimper but she was right. The others could do nothing to save themselves, and I was the only strong swimmer.

“Everyone, keep moving! Kick and hold on to the periscope tube with one hand.”

It was difficult because the boat was slowly picking up speed as it headed directly towards the Russian ship. The count intended to destroy the tsar and start a European war. He would escape and no one would know of the German and American involvement.

We clung to the periscope tube, with water over our waists, but the boat was diving deeper. The cold penetrated into my bones, and for a moment, all I could think of was a warm fire. Then, I thought of the count, down below, peering at his prey and ordering Hans or Fritz to fire the deadly torpedo.

I gulped icy seawater and, in a flash, thought of a solution. Without the periscope, the count would be blind.

“Ivanov, hold tight. I have an idea. Just try not to move.”

I stepped up on his shoulders, which were just above water, and clung to the periscope tube. I hoisted myself up, like a monkey on a coconut tree. “Ivanov, help hoist me up.”

Ivanov gave me a great upward push with as much energy as he could muster, and I grasped the very top of the periscope tube. Somehow, I found the strength to tear off my student’s jacket and wrapped it around the lens.

I slid in a heap down the tube, but now, even standing on tip-toe, the water was nearly over my head. We could not survive the cold for more than another five minutes. Vera was already blue and scarcely breathing.

I desperately slapped her again until she roused. The boat was diving deeper, so the breathing tubes were just breaking the surface.

Penelope again struck out, paddling and treading water. I grabbed her and held everyone together, hoping to conserve any last remnants of body heat.

I gasped and spit out a mouthful of salty water. “Stay together. Hold onto one another. Keep moving. Our only chance is to stay close for warmth,” I spluttered.

We were now floating and drifting away from the periscope tube. I forced everyone to kick and to hug one another. Ivanov felt the vibration first. “They’ve started the electric motor,” he said.

I felt a commotion in the water. The submarine turned erratically, first one way, then another, as if lost. For a moment, the boat came to its original course towards the Nakhimov, then made a one hundred and eighty degree turn.

In my mind, I could see the compass. When Gritz started the electric motor, the electro-magnetic field caused the compass to swing a complete half circle, one hundred and eighty degrees from north to south.

The count must have been confused, but, trusting his compass, came to the new course, away from the Russian ship. We had all been concentrating on staying afloat, but by chance, I raised my head and looked over the waves.

To my great amazement, the grey hull of the German cruiser was no more than three hundred yards away, directly in the path of the submarine. I remembered the count saying that the cruiser would cover their escape. For a moment, we floated, holding one another under a sunlit sky on a calm, cold sea. There were many ships and smaller pleasure boats about, mostly in the distance toward the Russian cruiser and the tsar. I idly remembered Ferguson’s invitation to watch the review from his sailboat. If only we could stay alive long enough to be rescued...

Suddenly, I felt a mild a concussion - like a gentle punch to the gut - when they fired the torpedo. Bubbles rising to the surface were on a course towards the German ship.

“That would be the compressed air,” Ivanov said.

There were more bubbles, then a small wake, heading directly towards the midsection of the German cruiser. The count depended completely on the accuracy of his compass, not realizing it was completely reversed.

It was a rather pleasant thought that we had deceived him. If we died, at least our deaths would not be in vain.

I treaded water and, with one hand, held Vera and Ivanov afloat as we watched the bubbles rising from the torpedo streaking directly on target. It hit dead center just below the water line.

There was another boom! and flames and black smoke rose from the German ship. We were left rocking on a great wave, stunned by the concussion.

When the shock wave receded, I waved my arms wildly, hoping someone might see us. But, alas, all seemed lost.

We were destined to die from exposure at sea. It was just too cold and we’d been in the water too long...

As I gave up the last shreds of hope, I caught the welcome sight of a white yacht with twin masts flying in our direction. It rounded up with sails flapping in the mild breeze.

Was it possible? Aye...

Dicky tossed a rope with a life preserver.

“Old boy, what a show, eh? Best fireworks of the day!” Dicky shouted. “Grab the lifesaver!”

Ferguson, along with Dr. Bell and Colonel Beachy-Edwards, dragged us, one by one, aboard the little yawl. I had never before been so grateful to see my dear friends. I was still sprawled on deck, vomiting sea water, when one hundred yards away and, not far from the flaming German cruiser, the snout of the black submarine shot to the surface, like a breaching, wounded whale.

The periscope tube and the breathing tubes were torn away. It must have taken on water after the torpedo blast. By some miracle, Gritz, the engineer, had saved the boat.

In a moment, the hatch opened and Hans, the huge German sailor, pulled himself on deck. He lay, face down, perfectly motionless.

“If you please, Mr. Ferguson, let us pick up the survivors,” said Colonel Sir Beachy-Edwards, hardly raising his voice.

Dicky put down the tiller, and I helped bring over the main sail. We went tearing down towards the submarine and drew alongside.

Hans was a mass of bruises, and there was a huge gash on his head. “Gott mit uns. Alle tot. Alle tot,” he said, with a final gasp.

I recognized his words, “All dead. All dead.” He then slipped away beneath the waves.

Then, before our eyes, a bloody hand came up out of the open hatch. With what had to be a tremendous effort, the count’s blonde hair, then the rest of his head, appeared just at the level of the hatch opening. The submarine was slowly sliding beneath the waves.

Penelope sighed. “Oh, please, save him, please,” she said in a weak voice.

I had no intention of diving back into those frigid, heart-stopping waters. I glanced at Dr. Bell for support. He shook his head and seemed to indicate to me not to risk my life. His face remained impassive; he was no longer a teacher-mentor.

Yet, it was my decision, and time was of the essence. A life is a life, I thought, and dove overboard. With a few thrashing strokes, I reached the submarine, sliding slowly beneath the waves. Another inch and water would pour down the hatch. I managed to kneel, grasp his hand, and drag Count von Wittenberg’s dead weight to the deck. He lay on his back with those cruel, light blue, Prussian eyes that for the past thousand years had stared straight through common people.

The submarine commenced its last fatal dive. I slid into the water with my arm across the count’s chest. It was then I realized his massive injury. The blast had stoved in his chest. Every broken rib on his right side grated with each of his torturous breaths.

“Take care. He has broken ribs!” I shouted.

Ferguson and Dr. Bell leaned down from the deck and, as gently as possible, heaved him to the yacht’s deck. He was on his back, having his last glimpse of the sun and sky, when I pulled myself, hand over hand, into the cockpit.

Penelope cradled the count’s head on her lap, stroked his forehead, and shed tears.

“Schatzi, mein liebling,” he whispered.

She put her mouth next to his hear. “Carl, Ich liebe dich,” she said.

So, they were lovers, a perfect match. It was still difficult to believe that lovely Penelope, woman of gentle English blood, was a traitor to the crown. I felt sick to my stomach, yet the worst was still to come.

With great effort, he pulled a packet wrapped in oiled silk from his jacket pocket. “Dear Penelope, the money is yours.” He coughed and blood splattered on Penelope’s face. With his last effort, the count withdrew a small, glass vial from an inner pocket and pressed it into her hand. “Take it. An honorable death is preferable to a life in prison.”

I watched in horror as Penelope took from him the deadly vial of cyanide, the suicide poison chosen by spies. Count von Wittenberg drew in a long, lingering breath, turned his head to one side, and was dead.

Penelope’s lips drew back in an ugly rictus - was it of fear, anger, or did she say “Good riddance?”

She tossed the vial over the side just as another ship passed the Russian cruiser and fired a noisy salute to the tsar. Amid the great firing of guns, Colonel Sir Beachy-Edwards removed the packet from Penelope’s hand and, with great care, opened the water-proof package.

Inside was a stack of fifty pound Bank of England notes. “Ah, how unfortunate,” the colonel said. “The Secret Service provides these notes to our operatives. Dr. Bell, may I see the note you recovered from the Chinese Cook who killed Asquith?”

Dr. Bell opened his wallet and passed the crisp new note to the colonel.

“Ah, yes. The serial number of this note indicates it was the first in the series that the service provided to Miss Walshingham.”

Penelope shivered, but wrapped her arms around my neck and planted a hearty deep kiss on my lips. “Doyle, you are magnificent. You saved us from that fiend.”

“Young lady, you are an accessory to murder and guilty of traitorous and duplicitous conduct. A prison sentence will be your just reward,” the colonel said.

Penelope smiled. “Actually, you are mistaken,” she said.

“No, Ma’am.”

“Yes, colonel. I have a friend at court.”

Dicky had brought the yawl on a new course, and within minutes, we passed under the bows of Her Majesty’s yacht, the Victoria and Albert.

Penelope set up a shout and waved at a portly figure on deck. “Yoo-hoo, Bertie! Bertie!”

“Penelope, dear, is it really you in those dreadful clothes? You are just in time for Tiffin. Come, dear girl, I have an extra frock just your size,” the Prince of Wales replied.

The colonel and, for that matter, the rest of us, were stunned. But Penelope just smiled as if all that had occurred over the past few hours was nothing but the events of another ordinary Sunday afternoon.

Dickie dropped the sails, and we glided up to the landing stage at the base of a ladder leading up to the port side of Her Majesty’s yacht. The portly figure - with a spade beard and dressed in perfect nautical attire - descended the ladder, took Penelope in a great bear hug, and cooed at her. “You dear, sweet girl. It has been so long.”

Before any of us could say or do anything, Penelope and ‘Bertie’ were gone. She did not even look over her shoulder as she departed. For once, I was not upset to see her leave.

A few minutes later, we went off with tight sails and passed near enough to the Nakhimov to see the tsar and his family happily waving to the passing ships.

Colonel Beachy-Edwards sadly shook his head. “Imagine, calling the Prince of Wales, the future King of England, ‘Bertie.’ The foolish sod does nothing but gamble and chase women. I pity the future of our homeland.”

Dicky brought the yacht on a course for home and gave me the tiller while he opened a magnum of champagne and a hamper filled with glorious edibles. We all set about devouring the picnic, and I tried to shake off the cold and the memory of the past twenty-four hours. I tossed off a tumbler of bubbly but was overcome with a shaking chill and pain in every muscle.

“Such a pity. We may never know if Walshingham or the count paid for the murder of poor Asquith,” said Colonel Beachy-Edwards, between bites of smoked salmon.