Radiant Angel (John Corey Book 7)

by Nelson DeMille

  Petrov’s voice came over the speaker: “Captain, I need you on the bridge. Doctor, I will join you shortly. Viktor, stay with Arkady.”

  Gleb flipped his cigarette into the water, grabbed his bag, and started toward the door.

  Gorsky called to him, “There is one deckhand not accounted for.”

  Gleb stopped. “How did that happen?”

  “That is no business of yours.”

  “It is if I run into him.” He asked, “Is he armed?”

  “That is not likely.”

  “Well”—Gleb drew a Grach from under his coat—“I am.”

  “Do you know how to use that?”

  Gleb laughed and said, “SVR men are all assholes.” He turned and walked through the door.

  Gorsky watched him moving down the long passageway. Captain Gleb, he understood, was a man who knew that his skills were crucial to the mission, which made him feel free to say what he pleased. Even to an SVR officer.

  Well, Gorsky thought, as soon as Captain Gleb was no longer indispensable, then he would become disposable.

  Gorsky turned and looked at the black trunk in the lifeboat, then looked at Urmanov. They made eye contact and it seemed to Gorsky that Dr. Urmanov had guessed his fate.

  Gorsky smiled at him. “Cheer up, Doctor. You are about to earn your two million Swiss francs.”

  Urmanov looked away and stared at the nuclear device.

  Gorsky said, as if to himself, “Yes, many fates hang in the balance tonight, and tomorrow morning will see two bright suns. God’s and man’s.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Vasily Petrov stood on the bridge and followed Gleb’s progress on the video monitor. Petrov saw that Gleb had his gun drawn, meaning Gorsky had told him about the missing deckhand, though Petrov noted that Gleb had obviously not been trained to walk tactically with a weapon. Also, it had apparently not occurred to Captain Gleb that his SVR-issued Grach, like Urmanov’s Makarov, did not work. The SVR did not give dangerous weapons to potentially unreliable people.

  Petrov switched to the garage camera and saw that Gorsky and Urmanov had boarded Gleb’s craft, though, as per instructions, they had not opened the lid of the trunk.

  Petrov heard Gleb on the spiral staircase and turned toward the open door.

  Gleb glanced around the vestibule, noticing the blood near the captain’s door, then entered the bridge.

  Both men, holding guns in their hands, looked at each other. Finally, Gleb stuck his Grach inside his jacket and put his overnight bag on the bloodstained deck.

  Petrov said, “Welcome.”

  Gleb nodded and went to the long, wraparound instrument console, moving from left to right as he read the instruments and gauges. He glanced at the radar screen, then went to the security monitor and pressed the labeled buttons, going from camera to camera, looking at the carnage in the crew’s common room, the bar and dining room, the galley, and finally the salon.

  He asked, “Where is my friend Captain Wells?”

  “In his quarters.”

  Gleb nodded, still staring at the image of the dead prostitutes lying in the salon. “Who are they?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “They look like Russian girls.”

  Petrov did not reply.

  Gleb asked, “And why would I think my fate will be different?”

  “Because I need you.”

  Gleb looked at Colonel Petrov. “Until what point?”

  “Until we anchor in New York Harbor and you sail The Hana’s amphibious craft from this yacht to the pier in Brooklyn.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we drive to the airport and fly home.”

  Gleb stared at Petrov. “There is an American expression—three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.”

  Petrov did not respond.

  Captain Gleb asked, “What happens to Arkady when you no longer need him?”

  “You ask too many questions, Captain.”

  “You should ask some of your own.” He pointed out, “After Arkady finishes his business, I am the only man needed to complete this mission.”

  “Captain, it would take a better man than you to kill me. Or Viktor.” He advised, “Do not provoke me.”

  Gleb lit a cigarette and looked at the blood-covered chair and the blood on the floor. “This is nasty business.”

  “Did anyone tell you otherwise?”

  “The money is good.” He asked, “And you?”

  “The money is not so good.”

  Gleb smiled. “I will buy you a new car in Moscow.”

  “I assure you, we will never see each other again.”

  Gleb changed the subject and asked, “Do you think this seaman is still onboard?”

  “Where else would he be?”

  “He should be in the ocean wearing a life vest.” He added, “A sailor is taught how and when to abandon ship.”

  Petrov thought about that, but did not reply.

  Gleb continued, “From here, it could take him about ten hours to reach shore. If he didn’t die first from hypothermia.” He added, “But he could be picked up by a passing ship.”

  “Let us assume he is not a factor.”

  “Let us assume he is.” He informed Colonel Petrov, “We saw two high-speed craft on the trawler’s radar. And we observed two helicopters flying what appeared to be search patterns.”

  “Then they are searching for a ship in distress. They are not searching for The Hana.”

  “Well, you would know more than I on that subject.”

  “I would and I do.”

  Gleb told Petrov, “A man named Leonid from your fine organization who is on the trawler has a message for you.”

  Petrov did not reply.

  “He says that if you believe the mission is compromised, you should go to the default plan. I have brought with me five kilos of plastique—” He nodded toward his overnight bag. “We can blow a hole in the ship’s hull and sink The Hana and her secrets. You and I and your man Viktor, and also the physicist, will board my craft and sail to the trawler, which will take us and the black trunk home.”

  “That is not what I came here to do, Captain.”

  Gleb shrugged. “The decision is yours. But consider that the Americans may be looking for us.”

  “Well, then we have sat here too long.” He said to Gleb, “It is time to get underway.”

  Gleb went to the radar screen and said, “Come here.” He pointed to the screen. “See this blip? You see how fast it is moving?”

  Petrov did not reply.

  “Why would a craft travel at forty or fifty knots in this fog?”

  “I have already told you why.”

  Gleb looked at Colonel Petrov. “Well, I see you are a stubborn man. Or a brave one. Or perhaps… well, driven by your love of the Motherland. Or something else.”

  “They are not paying you two million Swiss francs to psychoanalyze me.”

  Gleb laughed. “All right. Then we set sail for New York.” He said to Petrov, “I will turn off all the deck lights and the bridge lights, and you will go through the ship and turn off all the interior lights that can be seen through the portholes.”

  “Why don’t you use the circuit breakers?”

  “Because that will cause the emergency lighting to come on.” He said to Petrov, “I know a few things about ships, Colonel.” He also reminded Petrov, “I am in command of this ship.”

  Petrov did not reply.

  “And while you are at it, remove the prince’s ensign from the stern.” He asked, “Can you do all that?”

  “I can, if it makes you feel better, but I am sure they are not looking for us.”

  “Let us act as though they are, and let’s not make it easy for them.” Gleb continued, “I will turn off the yacht’s AIS—the Automatic Identification System—which will make us disappear from the Coast Guard’s monitors and their computers.” He added, “We won’t disappear from radar, but we will be only a blip, without an
identification tag.” He added, “Not all craft are required to have AIS. So that will not raise suspicions with the Coast Guard.”

  Petrov nodded.

  “I will also shut off the GPS and radar and navigate by compass. I will leave one radio on to monitor police and Coast Guard traffic.”

  Again, Petrov nodded. The original plan did not call for The Hana to hide. The prince’s yacht was in the Coast Guard AIS system, and it was on a pleasure cruise. They were to make the two-hour run to New York Harbor at 4 A.M., then enter the harbor at dawn. But the situation seemed to have changed—if Gleb and Leonid’s suspicions were valid.

  Gleb continued, “I will head south, to the edge of the shipping lane, so that we will not appear on radar as a lone ship between the shore and the shipping lane.”

  Petrov had no reply.

  Gleb went on, “But we will be traveling faster than that very slow line of ships waiting to get to Ambrose Buoy, and that may draw attention. So perhaps we should keep pace with them.”

  Petrov considered all this, then said, “In my business, Captain, we rely on speed.” He told Gleb, “If they are looking for us, they will find us if we give them the time. So we need to be ahead of them. And you need to sail now directly to New York at full speed.” He added, “The Hana can make twenty-five knots, which will put us at the entrance to New York Harbor in less than two hours.”

  Gleb thought about that, then replied, “I think a slower approach, near the shipping lane, is better. It is easier to hide in a crowd.”

  “Do you watch soccer, Captain?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know that if the ball progresses slowly toward the goal, the defense is in place and the ball is not likely to get into the net.”

  Gleb drew on his cigarette.

  “But if the ball moves quickly, before the defense can react, then there is only the goalkeeper between the ball and the net. So if you believe that the Americans are looking for us, you will now set sail and we will arrive at the goal before the defenders are in place.”

  Gleb pointed out, “This is not a soccer game, Colonel. This opposing team has guns.”

  “All the more reason to run faster.”

  “And radiation detectors.”

  “Which is why we are going to sink your lifeboat in the flooded compartment.”

  Gleb stayed silent, then said, “We may get to the goal, but we may find the entire opposing team waiting there for us.”

  Petrov replied, “We only need to get close.” He reminded Gleb, “This ball explodes.”

  “Yes, it does. But perhaps you are forgetting our escape plan—our sail in the amphibious craft from The Hana to the pier in Brooklyn, and our car ride to the airport.”

  Petrov did not reply immediately, then said, “You and Viktor may be making that trip by yourselves.”

  Gleb looked at Petrov. “Well, you can kill yourself if you want. But we may all be killed or captured before then.”

  “I assure you, Captain, you will be on that flight to Moscow.”

  Gleb stared at Petrov, then said, “When an SVR man makes me assurances, I can be sure of only one thing.”

  “You can be sure that if you don’t get this ship underway quickly, Captain, you are no longer needed.”

  Gleb took a deep breath, lit another cigarette, then said, “I am just pointing out some problems that you should consider, Colonel. And I am reminding you that we can still safely abort this mission by sinking this ship.” He added, “The trawler will remain on station for another thirty minutes.”

  “Thank you for reminding me. Now, we will get underway. And if you refuse to do so, we will indeed sink this ship, and when we get to the trawler, my colleague Leonid and I will hold a very short summary court-martial and execute you on the spot. So now you have your choice of how you wish to die—doing your duty, or not doing your duty.”

  Both men made eye contact, then Gleb stared out the windshield, smoking his cigarette. “Well, this fog helps.”

  “Get underway, Captain.”

  Gleb replied, “Hoisting an anchor is usually a two-man operation, but since neither you nor Viktor are available, I can do it myself, but it will take some time—”

  “Quickly.”

  Petrov took a flashlight from the bridge and left Captain Gleb to his duties.

  As he walked into the vestibule, he heard a noise and looked over his shoulder to see the bridge door sliding shut.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Vasily Petrov slung his submachine gun over his shoulder and went first to the captain’s quarters, then to the ship’s office where he had dragged the bodies from the bridge, and shut off the lights, barely noticing the corpses as he thought about Gleb the man and Gleb the bearer of bad news.

  As for Gleb the man, Petrov had expected a strong personality—Gleb was a ship’s captain and a commander of men, and he had agreed to this dangerous mission. As for Gleb’s suspicion that the Americans were looking for The Hana, Petrov did not believe that. And regarding Gleb’s other paranoia—that Petrov was going to kill him—well, that was understandable, though ironically it was not true, though it could become true.

  Petrov drew his Makarov pistol and took the spiral staircase down to the salon, noting the location of the fourteen bodies on the floor so he could step around them when all the lights were out.

  He also noted the bullet wound in Tasha’s heart, and this made him think again of her caterer friend at Tamorov’s house.

  Even if this man, Depp, was an embassy watcher, how could he connect the amphibious craft and its occupants to The Hana?

  Petrov had told Tamorov that they were going to a party in East Hampton and would return in the morning. So even if the FBI questioned Tamorov, that was all Tamorov knew. And if there was some suspicion that the amphibious craft had sailed out to meet a ship, how would anyone know which ship? And if the Americans were looking for the amphibious craft, they would not see it on the water or on the deck of a ship.

  Petrov switched on his flashlight and began shutting off the lights in the salon. Outside, the deck lights were going off, and he could feel the vibration as Gleb started the ship’s engines.

  He went outside and descended the exterior staircase to the main deck. He could now hear the sound of an anchor being raised. They would soon be underway.

  Petrov moved to the stern where the prince’s ensign flew from a staff, and he drew his knife and cut the flag loose, letting it fall into the sea.

  He looked out over the stern, noting that the fog was low, barely reaching the main deck. The sky was clear and the half-moon was overhead. Out in the distance to the south he could see ship lights—tankers and cargo ships—waiting in a line that stretched for over a hundred miles from the open ocean to the security checkpoint at Ambrose Buoy, which was ten nautical miles from the entrance to New York Harbor.

  It must be frustrating, he thought, for those ships’ captains and crews to sail halfway around the world at good speed, only to be slowed to a crawl at this bottleneck; very unlike incoming aircraft that needed to land on time. And yet for all the Americans’ obsession with airport security and efficiency, they had still not perfected seaport security or efficiency. And thus a ship with evil intent could slip through. And would. Soon.

  Petrov thought, too, of the aftermath of the nuclear explosion in New York Harbor. Not only would the New York seaport be shut down for a decade or more, but every other seaport in America—and probably Europe—would be shut down, as were the airports after September 11. And when the American seaports reopened, the lines of ships waiting to dock would stretch back to their home ports as each arriving ship was boarded and searched at length, costing the Americans great amounts of time and money. In fact, world commerce would be disrupted for years, and American imports and exports would slow to a trickle. And all of this would happen as a result of the trauma and devastation caused by Saudi Prince Ali Faisel’s nuclear attack on New York. Petrov smiled.

  He took a
last look at the ship’s lights on the horizon. Well, he thought, those ships would be fortunate if they did not get into New York Harbor before 8:46 A.M. And those ships that did would not be so fortunate.

  The Hana began to move.

  He turned and walked quickly into the bar area.

  He surveyed his earlier work and wondered if the missing deckhand had seen this. And if he had, had that caused him to jump overboard? Or to hide? In either case, the man was not a threat to the mission unless he was picked up by a passing ship, which was unlikely with this blanket of fog on the ocean.

  Well, he thought, if the deckhand was still onboard, he would be in his familiar surroundings on the tank deck below, which was a maze of storage rooms and infrastructure, providing many places to hide like a bilge rat. But Petrov would deal with that later.

  Petrov looked down at His Royal Highness, Prince Ali Faisel. Ambition is a noble trait, but if you wear it like a crown, people will see it and use it for their own advantage. That was what he would have told His Highness if they had actually had that breakfast meeting to discuss their common problems.

  Petrov looked at the diamond-encrusted watch on the prince’s left wrist, now covered with dried blood. In the end, death is indeed the great equalizer. Ali Faisel, though, was a man of faith—professed or real—and though he did not get his Russian prostitutes here on his wife’s namesake yacht, he was by now in Paradise, enjoying the virgins.

  Petrov continued into the dining room, stepping around the bodies of the two stewards, then moved on to the warm galley where the unpleasant smell of mutton had been replaced by the unpleasant smell of the cooks’ blood.

  He shut off all the galley lighting, then used his flashlight to guide him to a passageway that led to the main deck vestibule where the spiral staircase and elevator were located.

  There was only one other door in the vestibule, a teak door that led to the prince’s suite and that Petrov knew had a bulletproof core. In the door was a peephole and above the door was a security camera. The prince, like all men with money and power, thought about his enemies. Unfortunately for him, he also thought that Colonel Petrov, the enemy of his enemy, was his friend.