Текст книги "Radiant Angel"

Автор книги: Nelson Demille

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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.”