Jet

by Russell Blake

  Chapter 30

  Petrushka’s security was what she’d expected. Four extremely dangerous-looking men in monkey suits met them at the bottom of the passerelle that led up onto the rear deck of the large yacht. They recognized Samuel and waved him through, but asked to see Jet’s small clutch purse, which they went through carefully. All it contained was the plastic casino card, lipstick, some chewing gum and makeup, a miniature bottle of perfume, her cell phone and a gold Cartier pen – plus two condoms, one of which fell onto the wharf as they rummaged through the contents. An embarrassed guard hastily retrieved it. She beamed a thousand kilowatt smile at Samuel, who looked like he had just won the lottery.

  Onboard, a jazz trio played in muted tones as thirty or so well-groomed socialites mingled, white-jacketed stewards navigating easily between them with plates of appetizers and drinks. As promised, the ship was opulent beyond imagination.

  “I heard he spent over three hundred million on her,” Samuel said nonchalantly as they moved into the salon and headed to the bar.

  “Refreshingly vulgar. And where is the great man? Your friend, the host?”

  “Over by the bar, talking to that older gentleman.”

  They approached the bar, and Grigenko regarded Samuel with a grin.

  “They will let anyone on this boat, nyet? Did security go home early tonight?” Grigenko said, and embraced Samuel with enthusiasm.

  “I heard drinks were free till midnight so I decided to slum it,” Samuel said, laughing.

  “And who is this magnificent creature?” Grigenko boomed, eyeing Jet. She noted he looked exactly like his dead twin. She fought down the image of Arkadi’s dying eyes as she drove her serrated blade into his heart, and instead smirked in a decidedly interesting way. Jet hoped that her expression didn’t hint at the sizing up she was doing, nor of her rapid calculation of the chances of making a clean escape if she rammed her pen through Grigenko’s eye and ran for it.

  “Misha, this is Sylvia. Sylvia, Misha: our host and master of ceremonies.”

  “Avec plaisire,” Jet said as Grigenko grasped her hand and kissed it.

  “The pleasure is all mine. Welcome to my little indulgence, Sylvia. May I get you a drink?” Grigenko asked, eyes locked on her face.

  “Champagne. French, if you have it,” she said, and he smiled.

  “Is there any other kind?”

  Grigenko snapped his fingers, and the bartender approached. In rapid-fire he ordered a flute of champagne for her and two vodkas, straight up, for himself and Samuel.

  The drinks arrived within seconds. Samuel held his drink aloft as though inspecting it, and then toasted.

  “To new friends,” he said, and the two men downed their vodka in a single swallow, as was the Russian custom, while she sipped her champagne. Veuve Clicquot, with a hint of citrus on the finish that was distinctive as a DNA sample.

  “Mmm. Delicious. Thank you,” she said, and then looked around at the crowd.

  Samuel and Grigenko bantered, and the Russian listened as Samuel regaled him with an off-color story about a famous actor who had almost died from auto-asphyxiation before being discovered in the nick of time by his personal assistant. Midway through the recounting, she excused herself, asking where the bathrooms were. Grigenko pointed to a powder room at the far end of the salon, and told her there was another one – upstairs a level – on the second entertainment deck if the salon head was occupied. She pretended to only register the last part and moved up the stairway in search of relief.

  Once locked in the bathroom, she flipped out her cell and pressed a speed dial number.

  “I’m in. Give me fifteen minutes, and then you should be clear,” she said.

  She listened at the door, on alert for sounds of movement, but didn’t hear anything. From the blueprints, she knew that one more level up was the bridge with a suite of offices for the busy owner – a command center and a security hub, which would be manned by at least two sentries.

  Below decks were the seven massive staterooms and the engine room, as well as the climate control equipment and electrical junctions.

  Jet thumbed through a couple of screens on her phone and located the detail on the yacht’s electrical layout. She’d need to be quick so as not to arouse suspicion.

  Easing the door open, she spotted a security guard at the far end of the second level, and she waved her champagne glass at him, smiling. He didn’t return her smile, but didn’t give her any further scrutiny, which was fine. Most men wouldn’t suspect a beautiful woman of anything in a party setting – a trait she was using to her advantage.

  She descended the forward stairs and continued down to the lower deck, then made her way quickly to the engine room, which was accessible from both the interior and the transom. The heavy watertight door slid open, and she slipped in, closing it behind her. The entire room was painted stark white, glossy and clean looking. Counting the bays on the port side of the massive engines, she stopped at the third floor-to-ceiling box.

  The panel swung ajar with a pop, and she quickly sorted through the color-coded wires, stopping when she found two purple cables. She opened her purse and extracted a stick of chewing gum and unwrapped it, then wound it around the two wires at the top. She sprayed the gum with a squirt of the perfume, and after a few moments, it started crackling and smoking. The underwater security sensors would be out of commission within thirty seconds, ensuring that David’s approach would go undetected.

  She closed the panel and returned to the forward door and opened it, swinging herself through and back into the corridor that housed the staterooms. Moving along the hall, she heard footsteps on the stairs. A hard-looking man in a tux descended, and she opened the nearest door, peering in.

  “What are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be down here,” he said, first in French, then in Russian-accented English.

  She responded in French.

  “I was looking at the bedrooms. They’re really cool. What a great layout.”

  “I’m going to have to ask you to go back up to the salon, Miss. This area is off limits.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “It just is.”

  “D’accord.”

  She could feel his eyes burning into her as she glided down the hall away from him, sipping her champagne as she swayed unsteadily, her gait tipsy. The leather jumpsuit had been a good call for captivating the attention of anything male within a mile, if somewhat impractical and hot.

  She returned to the party and sidled up to Samuel, who was flushed from the quick ingestion of so much vodka. Grigenko was standing with a group of young women near the rear deck, gesturing expansively at the waterfront buildings in the foreground, their lights glowing warmly and reflecting off the gentle swell that rocked as it pulsed through the mouth of the harbor.

  “Did you miss me?” she teased as she again slid her arm through his.

  “Of course. I haven’t thought of anything else but you since I first saw you in the casino. How’s the champagne?”

  “Delicious. How’s yours?”

  “Hits the spot, although vodka isn’t usually my thing.”

  “Really?” she inched closer to him. “What is your thing, Samuel?”

  “You are, tonight.”

  “You sure you can handle me? I tend to get a little…wild – aggressive, even.”

  Were it possible for a man to die and go to heaven and still remain ambulatory, Samuel had just reached that state.

  “I don’t scare easily.”

  “Name your poison,” she said, nodding at his empty glass.

  “Single malt scotch, if they have it. Neat.”

  She took his glass from him and gestured to the bartender, relaying Samuel’s preference. He selected a new tumbler and filled it with a generous pour, which Jet then handed to Samuel.

  “We were talking about you not scaring easy…”

  “I can be as adventurous as anyone,” he said. She noticed a slight slur.

 
“You don’t say. Do you think we can find some rope on board, and someplace…private?”

  Samuel’s eyes widened, and he tossed the scotch back, swallowing it in two gulps.

  “I went looking for someplace, but the guards told me the staterooms were off limits.”

  “I know the owner. Give me a second,” he said, and then weaved over to where Grigenko was holding court.

  After a brief discussion with much laughing and a few appraising looks, Samuel returned, his face glowing like a schoolboy’s.

  “No problem. We can use any of the rooms but the master.”

  “And the rope?”

  “One of the bodyguards will leave some coiled up in the hall. Give it a few minutes.” Samuel rubbed up against her, his excitement palpable.

  “Isn’t it kind of creepy to have guards everywhere like this?” she asked.

  “He’s Russian. That’s what they do.”

  Jet motioned for one more drink, this time ordering them both champagne. He nuzzled her neck as the two flutes slid across the bar.

  She pointed at one of the servants carrying a tray of food. “Can you get me one of those? They look delicious.”

  “Anything you want,” he said and lurched toward the steward.

  She dropped a small yellow pill she’d palmed into the champagne and stirred it with her finger. By the time he made it back with an appetizer for her, it had dissolved in the bubbly. Any unfamiliar taste would be masked by the oak and the palate-deadening effect of the hard liquor immediately prior to drinking it. She gratefully took a small bite of the cracker with brie and then set it on the bar, offering him a champagne flute.

  “Let’s celebrate. To famous new acquaintances who don’t scare easily,” she recited, and then drank half the flute in one fluid motion. Samuel joined her, finishing his as she knew he would. She now had about five minutes before he passed out for at least half an hour.

  “Come on. Let’s find a room. I need some…attention…in the worst way,” she growled into his ear, then took his hand and led him to the stairway that descended to the stateroom level. She could hear tittering from Grigenko’s group as they walked – a good sign.

  The rope was sitting outside of the second master stateroom, and she scooped it up as Samuel fumbled with the handle, having trouble with it as his motor skills began to stall. She reached around him and twisted the lever and then moved him into the room, guiding him to the king-size bed.

  “Have you been a bad boy today, Samuel? Meeting a strange girl and convincing her to let you violate her only an hour after your first words? What a filthy, horny dog you are, cheri. Pull those pants off, show me what you can do,” she ordered in a commanding tone, heightening Samuel’s arousal even further. She snapped the end of the rope against the bed like a whip, for effect.

  “I am filthy. Dirty and nasty,” he slurred, the words now almost unintelligible.

  “Lie back and let’s get those clothes off. I can’t wait any longer.”

  Samuel dropped his head onto the pillow and began pawing at his shirt with numb fingers. He almost had his trousers down when he started snoring. She finished the job and, once he was naked, wasted no time in tying his wrists to the bedposts and binding his legs spread-eagle. If anyone looked in on them, they’d quickly leave. Samuel was obviously in the middle of something important and wouldn’t appreciate an interruption.

  Jet checked her watch. Six more minutes until David would be in position by the bow. Her job, once onboard, had been to disable the sonar, which she had, and create a diversion – something that would allow him to get onto the ship.

  She inched to the door and cracked it open, checking the hallway. It was clear, the guards otherwise occupied with their constant patrol of the guest areas. She moved soundlessly to the stairs that led to the equipment rooms and ducked into the engine compartment.

  Four minutes to go.

  The throb of the generators that provided the ship with power was loud as she approached the enclosures. Three were operating, shore power for a yacht this size being impractical at a guest mooring. She moved to the first and opened the top, searching for the priming assembly, and then found it. Glancing around, she spotted a toolbox, neatly labeled and secured to the nearby wall. She slid open a drawer, selected a wrench, and quickly loosened a bolt on the priming system, then moved to the others to do the same. Once she had finished, she peered at her watch, waiting until the second hand passed the appointed hour, and then she unscrewed the first bolt and removed it, quickly dumping a third of her Cartier pen’s inky liquid into the cavity before replacing the bolt. She did the same with the other two, then returned the wrench to its slot and shut the enclosures. Inching over to the electrical panel, she shut off the breaker for the battery banks; when the generators died, she needed at least three or four minutes of darkness and confusion before they got the batteries powering the emergency systems – that the breaker had been left off would be deemed an oversight arising from maintenance or sloppiness.

  Feeling around in her purse, she retrieved two pieces of her gum and wedged them up into the snarl of cables above the breakers, out of sight, then flipped the lipstick top off and jammed the cylinder up beside them, twisting the bottom once she was done.

  Jet was swinging the engine room door open again when the first generator started faltering, and the overhead lights flickered, once, then again.

  She had just made it back to the stairwell to the main deck when the ship’s power shut down with a groan, and Petrushka was plunged into darkness.