Текст книги "Radiant Angel"

Автор книги: Nelson Demille

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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.

PART IV

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

We made the border crossing from the Shinnecock Nation to Southampton, and my former trainee suggested some shortcuts to Tamorov’s house, trying, I suppose, to make herself useful.

She asked, “Are you still angry?”

I didn’t know if she meant angry at her or angry at Buck, but thinking back on all those conversations with her when she was conning me, maybe I felt a little foolish, and thus angry at myself. I mean, if they’d sent a guy instead of a good-looking woman I would have just clocked him.

Ms. Faraday advised me, “Anger gets in the way of good judgment and good performance.”

“I liked you better when you were a clueless trainee.”

“No you didn’t.” She changed the subject and told me, “I can see why Buck wanted me to work with you.”

“Then you can also see why I don’t want to work with either of you.”

“Well, you should know that it was Buck who first got onto this.” She explained, “About two months ago, the Russian Foreign Ministry notified the State Department that Pavel Fradkov was to be assigned to the Russian U.N. Mission. Buck’s job is to vet these guys. He’s one of the last of the SDI Cold Warriors and he knows all there is to know about the former Soviet Union. He even wrote a memo on Vladimir Putin from when Putin was a KGB officer, saying to watch this man closely.”

Clearly Ms. Faraday was impressed with old Buck, which colored her perception of him, just as mine was colored by his double-cross in Yemen.

She went on, “So Buck saw the photo of Pavel Fradkov in the diplomatic visa application that the Russians submitted to the State Department, and though Fradkov had aged and altered his appearance, Buck recognized him as Dr. Arkady Urmanov, a nuclear weapons physicist from the days of the Soviet Union.”

“Buck is smart,” I agreed. “But whoever let the nuke guy in the country was not so smart.”

“Sometimes we can turn these guys. We actually have a program where we buy Russian nuclear physicists and give them a job in the U.S.”

“How about Gorsky and Petrov? Do you have jobs for them?”

She didn’t reply for a second, then said, “We—someone—wanted to see what they were up to.”

“Well, now you know.”

She had no response to that and asked me, “What happened in Yemen?”

I was sorry I’d lost my cool with Buck while she was standing there. “I may have misinterpreted what happened.”

“I’m sure you did.” She let me know, “Buck is a patriot.”

So was Adolf Hitler. And so is Vasily Petrov.

I ended the conversation by calling Scott Kalish. He answered, and I said, “I’m driving, on speaker with a Federal trainee, Ms. Tess Faraday.”

“Okay, I’ll speak slowly.” He let me know, “I’m at Timber Point,” meaning the Suffolk County Marine Bureau Headquarters. I felt guilty about pulling him away from his Law and Order reruns. I asked, “How’s it going?”

“Not so good. I thought this amphibious craft would show up someplace.” He tried to assure me, “In addition to the sea-and-air search, we’ve issued a BOLO—be on the lookout—to the Bay Constables and local PD for all the marinas, yacht clubs, public docks—”

“The craft is sitting on the deck of a ship by now, Scott. You need to find that ship.”

“Hundreds of ships out there.” He let me know, “We have all four of our choppers flying search patterns, using infrared thermal imaging, and the Midnight Sun—the searchlight. But none of the choppers have spotted the amphibious craft you described, either on the water or onboard a large ship.”

This was not looking good.

Kalish continued, “I’ve got ten harbor units deployed and they’re running search patterns east and west of Tamorov’s house, from the shore out to the Fairway—the shipping lane—which starts about twenty miles offshore.” He further informed me, “Basically we’re covering about a thousand square miles. And the search area is getting bigger as time passes.”

“I understand that.” I let him know, “The Coast Guard has been called in to assist.”

“Okay, we’ll coordinate.” He reminded me, “We don’t even know how fast this ship is traveling or what direction, or what it looks like.”

“It looks like it has an amphibious landing craft on its deck. If it’s covered with a tarp, use the infrared imaging.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

I ignored the sarcasm and informed him, “We have some info that this ship is heading west, destination New York City.”

“How do you know that?”

I know that because if there’s an atomic bomb onboard, New York City is ground zero, as Buck so vividly explained. But in the world of compartmented information, I wasn’t sure I could share that with Scott Kalish, so I glanced at Tess, who shook her head.

I said to Kalish, “I can’t say. But trust me on this.”

“Okay… we’ll concentrate on westbound ships.”

“Good. And call your counterpart in the Nassau County Marine Bureau and ask them to begin a sea-and-air search to pick up where yours ends. Also, someone will need to call NYPD Harbor.” I further suggested, “Get the rest of your fleet out.”

There was silence on the phone, then Kalish said, “I don’t mind helping you out, John, but this has turned into a budget buster.” He asked, “How important is this? And am I covered?”

I again glanced at Tess, who held out her hand for the phone and I gave it to her.

She said, “Captain Kalish, this is Tess Faraday of State Department Intelligence.”

He didn’t reply, probably wondering how the trainee got promoted so fast.

She continued, “We have reason to believe that the amphibious craft rendezvoused with a ship that could be harboring a number of armed terrorists.”

There was a few seconds of silence, then Kalish said, “I thought this was about an amphibious craft with a bunch of Russian hookers onboard, going out to a party ship.”

“I can’t say anything further, Captain, but I will have someone in Washington contact you directly.”

“That would be good. Soon.”

Tess handed me the phone and I said to Kalish, “So that’s the deal, Scott. This got big and ugly.”

“Okay… but for all we know, the target ship could be a hundred miles south of the shipping lane. Or it could be at anchor, waiting to make its run.”

“That’s true…” Basically we had no information, and what information we had was old by this time. I said, “It would make sense that this ship is Russian registry.” I asked, “Can you find out what Russian ships—commercial or private—are due into the Port of New York?”

He thought a moment, then replied, “Yes and no. Yes if the ship has its Automatic Identification System transmitter operating. Then the Coast Guard can look on a screen and see the location of every approaching vessel, with all its info—its name, where it’s from, its cargo, and so forth.”

“Sounds good.”

“But if the ship is up to no good, it might turn off its AIS transmitter.” He added, “Like an aircraft would do if it was up to no good. But the difference is that aircraft will show up on radar as unidentified, but the sea is not so well covered by radar.” He further added, “A ship at sea can theoretically disappear by going electronically silent.”

“I understand.” But I still didn’t understand how Petrov thought he could get a ship emitting radiation past all the patrol craft, or past the old harbor forts that were equipped with very sensitive radiation detectors. I couldn’t use the word “nuclear,” so I asked, “How could a ship harboring terrorists get past all the checkpoints? Give me some scenarios.”

“Okay… well, a ship can theoretically slip past the Coast Guard and past the Ambrose checkpoint if it has shut off its AIS transmitter. And I suppose it can go right into the harbor unseen, especially at night.” He added, “But eventually the ship has to dock somewhere to unload the terrorists.”

Actually the ship only had to make it into the harbor, then detonate the nuke as it approached Manhattan.

Scott Kalish, however, was thinking it was a boatload of guys from Sandland, armed with AK-47s and hand grenades or something, so he said to me, “I’m not understanding Russians and terrorists in the same sentence.”

“Not all terrorists are named Abdul.” I further clarified my bullshit, “Maybe saboteurs would be a better description.”

Kalish still wasn’t satisfied and he said, “I’m not getting a clear picture of the threat or the mission.”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

He continued, “I assume if there are terrorists—or saboteurs—onboard this ship, we need to approach with caution and be prepared for an armed confrontation.”

“That’s a good assumption.”

“I would have appreciated this information sooner.”

“Right. Well, now we’re sure.”

“Well, I’m still not sure about the mission or the threat.”

I really wanted to be straight with Scott, but you don’t want to yell “atomic bomb” and scare the crap out of everyone—especially if you’re not sure. But I kept coming back to Arkady Urmanov, who was not in America to get a job. Though it was still possible that he was just partying with his pals tonight.

Kalish asked, “Anything further?”

I glanced at Tess, who was looking at me as if to say, Don’t say it.

“John? Anything further?”

Time to make an important decision. The code name for a radiation detection operation is Radiant Angel, which Tess might not know, so I said to Kalish, “Pray that a radiant angel will guide you.”

There was a silence, then he asked, “Are you serious?”

“Don’t worry about the budget.” A nuclear takedown of Manhattan will cost a lot more. “That’s all I can say, Scott.”

“Holy shit…” He pointed out, “If I’d known this, I’d have made sure everyone was glued to their radiation detectors.”

Join the compartmented information club, Scott. I looked at Tess, who didn’t seem happy with me, then I said to Kalish, “I just got the word.”

“Okay… well, in a way, this makes finding this ship easier… but… geez…”

To change the subject, I asked him, “Any luck with Tasha’s cell phone?”

No reply. His head was still in Nukeland. “Scott?”

“No… but the commo people are working on it.”

“Okay, I’m on my way to Tamorov’s. I need two county detectives to meet me on Gin Lane. They should look for a black Dodge minivan and my black Chevy SUV.” I also told him, “I may want to get aboard one of your choppers or boats later.”

“Okay… you can rendezvous with either at Shinnecock Coast Guard Station. Just let me know.”

“Will do.”

I was about to hang up but Scott informed me, “I’m getting a report here… hold on.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“It is… if you’re the guy we’re looking for.” He told me, “There’s a fog rolling in from the south.” He added, “Typical this time of year.”

“Keep me posted.” I hung up.

Tess said to me, “You handled that well. Until you mentioned the unmentionable.”

“He needs to do his job.”

“Then someone else will make the decision to tell him. Not you.”

I informed her, “When you and Buck asked me to work with you, you knew what you were getting.” I strongly suggested, “Call your people in Washington and tell them to call Scott Kalish.”

She took my phone and began sending a text, telling me, “Buck is on his way to the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station. I’ll advise him to also go to Timber Point and see Captain Kalish in person.”

“Tell Buck he needs to be straight with Kalish.”

She sent the text to Buck and asked me, “What do you think Kalish’s chances are of finding an unknown ship on the high seas?”

“Not good at the moment. But at some point the target ship will get into range of a radiation detection device.”

“Can’t radiation be shielded with lead?”

“Yes and no.”

“Tell me about yes.”

“Well… from what I remember from a Nuclear Emergency Support Team class I took, if the device is encased in lead it may not emit enough gamma rays to be picked up by a detecting device—from a distance. But you will get a reading up close.”

“How close?”

“Depends on the amount of radiation being emitted, the sensitivity of the detector, and the thickness of the lead shield.” I also informed her, “The best shield is water, so the big scare is of a nuclear device riding underwater on the hull of a ship that might slip through.”

She didn’t reply to that, then asked me, “Can we get all shipping stopped at sea?”

“All legitimate ships will comply with a radio call from the Coast Guard. Unfortunately, the one ship we want stopped is not going to comply. Or respond.”

“All right… can we block the harbor?”

I’d played that scenario in my mind and replied, “It’s difficult to physically stop a large ship that’s intent on entering the harbor.” I let her know, “We have police and Coast Guard craft that can pull off a combat boarding of a large hostile ship going full speed ahead, but it’s not easy—especially if there’s armed resistance.”

“Can’t the ship be… like, blown out of the water?”

She was asking questions I’d already asked myself, and the answers were not good. I informed her, “Even a Coast Guard cutter doesn’t carry a gun big enough to stop a large ship, and all the shore batteries guarding the approaches to New York Harbor were deactivated after World War II. You’d need a Navy warship to be in the area—or jet fighters.” I added, “In any case, do we want to fire on a ship that may have an atomic device onboard? Or fire on the wrong ship by mistake?”

She thought about all that, then said, “You’re telling me that a ship with a nuclear weapon onboard could sail directly into New York Harbor and detonate.”

“Well… it’s possible. Especially if it was a ship that looked legit. Or if it was on a suicide mission.”

She thought a moment, then said, “Whoever planned this in Moscow understood that seaport security has some holes in it.”

“Big enough to sail a ship through.”

Tess stayed quiet, then said, “Maybe, as Buck said, we are misinterpreting what we see.”

“We’d all be happy to be proven paranoid.”

She didn’t respond and we drove in silence. Indeed, it was hard to believe this was happening. It seemed like an abstract problem in a training exercise. Find the nuke, Detective. We gave you some clues. Think. Is Abdul smarter than you?

No. But Ivan could be.

Holy shit.