Thirty rounds in the magazine, fourteen targets. He would probably have to reload.
One of the women said to him, “Now give us our diamonds, Viktor.” She stood and walked toward him, her hand extended.
He tore the paper from the submachine gun.
Tasha said, “What is…? Oh my God!”
Petrov quickly searched the tank deck—the engine room, laundry room, storage compartments, and all the belowdeck areas of the large ship—calling out, “Is anyone here? I am lost! Can anyone help me?”
But no one replied.
Petrov climbed a staircase to the lower deck where the tender garage and the swimming platform were located, as were the guest staterooms and the officers’ quarters.
He went first toward the stern, calling out in the tender garage, “Hello! Is anyone here?”
He then moved to the glass doors that led outside to the swimming platform and noticed that the doors were bolted from the inside, meaning that no one had gone out to the swimming platform and abandoned ship by this route. He unbolted the doors and walked out to the platform.
The low clinging fog was getting thicker, and the sky was filled with stars, with a half-moon rising in the east. The sea, he saw, was still calm. Off in the distance, he saw the lights of a helicopter, hovering unusually low. He put this out of his mind and looked at his watch. Captain Gleb would be arriving in half an hour. And there was still work to do aboard The Hana.
Petrov left the swimming platform, rebolted the doors, and passed through the tender garage. He walked down the long, wide passageway between the ten staterooms, knocking on the locked doors and opening the unlocked ones, calling out, “Hello! Is anyone here?”
No one replied, except Dr. Urmanov, still locked in his stateroom. Petrov called to him, “Stay where you are!”
It would be good, he thought, if Gorsky had come upon the last deckhand. It would be bad, however, if this Bulgarian had seen the dead bodies and was hiding. Well, Petrov thought, they had anticipated this in their planning, and as long as the man had no access to the radios on the bridge, then for all Petrov cared he could hide like a rat until the ship exploded in a mushroom cloud.
But the thought of the bridge with all its communication equipment troubled him, though Gorsky should have finished his business in the salon and returned to the bridge by now. Petrov passed through the officers’ quarters and took the elevator up to the bridge level.
Viktor Gorsky remained standing on the ottoman, surveying the carnage in the salon.
Yes, it was a difficult thing, and though he had tried to do it quickly, there were too many targets, and he had to go first for the men, and after he emptied his thirty-round magazine some of the ladies began running or crawling toward the exits, and he had to reload quickly and take them down, one at a time, with short bursts of fire. They had been terrified, and their screaming still echoed in his ears.
But at least he hadn’t hit any of the windows, so there would be no outward evidence of violence onboard The Hana as it sailed into New York Harbor and lay at anchor through the night.
He stepped down from the ottoman, drew his pistol, and surveyed the nearly naked and still-bleeding women. A few were wounded only in the legs and were crying, or trying to crawl away, or imploring him to spare them. He went quickly from one to the other until his magazine was empty. He reloaded and continued.
He came to Tasha, who was lying on her back, a bullet wound in her abdomen and a grazing wound across her thigh. She was crying, though not so much from the pain, he thought, as from sadness.
He said, “I am sorry.”
She looked at him and managed to say, “Why…?”
“Close your eyes, Tasha.”
She shut her eyes and he fired a bullet into her heart.
He saved the two mortally wounded stewards for last, then went to the bar, washed his hands, and poured himself a flute of champagne.
Gorsky checked his watch. Twenty-two minutes since he had first walked onto the bridge. The operations officer in Moscow had estimated fifteen. But the desk idiots didn’t know anything.
The stereo was still playing Swan Lake, which he liked.
Vasily Petrov exited the elevator into the vestibule of the bridge deck.
He held the MP5 in one hand, his finger on the trigger and the firing switch set to fully automatic.
He noticed that the bridge door was closed, and he wondered if Gorsky had closed it, or if the officers had been alerted and sealed themselves off. He felt his heart beating quickly in his chest, but then he saw to his left the bloodstains on the wall and floor near the captain’s quarters, and he knew that Gorsky had been successful here, which gave him a sense of relief.
He moved quickly to the door marked SHIP’S OFFICE and pointed his MP5 at the door as he threw it open and dropped to one knee.
He saw that Gorsky had also been there, and he stood, closed the door, and went to the captain’s quarters and threw open the door.
It took him a second to process what he was seeing, and he wasn’t certain how this scene had come about and he didn’t care, but he saw that the deckhand, Malkin, was now a confirmed kill. Sprawled across a food cart was a steward, and sitting in his easy chair was Captain Wells, staring at the book in his lap.
Petrov closed the door, then went directly to the bridge door and pushed the intercom buzzer.
No answer.
He pushed the entry pad, leveled his submachine gun, and dropped to one knee as the door slid open, revealing the two dead officers on the floor.
Petrov stood and went onto the bridge, moving quickly to the instrument console to inspect it for damage.
“I was very careful.”
Petrov spun around to see Gorsky standing in the opening. He caught his breath and snapped, “That is a good way to get yourself killed, Gorsky.”
Gorsky wanted to say, “You are the one who would now be dead.” But he said, “I trust your quick judgment, Colonel.”
Petrov did not respond to that, but asked, “Are you finished in the salon?”
“It is done.”
“Good… so tell me.”
“You can see this for yourself. All four officers, a deckhand, and a steward. As for the ladies… they are all gone, as are two stewards.”
Petrov confirmed, “That accounts for all seven stewards.”
“How do we get that number?”
“There were four with the prince and his six guests.”
Gorsky nodded, and inquired, “And all the cooks were in the galley?”
“They still are.” He smiled.
Gorsky, too, smiled, and asked, “Did you remember to shut off the gas?”
“I forget nothing, Viktor.”
“Yes, Colonel.” He asked, “And how was your visit to the crew’s quarters?”
“Four, and one in the passageway.”
They stood there a second, each waiting for the other to point out that a deckhand was missing. Finally, Petrov said, “So, unless you have forgotten a man you killed, there is one not accounted for.”
Gorsky nodded.
“I actually passed him earlier on a staircase. A Bulgarian.” Petrov added, “He said he was going to dinner, but he wasn’t in the crew dining room.” He smiled. “Well, he can’t go far.”
Gorsky pointed out, “He can, if he goes into the tender garage and takes the amphibious craft.”
Petrov looked at the instruments on the panel that monitored the tender garage. There was no indication that anyone was opening the door and flooding the compartment.
Gorsky went to the security camera screen and pulled up the garage, but he couldn’t see anyone there, and the amphibious craft sat in its chocks on the dry deck.
Petrov said, “I think we should not worry about one deckhand.”
Gorsky didn’t like his colonel’s inattention to a problem. Petrov did this too often, and one day it would prove fatal to him. Or to the mission. He thought again of the man and woman at Tamorov’s house. Problems—r
eal or imagined—had to be addressed quickly and forcefully. He said, “I will go look for this man.”
Petrov checked his watch. “Gleb will be here soon.” He said to Gorsky, “We will follow the plan. I will stay here and secure the bridge, and you will go to the garage and open the door for Captain Gleb.” He added, “Don’t forget our nuclear physicist on the way.”
Gorsky nodded.
“I will call you on the public address system when I see Gleb’s craft approaching.” He smiled. “No one else will hear me.”
Gorsky ignored the joke and reminded Petrov, “The deckhand will hear you. And if he is Bulgarian, he will speak or understand some Russian.”
“Well, then, Viktor, see if you can find him on your way to the garage.” He smiled again. “You have as good a nose for finding the living as a cadaver dog has for finding the dead.”
Gorsky did not reply.
Petrov was feeling suddenly better, and he said to Gorsky, “You did a good job, Viktor.”
“Thank you, Vasily. Yourself as well.”
“The pieces are almost all in place. We now await our new captain, and our cargo. And then we sail for New York.”
Gorsky nodded. The colonel’s optimism was perhaps justified. They were more than halfway toward the successful completion of the most important military mission that Russia had mounted since the Great Patriotic War against the Germans. For the colonel, this meant a promotion to general and a comfortable position in Moscow for the rest of his life. And of course, his father would be proud of him. As for Gorsky, he had been promised any assignment he asked for—as long as it was in Russia. Neither he nor Colonel Petrov would ever be allowed to leave Russia again. Not after what they did in New York. They would take that secret to the grave with them.
Petrov said, “I will remove these corpses from the bridge so they don’t upset Captain Gleb. You will now go to the garage—”
The beating sound of helicopter blades penetrated into the nearly soundproof bridge, and both men looked through the windshield and saw the lights of a helicopter off their port side, at about two hundred meters altitude, traveling west.
Petrov said, “A commuter helicopter from the Hamptons.”
Gorsky did not reply, though he knew that a commuter helicopter would not fly that low or be this far from land. But perhaps it was a Coast Guard helicopter, looking for a boat lost at sea.
Petrov said, “Go. Gleb will be here shortly.”
Or, Gorsky thought, the Coast Guard was looking for them.
“Go!”
Gorsky stared at the retreating lights of the helicopter as it disappeared, then pulled his pistol, turned, and left the bridge, taking the spiral staircase down to the lower deck. He hoped he would find the deckhand trying to escape on the amphibious craft. Or maybe the man had put on a life vest and gone overboard. That’s what he would do. Or perhaps the deckhand would do what most sailors would do—come to the bridge to see if the officers were there. Well, there was an officer there—Colonel Petrov of the SVR.
As he descended to the lower deck, Gorsky began to realize that all was not well. A deckhand was missing, and a helicopter had just flown by. These facts were not related, but it was possible that the helicopter was related to the two caterers, who he still believed were not caterers.
The mission control officer in Moscow had given them a way to abort this mission, even at this point. But that was not going to happen with Colonel Vasily Petrov in command. Colonel Petrov had dreamt too long about sitting in the private jet having coffee as a nuclear fireball engulfed New York City. That was the only way Colonel Petrov was going home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Viktor Gorsky, with his pistol in his hand and his submachine gun slung across his chest, moved through the passageway between the staterooms.
He came to Urmanov’s door, knocked, and called out in Russian, “It is time, Arkady.”
The door opened slowly and Dr. Arkady Urmanov stood there, a blank expression on his face.
“Take your bag, Doctor.”
Urmanov retrieved his overnight bag.
“Do you have your gun?”
Urmanov tapped his bag.
“Good. Follow me, please.”
Urmanov closed his door and followed Gorsky down the passageway. As they passed beneath the bar area on the main deck above, Gorsky saw blood trickling down the wall. Urmanov saw it, too, and hesitated, but Gorsky took his arm and propelled him forward.
At the end of the staterooms, they came to a set of ornate doors marked GARAGE and BEACH CLUB.
Gorsky opened one door, revealing the two docks and the amphibious craft sitting on its chocks on the dry deck. Beyond the garage, through glass doors, was the swimming platform, which was illuminated, and the light reflected off the fog that lay over the platform.
Gorsky looked around to be certain he was alone, then moved into the garage and motioned Urmanov to follow him.
The public address system came on and Petrov, speaking in Russian, said, “Good evening, Doctor.”
Urmanov was momentarily startled, then looked around for the source of the voice.
“You are on camera, Doctor. I can see you, but can’t hear you. Wave to me.”
Urmanov raised his arm without enthusiasm.
Petrov informed Gorsky, “I see a small craft on the radar, two hundred meters south on a direct course for The Hana.”
Gorsky nodded in acknowledgment.
“Prepare to open the door.”
Gorsky walked along the dock to the port side of the yacht where a catwalk connected the two docks, and stopped at an electrical panel that controlled the shell door, the pumps, and the lights.
“One hundred meters,” Petrov announced. “I can now see him coming out of the fog and he is signaling with a red light. I will return the signal.”
Gorsky knew that Petrov was now turning the bridge lights off and on—the signal to Captain Gleb that The Hana was secure.
“Open the door,” Petrov ordered.
Gorsky engaged the switch, marked in English SHELL DOOR. He could hear the hydraulic sounds as the huge door on the starboard side of the forty-foot-beamed yacht began to rise slowly from its top hinges.
The sea rushed in like a waterfall, running at high speed across the garage deck and lapping against the two parallel docks, then washing up against the hull beneath the connecting catwalk where Gorsky stood. The amphibious craft began rising from its chocks.
Gorsky could smell the ocean and feel the damp fog entering the flooding compartment.
Petrov said, “Welcome our new captain with the underwater lights.”
Gorsky found the switch, and the rushing seawater in the compartment suddenly lit up, reminding Gorsky of their own arrival aboard The Hana.
The waterfall flattened as the water level in the compartment reached the sea level, creating a smooth, uninterrupted passageway of water from the ocean into the ship.
Gorsky looked at Dr. Urmanov on the dock, staring at the gaping hole in the hull of The Hana. Gorsky wondered what the man was thinking. Maybe about the two million Swiss francs. Or the Siberian exile. Or the blood running down the wall. If so, these were not unrelated thoughts. In any case, they would soon see if the nuclear device had a problem. Or if Dr. Urmanov had a problem.
Gorsky heard the sound of the approaching boat’s engine, then saw the red bow light of a small craft coming through the fog.
The red light got closer, and the engine stopped as the bow appeared out of the fog and the craft slid silently through the doorway and into the compartment.
Gorsky turned the switch and the shell door began to close. He walked quickly back to the dock and stood beside Urmanov.
The lifeboat from the Russian fishing trawler floated between the two docks, and at the helm was a gray-bearded man who reminded Gorsky of the late Captain Wells, except that this man was wearing a blue quilted jacket and a green knit cap.
In the center of the lifeboat was a black tarp, and
beneath the tarp was a rectangular object.
Captain Gleb surveyed his surroundings, then looked at Gorsky and Urmanov and shouted, “Throw me a line!”
Gorsky threw a line to The Hana’s new captain.
Petrov’s voice came over the speaker: “Welcome aboard The Hana, Captain.”
Gleb did not acknowledge the greeting and secured his craft to the dock. He drew a knife from his boot and cut the ties holding the tarp, then flung the tarp into the water.
Sitting on the deck of the small craft was what looked like a large black steamer trunk.
Petrov’s voice boomed over the speaker: “Doctor Urmanov! Behold your creation! Behold your monster, Doctor!” Petrov laughed.
Gorsky smiled, then looked at Urmanov, who seemed in a trance. He knew a problem when he saw one.
Gleb patted the black trunk and said, “Here it is, men. You don’t have to sign for it. It’s all yours.” He laughed.
Gorsky regarded Gleb. The man sounded as rough as he looked.
Gleb stepped onto the gunnel of his craft carrying a large overnight bag, and jumped onto the dock. He stuck out his hand to Gorsky. “Captain Gleb.”
They shook hands and Gorsky said, “I am Viktor.” He indicated Dr. Urmanov. “This is Arkady.”
Gleb smiled. “Let me guess who is the physicist and who is the SVR assassin.”
Gorsky didn’t find that amusing.
Gleb said to Gorsky, “You, sir, have blood on your hand and a bit on your shirt.” He looked at Urmanov. “And you, sir, look like a man who wouldn’t kill a fly. Well, not with a swatter.” He cocked his head toward the nuclear device and laughed again.
Neither Gorsky nor Urmanov responded.
Captain Gleb lit a cigarette and informed his compatriots, “I saw two helicopters out there, flying patterns. And the trawler’s radar saw two high-speed craft, running west.” He exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Where is your boss?”
“On the bridge.”
Gleb drew again on his cigarette, then nodded toward the black trunk. “Leave that alone until I speak to him. I have a message for him.”
“You can give it to me.”
“He can give it to you if he wants to.”
Radiant Angel (John Corey Book 7) Page 14
