Текст книги "Radiant Angel"

Автор книги: Nelson Demille

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

“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.