Текст книги "Radiant Angel"

Автор книги: Nelson Demille

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Well, I thought, the nuclear nightmare seemed to have begun in the minds of scientists long before anyone else even knew what nuclear energy was. Einstein was a smart guy.

Buck said, “Roosevelt took this seriously, and so should we.”

That seemed to be the end of the pointed story, and Buck asked me, “Do you take this seriously?”

“It’s credible.”

“Not everyone thinks so.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

He didn’t respond to that and asked me, “Any word from Captain Kalish?”

“No.”

Tess said to me, “We’d like you to call the Suffolk PD and get some detectives to accompany you and me to the Tamorov house.”

“All right.” I guess I’m the front guy and the go-to cop. But before going to see Tamorov, I asked Buck, “What do you know about Georgi Tamorov?”

“Not much more than everyone else knows. He’s made billions from oil and gas and he has financial interests all over the world, including America. He’s close to Putin and he’s a globe-trotting playboy. He owns a Falcon 900 that flies him to the playgrounds of the world.”

“Does he own cargo ships or luxury liners?”

“Good question, but no.” Buck added, “Though I’m sure he knows people who do.”

I nodded and asked, “Personals?”

“Tamorov has been married to the same woman for about twenty-five years and they have a son and a daughter, both at university in England.”

I said to Buck, “I seem to remember that Tamorov has a place in Manhattan.”

“Yes, he has a townhouse in Tribeca and offices near the former World Trade Center.”

“He won’t have either if a nuke incinerates Lower Manhattan.”

“Correct. So I can’t imagine that Tamorov knows what his guest is up to.” Buck added, “Also, Tamorov’s wife is currently in New York.”

And Petrov’s wife isn’t.

So, I was off to see Georgi Tamorov, and also Dmitry the driver, both of whom knew something.

Buck gave me the standard warning. “What you’ve heard tonight is need-to-know and SCI—Sensitive Compartmented Information—not to be repeated to anyone under any circumstances.”

I didn’t reply.

“We know you can keep a secret, John, as you did in Yemen. We trust you.”

Sorry I can’t say the same.

Buck said to me and to Tess, “Let’s pray that we are wrong, and that we are misinterpreting what we see.”

Right. Just like in Yemen. I said, “I will leave you two to pray, and I’ll call when I have something.” I added, “Good powwow.”

Tess said, “I’m going with you.”

“You’re fired.”

Buck interjected, “I’m afraid I have to insist that you take Tess with you.”

“Really?”

“Please.” He explained, “Tess has contact information for resources that you may need at a moment’s notice.”

That might be true, but Buck also wanted his colleague to keep an eye on me. So, knowing I could dump her anytime, I said, “All right.” Buck wasn’t telling me what his next move was, and I didn’t ask. Maybe he was going to take a nap.

Buck wished us luck and offered me his hand, but I didn’t take it, and reminded him, “We have unfinished business.”

Tess and I walked through the graveyard back to the Blazer.

She asked me, “Do you believe what Buck is suggesting?”

“Do you?”

She walked on in silence, then replied, “It’s just so beyond anything I can imagine…”

Well, Albert Einstein imagined it long before the first bomb was even built, and that’s why we carry radiation detectors. I asked her, “When did you know about this?”

“I wasn’t fully briefed until I called Buck from the diner.”

That could be true, considering she didn’t want me to crash Tamorov’s party. The problem with compartmented information is that nobody knows what the hell is going on. Or why they’re doing what they’re doing. If the police operated like that, they’d never make an arrest.

She added, “When I told Buck that our three Russians took off in an amphibious craft, he suspected something was up.”

“He suspected something was up long before tonight. That’s why he was in New York and not Washington. And that’s why he stuck me with you.”

She didn’t reply.

I always believed that 9/11 never would have happened if these people talked straight to each other. Now we were looking at something that would make 9/11 look like a bad day at the office.

We reached the Blazer and I said, “I’m driving,” and got behind the wheel.

Tess got in the passenger side and reached back into the rear where all the toys were kept, including the pocket-sized portable radiation detector, which she placed on the console between us.

She asked, “May I have my gun back?”

I handed her her Glock and her creds.

I drove back to the road and headed out of the Shinnecock Reservation.

I looked at the portable radiation detector. There are two ways to detect radiation. One of them is with a PRD before nuclear fission takes place, and the other is too late.

PART III

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.