Radiant Angel

by Nelson DeMille

  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 int
roduced 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.”