Radiant Angel

Chapter sixteen

As the last of the twilight disappeared on the western horizon, the amphibious craft carrying Vasily Petrov, Viktor Gorsky, and Dr. Arkady Urmanov approached a long white yacht sitting at anchor in international waters, twelve nautical miles off the coast of Southampton.

The yacht was named Hana, which Petrov knew meant “happiness” in Arabic. Happiness will be at planned time and place.

The yacht’s portholes and decks were aglow, and Petrov noticed a green-and-white flag flying from the stern, which he knew was not a national flag, but the personal ensign of His Royal Highness, Prince Ali Faisel of Saudi Arabia.

The helmsman brought the amphibious craft around to the starboard side of the two-hundred-and-twenty-foot super yacht, and the twelve ladies onboard became excited as they realized this was where they were heading. Several of them stood, and the second crewman motioned them to sit.

Petrov said to the ladies in Russian, “If you fall overboard, we will not rescue you.”

The ladies laughed, and Petrov smiled.

Viktor Gorsky, the SVR assassin, snapped, “Sit!”

The ladies sat.

Petrov looked at Urmanov sitting across from him. The man seemed far away, and Petrov said to him, “Doctor, is your mind working on mathematical formulas? Or are you seasick?”

Urmanov looked at his compatriot, but did not reply.

Petrov was annoyed with the man, and more annoyed at the GRU idiots who had chosen Urmanov for this mission. Urmanov was becoming a problem as he understood the reality of what he had agreed to do.

The amphibious craft continued on a course toward the starboard side of the yacht, and as they drew closer Petrov could see a large door in the hull partly below the waterline — what was called a shell door — about fifteen meters from the stern.

As the amphibious craft approached, the door began to open upward, letting the sea into the hull.

This, Petrov had been told, was a unique feature of this ship. Most garage doors were above the waterline, and the tender craft was pulled into the ship’s garage by means of a ramp and a winch. But the Italian shipbuilders who had designed The Hana had devised a float-in dock for the prince so that the garage could be flooded and a small craft could sail directly in and out of the hull without the delay or discomfort of a ramp and winch. Wonderful engineering, Petrov thought, and as it turned out this special feature solved one of his and Moscow’s problems — the problem of how to mask the radiation of the nuclear device that would later come onboard The Hana. The device had a lead radiation shield that had once been sufficient, but no longer was because of the more sophisticated American radiation detectors now in use. Thousands of liters of water, however, along with the lead shield, would ensure that the American radiation detectors in New York Harbor would stay dark and silent.

In fact, the greatest fear of the American nuclear security forces was something like this — an explosive nuclear device attached underwater on the hull of a ship coming into an American port. Well, Petrov thought, the Americans’ worst fears were about to be realized, though this nuclear device would not be attached to the outside hull of the ship where the Americans had sonar devices to detect unusual shapes on the hull; this nuclear device would be submerged inside the flooded watertight compartment of The Hana where it would be undetectable.

Petrov exchanged glances with Gorsky and they both nodded.

The helmsman pointed his bow at the open door, then cut the throttles as the craft slipped through the opening into the flooded garage. There was a dock on either side of the garage and the helmsman steered to the one toward the stern where deckhands awaited them. The opposite dock was empty, Petrov noted, but not for long. Tonight, another small craft, a lifeboat, would be arriving from a Russian fishing trawler — the fish is swimming — and that fishing trawler would deliver a small package of death, no larger than a steamer trunk, but with enough atomic energy inside it to level Lower Manhattan.

Petrov looked at Dr. Urmanov, who had been given very few details of the operation, but who knew that the device would be arriving and that his job was to ensure that it was operational and armed. Urmanov had actually designed these miniature nuclear weapons — what the Americans called suitcase nukes — in the 1970s, and they had worked perfectly in tests when new. But they were complex and temperamental, and they needed periodic maintenance and a technician to properly arm them — or the inventor himself, if a major problem was discovered. The device that was to be delivered to the yacht, Petrov knew, would yield ten to twelve kilotons of atomic energy. Petrov would have liked a bigger device, but twelve kilotons was the limit of these miniaturized devices that were designed to be small, relatively light, self-contained, and easily transported — like a steamer trunk, perfect to take aboard a ship or plane. Petrov smiled.

Suddenly a set of underwater lights came on, creating a dramatic effect that excited the ladies, and one of them exclaimed, “Just like in a James Bond movie!”

Yes, Petrov thought, just like in a James Bond movie, and the second act would be even more dramatic.

A deckhand tossed a line to the crewman in the amphibious craft, and he secured the boat as the shell door was closing, keeping out the sea.

The ladies, carrying their beach bags, were helped onto the polished wood dock. They seemed happy and excited as they looked around the well-appointed reception area that opened onto the stern, where a swimming platform was located behind plate-glass doors.

One of the ladies called out, “Viktor! Give us our phones so we can take photos!”

Gorsky tapped his overnight bag, which contained not their phones — he had dropped them overboard — but his weapons, which the ladies would see soon enough. He replied, “There will be time enough to take photos — if you behave!”

“You are a hard man, Viktor.”

Indeed.

Petrov, Gorsky, and Urmanov stepped onto the dock unassisted, carrying their bags, and Petrov looked again at the empty dock across the flooded garage. The lifeboat that would arrive from the Russian fishing trawler would be driven by The Hana’s new captain, known to Petrov only as Gleb. Gleb had studied the plans and operational specifications of The Hana, and he had actually spent a few hours aboard the Saudi yacht in Monte Carlo some months before at the kind invitation of The Hana’s captain, an Englishman named Wells, who didn’t know that his Russian guest would one day take his place as captain of the prince’s yacht.

Petrov had never met Gleb, and Gleb wasn’t an SVR agent — he was a former cargo ship officer. But he had worked for the SVR before and Moscow said he could be trusted to do what he was told and to keep his mouth shut. Otherwise, Captain Gleb would share the same fate as Dr. Urmanov, who would not be leaving this ship.

Gleb had assured his SVR employers in Moscow that he could sail The Hana by himself, and that he could navigate into New York Harbor without a pilot and anchor off the tip of Manhattan Island. Once they were anchored, sometime before dawn, as the clock was ticking on the nuclear device, Petrov and Gorsky, with Gleb at the helm, would sail The Hana’s amphibious craft — which had no markings to connect it to The Hana — to a pier in Brooklyn that was unused while it was being rebuilt. On an adjacent city street was a parked Ford Mustang — the horse waits — to which Petrov had the keys. He, Gorsky, and Gleb would drive to Kennedy Airport and, using false passports, they would board a private jet — the bird will fly — that would take them to Moscow. And while they were all having breakfast aboard the aircraft, at 8:46 A.M. — the same time as the first hijacked aircraft had hit the North Tower on September 11 — the southern tip of Manhattan Island would be engulfed in a nuclear fireball whose source would be the Saudi prince’s yacht.

Yes, Petrov thought, it was a very good plan, and though he wished the kilotonnage was larger, it was large enough to kill a few hundred thousand people and cause a multitrillion-dollar crash on Wall Street. He thought of something his father had said to him: “Victory is measured not by the number killed, but by the number frightened.” And that number would be three hundred million people.

Petrov watched as a deckhand standing on a catwalk that connected the two docks hit a switch and the water in the flooded garage began to drop. He had been told that The Hana’s high-powered pumps could empty seven thousand liters of water a minute from the garage compartment. More importantly, The Hana was rated as seaworthy even with the garage compartment flooded, which it would be as it sailed to New York Harbor with the nuclear device submerged in a hundred thousand liters of water.

The water in the garage compartment was nearly gone and the amphibious craft settled into its hull chocks. Sailing The Hana’s amphibious craft out of this garage without the assistance of deckhands, Petrov knew, would be a bit more difficult than arriving. But Gleb had assured the planners in Moscow that this would not be a problem. And Petrov hoped that was true — he didn’t want to be trapped onboard The Hana as the clock ticked down.

Suicide missions, he knew, were much more likely to succeed than missions that included an escape. This was not a suicide mission, though it could become one. The important thing was that the nuclear device detonate in New York Harbor, destroying not only Lower Manhattan but also destroying all evidence of Russian involvement in the attack, which was obviously perpetrated by the Saudi prince.

Petrov looked at Gorsky, who he knew was also thinking about some of this. Gorsky was good at two things — killing people and living to kill another day. Petrov was glad he had chosen his former Chechen War assassin for this mission.

Petrov and Gorsky exchanged nods, then turned their attention to their surroundings. Two staircases, port and starboard, rose to the upper decks, and two deckhands were leading the ladies up the stairs.

A gray-bearded man in full white uniform appeared and said to the three Russians in British-accented English, “Welcome aboard The Hana, gentlemen. I am Captain Wells and I bring you greetings from His Highness.”

Petrov replied, “Thank you, Captain.”

“The prince will welcome you himself, in the salon, within the half hour. Meanwhile, a steward will show you to your staterooms, where you can freshen up.” Captain Wells looked at his new arrivals, expecting perhaps that being Russian they’d been drinking, and he advised them, “Please be punctual.”

Petrov replied, “We will not keep the prince waiting.”

Captain Wells nodded and motioned to a steward to take the overnight bags, but Petrov said, “We will take these directly to the salon.” He explained, “They contain gifts for the prince.”

“As you wish.”

Captain Wells was about to take his leave of the Russians, but he felt he should further advise the prince’s guests, “You are responsible for the conduct of your ladies.”

It was Gorsky who replied curtly, “And you, Captain, are not.”

Petrov admonished in Russian, “Be courteous, Viktor.” He wanted to remind Gorsky that he needed to gain the captain’s trust and goodwill so he could easily kill him later — but Dr. Urmanov would not want to hear that, so Petrov said to his assassin, “Save your rudeness for later.”

Gorsky smiled.

Captain Wells stared at Viktor Gorsky and thought to himself that the man looked like a thug, though he supposed that all Russian oil men looked like thugs.

Captain Wells said, “Good day,” turned and left.

The steward said he would show them to their staterooms, but Petrov told him to lead them directly to the salon and that they would carry their own bags.

On the way up the staircase to the salon deck, Petrov remarked to Gorsky and Urmanov, in Russian, “I think we are in the wrong business, gentlemen. The real money is in oil, not nuclear energy.”

Gorsky laughed.

Urmanov did not.

Chapter seventeen

The Hana was underway again, heading west toward New York City.

Colonel Vasily Petrov stood in the yacht’s long salon, waiting for the prince to welcome him and his Russian guests aboard.

The salon, Petrov thought, looked as outlandish as the photos he’d seen of it: gilded chandeliers, gold-brocaded furniture, and a floor covered with garish oriental rugs. The walls and ceiling were draped with loose folds of white silk to replicate a tent, a nostalgic reminder, perhaps, of the royal family’s nomadic origins. All that was missing was a camel.

A dark-skinned steward offered Petrov, Gorsky, and Urmanov refreshments, but they declined and the young man bowed and left.

Petrov glanced at the three overnight bags that sat on an ottoman and that held his and Gorsky’s MP5 submachine guns with silencers and also their Makarov handguns. The satchel that had arrived Wednesday in the diplomatic pouch from Moscow had been sent by courier to Tamorov’s house, along with a verbal message telling Mr. Tamorov to put the satchel in Colonel Petrov’s guestroom. Urmanov’s overnight bag contained the tool kit and also the third handgun from the satchel, though he’d be surprised to discover the gun didn’t work.

Petrov opened a door and stepped out to the side balcony. On the lighted main deck below, his twelve ladies had made themselves at home in the upholstered swivel chairs, and a steward was serving them champagne while they smoked. There was a spa pool on the deck, and one of the ladies took off her cover-up and lowered herself into it. The women all looked happy, Petrov thought, and it made him feel better knowing they would leave this life in such luxury.

Petrov looked at the girl named Tasha. A beautiful woman, and perhaps brighter than the rest. Certainly she was the most spirited, and under other circumstances he would have had her for himself, though by choosing her to come with him he had chosen her for death. And he had done this because she had been speaking to the tall caterer, Depp, who seemed out of place among the others, and she had possibly given this man her phone number, which was not allowed.

Gorsky joined Petrov, who commented, “There seems to be alcohol aboard this Islamic vessel, Viktor.”

Gorsky laughed and added, “And scantily clad prostitutes.”

“We are far from Mecca,” Petrov observed, and they both laughed.

Petrov looked up at the top deck where the ship’s bridge sat, and where Captain Wells was in command. Petrov said, “It tells you something, Viktor, when these Arabs don’t trust their own countrymen to steer a modern ship.”

Gorsky readily agreed. “If not for their oil, they would still be living in tents. Now they decorate their yachts like tents.”

Petrov smiled and said, “The only use for these people is to make them pawns in the game against the West.” He added, “And in this case, to help them become better terrorists.”

Gorsky understood Petrov’s contempt for the Arabs and Muslims in general. But Petrov’s contempt, Gorsky knew, masked his grudging respect for the jihadists and mujahideen whom they had both fought in Chechnya and elsewhere, and whom Petrov’s father had fought in Afghanistan.

Petrov looked at his watch. “We will soon have Captain Gleb at the helm.”

Gorsky nodded, glad that Colonel Petrov was so confident in this plan. Gorsky thought the plan depended on too many unknown and variable factors, but he had worked with Colonel Petrov for many years, and he had seen how the colonel, through sheer will, intellect, and courage, made everything go well for himself and for their country. Petrov had always said, “Believe in yourself and believe in the cause of a new Russian Empire. The Islamists believe in their god, and that makes them dangerous, but not always competent. The Americans believe in their superiority, but they have no goal other than to remain at the top. And both sides are obsessed with the other, so when all is said and done it will be Russia that will stand on the corpses of Islam and the West. History is on our side.”

And, thought Gorsky, Colonel Petrov had no goal other than to please his father, and to be promoted to his father’s rank of general. As for the new Russian Empire, Gorsky didn’t know how much Petrov believed in that, but Colonel Petrov believed in himself, and that made working with him easier than working with a man who believed in a cause or a god.

Petrov returned to the salon and Gorsky followed.

A steward dressed in traditional Arab garb stood at the aft door of the salon, then, as if he’d received a signal, he opened the door and announced in English, “His Royal Highness, Prince Ali Faisel.”

Urmanov rose to his feet and faced the door. Petrov and Gorsky, too, turned toward the doorway.

The prince entered, and the three Russians made a half bow.

Ali Faisel, wearing khaki trousers and a white polo shirt, strode directly across the salon to Colonel Petrov and, smiling, extended his hand and said in English, “Welcome aboard The Hana, Colonel.”

They shook hands and Petrov replied, “Thank you, Your Highness, for receiving us.”

“Yes, but we are friends, so please call me Ali.”

Petrov nodded. In fact, they were not friends, but they had been introduced by Georgi Tamorov some months before at a U.N. reception, where Colonel Petrov had suggested a more private meeting with His Highness at some future time to discuss a common problem — Islamic radicals. Those radicals within the Russian Federation were fighting wars of independence to become free of Russia; those within the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia wanted nothing less than the end of the monarchy, which they saw as decadent and corrupt, to be replaced by a more pure Islamic state. It was ironic, Petrov thought, that their two countries, with nothing in common, shared a common enemy, and that the enemy was Islam.

Petrov had let the prince know at the U.N. reception that he, Vasily Petrov, had come upon some interesting information in Chechnya that the royal family would find useful in their fight against their internal enemies. Petrov had also hinted that he and the prince could discuss another common problem — the price of crude oil, which both countries would like to see rise a few dollars a barrel. Petrov had mentioned their mutual friend, Georgi Tamorov, in this regard, and the prince seemed interested and agreed to meet privately to discuss these matters. Petrov had suggested the prince’s yacht, away from prying eyes and ears, and he had also suggested that he could provide some female dinner companions and perhaps something stronger than alcohol. The prince had nodded his assent, and they had both agreed to keep this to themselves.

Ten years ago, Petrov knew, this meeting would have been unlikely. Russia had been broken, chaos ruled, and the people’s spirit was crushed. Now, under Vladimir Putin, the humiliation of defeat was being replaced by a new spirit of confidence, and Russia was again taking its rightful place in the world. And thus the Saudis, the Americans, the Europeans, the Chinese, and others were happy and honored to meet with the Russians to discuss the evolving world order.

Petrov had also told the prince that he would like to bring two colleagues with him to brief His Highness, and the prince agreed and asked for their names, as Petrov knew he would. It had been decided in Moscow that Petrov would stay close to the verifiable truth, so Petrov had given the prince Gorsky’s name, and he now said to the prince, “This is Mr. Viktor Gorsky, who I told you about. My assistant in the Human Rights office.”

The prince had, of course, inquired about Viktor Gorsky, and he was happy that the SVR officer had diplomatic status.

As for Dr. Arkady Urmanov, nuclear physicist, the SVR had transformed him into Mr. Pavel Fradkov of the GRU — Russian Military Intelligence — and Petrov introduced him as such and added, “Mr. Fradkov also works with me in Human Rights, as you may know, and he, too, enjoys diplomatic status, as does his highness.” He added, smiling, “So we are all U.N. diplomats, here to discuss world peace and understanding.”

The prince returned the smile and invited his Russian guests to sit, and they all made themselves comfortable around an ivory-inlaid coffee table. The prince said, “Dinner will be served within the hour. But perhaps you would enjoy some aperitifs.”

Petrov replied, “Just water, please.”

The prince said something to the steward, who left the salon.

Petrov looked at his host. Ali Faisel was thirty-one years old according to the SVR biography, with typical Saudi features, including a pronounced nose, which Petrov imagined was a result of royal inbreeding, and Petrov suspected that his royal host was not particularly bright. But Ali Faisel was ambitious, and according to the SVR profile on him, this young prince strove to stand out among the numerous princes in his kingdom. Petrov didn’t know why this was so, and he didn’t care; but it did make the young idiot open to the suggestion that they should discuss important matters. If the truth be known, the prince’s best qualification for this meeting — aside from his gullibility — was that he owned a yacht that sailed regularly to New York City.

Two stewards brought bottled water, sparkling and still, in ice buckets, with lemon and lime wedges, along with crystal glasses that bore the royal emblem.

The prince apologized. “No Russian mineral water, I’m afraid. But will you have French?”

Petrov replied, “We will pretend it is champagne.”

Everyone laughed politely at the bad joke.

The steward poured sparkling water for everyone and Colonel Petrov toasted, “To His Royal Highness, the prince, and to his uncle, the king, and to the future cooperation of our two great nations.”

Everyone clinked glasses, and the prince added, “And to your president.” Everyone drank.

Despite the congeniality, Petrov knew that the prince might have some misgivings about Colonel Petrov of the SVR. For one thing, he, Petrov, had killed many Muslim Chechens, and his father had also killed many of the prince’s coreligionists in Afghanistan. But at the U.N. reception, Petrov made it clear that he had no animosity toward Islam, only toward Islamic extremists who were the enemies of both their countries.

And of course, the subject of the Americans had come up, and both men agreed that America, along with Israel, was the cause of much of the unrest in the Middle East. The prince further agreed that the Saudi and American alliance mostly benefited the Americans and the Jews, and needed to be reevaluated, and Colonel Petrov had promised to share with the prince the SVR’s thinking on this subject.

In fact, the prince, though he didn’t know it, would be an important player in this reevaluation when The Hana sailed into New York Harbor and the nuclear device onboard detonated, thus ending the Saudi-American alliance, which was already strained because of the fifteen Saudis who had taken part in the 9/11 attack.

Also, as Petrov knew, Prince Ali Faisel and the monarchy were playing a double game and had given great sums of money to the madrassas — the Islamic fundamentalist schools throughout the Mideast — and this annoyed the Americans, though they were powerless to end this Saudi policy. Thus, when The Hana became a weapon of mass destruction, the American government and people would have no difficulty believing that a Saudi prince had obtained a Soviet miniature nuclear weapon on the black market, which Petrov knew were available for the princely sum of a million dollars a kiloton. And the Americans would also have no trouble believing that Prince Ali Faisel, nephew of the king, had become a jihadist and martyr for Islam. Perhaps the Americans would even retaliate with a nuclear weapon of their own.

Petrov delighted in the dual benefit of this plan, which was first suggested by his father. “In a microsecond of nuclear fission,” said the general, “the Americans and the Saudis will be split like the atom and both will be badly wounded in the same explosion.”

The prince, Petrov recalled, had been flattered to be asked to a secret meeting, though in reality, Prince Ali Faisel had no power; he was, in fact, a decadent royal, a playboy, and a dilettante, playing at U.N. diplomacy. It was ironic that when the nuclear device onboard The Hana destroyed Lower Manhattan, this wastrel would be hailed by many of his coreligionists as a nuclear suicide bomber, and given more credit than he was ever worth while alive.

Petrov smiled at the prince. “This is a beautiful ship.”

“Thank you.” The prince informed his guests, “I designed the interior finishings myself.”

“You have excellent taste.”

Petrov glanced at Gorsky, who understood he needed to say something, and Gorsky said, “Very beautiful.”

Petrov knew that Viktor Gorsky made some people uncomfortable. Gorsky looked like what he was — a killer. And he did nothing to soften his demeanor, which annoyed Petrov. But the man was good at what he did, and as far as Gorsky was concerned there was no reason to be polite to someone you were going to kill within the hour.

Petrov looked at Urmanov, who seemed to be lost in thought, though Petrov knew he was in a nervous state. This man engineered nuclear weapons, Petrov thought, designed to kill millions of people, but Urmanov would be sick at the sight of blood.

Petrov knew, of course, that Urmanov had not volunteered for this mission, but the SVR had presented Dr. Urmanov with two choices, as they were good at doing, and Arkady Urmanov had taken the better of the two bad choices.

Also, though Urmanov had not been fully informed of the operational aspects of the mission, he must have known that everyone on this yacht would be dead before too long — everyone, except, of course, Colonel Petrov, Viktor Gorsky, the Russian sea captain, and himself. Though if Dr. Urmanov believed that about himself, he was mistaken.

Petrov said to the prince, “Forgive Mr. Fradkov for his silence. His English is not very good.”

The prince nodded, perhaps wondering how this Russian Military Intelligence officer was going to brief him or how he could do his job in America with poor English.

The prince asked Petrov, “How was your voyage to The Hana?”

Petrov smiled. “The ladies enjoyed it.”

“Good.” He informed his guests, “Hana is Arabic for ‘happiness.’ ”

Petrov replied, “Yes, and an appropriate name.”

“Also, it is the name of my wife.”

Gorsky asked, “Which one?”

The prince looked at him, then replied, “My first wife, of course.” He joked, “Now my other wives want yachts named after them.”

Gorsky did not smile, and the prince turned away from him and asked Petrov, “And how was your party at Mr. Tamorov’s house?”

“Very enjoyable. He sends his regards and looks forward to seeing you at his home in the city on Wednesday.”

“I, too, look forward to seeing him again.”

Actually, Petrov thought, Georgi Tamorov knew nothing about a meeting with the prince, nor did Tamorov even know that he, Petrov, was on the prince’s yacht. The less Tamorov knew, the better. And if Tamorov suspected that there was a connection between Vasily Petrov and the nuclear explosion in New York Harbor, he would keep that thought to himself. Russia had changed, but the KGB had changed only its name, not its DNA, and even rich oligarchs understood that.

Petrov glanced at his watch, and knowing that dinner would be served shortly, he needed to get to the real business at hand, which was planning how to kill everyone aboard The Hana. He asked his host, “And who will be joining us for dinner?”

The prince replied, “I have six other guests onboard, four of whom are my countrymen who I will introduce at dinner. Two are businessmen from China.” He added, “Unfortunately, their English is not good.”

Petrov joked, “Seat them with Mr. Fradkov,” and everyone laughed, except Arkady Urmanov.

The prince assured his Russian guests, “As Colonel Petrov requested, I have not mentioned any of you by name, and I will introduce you all by first name only, and as Russian petroleum executives who are my overnight guests until we dock in New York.”

Petrov nodded, thinking that His Highness was enjoying this game of secret diplomacy. He inquired, “Will Captain Wells or the other officers be dining with us?”

“No. They will dine elsewhere.”

“And the ladies?”

“I have arranged a buffet for them here in the salon.” He added, “After dinner perhaps we can all gather here for some... relaxation.”

Petrov nodded as his eyes scanned the long salon, trying to work out the details of shooting the prostitutes in the large room. Perhaps he would leave that to Gorsky, who he noticed was also interested in the room.

He and Gorsky had studied the deck plans of The Hana and he was certain they both knew the layout of the large ship well enough to finish their business before anyone could sound the alarm or try to abandon ship or offer armed resistance.

On that subject, Petrov’s next question had to be asked in a way that did not seem too inquisitive or unusual. He looked at the prince and said, “I am assuming you have security onboard.”

The prince made eye contact with Petrov, then replied, “Captain Wells has a rifle and a handgun, though he keeps them locked and hidden.” He added, “We are better armed when we sail in pirate-infested waters, but guns are a problem with American Customs if they come aboard.”

Petrov commented, “There are three hundred million guns in America, so I never understood why an honest man could not bring a few more into the country for protection.”

The prince had no reply to that, but offered, “One of my stewards, Karim — the one in traditional dress — is my personal bodyguard.” He added, “For when we are ashore.” He smiled. “I hope I don’t need a bodyguard here.”

Petrov returned the smile and considered his next inquiry, then said, “I hope my large group did not put an undue burden on your staff and crew.”

The prince assured him, “I have seven hardworking Somali stewards, and my French chef, André, has four good kitchen staff who are all Eastern European and they are used to long hours and hard work.” He smiled. “The Saudis, I am afraid, have gotten soft and lazy.”

As has His Highness, Petrov thought. He observed, “You have a veritable United Nations onboard.” He pointed out, “A British captain, a...”

“An Irish first mate, and two Italian officers — the engineer and the navigator.” The prince added, “And seven deckhands from all over the world.”

Those numbers agreed with the information that Petrov had been given, and he commented, “A Tower of Babel.”

The prince assured his guests, “The common language — the language of the sea — is English. So you will have no difficulties in communicating with anyone.” He added, “All crew and staff are sworn to secrecy.” He joked, “What happens aboard The Hana, stays aboard The Hana.”

“Indeed,” said Petrov as he tallied the number of guests, staff, and crew whom he and Gorsky needed to locate and eliminate.

Petrov and the prince made small talk for a few minutes, while Gorsky and Urmanov stayed silent and sipped their water.

The prince cleared his throat and said, “As for the ladies...”

Petrov assured him, “They are compliant, professional, and discreet.” He suggested, “Your Highness should choose his companion first. Or perhaps two companions. Then we should let nature take its course.”

The prince nodded, and his eyes moved toward the three overnight bags.

Petrov further assured him, “We have brought something for every taste.”

Again, the prince nodded, then informed his guests, “We will soon stop the ship and spend the night at anchor, then in the morning perhaps you three gentlemen will join me in my stateroom for breakfast and conversation as we set sail for New York.” He inquired, “Will that suit you?”

“That is a good plan,” Petrov replied, though he had a better one. He asked, “Will we have any difficulties or delays getting into New York Harbor?” He explained, “I have a lunch engagement in the city.”

The prince assured him, “We were cleared at Ambrose Buoy when we first arrived on Saturday, and when Captain Wells requested permission for an overnight cruise this morning, he stated that we were not leaving American waters, so there will be no further security check at Ambrose when we return. Captain Wells also assures me he can navigate to Pier 11 without waiting for a harbor pilot. So it will go quickly.” He added, “And most likely there will not be another Customs boarding when we re-dock at Pier 11.”

“Good,” said Petrov, though it would not be Captain Wells who would be steering The Hana. And The Hana would not be docking at Pier 11.

The important thing, Petrov knew, was that The Hana had been previously cleared at Ambrose Buoy to enter the harbor and would not be subject to another security check. Also, The Hana was logged into the Coast Guard’s Automatic Identification System and would not be challenged to identify itself. This practice of extending some courtesies of the sea to private pleasure craft, especially those from friendly countries, was an American security lapse and also an opportunity that the SVR had discovered and exploited.

So this was all going as planned, Petrov thought, though the prince didn’t know that he had aided the plan by taking Petrov’s suggestion that they rendezvous in Southampton, away from New York City and the embassy watchers. Now getting back into New York Harbor would not present any problems for The Hana — only for the City of New York.

The prince said to Petrov, “I assume everyone’s papers are in order so that you and your female companions can disembark and pass through Immigration and Customs.”

Petrov replied, “Of course.” He joked, “The ladies, too, have diplomatic passports.”

The prince smiled, but Petrov saw that his highness seemed concerned about twelve scantily clad prostitutes leaving his yacht at Pier 11. Plus, of course, neither the ladies nor the three Russian men had been on The Hana’s original manifest. And in truth, this could be a problem, except that The Hana would turn into a nuclear fireball as it lay at anchor in the harbor, which eliminated the prince’s problem.

The prince was looking at Petrov, and Petrov assured him, “We will be met at the pier by a high-ranking consulate officer of the Russian Federation.” He added, “There will be no difficulties.”

The prince nodded, then suggested, “Perhaps you would like to freshen up.” He stood and his guests did as well. The prince said, “The steward will show you to your staterooms.” He glanced at his watch, which Petrov noticed was a diamond-encrusted Rolex, and informed his guests, “We will have cocktails in the dining room in half an hour.” He further advised his guests, “Dress is casual. Come as you are.”

As the prince turned to leave, Petrov made a half bow, as did Urmanov, but Gorsky did not, and he watched the prince leave, then said, to no one in particular, “The world will be a better place without him.”

Petrov admonished, “Be a good guest, Viktor. It is no fault of his that he was born royal, rich, and Muslim.”

Gorsky smiled. “At least our oligarchs work hard to steal their money.”

Petrov smiled, too, then looked at Dr. Urmanov, who was not smiling, and wondered if he knew he was a dead man.

Moscow’s plan had been to deliver Dr. Urmanov to The Hana via the Russian fishing trawler along with Captain Gleb and the nuclear device. But Petrov had insisted that Urmanov be under his control in New York, so that he, Petrov, could evaluate the man and reject him if there seemed to be a question of his willingness to arm the device. Well, Petrov thought, Dr. Urmanov was willing, or he wouldn’t have come this far. Also, the promised two million Swiss francs was a good incentive. Siberian exile was an even better incentive.

Petrov recalled that Moscow had been concerned about slipping Urmanov into America under an alias as a U.N. diplomat. But it had been done before, always successfully, and the SVR assured the Kremlin that no one in the American State Department Intelligence office would discover the true identity of this obscure retired physicist during the diplomatic vetting process.

And so, he, Petrov, had gotten his way, and he and Gorsky had taken the opportunity in New York to question Urmanov about the nuclear device and about all the steps necessary to correct any problems that might arise during the arming sequence. In any case, Petrov and Gorsky each had the device’s access code and Petrov would actually arm the device himself and set the timer. Dr. Urmanov was necessary only if there was a technical problem. And if the timer clock didn’t function, the device had been fitted with a radio signal detonator — a suicide trigger — which Petrov was prepared to use.

One way or the other, Petrov thought, New York would have the dubious distinction of being only the third city in the world destroyed by a nuclear weapon. The Manhattan Project was coming home.

Chapter eighteen

Viktor Gorsky went to Colonel Petrov’s stateroom with his overnight bag, which he opened, spreading out the deck plans of The Hana on the bed. They had not overplanned this part of the operation, agreeing to wait and see what they found aboard the yacht. Overplanning, as they both knew, left little room for initiative and instinct. But now that they were here, Petrov and Gorsky discussed the most effective method of killing the crew of more than twenty men, as well as the six guests and their host, and also the twelve prostitutes.

They agreed that Gorsky would start on the bridge to be certain no radio message would be sent as the killings proceeded. Petrov said, “Be careful not to damage any instruments or controls.”

“Of course.”

Petrov continued, “Then you will go to the salon and take care of the ladies.”

Gorsky nodded without comment.

Petrov looked at him and said, “This is difficult, I know. But they have served their purpose, and they will die for a good cause.”

“We both understand this, Vasily,” Gorsky replied, using his colonel’s given name, which was permitted in situations such as this.

Petrov said, “I will start in the dining room. That should go quickly. Then I will go to the galley, then to the crew’s quarters” — he pointed to the tank deck, which was partly below the waterline — “where I hope to find all of them at the dinner hour.”

They studied the plans of the five-deck yacht: the tank deck where the crew lived, and where the engines, fuel, and water were located; the lower deck, which held the guest staterooms and officers’ quarters as well as the tender garage and the swimming platform; and the main deck, which held the dining room and bar, the galley, and the prince’s suite. Next was the salon deck, which had an al fresco lounge, and finally the smaller top deck where the bridge was located, along with the captain’s quarters and the ship’s office. Petrov and Gorsky tried to determine where everyone would be during dinner — or where they might be hiding if they became aware of what was happening.

Gorsky reminded his boss, “The crew carries handheld radios for shipboard communication.”

Petrov replied, “We will be sure they have no time to communicate.” He added, “As always, this business depends on speed, silence, and surprise.” He lifted the gift-wrapped object from his bag and opened a taped end of the blue wrapping paper, revealing the barrel of the MP5 submachine gun. “We can silence this” — he tapped the silencer at the end of the muzzle — “but men scream when they are being shot. Women scream louder. So be quick and accurate.”

Gorsky nodded.

Petrov further advised, “Try to avoid ricochets and remember that bullets pass through people and we do not want shattered windows for passing ships to see. So fire low for the takedown.” He smiled. “We should use our trick of a group photograph whenever necessary.”

Gorsky didn’t need advice from Colonel Petrov, but he nodded and said, “It will go well. It always does.”

Petrov looked at the wrapped submachine gun in his hands. The German-made MP5 was a good choice for this job. This model, with the telescoping stock retracted, was only twenty-two inches long and weighed less than six pounds. It could be held in one hand by its grip and fired as a machine pistol, which was actually what the Germans called it — a Maschinenpistole, Model 5. MP5.

The magazine held thirty 9mm rounds, and though it wasn’t an accurate weapon, the cyclic rate of fire of 750 rounds a minute made it a very deadly weapon in close-in situations, which was what one would find on a ship.

Most importantly, it never jammed, and with the silencer it was as quiet as it was lethal. It was a favorite weapon of the American counterterrorist forces as well as over a hundred other countries that used the MP5 for their police and paramilitary forces. Even the Russians bought them, and Petrov had requested two, gift-wrapped.

Petrov looked up from the weapon and said to Gorsky, “Tell Urmanov to remain in his room with his door locked until we come for him.”

Gorsky nodded.

The slight vibration in the ship’s superstructure ceased, indicating that the engines had been set at idle, and Petrov felt the forward motion of the ship decrease, which he confirmed by looking out the porthole. Soon the anchors would be lowered. He had been assured at his briefing in Moscow that it was standard procedure for a ship that was intending to make a nearby port at dawn to drop anchor for the night at the dinner hour, allowing the deckhands and officers time to eat and rest while the stewards and cooks attended to the guests. And this worked well for Petrov and Gorsky, who would not have to put a gun to Captain Wells’ head to make him stop the ship so they could rendezvous with the Russian fishing trawler and take Captain Gleb and his cargo aboard. In fact, when Captain Wells dropped anchor, his and his crew’s usefulness was over, as were their lives.

Petrov and Gorsky checked their watches and agreed to meet in the hallway in ten minutes.

But before Gorsky left, he said, “That caterer troubles me.”

Petrov assured him, “It is of no consequence now.”

“We should have taken him — and that lady who appeared to know him — inside to question them.”

“Then you create a problem where none existed.”

“Or you solve a problem.”

“Tamorov would wonder why we were questioning two of his caterers.”

“Let him wonder.” Gorsky continued, “We should at least have told Tamorov to tell those two to leave.”

“And if they were embassy watchers, they would have gone directly to their vehicle and called the FBI, who would have sent aircraft and boats to watch Tamorov’s house. And we would not be here now.”

Gorsky thought about that. Yes, it was a difficult situation with difficult choices, and Colonel Petrov had made the choice to do nothing. And that may have been the best choice. Still... He said to Petrov, “We should have taken them inside and killed them.”

Petrov smiled. “There are times, Viktor, when killing solves problems and times when it creates problems.”

“The more people you kill, the fewer problems you have.” He explained, “People cause problems.”

Petrov again smiled. “You are a simple man, Viktor. I like that.”

Gorsky did not reply.

Petrov thought about all of this. It was possible, he conceded, that those two could have been the embassy watchers who had followed them from New York. And if that were true, then they had seen him and his two companions and the prostitutes board the amphibious craft and sail out to sea. But that was all they saw, and all they knew. They could not know where he was going, though it would seem obvious because of the ladies that they were going to another party. And as Petrov also knew, the embassy watchers only watched, then reported to the FBI, who, as in the past, would be slow to react to the missing Russian diplomats.

Or more likely this man Depp was simply a day worker hired off the street and not very good at his job. The woman, however, seemed more intelligent, though equally inept. In any case, the mission had begun. They were aboard The Hana, and there was no turning back. Especially after they began shooting everyone.

Petrov said, “We have more immediate things to think about, Viktor. Do not let your mind become distracted.”

“Yes, Colonel.” Gorsky turned and left the stateroom.

Petrov resealed the blue wrapping paper around the MP5 and looked at his watch. Within fifteen minutes, the decks of this royal yacht would be running with blood. But that was nothing compared to what was going to happen when The Hana sailed into New York Harbor in the morning.

Chapter nineteen

Colonel Petrov left his stateroom and went into the hallway where Gorsky was waiting. Both men carried their gift-wrapped MP5 submachine guns, and stuffed in their pockets were extra magazines and The Hana’s deck plans. Under their loose-fitting polo shirts they each carried the small Makarov pistol in a holster clipped to their belts in the small of their backs. Each man also carried a sheathed commando knife.

Petrov whispered to Gorsky in Russian, “I want no bodies — dead or alive — going overboard.” He made sure Gorsky understood, “I want no corpses that can be traced to this boat washing up on the shore with bullets in them. All evidence of our presence here and what we did will be vaporized in New York Harbor.”

Gorsky was annoyed that Petrov thought he needed to explain this, as though he, Gorsky, was little more than a killer with no thought of the finer details of the job. “Yes, Colonel.”

Petrov continued, “Remember, we cannot communicate with our cell phones, and we cannot use the crew’s handheld radios or the intercom system, which can be heard by everyone. So we must act independently, but in concert.” He asked, “Are we clear about our assignments?”

Gorsky nodded.

“And do you know this ship as well as you know your own house?”

“Better, since I have not been home in half a year.”

Petrov smiled and asked, “Are you feeling confident, Viktor?”

“I am, Colonel.”

“Good. Well, it is time for us to deliver our gifts.” He reminded Gorsky, “Fire low.” He and Gorsky shook hands, and Petrov said, “We will meet on the bridge when we are finished.”

Petrov walked toward the stern of the yacht and ascended a staircase to the main deck.

Gorsky walked in the opposite direction, through the officers’ quarters where there was a vestibule with a small elevator and a spiral staircase that connected all the decks. Gorsky climbed the spiral staircase to the bridge deck.

Vasily Petrov saw a deckhand at the top of the stairs, coming toward him. The man stood aside at attention and said to the prince’s guest, “Good evening, sir.”

Petrov didn’t want to kill him there, but he noted the man’s face and build, as he had done with the stewards and crew he’d already seen. The next time he saw those faces they would be dead or a second from death. And if he didn’t see one of those faces, it meant the man was hiding and needed to be found.

He asked the deckhand, “Where are you going?”

“To dinner, sir.”

The man, about thirty years old, had an accent and looked Slavic, so Petrov asked, “Russkii?”

“No, sir. Bulgarian.”

Petrov nodded. “Have a good dinner.”

“Thank you.”

Petrov ascended to the main deck where the ladies had gathered earlier for champagne and a dip in the pool. No doubt the prince had watched them from the salon deck above, and perhaps he had already made his choice. Or several choices. Petrov smiled.

He passed through double doors that led to a wood-paneled bar area adjacent to the dining room.

Standing around the bar were seven men, somewhat better dressed than he was — the four Saudi guests and the two Chinese businessmen, and also Prince Ali Faisel, his host, who saw him enter and said, “Welcome, Vasily.”

“I apologize for my lateness.”

“Come join us.”

But Vasily Petrov did not move from what would be his firing position.

Petrov also noted the bartender, whom he recognized as the steward who’d served them in the salon, and another steward, Karim, the one in traditional Arab garb who was the prince’s personal bodyguard and who was now serving hors d’oeuvres. He wondered if the man was armed. To the right of the bar was the entrance to the long dining room, partly separated by frosted glass partitions, where two other stewards were making last-minute preparations for dinner.

“Come. What do you drink?”

“Mineral water,” Petrov replied, but did not move to the bar, and the six guests looked at him quizzically, as did the prince, who said to Karim, “Don’t you see that this man has a package? Take that from him.”

The steward set down his hors d’oeuvre tray and hurried toward the Russian guest.

The prince inquired, “And where are Viktor and Pavel?”

“Directly behind me.” Petrov glanced behind him, though not to look for his compatriots, but to be certain no one was there. Then, as Karim reached for the package, Petrov tore the wrapping paper from his submachine gun and fired a single round, low, into the steward’s groin, throwing him to the floor.

The men at the bar, not having heard the silenced gun, could not process what their eyes had just seen, and they stood, looking at the bleeding steward, then at Petrov, then at the weapon in his hands.

Petrov aimed low so as not to hit the glasses and bottles behind the bar, and fired a long, traversing stream of 9mm rounds, from left to right into the tightly packed men, who all went down, some thrown against the bar, others falling where they stood. Only the bartender remained standing, dazed and frozen, looking at Petrov with terror in his eyes as he threw out his hands in a protective gesture and shouted, “No!”

Petrov fired a single round through the man’s chest and he fell back, crashing into the glasses and bottles behind him, then dropped behind the bar.

Petrov moved quickly through the entrance to the dining room, where the two stewards were hurrying toward him. It was obvious that they’d heard glass breaking, but not the muffled sound of the shots or the bodies hitting the carpeted floor.

The stewards stopped and stared at Petrov, then noticed the weapon at his side as Petrov brought it up with one hand and fired a round into each man’s abdomen. Both men doubled over, then dropped to their knees on the marble floor, holding their bleeding wounds. Petrov stepped closer and fired a round through each man’s head, then spun around and walked back to the bar area.

None of the seven men on the floor appeared to be dead, though there was blood everywhere. Petrov drew his silenced pistol and went from man to man, putting a bullet in each one’s head, coming last to the prince, who was sprawled on the floor with his back to the bar, his hands pressed against his spurting wounds, moaning loudly. The two men made eye contact, and Petrov said, with sincerity, “You have given your life to defeat America, and you will be praised throughout Islam as you ascend into Paradise.” Petrov smiled, and added, “I, unfortunately, will get no credit.” He squeezed the trigger and put a bullet into Prince Ali Faisel’s forehead.

Petrov did not forget the bartender, and he came around the bar and saw the man lying on his back with a pool of blood around him, and no further bleeding from his motionless chest. But to be sure, he fired a bullet into the man’s throat.

He then went to Karim and searched him for a weapon, finding only a dagger, reminding him of an American expression: “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.”

Petrov checked his watch. Four minutes from start to finish.

He put a fresh magazine into his pistol, and another into the submachine gun, which he wrapped in the bartender’s towel.

Now on to the galley.

Viktor Gorsky came to the vestibule at the top of the spiral staircase. To his left was a door whose brass plaque read, in English, CAPTAIN, and to his right was a door whose plaque said SHIP’S OFFICE.

Behind him was the elevator door, and ahead was the bridge, where he saw two men in white officers’ uniforms sitting in high-backed pedestal chairs at the long instrument panel. The man on the left had swiveled his chair toward the man on the right, and they were speaking. Neither man was Captain Wells.

Gorsky also noticed that on the bulkhead to the right of the bridge opening was an intercom and also the security pad that according to his briefing would activate a sliding bulletproof door. The bulkhead, too, was bulletproof. A good security feature in case of pirates or mutiny. Or assassins.

Gorsky strode into the light, airy bridge carrying his wrapped parcel, and the man whose chair was turned saw him and asked, in Irish-accented English, “Can I help you, sir?”

Gorsky recognized the man from the photos that Gleb had taken in Monte Carlo as Conners, the first mate. “I am looking for Captain Wells.” He held out his wrapped parcel. “I have something for him.”

“He’s in his quarters, sir.” He suggested, “You can knock.”

“Yes, thank you.”

The man on the right, who Gorsky recognized as Donato, the engineer, swiveled his chair and looked at Gorsky and at the wrapped object in his hands and said with an Italian accent, “His room is there.” He pointed. “Captain.”

Gorsky glanced over his shoulder, then stepped farther onto the bridge, trying to position himself and his shots to avoid hitting the instrument panel or the wraparound windshield that he knew was bulletproof, but would shatter.

Conners stood and said, “Here, let me show you.”

“Thank you. That will make it easier for me.”

Conners walked past Gorsky, who pulled his Makarov from under his shirt and fired a bullet into the man’s lower spine, sending him sprawling onto the deck.

Donato swiveled completely around and stared at his shipmate, facedown on the deck, blood spreading across his white shirt. He looked up at Gorsky, confused, then saw the pistol, which Gorsky fired at a downward angle into the man’s groin, causing him to let out a surprised grunt. Gorsky watched as the engineer slid off his chair and slumped to the deck, holding his groin with both hands and moaning in pain. As the man tried to stand, Gorsky put a bullet into the back of his head.

Gorsky also put a bullet into the first mate’s head, then without breaking stride he exited the bridge, pushing the button to close the sliding security door. Gorsky then walked to the captain’s door and knocked.

“Come in.”

Gorsky stuck the pistol under his shirt, opened the door, and saw Captain Wells, still in his uniform, sitting cross-legged in an easy chair in his spacious quarters, reading a book. Wells seemed surprised at the visit and said, “Mr... Gorsky. Correct?”

“That is correct.”

“How can I help you?”

“Two of your officers, Mr. Conners and Mr. Donato, were kind enough to show me around the bridge, and I wanted to thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Mr. Gorsky.”

“I have here a gift” — he held up his package — “for your officers. Where may I find the other officer?”

Wells seemed a bit confused and said impatiently, “I believe Mr. Lentini is in the ship’s office. Right behind you.”

“Thank you. And I wanted to assure you that my ladies will not trouble you on your last voyage.”

Captain Wells looked into the eyes of Viktor Gorsky and knew something was very wrong. But before he could think about how to get to his gun, the Russian pulled a pistol and fired a round through the book and into the captain’s chest. Captain Wells, still holding the book, looked down at his chest and Gorsky fired a bullet into the top of Captain Wells’ head. “Bon voyage.”

Gorsky turned and left the captain’s quarters, closing the door behind him. He crossed the vestibule, and knocked on the door of the ship’s office.

“Come in.”

Gorsky stuck his pistol under his shirt and opened the door. The ship’s navigator, Carlo Lentini, dressed in his whites, was sitting at a computer keyboard. Without looking up, the man asked, “Yes?”

Gorsky did not reply, and the officer turned his head toward him and asked in Italian-accented English, “Who are you...?” Then, “Oh...” He stood and said, “How may I help you?”

“You may sit, Mr. Lentini.”

The officer hesitated, then sat and waited for the guest to say something.

Gorsky asked, “What are you doing?”

The navigator looked at his unannounced guest, and there was something in the man’s tone and manner that troubled him. He replied, “I... I am entering in the ship’s log.”

“And where will the officers dine tonight?”

“We dine tonight in the captain’s quarters.”

“And who will have the watch?”

“A deckhand will take the watch.”

“And who will bring you your dinner?”

“A steward. Why—?”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Good.” Gorsky looked at his watch and said, “Make a final entry in your log, Mr. Lentini.” He pulled his small pistol from his belt and said, “All ship’s officers were killed by twenty-one hundred hours...” He fired a single shot into the navigator’s chest, which spun the swivel chair around, and Gorsky put another round into the base of the man’s skull. “... and dined in hell.”

Gorsky left the ship’s office, closed the door, and took up a position in the vestibule behind the spiral staircase, near the elevator, waiting for the steward and the deckhand.

Hunting people, like hunting game, had two basic elements — stalking and waiting in ambush. He preferred stalking, but sometimes one needed to wait. Killing was an art. Being killed, not so much.

Vasily Petrov slung his submachine gun, wrapped in the bartender’s towel, over his shoulder and walked quickly past the two dead stewards and through the long dining room whose table was set for ten. He noticed through the large windows that the sea was calm, though there was a fog coming in from the south. This could be a problem for the rendezvous with the fishing trawler and for the trawler’s lifeboat with only Captain Gleb onboard to find The Hana. But they had made provisions for a bad-weather rendezvous, and Petrov was confident that Gleb and the nuclear device would be aboard The Hana within the hour. He hoped that Gleb had been fully briefed about the corpses all over the ship.

Petrov passed through the butler’s pantry and entered the main galley.

The four kitchen staff were putting garnish on ten appetizer plates, which appeared to be some sort of pink creamed fish. Petrov disliked French food and he was glad he didn’t have to eat this.

One of the kitchen staff saw him and tapped the chef’s arm and nodded toward the door.

Chef André, a tall thin man, looked up from his food preparation and said, “Yes?”

Petrov knew that the galley would be a problem; it was filled with tightly packed steel equipment, open flames, and propane tanks. Not a good place to fire an automatic weapon. Also, the five kitchen staff — three men, one woman, and the chef — were spread out and moving quickly as they went about their duties.

“Monsieur, may I help you?”

“His Highness has permitted me to see your kitchen.”

“Yes? What do you wish to see?”

“A photo, s’il vous plaît.” Petrov held up his cell phone. “It will go quickly,” he promised.

The chef hesitated, then, realizing it would be better to accommodate the prince’s guest than to protest, he motioned his three male staff and the woman to stand with him in the aisle between the cutting table and the food locker.

They all assembled, closely packed in the narrow aisle, and Petrov raised his cell phone. If anyone noticed or wondered what it was that he had slung in a towel over his shoulder, they didn’t ask. “Smile!”

He would have actually snapped the photo, but he’d removed the battery from his phone so that the Americans could not track his signal.

“One more, please.”

Everyone smiled again, though the chef, André, looked impatient.

Petrov dropped the phone into his pocket, then swung the submachine gun to his front, pulled off the bar towel, and fired a low sweeping burst of rounds into the posed group, who for a half second didn’t understand what it was in his hands that was spitting flames. In fact, the woman was still smiling when she was hit. The ricochets pinged off the tile floor and kitchen equipment. Then everything was silent.

Petrov put the weapon on single shot and stood at the feet of the five white-smocked people who were spurting blood from their legs and abdomens. They were all alive, and Petrov began with the woman, who was starting to cry out in pain, and fired a bullet into her head. Then in quick succession he gave the other four what André would call the coup de grâce.

He found a bigger towel to wrap his submachine gun and slung it across his back, then went to the stove and shut off the gas under the pots and saucepans. He smelled something unpleasant and looked through the glass door of the raised oven and saw mutton chops roasting in a pan. Who could eat this? He shut off the oven and left the galley.

Now on to the crew quarters.

Viktor Gorsky waited for the steward and the deckhand.

He carried his submachine gun, still gift-wrapped, under his left arm, leaving his right hand free to draw his pistol, which was in his trouser pocket. So far, this had all been handgun work; not the type of work where one needed a submachine gun. That, however, would change in the salon with the ladies.

Gorsky heard the hydraulic whine of the elevator and stood off to the side of the door.

The door slid open and a food cart appeared, followed by a white-coated steward who pushed the cart across the vestibule toward the captain’s door, not seeing Gorsky, who was behind him.

The steward glanced at the closed security door to the bridge, then knocked on the captain’s door and waited. He then moved, without the cart, to the bridge door and pressed the intercom button. “It is Abdi. Dinner.” He waited a few seconds, and Gorsky could tell that Abdi was perplexed and didn’t know what to do. Ring again? Or push the entry pad to open the bridge door, which Gorsky guessed was rarely, if ever, closed.

The steward pulled his handheld radio from his pocket and was about to make a call, but Gorsky said, “Excuse me.”

The steward turned with a start, then, recognizing a guest, he relaxed, though he didn’t know where the man had come from. The staircase perhaps.

“Yes, sir?”

“I am waiting for the deckhand who will stand watch.”

“He should be on the bridge.”

“He is not.”

The steward looked at his watch and said, “Perhaps a few minutes. Why—?”

“I will wait.”

Gorsky knew he could shoot the steward there and then, without concern that the round would pierce the bulletproof door or bulkhead and strike something vital on the bridge. But he didn’t want a dead man in the vestibule when the deckhand arrived, so he said, “The captain awaits you.”

“I have knocked—”

“Please.” He motioned toward the captain’s door and the food cart.

The steward hesitated and looked at the Russian standing on the far side of the staircase railing with a wrapped object under his arm, then returned to the captain’s door and knocked again. He glanced at the guest, shrugged, and said, “Perhaps he is in the ship’s office.”

“He is not.”

Clearly the steward was finding this situation unusual, and he reached again for his radio. Gorsky reached for his gun.

The sound of footsteps came up the spiral staircase, and the steward said, “That will be Malkin.” He seemed relieved, Gorsky thought, that someone else would take charge of this situation. The steward had many guests to attend to. Or thought he did.

The head and shoulders of a man wearing the blue shirt of a deckhand appeared on the spiral staircase. As the man stepped into the vestibule, he glanced at the closed door to the bridge, then noticed the steward at the captain’s door and asked, “Why is the bridge door shut, Abdi?”

The steward shrugged, then nodded toward the guest near the elevator, noticing that he had laid his package on the floor.

The deckhand, Malkin, turned and saw Gorsky. “Yes, sir?”

Gorsky drew his pistol and held it in a two-handed grip, steadied his aim, and fired a round at the center mass of each man, both of whom were thrown back against the wall. The deckhand slid slowly to the floor, but the steward bounced off the wall and fell across the food cart.

Gorsky came quickly around the spiral staircase and threw open the door to the captain’s quarters and pushed the food cart with the steward’s body lying atop it into the captain’s room, then grabbed the deckhand by his collar and dragged him into the room. Both men were still alive and Gorsky fired a bullet into each man’s head, then exited the captain’s room and closed the door.

Gorsky pocketed his pistol, retrieved his package, and moved quickly to the spiral staircase, descending three steps at a time toward the salon level. As he descended, he could hear music and women’s laughter.

Vasily Petrov moved quickly from the main deck galley down to the tank deck, still carrying his MP5 slung across his back. He passed no one on the way, but in the narrow passageway that led to the crew’s quarters a deckhand suddenly appeared, coming toward him. The man stopped and braced himself against the wall as the guest hurried past him.

Petrov suddenly spun around, pulled his pistol, and fired a bullet into the side of the man’s head.

A serendipitous kill was as good as a planned kill, except in a hallway, which presented problems. Petrov looked around, then opened a door marked VALVE ACCESS, revealing a maze of vertical and horizontal pipes. He dragged the man across the floor and squeezed him into the tight space, then shut the door and continued toward the midship of the tank deck.

He could hear voices coming through a large door at the end of the passageway, and he conjured a mental image of the crew area deck plan: an open common space for recreation and dining, flanked by five small rooms on the port side for the chef and his kitchen staff, all of whom were now accounted for.

On the starboard side were two-man cabins that were the sleeping quarters of the seven deckhands and the seven stewards, and farther toward the bow was the crew’s pantry and galley.

Petrov tried to determine how many men would be in the crew area. He had already eliminated four stewards in the bar and dining room, and he knew that one or two stewards would be with the ladies in the salon, where everyone should be dead by now if Gorsky was on schedule. That left one or two stewards unaccounted for — though they should not be down here because of the large number of guests onboard. Therefore, only deckhands should be in the crew area — except the one who was in the valve access room. So, with the ship at anchor, he might find the six remaining deckhands, including the Bulgarian, having dinner, which would make his life and their deaths much easier.

Petrov unslung his MP5 submachine gun and loosely re-wrapped it in the towel with his right hand in the folds, four fingers around the vertical grip and one finger on the trigger. He checked that the shell casings had enough room in the towel to eject, then let his arm fall at his side and opened the door marked CREW QUARTERS.

Four young men in white jeans and blue shirts sat around a table toward the rear of the large common room, eating their dinner as they watched a flat-screen television. None of them was the Bulgarian he’d passed earlier on the staircase. That man, therefore, was elsewhere, and so was the seventh deckhand. Perhaps they were in their rooms.

The television was showing a war film, and he heard American voices coming from the soldiers on the screen. They looked like brave young men, and they seemed confident as they fired at ill-dressed and bearded men carrying Kalashnikov rifles. Iraq, perhaps, or Afghanistan. There was a lot of blood. He wondered if the prince would approve of this movie.

One of the deckhands noticed him and said something to the other three men, who took their eyes off the television and stopped eating.

None of them stood, but at least one recognized him, because the man called out, in Russian, “Are you lost?”

Petrov remembered the man from the tender garage and replied, in English, “No. Are you?”

The man laughed tentatively, then asked, in English, “What do you have there, sir?”

“A gift from the chef for the crew.”

No one replied, and Petrov asked, “Where are your mates?”

The Russian-speaking man replied, “You will find Malkin on the bridge, standing watch. As for Diaz, he just left to assist your ladies in the salon — in any way he can.” He smiled.

The other three men laughed, and Petrov, too, smiled, knowing that six deckhands were now accounted for — Diaz dead in the valve closet, Malkin on the bridge and now similarly indisposed, and these four men a few seconds from joining their mates, leaving just the Bulgarian to find. Petrov asked, “And where is your Bulgarian shipmate?”

No one answered, and Petrov realized he had asked one question too many and the men were now staring at him and glancing at his towel-wrapped arm.

One of them asked, “What have you brought us?”

Petrov, still standing outside the door, glanced over his shoulder, raised his arm, and aimed the towel-wrapped submachine gun. “Smert.” Death. He fired a long burst at the men around the table, and the towel smoked and caught fire.

He ripped the towel off and flung it aside as he strode quickly into the crew area to the table where all the men had been knocked off their chairs and now lay on the deck in spreading pools of blood. Petrov flipped the MP5 onto single shot and fired into each man’s head, then turned and looked at the table, which was covered with splattered blood, food, and broken dinnerware. He spotted an unbroken bowl filled with sliced apples, and he helped himself to a piece before checking the pantry and the crew’s galley, which were empty. He then went from door to door and checked each room, but they were also unoccupied. The seventh deckhand, the Bulgarian, was still missing.

Petrov took a handheld radio from the belt of one of the crewmen and listened, but no one was communicating. Well, he thought, if Gorsky was having equally good hunting, The Hana was now a ghost ship. He put the radio in his pocket and found a pillowcase in a linen closet and put his submachine gun into it.

He looked again at the flat-screen TV. An American soldier with a sniper rifle was taking aim at a bearded man in a turban who held a Kalashnikov rifle. Yes, this was Afghanistan, but it reminded him of Chechnya. He pulled his Makarov pistol and fired two quick shots — one at the American sniper and one at the Islamist fighter. The screen transformed into a kaleidoscope of colors, then went black. Petrov smiled and walked out of the room.

Viktor Gorsky stepped off the spiral staircase onto the salon deck. A set of glass doors led to the long salon where a buffet dinner was laid out on the sideboard, though the ladies, still in their bikinis and cover-ups, seemed to be ignoring the food and enjoying the champagne that was being poured by two stewards. Soft music came from the wall speakers, and he recognized Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake, which he supposed the prince had requested for his Russian guests.

One of the ladies saw him and called out in Russian, “What do you have there, Viktor? Come in. Why are you standing there?”

He stepped into the silk-draped salon and his eyes scanned the twenty-meter-long room of floor-to-ceiling windows. To the left was the side balcony, which was now occupied by three of the ladies. At the far end of the salon was the al fresco lounge where another three ladies were smoking and drinking.

One of the ladies in the salon said to him, “Where is your lover, Viktor?”

The other ladies laughed, but when Gorsky looked at them they stopped laughing. Gorsky forced a smile and said, “He has left me for the chef.”

The ladies laughed again, and one of them reached for the gift-wrapped submachine gun. “Is that for us?”

Gorsky held the blue package over his head and replied, “Yes. But you must earn it.”

A steward walked over to him and asked, “Can I help you, sir?”

“I am just seeing that my ladies are being taken care of.”

“They are, sir.” He reminded the guest, “Dinner is being served in the dining room.”

“Thank you.”

“May I show you to the dining room?”

“In a minute.”

Gorsky noticed that the other steward was on his handheld radio, apparently trying to call someone. Or someone had called him. But who was alive to call? Or to answer a call? In any case, it was time to act, before either of these stewards sensed that all was not right aboard this ship.

Gorsky called out, in English, “Ladies! I need your attention, please!”

The six ladies in the salon looked at Gorsky and he said, “I need everyone here.” He said to the stewards, “Go get the others.”

One steward went to the balcony, and the other who had been on his radio walked to the outdoor lounge.

One of the ladies asked, “What is it, Viktor?”

“Some good news.”

She replied, in Russian, “We don’t have to sleep with these Arab pigs?”

They all laughed.

Gorsky smiled.

The ladies from the balcony and the lounge were in the salon now, and the two stewards looked as though they were about to leave, but Gorsky said to them, “Please stay. This will take only a minute.”

Gorsky stood motionless, looking at the twelve women, and a feeling of sadness came over him. He had killed women before, but not Russian women — only Muslim women who were enemies of the Russian Federation.

“Viktor! Why are you standing there? Are you drunk?”

He looked at the woman, Tasha, the one who had given her phone number to the American. He would have liked to question her about the man, but Colonel Petrov wasn’t interested in any information that would abort this mission. And in any case, now that the killings had begun aboard The Hana, the mission was unstoppable.

The ladies were getting restless, and they were all probably drunk, Gorsky knew, and therefore more difficult to communicate with than usual.

One of them called out, “We want our cell phones back, Viktor.”

They all joined in agreement. “Our cell phones. Give them to us.”

He took a deep breath and said, “Yes, but first, the prince has a gift for all of you.” He held up his package, and though it was poorly wrapped and oddly shaped, he said, “There are diamond necklaces in here. And the prince wants a photograph of all of you wearing them.”

The ladies became excited and one of them called out, “Open it!”

“Yes, but now...” He motioned to the chairs around the coffee table. “You must sit and I will give them to you for the photo.”

A few of the ladies seemed impatient, but they all moved to the seating area where Tasha took charge, seating six of the women, with three standing behind them, and three kneeling in front, including herself.

“Excellent,” said Gorsky.

One of the ladies suggested to the others, “Take off your cover-ups so the prince can see his diamonds on our skin.”

Everyone thought that was a wonderful idea and they pulled off their cover-ups.

Gorsky noticed that the stewards now seemed more interested in staying in the salon, and he said to them, “Please see that each lady has a glass of champagne.”

One of the women protested, “Give us the diamonds, Viktor, and to hell with the champagne.”

They all laughed.

“Please,” said Gorsky, “the prince deserves a beautiful photograph.”

This was becoming more difficult than his work on the bridge. But he knew it would be.

The stewards were handing out glasses and pouring champagne into them.

Gorsky stepped onto the ottoman and faced the ladies and the two stewards.

Thirty rounds in the magazine, fourteen targets. He would probably have to reload.

One of the women said to him, “Now give us our diamonds, Viktor.” She stood and walked toward him, her hand extended.

He tore the paper from the submachine gun.

Tasha said, “What is...? Oh my God!”

Petrov quickly searched the tank deck — the engine room, laundry room, storage compartments, and all the belowdeck areas of the large ship — calling out, “Is anyone here? I am lost! Can anyone help me?”

But no one replied.

Petrov climbed a staircase to the lower deck where the tender garage and the swimming platform were located, as were the guest staterooms and the officers’ quarters.

He went first toward the stern, calling out in the tender garage, “Hello! Is anyone here?”

He then moved to the glass doors that led outside to the swimming platform and noticed that the doors were bolted from the inside, meaning that no one had gone out to the swimming platform and abandoned ship by this route. He unbolted the doors and walked out to the platform.

The low clinging fog was getting thicker, and the sky was filled with stars, with a half-moon rising in the east. The sea, he saw, was still calm. Off in the distance, he saw the lights of a helicopter, hovering unusually low. He put this out of his mind and looked at his watch. Captain Gleb would be arriving in half an hour. And there was still work to do aboard The Hana.

Petrov left the swimming platform, rebolted the doors, and passed through the tender garage. He walked down the long, wide passageway between the ten staterooms, knocking on the locked doors and opening the unlocked ones, calling out, “Hello! Is anyone here?”

No one replied, except Dr. Urmanov, still locked in his stateroom. Petrov called to him, “Stay where you are!”

It would be good, he thought, if Gorsky had come upon the last deckhand. It would be bad, however, if this Bulgarian had seen the dead bodies and was hiding. Well, Petrov thought, they had anticipated this in their planning, and as long as the man had no access to the radios on the bridge, then for all Petrov cared he could hide like a rat until the ship exploded in a mushroom cloud.

But the thought of the bridge with all its communication equipment troubled him, though Gorsky should have finished his business in the salon and returned to the bridge by now. Petrov passed through the officers’ quarters and took the elevator up to the bridge level.

Viktor Gorsky remained standing on the ottoman, surveying the carnage in the salon.

Yes, it was a difficult thing, and though he had tried to do it quickly, there were too many targets, and he had to go first for the men, and after he emptied his thirty-round magazine some of the ladies began running or crawling toward the exits, and he had to reload quickly and take them down, one at a time, with short bursts of fire. They had been terrified, and their screaming still echoed in his ears.

But at least he hadn’t hit any of the windows, so there would be no outward evidence of violence onboard The Hana as it sailed into New York Harbor and lay at anchor through the night.

He stepped down from the ottoman, drew his pistol, and surveyed the nearly naked and still-bleeding women. A few were wounded only in the legs and were crying, or trying to crawl away, or imploring him to spare them. He went quickly from one to the other until his magazine was empty. He reloaded and continued.

He came to Tasha, who was lying on her back, a bullet wound in her abdomen and a grazing wound across her thigh. She was crying, though not so much from the pain, he thought, as from sadness.

He said, “I am sorry.”

She looked at him and managed to say, “Why...?”

“Close your eyes, Tasha.”

She shut her eyes and he fired a bullet into her heart.

He saved the two mortally wounded stewards for last, then went to the bar, washed his hands, and poured himself a flute of champagne.

Gorsky checked his watch. Twenty-two minutes since he had first walked onto the bridge. The operations officer in Moscow had estimated fifteen. But the desk idiots didn’t know anything.

The stereo was still playing Swan Lake, which he liked.

Vasily Petrov exited the elevator into the vestibule of the bridge deck.

He held the MP5 in one hand, his finger on the trigger and the firing switch set to fully automatic.

He noticed that the bridge door was closed, and he wondered if Gorsky had closed it, or if the officers had been alerted and sealed themselves off. He felt his heart beating quickly in his chest, but then he saw to his left the bloodstains on the wall and floor near the captain’s quarters, and he knew that Gorsky had been successful here, which gave him a sense of relief.

He moved quickly to the door marked SHIP’S OFFICE and pointed his MP5 at the door as he threw it open and dropped to one knee.

He saw that Gorsky had also been there, and he stood, closed the door, and went to the captain’s quarters and threw open the door.

It took him a second to process what he was seeing, and he wasn’t certain how this scene had come about and he didn’t care, but he saw that the deckhand, Malkin, was now a confirmed kill. Sprawled across a food cart was a steward, and sitting in his easy chair was Captain Wells, staring at the book in his lap.

Petrov closed the door, then went directly to the bridge door and pushed the intercom buzzer.

No answer.

He pushed the entry pad, leveled his submachine gun, and dropped to one knee as the door slid open, revealing the two dead officers on the floor.

Petrov stood and went onto the bridge, moving quickly to the instrument console to inspect it for damage.

“I was very careful.”

Petrov spun around to see Gorsky standing in the opening. He caught his breath and snapped, “That is a good way to get yourself killed, Gorsky.”

Gorsky wanted to say, “You are the one who would now be dead.” But he said, “I trust your quick judgment, Colonel.”

Petrov did not respond to that, but asked, “Are you finished in the salon?”

“It is done.”

“Good... so tell me.”

“You can see this for yourself. All four officers, a deckhand, and a steward. As for the ladies... they are all gone, as are two stewards.”

Petrov confirmed, “That accounts for all seven stewards.”

“How do we get that number?”

“There were four with the prince and his six guests.”

Gorsky nodded, and inquired, “And all the cooks were in the galley?”

“They still are.” He smiled.

Gorsky, too, smiled, and asked, “Did you remember to shut off the gas?”

“I forget nothing, Viktor.”

“Yes, Colonel.” He asked, “And how was your visit to the crew’s quarters?”

“Four, and one in the passageway.”

They stood there a second, each waiting for the other to point out that a deckhand was missing. Finally, Petrov said, “So, unless you have forgotten a man you killed, there is one not accounted for.”

Gorsky nodded.

“I actually passed him earlier on a staircase. A Bulgarian.” Petrov added, “He said he was going to dinner, but he wasn’t in the crew dining room.” He smiled. “Well, he can’t go far.”

Gorsky pointed out, “He can, if he goes into the tender garage and takes the amphibious craft.”

Petrov looked at the instruments on the panel that monitored the tender garage. There was no indication that anyone was opening the door and flooding the compartment.

Gorsky went to the security camera screen and pulled up the garage, but he couldn’t see anyone there, and the amphibious craft sat in its chocks on the dry deck.

Petrov said, “I think we should not worry about one deckhand.”

Gorsky didn’t like his colonel’s inattention to a problem. Petrov did this too often, and one day it would prove fatal to him. Or to the mission. He thought again of the man and woman at Tamorov’s house. Problems — real or imagined — had to be addressed quickly and forcefully. He said, “I will go look for this man.”

Petrov checked his watch. “Gleb will be here soon.” He said to Gorsky, “We will follow the plan. I will stay here and secure the bridge, and you will go to the garage and open the door for Captain Gleb.” He added, “Don’t forget our nuclear physicist on the way.”

Gorsky nodded.

“I will call you on the public address system when I see Gleb’s craft approaching.” He smiled. “No one else will hear me.”

Gorsky ignored the joke and reminded Petrov, “The deckhand will hear you. And if he is Bulgarian, he will speak or understand some Russian.”

“Well, then, Viktor, see if you can find him on your way to the garage.” He smiled again. “You have as good a nose for finding the living as a cadaver dog has for finding the dead.”

Gorsky did not reply.

Petrov was feeling suddenly better, and he said to Gorsky, “You did a good job, Viktor.”

“Thank you, Vasily. Yourself as well.”

“The pieces are almost all in place. We now await our new captain, and our cargo. And then we sail for New York.”

Gorsky nodded. The colonel’s optimism was perhaps justified. They were more than halfway toward the successful completion of the most important military mission that Russia had mounted since the Great Patriotic War against the Germans. For the colonel, this meant a promotion to general and a comfortable position in Moscow for the rest of his life. And of course, his father would be proud of him. As for Gorsky, he had been promised any assignment he asked for — as long as it was in Russia. Neither he nor Colonel Petrov would ever be allowed to leave Russia again. Not after what they did in New York. They would take that secret to the grave with them.

Petrov said, “I will remove these corpses from the bridge so they don’t upset Captain Gleb. You will now go to the garage—”

The beating sound of helicopter blades penetrated into the nearly soundproof bridge, and both men looked through the windshield and saw the lights of a helicopter off their port side, at about two hundred meters altitude, traveling west.

Petrov said, “A commuter helicopter from the Hamptons.”

Gorsky did not reply, though he knew that a commuter helicopter would not fly that low or be this far from land. But perhaps it was a Coast Guard helicopter, looking for a boat lost at sea.

Petrov said, “Go. Gleb will be here shortly.”

Or, Gorsky thought, the Coast Guard was looking for them.

“Go!”

Gorsky stared at the retreating lights of the helicopter as it disappeared, then pulled his pistol, turned, and left the bridge, taking the spiral staircase down to the lower deck. He hoped he would find the deckhand trying to escape on the amphibious craft. Or maybe the man had put on a life vest and gone overboard. That’s what he would do. Or perhaps the deckhand would do what most sailors would do — come to the bridge to see if the officers were there. Well, there was an officer there — Colonel Petrov of the SVR.

As he descended to the lower deck, Gorsky began to realize that all was not well. A deckhand was missing, and a helicopter had just flown by. These facts were not related, but it was possible that the helicopter was related to the two caterers, who he still believed were not caterers.

The mission control officer in Moscow had given them a way to abort this mission, even at this point. But that was not going to happen with Colonel Vasily Petrov in command. Colonel Petrov had dreamt too long about sitting in the private jet having coffee as a nuclear fireball engulfed New York City. That was the only way Colonel Petrov was going home.

Chapter twenty

Viktor Gorsky, with his pistol in his hand and his submachine gun slung across his chest, moved through the passageway between the staterooms.

He came to Urmanov’s door, knocked, and called out in Russian, “It is time, Arkady.”

The door opened slowly and Dr. Arkady Urmanov stood there, a blank expression on his face.

“Take your bag, Doctor.”

Urmanov retrieved his overnight bag.

“Do you have your gun?”

Urmanov tapped his bag.

“Good. Follow me, please.”

Urmanov closed his door and followed Gorsky down the passageway. As they passed beneath the bar area on the main deck above, Gorsky saw blood trickling down the wall. Urmanov saw it, too, and hesitated, but Gorsky took his arm and propelled him forward.

At the end of the staterooms, they came to a set of ornate doors marked GARAGE and BEACH CLUB.

Gorsky opened one door, revealing the two docks and the amphibious craft sitting on its chocks on the dry deck. Beyond the garage, through glass doors, was the swimming platform, which was illuminated, and the light reflected off the fog that lay over the platform.

Gorsky looked around to be certain he was alone, then moved into the garage and motioned Urmanov to follow him.

The public address system came on and Petrov, speaking in Russian, said, “Good evening, Doctor.”

Urmanov was momentarily startled, then looked around for the source of the voice.

“You are on camera, Doctor. I can see you, but can’t hear you. Wave to me.”

Urmanov raised his arm without enthusiasm.

Petrov informed Gorsky, “I see a small craft on the radar, two hundred meters south on a direct course for The Hana.”

Gorsky nodded in acknowledgment.

“Prepare to open the door.”

Gorsky walked along the dock to the port side of the yacht where a catwalk connected the two docks, and stopped at an electrical panel that controlled the shell door, the pumps, and the lights.

“One hundred meters,” Petrov announced. “I can now see him coming out of the fog and he is signaling with a red light. I will return the signal.”

Gorsky knew that Petrov was now turning the bridge lights off and on — the signal to Captain Gleb that The Hana was secure.

“Open the door,” Petrov ordered.

Gorsky engaged the switch, marked in English SHELL DOOR. He could hear the hydraulic sounds as the huge door on the starboard side of the forty-foot-beamed yacht began to rise slowly from its top hinges.

The sea rushed in like a waterfall, running at high speed across the garage deck and lapping against the two parallel docks, then washing up against the hull beneath the connecting catwalk where Gorsky stood. The amphibious craft began rising from its chocks.

Gorsky could smell the ocean and feel the damp fog entering the flooding compartment.

Petrov said, “Welcome our new captain with the underwater lights.”

Gorsky found the switch, and the rushing seawater in the compartment suddenly lit up, reminding Gorsky of their own arrival aboard The Hana.

The waterfall flattened as the water level in the compartment reached the sea level, creating a smooth, uninterrupted passageway of water from the ocean into the ship.

Gorsky looked at Dr. Urmanov on the dock, staring at the gaping hole in the hull of The Hana. Gorsky wondered what the man was thinking. Maybe about the two million Swiss francs. Or the Siberian exile. Or the blood running down the wall. If so, these were not unrelated thoughts. In any case, they would soon see if the nuclear device had a problem. Or if Dr. Urmanov had a problem.

Gorsky heard the sound of the approaching boat’s engine, then saw the red bow light of a small craft coming through the fog.

The red light got closer, and the engine stopped as the bow appeared out of the fog and the craft slid silently through the doorway and into the compartment.

Gorsky turned the switch and the shell door began to close. He walked quickly back to the dock and stood beside Urmanov.

The lifeboat from the Russian fishing trawler floated between the two docks, and at the helm was a gray-bearded man who reminded Gorsky of the late Captain Wells, except that this man was wearing a blue quilted jacket and a green knit cap.

In the center of the lifeboat was a black tarp, and beneath the tarp was a rectangular object.

Captain Gleb surveyed his surroundings, then looked at Gorsky and Urmanov and shouted, “Throw me a line!”

Gorsky threw a line to The Hana’s new captain.

Petrov’s voice came over the speaker: “Welcome aboard The Hana, Captain.”

Gleb did not acknowledge the greeting and secured his craft to the dock. He drew a knife from his boot and cut the ties holding the tarp, then flung the tarp into the water.

Sitting on the deck of the small craft was what looked like a large black steamer trunk.

Petrov’s voice boomed over the speaker: “Doctor Urmanov! Behold your creation! Behold your monster, Doctor!” Petrov laughed.

Gorsky smiled, then looked at Urmanov, who seemed in a trance. He knew a problem when he saw one.

Gleb patted the black trunk and said, “Here it is, men. You don’t have to sign for it. It’s all yours.” He laughed.

Gorsky regarded Gleb. The man sounded as rough as he looked.

Gleb stepped onto the gunnel of his craft carrying a large overnight bag, and jumped onto the dock. He stuck out his hand to Gorsky. “Captain Gleb.”

They shook hands and Gorsky said, “I am Viktor.” He indicated Dr. Urmanov. “This is Arkady.”

Gleb smiled. “Let me guess who is the physicist and who is the SVR assassin.”

Gorsky didn’t find that amusing.

Gleb said to Gorsky, “You, sir, have blood on your hand and a bit on your shirt.” He looked at Urmanov. “And you, sir, look like a man who wouldn’t kill a fly. Well, not with a swatter.” He cocked his head toward the nuclear device and laughed again.

Neither Gorsky nor Urmanov responded.

Captain Gleb lit a cigarette and informed his compatriots, “I saw two helicopters out there, flying patterns. And the trawler’s radar saw two high-speed craft, running west.” He exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Where is your boss?”

“On the bridge.”

Gleb drew again on his cigarette, then nodded toward the black trunk. “Leave that alone until I speak to him. I have a message for him.”

“You can give it to me.”

“He can give it to you if he wants to.”

Petrov’s voice came over the speaker: “Captain, I need you on the bridge. Doctor, I will join you shortly. Viktor, stay with Arkady.”

Gleb flipped his cigarette into the water, grabbed his bag, and started toward the door.

Gorsky called to him, “There is one deckhand not accounted for.”

Gleb stopped. “How did that happen?”

“That is no business of yours.”

“It is if I run into him.” He asked, “Is he armed?”

“That is not likely.”

“Well” — Gleb drew a Grach from under his coat — “I am.”

“Do you know how to use that?”

Gleb laughed and said, “SVR men are all assholes.” He turned and walked through the door.

Gorsky watched him moving down the long passageway. Captain Gleb, he understood, was a man who knew that his skills were crucial to the mission, which made him feel free to say what he pleased. Even to an SVR officer.

Well, Gorsky thought, as soon as Captain Gleb was no longer indispensable, then he would become disposable.

Gorsky turned and looked at the black trunk in the lifeboat, then looked at Urmanov. They made eye contact and it seemed to Gorsky that Dr. Urmanov had guessed his fate.

Gorsky smiled at him. “Cheer up, Doctor. You are about to earn your two million Swiss francs.”

Urmanov looked away and stared at the nuclear device.

Gorsky said, as if to himself, “Yes, many fates hang in the balance tonight, and tomorrow morning will see two bright suns. God’s and man’s.”

Chapter twenty-one

Vasily Petrov stood on the bridge and followed Gleb’s progress on the video monitor. Petrov saw that Gleb had his gun drawn, meaning Gorsky had told him about the missing deckhand, though Petrov noted that Gleb had obviously not been trained to walk tactically with a weapon. Also, it had apparently not occurred to Captain Gleb that his SVR-issued Grach, like Urmanov’s Makarov, did not work. The SVR did not give dangerous weapons to potentially unreliable people.

Petrov switched to the garage camera and saw that Gorsky and Urmanov had boarded Gleb’s craft, though, as per instructions, they had not opened the lid of the trunk.

Petrov heard Gleb on the spiral staircase and turned toward the open door.

Gleb glanced around the vestibule, noticing the blood near the captain’s door, then entered the bridge.

Both men, holding guns in their hands, looked at each other. Finally, Gleb stuck his Grach inside his jacket and put his overnight bag on the bloodstained deck.

Petrov said, “Welcome.”

Gleb nodded and went to the long, wraparound instrument console, moving from left to right as he read the instruments and gauges. He glanced at the radar screen, then went to the security monitor and pressed the labeled buttons, going from camera to camera, looking at the carnage in the crew’s common room, the bar and dining room, the galley, and finally the salon.

He asked, “Where is my friend Captain Wells?”

“In his quarters.”

Gleb nodded, still staring at the image of the dead prostitutes lying in the salon. “Who are they?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“They look like Russian girls.”

Petrov did not reply.

Gleb asked, “And why would I think my fate will be different?”

“Because I need you.”

Gleb looked at Colonel Petrov. “Until what point?”

“Until we anchor in New York Harbor and you sail The Hana’s amphibious craft from this yacht to the pier in Brooklyn.”

“And then?”

“Then we drive to the airport and fly home.”

Gleb stared at Petrov. “There is an American expression — three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”

Petrov did not respond.

Captain Gleb asked, “What happens to Arkady when you no longer need him?”

“You ask too many questions, Captain.”

“You should ask some of your own.” He pointed out, “After Arkady finishes his business, I am the only man needed to complete this mission.”

“Captain, it would take a better man than you to kill me. Or Viktor.” He advised, “Do not provoke me.”

Gleb lit a cigarette and looked at the blood-covered chair and the blood on the floor. “This is nasty business.”

“Did anyone tell you otherwise?”

“The money is good.” He asked, “And you?”

“The money is not so good.”

Gleb smiled. “I will buy you a new car in Moscow.”

“I assure you, we will never see each other again.”

Gleb changed the subject and asked, “Do you think this seaman is still onboard?”

“Where else would he be?”

“He should be in the ocean wearing a life vest.” He added, “A sailor is taught how and when to abandon ship.”

Petrov thought about that, but did not reply.

Gleb continued, “From here, it could take him about ten hours to reach shore. If he didn’t die first from hypothermia.” He added, “But he could be picked up by a passing ship.”

“Let us assume he is not a factor.”

“Let us assume he is.” He informed Colonel Petrov, “We saw two high-speed craft on the trawler’s radar. And we observed two helicopters flying what appeared to be search patterns.”

“Then they are searching for a ship in distress. They are not searching for The Hana.”

“Well, you would know more than I on that subject.”

“I would and I do.”

Gleb told Petrov, “A man named Leonid from your fine organization who is on the trawler has a message for you.”

Petrov did not reply.

“He says that if you believe the mission is compromised, you should go to the default plan. I have brought with me five kilos of plastique—” He nodded toward his overnight bag. “We can blow a hole in the ship’s hull and sink The Hana and her secrets. You and I and your man Viktor, and also the physicist, will board my craft and sail to the trawler, which will take us and the black trunk home.”

“That is not what I came here to do, Captain.”

Gleb shrugged. “The decision is yours. But consider that the Americans may be looking for us.”

“Well, then we have sat here too long.” He said to Gleb, “It is time to get underway.”

Gleb went to the radar screen and said, “Come here.” He pointed to the screen. “See this blip? You see how fast it is moving?”

Petrov did not reply.

“Why would a craft travel at forty or fifty knots in this fog?”

“I have already told you why.”

Gleb looked at Colonel Petrov. “Well, I see you are a stubborn man. Or a brave one. Or perhaps... well, driven by your love of the Motherland. Or something else.”

“They are not paying you two million Swiss francs to psychoanalyze me.”

Gleb laughed. “All right. Then we set sail for New York.” He said to Petrov, “I will turn off all the deck lights and the bridge lights, and you will go through the ship and turn off all the interior lights that can be seen through the portholes.”

“Why don’t you use the circuit breakers?”

“Because that will cause the emergency lighting to come on.” He said to Petrov, “I know a few things about ships, Colonel.” He also reminded Petrov, “I am in command of this ship.”

Petrov did not reply.

“And while you are at it, remove the prince’s ensign from the stern.” He asked, “Can you do all that?”

“I can, if it makes you feel better, but I am sure they are not looking for us.”

“Let us act as though they are, and let’s not make it easy for them.” Gleb continued, “I will turn off the yacht’s AIS — the Automatic Identification System — which will make us disappear from the Coast Guard’s monitors and their computers.” He added, “We won’t disappear from radar, but we will be only a blip, without an identification tag.” He added, “Not all craft are required to have AIS. So that will not raise suspicions with the Coast Guard.”

Petrov nodded.

“I will also shut off the GPS and radar and navigate by compass. I will leave one radio on to monitor police and Coast Guard traffic.”

Again, Petrov nodded. The original plan did not call for The Hana to hide. The prince’s yacht was in the Coast Guard AIS system, and it was on a pleasure cruise. They were to make the two-hour run to New York Harbor at 4 A.M., then enter the harbor at dawn. But the situation seemed to have changed — if Gleb and Leonid’s suspicions were valid.

Gleb continued, “I will head south, to the edge of the shipping lane, so that we will not appear on radar as a lone ship between the shore and the shipping lane.”

Petrov had no reply.

Gleb went on, “But we will be traveling faster than that very slow line of ships waiting to get to Ambrose Buoy, and that may draw attention. So perhaps we should keep pace with them.”

Petrov considered all this, then said, “In my business, Captain, we rely on speed.” He told Gleb, “If they are looking for us, they will find us if we give them the time. So we need to be ahead of them. And you need to sail now directly to New York at full speed.” He added, “The Hana can make twenty-five knots, which will put us at the entrance to New York Harbor in less than two hours.”

Gleb thought about that, then replied, “I think a slower approach, near the shipping lane, is better. It is easier to hide in a crowd.”

“Do you watch soccer, Captain?”

“I do.”

“Then you know that if the ball progresses slowly toward the goal, the defense is in place and the ball is not likely to get into the net.”

Gleb drew on his cigarette.

“But if the ball moves quickly, before the defense can react, then there is only the goalkeeper between the ball and the net. So if you believe that the Americans are looking for us, you will now set sail and we will arrive at the goal before the defenders are in place.”

Gleb pointed out, “This is not a soccer game, Colonel. This opposing team has guns.”

“All the more reason to run faster.”

“And radiation detectors.”

“Which is why we are going to sink your lifeboat in the flooded compartment.”

Gleb stayed silent, then said, “We may get to the goal, but we may find the entire opposing team waiting there for us.”

Petrov replied, “We only need to get close.” He reminded Gleb, “This ball explodes.”

“Yes, it does. But perhaps you are forgetting our escape plan — our sail in the amphibious craft from The Hana to the pier in Brooklyn, and our car ride to the airport.”

Petrov did not reply immediately, then said, “You and Viktor may be making that trip by yourselves.”

Gleb looked at Petrov. “Well, you can kill yourself if you want. But we may all be killed or captured before then.”

“I assure you, Captain, you will be on that flight to Moscow.”

Gleb stared at Petrov, then said, “When an SVR man makes me assurances, I can be sure of only one thing.”

“You can be sure that if you don’t get this ship underway quickly, Captain, you are no longer needed.”

Gleb took a deep breath, lit another cigarette, then said, “I am just pointing out some problems that you should consider, Colonel. And I am reminding you that we can still safely abort this mission by sinking this ship.” He added, “The trawler will remain on station for another thirty minutes.”

“Thank you for reminding me. Now, we will get underway. And if you refuse to do so, we will indeed sink this ship, and when we get to the trawler, my colleague Leonid and I will hold a very short summary court-martial and execute you on the spot. So now you have your choice of how you wish to die — doing your duty, or not doing your duty.”

Both men made eye contact, then Gleb stared out the windshield, smoking his cigarette. “Well, this fog helps.”

“Get underway, Captain.”

Gleb replied, “Hoisting an anchor is usually a two-man operation, but since neither you nor Viktor are available, I can do it myself, but it will take some time—”

“Quickly.”

Petrov took a flashlight from the bridge and left Captain Gleb to his duties.

As he walked into the vestibule, he heard a noise and looked over his shoulder to see the bridge door sliding shut.

Chapter twenty-two

Vasily Petrov slung his submachine gun over his shoulder and went first to the captain’s quarters, then to the ship’s office where he had dragged the bodies from the bridge, and shut off the lights, barely noticing the corpses as he thought about Gleb the man and Gleb the bearer of bad news.

As for Gleb the man, Petrov had expected a strong personality — Gleb was a ship’s captain and a commander of men, and he had agreed to this dangerous mission. As for Gleb’s suspicion that the Americans were looking for The Hana, Petrov did not believe that. And regarding Gleb’s other paranoia — that Petrov was going to kill him — well, that was understandable, though ironically it was not true, though it could become true.

Petrov drew his Makarov pistol and took the spiral staircase down to the salon, noting the location of the fourteen bodies on the floor so he could step around them when all the lights were out.

He also noted the bullet wound in Tasha’s heart, and this made him think again of her caterer friend at Tamorov’s house.

Even if this man, Depp, was an embassy watcher, how could he connect the amphibious craft and its occupants to The Hana?

Petrov had told Tamorov that they were going to a party in East Hampton and would return in the morning. So even if the FBI questioned Tamorov, that was all Tamorov knew. And if there was some suspicion that the amphibious craft had sailed out to meet a ship, how would anyone know which ship? And if the Americans were looking for the amphibious craft, they would not see it on the water or on the deck of a ship.

Petrov switched on his flashlight and began shutting off the lights in the salon. Outside, the deck lights were going off, and he could feel the vibration as Gleb started the ship’s engines.

He went outside and descended the exterior staircase to the main deck. He could now hear the sound of an anchor being raised. They would soon be underway.

Petrov moved to the stern where the prince’s ensign flew from a staff, and he drew his knife and cut the flag loose, letting it fall into the sea.

He looked out over the stern, noting that the fog was low, barely reaching the main deck. The sky was clear and the half-moon was overhead. Out in the distance to the south he could see ship lights — tankers and cargo ships — waiting in a line that stretched for over a hundred miles from the open ocean to the security checkpoint at Ambrose Buoy, which was ten nautical miles from the entrance to New York Harbor.

It must be frustrating, he thought, for those ships’ captains and crews to sail halfway around the world at good speed, only to be slowed to a crawl at this bottleneck; very unlike incoming aircraft that needed to land on time. And yet for all the Americans’ obsession with airport security and efficiency, they had still not perfected seaport security or efficiency. And thus a ship with evil intent could slip through. And would. Soon.

Petrov thought, too, of the aftermath of the nuclear explosion in New York Harbor. Not only would the New York seaport be shut down for a decade or more, but every other seaport in America — and probably Europe — would be shut down, as were the airports after September 11. And when the American seaports reopened, the lines of ships waiting to dock would stretch back to their home ports as each arriving ship was boarded and searched at length, costing the Americans great amounts of time and money. In fact, world commerce would be disrupted for years, and American imports and exports would slow to a trickle. And all of this would happen as a result of the trauma and devastation caused by Saudi Prince Ali Faisel’s nuclear attack on New York. Petrov smiled.

He took a last look at the ship’s lights on the horizon. Well, he thought, those ships would be fortunate if they did not get into New York Harbor before 8:46 A.M. And those ships that did would not be so fortunate.

The Hana began to move.

He turned and walked quickly into the bar area.

He surveyed his earlier work and wondered if the missing deckhand had seen this. And if he had, had that caused him to jump overboard? Or to hide? In either case, the man was not a threat to the mission unless he was picked up by a passing ship, which was unlikely with this blanket of fog on the ocean.

Well, he thought, if the deckhand was still onboard, he would be in his familiar surroundings on the tank deck below, which was a maze of storage rooms and infrastructure, providing many places to hide like a bilge rat. But Petrov would deal with that later.

Petrov looked down at His Royal Highness, Prince Ali Faisel. Ambition is a noble trait, but if you wear it like a crown, people will see it and use it for their own advantage. That was what he would have told His Highness if they had actually had that breakfast meeting to discuss their common problems.

Petrov looked at the diamond-encrusted watch on the prince’s left wrist, now covered with dried blood. In the end, death is indeed the great equalizer. Ali Faisel, though, was a man of faith — professed or real — and though he did not get his Russian prostitutes here on his wife’s namesake yacht, he was by now in Paradise, enjoying the virgins.

Petrov continued into the dining room, stepping around the bodies of the two stewards, then moved on to the warm galley where the unpleasant smell of mutton had been replaced by the unpleasant smell of the cooks’ blood.

He shut off all the galley lighting, then used his flashlight to guide him to a passageway that led to the main deck vestibule where the spiral staircase and elevator were located.

There was only one other door in the vestibule, a teak door that led to the prince’s suite and that Petrov knew had a bulletproof core. In the door was a peephole and above the door was a security camera. The prince, like all men with money and power, thought about his enemies. Unfortunately for him, he also thought that Colonel Petrov, the enemy of his enemy, was his friend.

Petrov tried the handle on the door, finding it unlocked. He held his handgun to his front and threw open the heavy door as he dropped into a crouch.

He thought it unlikely that the deckhand would pick the prince’s suite to hide, but he called out in English, “Is anyone there? Please help me.” He smiled. “The Russians are murdering everyone onboard.”

There was no reply.

Petrov stood and entered the sitting room of the suite, which was dimly lit by a few lamps. He went quickly through the sitting room, the bedroom and dressing room, then the large bathroom, finding only more gilded extravagance, and also some photographs of the prince’s many children, though none of his wife — or wives.

It occurred to Petrov that there might be some people, including Americans and Saudis, who could not bring themselves to believe that Prince Ali Faisel, who loved life and all it had to offer, had become a suicide bomber. On the other hand, the Americans did not think that deeply when it came to ascribing evil intentions to those who followed Islam; all Muslims were capable of all things.

And the prince’s own coreligionists were equally unthinking, and they would believe what they wanted to believe; that every Muslim — even a decadent royal, and especially such a sinner — could be touched by the light of God and become a martyr for Islam.

Yes, there could be some speculation and doubts about Ali Faisel ending his life in a nuclear holocaust. But that line of thought would go nowhere in the hysterical aftermath of the attack.

Petrov turned off the lights in the prince’s suite and descended the spiral staircase to the lower deck.

He began first in the quarters of the three officers whose doors were unlocked. Again, he didn’t think that the deckhand would choose a dead-end room in which to hide, so he moved quickly through the officers’ rooms.

As he went through the staterooms, his thoughts returned to the Americans. If they were looking for a ship at sea at night, they would rely more on radar and infrared scanning than on a visual sighting. They loved their technology. And on that subject, they had very sophisticated radiation detectors that were effective at great distances. And The Hana was now emitting radiation, though not for long.

But then he had another thought... a thought that he had been pushing to the back of his mind. Arkady Urmanov. Known to the Americans as Pavel Fradkov, the Russian Federation’s U.N. delegate for Human Rights. It was possible, he conceded, that the American State Department — or the FBI or CIA — had identified Pavel Fradkov as Arkady Urmanov, a nuclear physicist, whose specialty was miniature nuclear weapons.

But if they had made that identification, why had they allowed Urmanov into the country? Or allowed him to stay? Obviously, the Americans wanted to see why he was here — and if they knew why, then the mission was compromised. And if it was compromised, then Moscow would blame Colonel Petrov for insisting that Urmanov be sent to New York under an alias with diplomatic cover. And if that was true, then he, Colonel Vasily Petrov, had no future in Moscow.

It also occurred to him that if the FBI had questioned Tamorov, then it was possible that the rich oligarch may have been cooperative, to protect his money and his American visa. It was also possible that Tamorov had recalled that Petrov wanted to be introduced to Prince Ali Faisel. But would Tamorov make the connection between the prince and the prince’s yacht, and the amphibious craft that had taken them from the beach? Possibly.

Petrov stopped in the passageway to collect his thoughts. He still had the option of scuttling The Hana and returning to Moscow via the fishing trawler. But what awaited him in Moscow? Not a promotion to general. Not his father’s congratulations. The future of Russia has been placed in your hands, Vasily. And if this mission failed because of him, what awaited him in Moscow was possibly a firing squad.

He leaned his back against the wall and drew a long breath. There was really only one option left. Complete the mission — at any cost.

Petrov continued through the passageway between the guest staterooms, finding most doors locked, which he opened by firing one or two rounds from his Makarov.

He then proceeded toward the ornate doors at the end of the passageway that led to the flooded tender garage, noticing the blood on the wall as he passed by.

Yes, there was only one option left for him. And the two things that he needed to complete his mission had just arrived. Captain Gleb and the bomb.

Come home in glory. Or do not come home.

Vasily Petrov was no longer sure that he was coming home. But if he did not, his father would know how his son met a glorious end.

Chapter twenty-three

Vasily Petrov entered the garage, which was dimly illuminated by indirect lighting and by the underwater lights on the flooded deck.

Tied to the opposite dock was the amphibious craft that would take him, Gorsky, and Gleb from The Hana to the pier on the Brooklyn waterfront — though if he eliminated Gleb, he was sure he could operate the craft himself. As for finding the pier, he had been there twice, once by car and once by boat, and he had flown over it in a helicopter, so he knew he could find it even at night because of the large boathouse that covered the pier. That was the plan. But the plan might have to change.

Tied to the dock in front of him was the lifeboat from the fishing trawler, and sitting in the center of the boat’s deck was a black trunk.

Petrov motioned for Gorsky and Urmanov to stay in the lifeboat, and he walked along the dock to the catwalk, out of earshot of the two men, and used the intercom to call the bridge.

Gleb answered, “Captain.”

“Vasily. Report.”

“Well, we are underway, as you see. I have plotted a course twenty nautical miles from shore, close to the shipping lane. It will take us a few more minutes to get up to speed, and if I can get twenty-five knots out of the engines, we will be approaching the entrance to New York Harbor at the Verrazano Bridge in less than two hours — depending on tides and currents.”

Petrov checked his watch. That would put them outside the harbor at about midnight. Perhaps earlier if the currents were with them. And if the Americans were waiting for him, he would proceed at full speed straight into the harbor, and as The Hana got within a hundred meters of Manhattan Island, he could manually detonate the device.

Like an Arab suicide bomber.

But that might not be necessary. He needed more information.

Gleb said, “I saw another helicopter heading east. Also two high-speed craft on the radar.” He pointed out, “If I see them, they see us.”

“They don’t know what they are looking for.”

Gleb didn’t reply to that, but said, “The fishing trawler will remain on station for five more minutes. If he doesn’t get a radio signal from me, he will head back to Saint Petersburg.”

“I hope he has had good fishing.”

“Well then, the die is cast.”

“It was cast a long time ago in Moscow.” Petrov changed the subject and asked, “Why did you close the bridge door?”

“So I don’t get a bullet in my back.”

“I assume you are referring to the deckhand.”

Gleb did not reply.

“Have you locked the door?”

“That is the procedure if there is a danger onboard.”

Petrov knew that the bridge door could be locked from the inside without a code, but it could not be opened from the outside without entering the code. So Gleb had effectively locked Petrov out, and he had a reasonable excuse to do so. Petrov said, “I will have full access to the bridge.”

“When you come up, bring me some coffee.”

Petrov didn’t reply to that and said, “You can communicate with me through the ship’s speakers. I am in the tender garage.”

“I see you on the monitor, and if that thing you’re working on starts to smoke, I’ll be in the water.” He laughed.

Petrov shut off the intercom and walked quickly along the dock to the lifeboat and jumped in.

Gorsky stood and said, “I assume you have not found the deckhand.”

Petrov shook his head, then put his hand on the black trunk. “This now deserves our full attention.” He looked at Gorsky and Urmanov. “Are we ready?”

Gorsky nodded. Urmanov did not.

Petrov said to Gorsky, “Unlock the trunk.”

Gorsky knelt before the trunk, which had a conventional hasp and padlock securing the lid, as though it was actually a steamer trunk, though the combination lock and hasp were made of titanium alloy, as was the trunk itself.

Gorsky, from memory, entered the six-digit combination. He heard a soft click and pulled the lock open.

Petrov said to Urmanov, “The honor is yours, Doctor.”

Urmanov stared at the black trunk, then stood and put his hands on the sides of the watertight lid. He lifted the heavy, lead-lined lid until the two steel arms locked into place.

Petrov, Gorsky, and Urmanov looked down at the device, which filled the entire trunk. Engraved in the lower right-hand corner of the cast aluminum face was RA–115, followed by –01, which designated this device as submersible.

Petrov and Gorsky exchanged glances and nodded. Yes, this was exactly like the device they had trained on, except this one had a plutonium core, about the size and shape of an American football.

The size of the fissionable core never failed to impress Petrov. It was difficult to imagine how anything that small could produce a fireball the size of six sports stadiums, rising over five hundred meters into the air and generating temperatures of over ten million degrees Celsius, consuming everything within the firestorm, and igniting anything combustible within another half kilometer, melting steel, glass, and flesh.

And then there was the shock wave that would travel at the speed of sound, tearing apart buildings and throwing people and vehicles into the air like leaves in a storm.

And what followed would be much worse: a radioactive plume, riding on the prevailing winds, sickening everyone it came into contact with. Petrov remembered the Chernobyl nuclear reactor meltdown. People were still dying from the effects of radiation poisoning almost two decades later.

Petrov stared at the aluminum face of the device. Its four corners were secured by sunken screws whose heads needed a special tool, which Urmanov had in his tool kit to unloosen them if necessary. Also in the tool kit were instruments that Urmanov would need if there was a problem with the device. Petrov and Gorsky could arm the device without Urmanov, but they were not authorized to remove the face and expose the inner workings of the miniature nuclear bomb.

Ironically, Petrov knew, it was not the plutonium core or even the electronics that presented a problem; it was the two detonator caps and the conventional high explosive charges packed around the plutonium — to compress it and give it the critical mass it needed to achieve fission — that could explode if improperly handled. Thus the age of gunpowder met the nuclear age in this trunk. And Dr. Urmanov, nuclear physicist, had an understanding of both, plus an understanding of advanced electronics if a problem arose.

Mission control had told Petrov that the device had less than a five percent chance of malfunctioning. Urmanov was needed to lower that to zero percent.

If, however, Dr. Urmanov could not seem to solve the problem, then there were ways to help him remember the intricacies of the device he invented.

Petrov again looked at the aluminum face of the device. It had no knobs or dials, no switches or meters, only small, color-coded ports into which electronic leads could be inserted.

The timer clock was internal and not shown in a display window, but would be shown on the handheld arming device that lay in plastic wrap on the surface of the aluminum face.

Petrov picked up the arming device and unwrapped it, letting the four color-coded wires fall free. Except for the dangling wires, this arming device looked like a large satellite phone. And in fact, signals could be sent to Moscow, and also to the nuclear device. He asked Urmanov, “Did you remember to bring your arming device?”

Urmanov reached into his bag and retrieved the backup arming device.

Petrov said, “We will use the one that came with the package.”

He inserted the lead from his black wire into the hole that had a black circle around it. He looked at the electronic display screen on his handheld device and said, “Battery is fully charged and all electronics are reading normal.”

He turned the device toward Urmanov and Gorsky and they both nodded, and both repeated, “Normal.”

He then plugged the green wire into the green port and looked at his display. “Radiation level is within normal range,” meaning there was no radiation leak and no depletion of the plutonium, which was critical if they were to achieve a ten-kiloton yield.

He turned the remote device toward Urmanov. “Correct?”

Urmanov nodded.

The public address speaker crackled and Gleb’s voice filled the garage. “Helicopter across the bow at three hundred meters distance and four hundred meters altitude, proceeding south.” He added, “He has a searchlight, and the beam passed briefly over us.”

Petrov glanced at Gorsky, then said, “If they are looking for the amphibious craft” — he nodded toward the amphibious craft five meters away on the opposite dock — “they would need X-ray vision, like Superman.”

Gorsky smiled, but he was concerned.

Petrov looked at the open trunk. It was now emitting enough radiation to be detected, but it would emit less when the lid was closed, and almost none when it was submerged. But now they were exposed and needed to hurry through the arming sequence. Petrov still did not think that the Americans were thinking the unthinkable. But they might discover this radiation source by accident if they had their detectors turned on and if someone in a helicopter or boat noticed the detector’s flashing red light or somehow heard its audible alert over the sound of their engines.

He said, “We will continue.”

He plugged the yellow wire into the yellow port and a digital calendar appeared on the screen. He set the date for September 12, then switched to clock mode. He pushed the hour button on his control and stopped at 08. He then advanced the minutes to 46.

September 12–08:46. He pressed the Set button and said, “That will be about the time we are over the Atlantic, enjoying our coffee.”

Gorsky nodded, though he was no longer sure they would be on that private jet. But Colonel Petrov seemed sure, as though there were no helicopters flying overhead and no high-speed craft on the sea. Gorsky glanced at Urmanov. Now that this was a minute away from becoming real, Urmanov had become almost catatonic.

Petrov plugged the last wire — the red one — into the last port and said, “We will recite the arming code.” He put his finger on the electronic display that now showed numbers from zero to nine and said, “Seven.”

Gorsky repeated, “Seven.”

Urmanov said, “Seven.”

Petrov pushed seven on the screen, then said, “Three.”

“Three.”

“Three.”

Petrov pressed three, then said, “Nine.”

They went through the eight-digit arming code, until the last number, which was known only to Petrov. He pushed the number, which was zero, and the displayed code disappeared, replaced by the word ARMED.

And, Petrov thought, that was all there was to it. He held up the arming device so that Gorsky and Urmanov could read it, and he said to Urmanov, “So, Doctor, there were no problems and we did not need you after all.”

Urmanov did not reply.

Petrov continued, “You designed a very reliable weapon. I congratulate you.”

Again, Urmanov had no reply.

Petrov unplugged his four lead wires, then took Urmanov’s backup arming device and ran through the procedure again, then said, “I am satisfied.” He looked at Urmanov. “And you?”

Urmanov nodded.

“Good. So we have a hundred percent certainty that nuclear fission will occur tomorrow at zero eight forty-six hours.” He looked at Urmanov. “Correct?”

Urmanov replied, “Nothing is one hundred percent certain.”

“Some things are.” He glanced at Gorsky, who nodded.

Petrov removed the four wires from the nuclear device. Clipped to the underside of the upraised lid was a long coil of copper wire, which Petrov removed. On one end of the wire was a long copper needle, and on the other end was a black rubber ball. Petrov stuck the long needle into a waterproof port on the right side of the trunk, then tossed the ball overboard into the water. This was the external radio antenna, necessary if Petrov needed to send a signal from his arming device to the submerged nuclear device. There were only two signals he might have to send: a shutdown of the timer clock, which he had no intention of sending; or a signal to advance the time of detonation. And that might be a signal he would need to send.

He put his handheld arming device into remote mode and tested the signals sent through the radio antenna. His display screen showed all the data — battery and electronics, radiation, detonation time, and status: ARMED.

Satisfied that he had control of the timer clock, he said to Gorsky, “You may lower the lid.”

“No!”

Petrov and Gorsky turned toward Urmanov, who was standing near the helm of the boat, a gun in his hand. Petrov noticed he was shaking almost uncontrollably.

Gorsky said to Urmanov, “You told me your gun was in your bag. I don’t like people who lie to me.”

Urmanov waved his gun and said in a quavering voice, “Move... away from the trunk.”

Petrov and Gorsky exchanged glances, nodded, and moved toward opposite sides of the lifeboat.

Urmanov took a step forward, pointed his 9mm Makarov at the aluminum face of the nuclear device, and pulled the trigger.

There was a dull thud as the hammer hit the firing pin block.

Urmanov again pulled the trigger.

Gorsky suggested, “You need to re-cock it. Pull back on the slide.” He stepped toward Urmanov. “Here, let me show you.” He snatched the gun out of Urmanov’s trembling hand, cocked it, and put the muzzle to Urmanov’s forehead. He pulled the trigger, and again the hammer made a dull thud.

Urmanov sank to his knees, his hands covering his face and his body heaving.

Gorsky said, “I believe someone filed down your firing pin.” He tossed the gun into the water, then grabbed Urmanov by his shirt and pulled him to his feet. Gorsky took a step back, then drove his fist into Urmanov’s solar plexus.

Urmanov let out a grunt, doubled over, and again sank to his knees, holding his abdomen.

Petrov glanced up at the security camera, wondering if Gleb had seen any of this. He said to Gorsky, “I think we have shot enough people today. Tie him to the dock.” He told Urmanov, “You will be the first to see the nuclear explosion — the second it happens.”

Gorsky nodded appreciatively and dragged Urmanov off the boat and onto the dock.

Petrov closed the watertight lid on the trunk and snapped the padlock onto the hasp. He pulled his Makarov and fired eight rounds into the hull and watched as water spurted from the bullet holes. He gathered Urmanov’s bag and the two arming devices and jumped from the sinking boat onto the dock.

Gorsky had taken a coiled line from the dock and bound Urmanov’s arms to his side with his hands behind his back, tied to a cleat. Urmanov was now in a sitting position, facing the boat with his legs dangling in the water. Gorsky said to him, “You can stare at your bomb until eight forty-six tomorrow morning. Then you should close your eyes so you are not blinded by the incandescent flash.” He crouched beside Urmanov and asked, “Were you trying to destroy the device? Or detonate it?”

Urmanov did not reply.

“Well... perhaps you yourself don’t know.”

Petrov said to Gorsky, “Shut off the lights, but leave the underwater lights on so we can monitor this space.”

Gorsky went quickly to the connecting catwalk and turned off the indirect lighting, leaving the garage bathed in the shimmering underwater lights.

Petrov watched the lifeboat as it sank under the weight of the nuclear device. No air bubbles rose to the surface, indicating that the trunk was indeed waterproof. The lifeboat settled on the deck of the garage beneath two meters of water.

Petrov took a last look around the garage. “It is done.”

Gorsky agreed, “It is done.”

As they were leaving, Urmanov shouted, “You are the monsters! Monsters!”

Petrov stopped and turned. “We are monsters? Perhaps, but you, Doctor, you are the monster’s creator. Think about that as you wait for your creation to kill you.” He added, “Good evening.”

Petrov and Gorsky left the garage and closed the doors behind them.