He slammed the door closed just in time to block the airborne vodka bottle. He walked away to the sounds of shattering glass and the fading strains of "call Elena next time you're in port, you fat pig."

Five minutes later, Batsakov approached the quarterdeck of his freighter. The lights along the pier cast an eerie, pinkish glow on the concrete below.

A black panel truck was rolling up the pier. It stopped at the end of the catwalk and switched off its headlights. The doors opened, and four men, dressed in black, stepped into the night. They opened the back of the panel truck and removed a large wooden crate, which took all of them to handle.

As a fifth man started bounding up the catwalk to the ship, Batsakov motioned for his deckhands to head down to the pier to assist in getting the wooden crate out of the truck.

The trio of deckhands passed the figure coming up the catwalk, and less than a minute later, the fifth man reached the quarterdeck. "Permission to come aboard, Kapitan?" the man asked.

"You must be Abramakov."

"My papers, Kapitan." The black-haired, scruffy-bearded stranger handed a manila envelope to Batsakov. "Mind if I borrow a cigarette while you check me out?"

"No problem." Batsakov glanced at the papers under the quarterdeck lights while holding the cigarette pack in the direction of the stranger. "Looks in order." Batsakov returned the identification papers.

"And my colleagues asked me to give you this." Abramakov handed the captain a second envelope.

"For the love of Lenin!" Batsakov's eyes widened at the envelope full of hundred-dollar bills.

"This is nothing compared to what has been wired to your Bahamian account, Kapitan, or what you will receive upon completion of your mission. This is but a small departure bonus of ten thousand dollars cash as a token of our appreciation." Abramakov sucked in on his cigarette and blew his smoke off to the side. "There is one other thing, " Abramakov said. "Read this." He handed yet another envelope to Batsa-kov, who studied the paper.

Dear Kapitan Batsakov,

The cargo that you will be carrying is important to the future of the world. You will take it on board at Sochi, and then you will proceed under normal circumstances to set sail in the Black Sea. You will sail to a rendezvous point located at 30 degrees east longitude and 43 degrees north latitude, where you will rendezvous with another civilian vessel of Egyptian registry, whose name is withheld for security reasons.

When you reach the rendezvous point, the cargo will be transferred to the Egyptian ship. Codename for the transfer is "Peter the Great." You will be hailed on international frequencies by the approaching Egyptian vessel, and you will accept transfer instructions from the Egyptian captain.

Upon the safe transfer of the cargo at the coordinates as set forth herein, the remaining half of your fee shall be transferred to the account you have designated, and your duties for this mission shall be discharged.

Thank you for the opportunity to do business with you.

For security reasons, the author of this directive must remain anonymous.

"Well, well." Batsakov folded the directive and stuck it on the inside of his pea coat. "An intervessel transfer on the high seas." A drag from his cigarette. "Brings back fond memories of my days in the Soviet navy."

"We hoped you would view these orders with fondness, comrade." Abramakov flicked his cigarette. "Now then, Kapitan, there is this matter of bringing the cargo aboard your vessel."

"Would you like a crane to lift it aboard?"

"No." Abramakov lit another cigarette. "That would cause too much attention. My men can bring it up the catwalk. We will store it below decks wherever you direct us, but we will need a dry compartment."

Batsakov studied Abramakov's beady eyes. Abramakov looked Slavic, unlike the crazy-looking Middle Easterner who worked for the organization that had hired him to transport a woman prisoner from France to Sochi.

This fellow had Russian roots. Perhaps he could strike a rapport here – a rapport that could lead to repeated business. "I suppose, my friend, it does me no good to ask what you are bringing aboard my ship?"

Abramakov laughed. "Think of it as gold, Kapitan. The contents of this crate have made you a rich man. Beyond that, there is no need for you to know. Understood?"

Batsakov smiled. Abramakov was right; already the money transferred to his Bahamian bank account had made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. If he could keep dealing with these people – whoever they were – soon he could afford to buy his own fleet of ships.

"Understood, my friend. I will assign somone to find a suitable place for the cargo."

"Spaceeba, Kapitan." Abramakov turned, stepped to the side of the ship, and motioned at the men still standing by the van down below.

Four men dressed in black, like pall bearers carrying an oversized casket, lugged a large, rectangular plywood box across the transom and onto the deck of the Alexander Popovich. Captain Batsakov gave a few signals to his deckhands, and the wooden crate disappeared below deck.

Office of the president of the Russian Republic Staraya Square, Moscow

What do you mean it just disappeared?" The president of the Russian Republic stood, slamming his fist on the large wooden desk. Russia had come so far under his leadership. With America's falling stature around the globe as a result of her military intervention in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other hotspots, the world had become hungry for leadership from another superpower.

And this had been his dream: to restore Russia to her days of unparalleled glory, to the days when she stood as a great world superpower in the wake of the Great War, when she commanded the republics of the great Soviet Union, when her name commanded fear and respect in every corner of the globe. President Vitaly Evtimov was the man for this glorious task. He was the youngest Russian president since Putin. The Western press had called him charismatic, and some had referred to him even as "the Russian JFK."

And now he was at the right place in the right time. Until this. This. The inability to track and contain weapons-grade nuclear fuel could prove to be the type of international embarrassment that would derail his noble and grandiose plans for the motherland.

"Weapons-grade plutonium does not just disappear into the Caucasus mountains!"

Evtimov flung a stack of memoranda out towards the members of the Russian National Security counsel who were present at this hastily called emergency meeting. "I have three dead members of the Russian Federal Army, and more than enough nuclear fuel missing to vaporize the entire city of Moscow!"

"Please, Comrade President, " pleaded the minister of defense, a balding, stout man with a ruddy nose. "Please calm down."

"How dare you lecture me about calming down, Giorgy Alexeevich!" Evtimov glared at his defense minister. "How can I remain calm when the army over which I place you in charge cannot muster enough riflemen to guard a shipment of volatile nuclear fuel?"

"Comrade President." The president's chief of staff, Sergey Semyon-ovich Sobyanin, spoke in a calm voice. "With all due respect, sir, Giorgy Alexeevich's army took security precautions which exceed those often taken by the Americans."

"I do not follow you, Sergey Semyonovich."

"The Americans and the British transport nuclear materials all the time, often on civilian trucks down their interstates or in boxcars on their trains. Often, Comrade President, these materials are not even guarded. In fact, their own Department of Energy has admitted that the Americans sometimes haul not just nuclear fuel, but nuclear weapons in eighteen-wheel trucks up and down their interstates! These weapons are usually accompanied only by specially trained federal agents. At least in this instance our Army had three armed guards."