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snapped.
    â€œYou are claiming the right of hot pursuit,” Sergei Tarzarov, his chief of staff, realized. “The right to chase criminals and terrorists across international borders.”
    The Russian president nodded smugly. “Exactly. The Americans have used this doctrine to excuse their intrusions into Mexico, Pakistan, and dozens of other weaker countries around the world. Now we shall apply their own legalistic reasoning against one of their own allies.”
    It was no surprise that thin, plain-looking Tarzarov was ahead of the others, Gryzlov thought. The shrewd old man had been a power inside the Kremlin for decades, first as an intelligence officer, then as minister of the interior, and now as his top aide. Rumor said that Tarzarov knew where all the bodies were buried in Russian politics. Other rumors, darker ones, said that was true because he’d buried most of them personally.
    â€œWe may have such a right in law,” Tarzarov cautioned. “But this situation could easily escalate.”
    â€œPerhaps,” Gryzlov agreed. He shrugged. “If so, we have sufficient force in hand to prevail in any localized conflict. And by the time larger Polish forces can intervene, our quick reaction force will be long gone.”
    He turned back to Titeneva. “Contact the Poles. Tell them what we’re doing. Make it clear that we are not asking for their permission, and that we expect their full cooperation in this matter.”
    â€œNo matter how it turns out, Warsaw will protest vigorously,” the foreign minister told him. Her dark eyes were troubled. “They will undoubtedly contact NATO and the European Union as well.”
    Gryzlov showed his teeth. “Oh, I hope the Poles do,” he said. “I would enjoy watching their new president squirm and wriggle while he whines about us going after terrorists operating from Polish soil!”

W EST B ANK OF THE B UG R IVER
    T HAT SAME TIME
    Captain Kiril Aristov waded the last few meters of the river with his assault rifle and equipment vest held high over his head. With water dripping from his soaked fatigues and boots, he came sloshing up onto the opposite bank and dropped to one knee. The rest of his commandos were close behind. Moving rapidly, they fanned out, forming a defensive perimeter around the crossing site.
    He unzipped the waterproof case containing his tablet computer and pulled up the map file Moscow had transmitted moments before they crossed the Bug. At first glance, this part of the west side of the Bug River seemed much like the Ukrainian side of the border, but that was deceptive. Beyond a narrow belt of pine trees and scraggly oaks, the countryside opened up into a mix of ponds, shallow streams, and flat meadows and pastureland.
    The lieutenants and senior sergeants who commanded his four ten-man teams formed a circle around him, watching closely while he sketched out their orders.
    â€œBerezin, Dobrynin, and Larionov, take your men and scout west,” Aristov said, tracing a line with his stylus. “My command group will follow you. Look for signs of foot or vehicle traffic. Stay sharp. The terrorists who hit Voronov and our guys might not be too far ahead. So get moving!”
    They nodded once and darted off, already waving their commandos into action. Soldiers bent low under the weight of their gear and weapons slipped off through the trees.
    Aristov turned to his remaining team leader. “Milekhin, split your section in two. Deploy them at the north and south edge of these woods. You’re my reserve and flank guard, clear?”
    â€œ Da, Captain!” the lieutenant said. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep everyone off your back.”
    Once the last of his troops were in motion, the Spetsnaz captainlooked for Chapayev. The veteran scout was squatting silently a few meters away, methodically checking over his rifle and equipment.
    He glanced up with a quick flash of tobacco-stained