Anya sat by her mother's bed, holding her hand.

  "You're going to be all right, mother," Anya said. "I've talked with the doctors. You'll be going home tomorrow, but you'll have to take it easy for a while. I've arranged for someone to stay with you when I'm at work."

  Yulia squeezed Anya's hand.

  "You have always been a good daughter, Anya. I'm sorry I've been difficult these last years. Since..."

  She stopped.

  "I know," Anya said. "Since Mikhail died."

  "Oh, Anya, why Grigori too?"

  She couldn't tell her mother what she knew, that Grigori's death was meaningless. Yulia would never believe his death was useless. It was the only way she could accept the pain. It would be cruel to tell her the truth.

  "I don't know, mother. I don't know why."

  "At least he died fighting to keep our country safe. Sometimes sacrifice is necessary for the good of the Motherland. A hero, Anya. At least there's that. Your father would have been proud of him."

  In spite of her determination not to say anything, something slipped out.

  "His death wasn't necessary, mother."

  "Of course it was, don't say that. Soldiers die in war, and Grigori was a soldier. Our leaders would never have sent him into harm's way if it wasn't necessary."

  Anya said, "I was thinking..."

  She stopped as two men entered the room. Both were in uniform, one a major, the other a senior sergeant. The sergeant carried a camera.

  "Colonel Volkova?" He saluted. "I'm Major Nikitin, with Krasnya Zvezda. This is Senior Sergeant Lebedev. May I offer my condolences on the loss of your brother?"

  Red Star was the official newspaper of the Ministry of Defense. It was widely read throughout the Russian military.

  "Thank you, Major. Why are you here?"

  "We're running a feature article about your brother's heroic actions on the battlefield. It will be part of an ongoing series featuring you and your family. Senior Sergeant, you may begin. Get pictures."

  "Sir."

  Lebedev began taking pictures of Anya and her mother.

  Anya remembered the conversation with Stepanov at the party, when he'd told her she'd been chosen to become the face of women in the military. They were using Grigori's death to kick off their campaign.

  She felt her face flush with anger.

  "Ma'am, would you look at the camera please?" Lebedev said to Yulia.

  Bastards, Anya thought.

  Chapter 22

  Major Gorky and his men proceeded against stiff resistance toward Syria's eastern border with Iraq. Gorky's orders were clear: he was to avoid the American advisers located in the area. Under no circumstances was he to engage them.

  The realities of combat didn't always match orders given in the calm before battle. Things happened that couldn't be predicted, even in a world where technology and sophisticated communications eliminated some of the problems that had plagued commanders since the days of the pharaohs. The nature of war was confusion and uncertainty, a truth recognized by every competent commander. It was called the "fog of war," and was taught in every military academy in the world.

  By the time they encountered the American patrol, the 22nd had suffered heavy casualties. Colonel Brezhnev was dead. Gorky was now in command of the eastward advance. His best company commander had been killed while rescuing his wounded crew. The Kurds had stubbornly refused to surrender or run, and they were armed with the latest American weapons.

  The soldiers of the 22nd were pissed. They were hot and they were tired, and they'd been taking intermittent fire for several hours. They came over a rise and saw an armored personnel carrier and three Humvees headed straight for them.

  Gorky opened fire. It was one of those incidents that happens in war. The American vehicles looked a lot like the Kurdish ones. There was nothing unusual about that, since most of the Kurdish vehicles had been provided by the Pentagon. American and Kurdish units were painted in a similar desert camouflage pattern.

  The firefight was brief and brutal. When it was over, fourteen Americans and eighteen Russians were dead. One of Gorky's APCs was in flames, a second was disabled, and the American units had been destroyed. It wasn't until he came alongside the burning remains of the lead American vehicle and saw the markings, that Major Gorky discovered his mistake.

  ****

  In Washington, DC, it was evening. Rebecca Kramer had poured herself a glass of white wine and picked up a book, when her secured line rang. The display showed it was from her Deputy Director, Scott Davidson. She picked up.

  "Yes, Scott."

  "There's been an incident in Syria. The Russians fired on an American patrol."

  "Casualties?"

  "Fourteen of our people. Eighteen Russians."

  "Confirmed?"

  "We were using ECHO, listening to the Russian commander. Confirmation is straight from the horse's mouth."

  ECHO was one of America's most coveted secrets, a program that captured Russian military communications in real time. Langley had been listening to the Russians talk about what had happened.

  "I'm on my way," Kramer said.

  She disconnected, dialed, and called back her bodyguards and driver. Evening traffic was snarled. It was an hour before she was back in her office on the seventh floor.

  There were many perks that went with her job as head of America's most powerful intelligence agency. One of them was a private kitchen and dining room. Someone was always there to provide food and whatever else might be needed. The first thing she did was call for coffee, lots of it.

  A written brief on the incident lay on her desk. There was a light knock on the door and her Deputy Director came in. Kramer didn't like many people, but she appreciated Davidson. It would have been going too far to call him a friend. Rebecca Kramer didn't have friends. She had colleagues, and few of those. Davidson was on the list.

  Davidson was sixty-one years old, with thinning hair turning gray. More than thirty of those years had been spent in the Agency. He wore a dark suit tailored to conceal a slight scoliosis that hiked one shoulder higher than the other.

  His face looked as if it hadn't been quite finished. One cheekbone was higher than the other. The corner of his mouth on that side turned slightly upward. His eyes were a hazel color, his eyebrows almost nonexistent. He had on a light blue shirt, open at the collar. Davidson usually wore a tie, but it went into his pocket after working hours. Ten o'clock at night qualified as after hours.

  "Coffee?" She gestured at the sideboard, where a gleaming pot stood next to an array of cups and saucers. "There's a fresh pot over there."

  "I could use a caffeine hit. It's been a long day."

  He poured a cup and pulled up a chair near Kramer's desk.

  "This is going to be a real shit storm," he said.

  "Run it by me."

  "Our people were out on a routine patrol. Their orders were to observe Russian activity, if possible. They had strict orders not to engage. Something went wrong."

  "Who fired first?"

  Davidson shrugged. "The Russians, but it's a moot point. We can't prove it was them and they can't prove it was us. The Kurds have been giving the Russians hell. My guess is someone got a little trigger happy. I guarantee they'll say we fired first when it goes public."

  "Of course they will," Kramer said. "It may even be true. Like you said, it's a moot point. Does the president know?"

  "I figured that was your call, Director. The Joint Chiefs will have gotten the word by now."

  "Okay. Call in Analysis, DI, Operations. Have them come in now. We'll meet in the bubble."

  DI was Digital Information. She had told Davidson to have the directors of three of Langley's five directorates come in. The bubble was a completely secure room in the heart of the building.

  "Anything else?"

  "No, that's it for now. Thank you, Scott."

  "No problem. I'll get on it."

  He left the room. Kramer called General Kroger.

  "I was about to call you," Kroger said.

  "You've been briefed?"

  "Those Russian bastards killed fourteen of our men. They paid the price, though."

  "You remember what we spoke about at the White House?"

  "Of course."

  "Sad as it is, the deaths of those soldiers gives us the key to stirring up public opinion. The media will be all over this. It won't take much to get people demanding the president do something about the Russians."

  "That's cold, Rebecca."

  "You know I'm right, General."

  "Unfortunately, you are."

  "Have you thought about what might be done to discourage Tarasov's adventurism?"

  "Adventurism? I guess that's one way to put it. Yes, I have."

  Kroger told her what he had in mind.

  "I knew I could count on you," Kramer said.

  Chapter 23

  President Campbell was running on caffeine and irritation. The incident in Syria hadn't gone public yet, but it wouldn't be long before it did. Kramer had tipped the press, though Campbell didn't know that. By afternoon, everyone would know American soldiers had been killed in a firefight with the Russians.

  On the evening news the anchors would put on grim faces and pontificate about Russian ambitions in the Middle East. The pundits would clamor for the president to do something. Retired generals would be trotted out and asked for their opinion. Their hawkish comments would be treated like pearls of wisdom.

  The report on American deaths would be spiced up with shots of mothers weeping over dead children and heart-rending videos of terrified refugees fleeing the Russian advance. Public outrage would build. By the next day, protesters would gather outside the White House grounds holding up signs demanding Campbell do something about Russian aggression in Syria. It was another detail Kramer had taken care of.

  Kramer, General Kroger, Harold Kaplan, and Walter Covington were with the president in the Oval Office. Kramer had dressed in a black Prada business suit with flared shoulders that brought out the sharp angles of her face.

  She looks like a witch, Kaplan thought.

  Kroger, as always, wore his uniform. The four silver stars on his shoulders glittered whenever he moved. Covington had chosen a gray suit and silver tie.

  Kaplan and the president were the only people in the room whose clothes appeared a little rumpled.

  "Well, General? What the hell happened?"

  "It appears to have been an accident of war, Mister President. Our people were told to observe Russian movements. They were under orders not to engage. Intercepts of Russian communications indicate the confrontation was unexpected and unplanned. They had been taking a beating from the Kurds. Our vehicles are similar to what the Kurds are using. They probably thought our boys were the enemy."

  "General, I can't tell the American people it was an accident and no one is to blame."

  "No, sir, you can't."

  "What is the situation in Syria?"

  "Russian troops have captured more than half of the territory that was under Kurdish control. That includes most of the southern oilfields. We always knew the Kurds couldn't withstand overwhelming military force. Units of the SDF still combat effective are reforming and retreating to the Northeast. It's going to be tough for the Russians to get them out of there."

  "What are the Turks doing?"

  "They've established a large exclusion zone along the border. Turkish troops have stopped advancing for the moment, but Sevim may have intentions of going farther into Syrian territory. He truly hates the Kurds, and he's determined to kill as many of them as he can. The war has created a refugee crisis. Tens of thousands of people have been displaced by the Turkish and Russian advances."

  "Sevim needs to stop. Harold, I want to talk to him. Today. Set it up."

  "Yes, Mister President."

  "I want options. Walter, what's our best course of action, now that there's blood on the ground?"

  "Sir, Tarasov cannot be allowed to get away with murdering Americans. We need to send him a message."

  Kaplan spoke up. "It wasn't Tarasov that killed our people."

  "Not personally, but he's the one who sent troops to Syria in the first place. If they hadn't been there, our men would still be alive. That makes him responsible."

  "What kind of message would you send?" Campbell said.

  "One he understands, Mister President. Americans are dead because of his actions. He's crossed the line."

  "Are you suggesting a military response? I'm not going to countenance putting troops on the ground. In fact, I intend to pull out our advisors before anyone else gets killed."

  Kroger forced himself to remain silent.

  "Walter is right, Mister President," Kramer said. "A strong response of some kind is required. People are angry. They expect you to do something."

  "Sir," General Kroger said. "There might be a way to do it without inserting troops. A way to pressure Tarasov to withdraw."

  "I'm all ears, General."

  "So far he's had a free hand in Syria. He thinks you're weak, that you have no will to confront him in a meaningful way. He doesn't believe you are capable of ordering a firm response."

  Rebecca Kramer smiled to herself. Kroger had just told Campbell that Tarasov didn't respect him.

  Kroger continued. "We have to put pressure on him. Enough pressure so he realizes it's in his best interest to pull back."

  "How do you intend to do that without inserting troops?" Campbell asked.

  "We could use the Navy, sir, and we can do it without firing a shot," Kroger said.

  "You've lost me, General."

  "The Russians have only one warm water outlet that's open all year, from the Black Sea through the Bosporus Straits and the Dardanelles. I propose that we blockade the waterway on the Mediterranean side with the Sixth Fleet. It would bottle up most of the Russian Navy and put a stranglehold on commercial traffic. We let Tarasov know that unless he apologizes for the deaths of our people and pulls out of Syria, the blockade will continue."

  "Are you out of your mind, General?" Kaplan said. "Do you want to start a war? Tarasov will never accept that."

  "He doesn't want a war any more than we do. Tarasov knows it would be a mistake to try and break a blockade by our Navy."

  "You'll paint him into a corner. He has an election coming up. What makes you think he's going to let us humiliate him like that?"

  "I think Harold is right," Kramer said. "We would be backing Tarasov into a corner."

  Kaplan looked surprised. It was unusual for her to back him up.

  Kramer went on. "Perhaps we could give him an out."

  "Go on, Director," Campbell said.

  "The blockade is an excellent idea. But asking Tarasov to apologize publicly is too much. He's not the kind of man who will apologize for anything. We would be wise not to make that a condition of ending the blockade."

  "What about the oil? We can't let him sit on that."

  "I agree, Mister President, that's not negotiable. He has to withdraw from the fields. However, demanding that he leave Syria will not be acceptable to him or his generals. We could offer withdrawal to the way things were before he crossed the Euphrates."

  "Status quo ante?"

  Kramer nodded. "He keeps Syria as a client state. He keeps his bases and installations. Everything goes back as it was before."

  "What about our dead?" Covington asked.

  "The Russian military takes responsibility for a regrettable mistake and offers reparations. Something symbolic that doesn't involve Tarasov personally. Remember, eighteen Russian soldiers died as well. We all agree it was an accident of war. Regrettable, but not intentional."

  "I like it," Covington said.

  Kaplan shook his head.

  "You're talking as if this is a done deal. Mister President, this is a very dangerous plan. Establishing a blockade will be interpreted as an act of war. The Russians won't allow their fleet to be bottled up. We wouldn't allow such a thing, why would they? Most of their imported goods come through that waterway. Things are not good in Russia at the moment. Consumer goods are an important part of keeping the populace compliant. Tarasov can't afford any more public discontent than he already has."

  "All the more reason to proceed," Kroger said. "I do not believe the Russians will respond militarily to a blockade. If he attacks our ships it would mean war. We can turn Russia into a radioactive wasteland in twenty minutes, and Tarasov knows it. He wouldn't risk it."

  "What if you're wrong?" Kaplan said.

  "We have done an extensive, in-depth analysis of Tarasov's thinking," Kroger said. "I'm not wrong."

  Campbell stood to signal that the meeting was over. Everyone rose.

  "General Kroger, I will consider your proposal. Thank you all for your input. Harold, please stay behind."

  "Yes, sir."

  Covington walked part way down the hall with Kroger and Kramer.

  "I like your plan, General. Kaplan is afraid of his own shadow. Tarasov knows better than to take a shot at us. Syria's oil isn't worth it. He can save face by claiming he drove the Kurds out to support his ally. If Damascus can't take advantage of it, well that's their problem."

  "I appreciate your support, Walt."

  "Once this gets out, the president is going to be under a lot of pressure to respond. He'll do the right thing. Hopefully he'll have a day or two to think about it before it leaks."

  Don't count on it, Kramer thought.

  Chapter 24

  For decades, America had been known in Russia as the Main Enemy. The phrase had gone out of style for a while, but memories in Russia were long. Old habits died hard. News of the firefight between Russian and American troops sent a shockwave through the country. No one considered the possibility Russian troops might have fired first. Within hours of the news going public, a large, angry crowd had gathered in front of the American Embassy in Moscow to protest the U.S. presence in Syria.