Eternal Empire (27 page)

T
hat conversation had taken place only the day before, but as Maddy remembered it now, it seemed to belong to another lifetime.

When she came back to herself, she was walking along the companionway with Orlov, fifteen minutes after the images of Tarkovsky's apparent death had gone out over the video feed.

Until then, she had not truly believed that any of this would work. Since their conversation, Tarkovsky had confided only in his security chief. She had not been present at that discussion, but as she glanced over at Orlov now, she sensed that he was as eager as his employer to see this through to the end.

They arrived at her cabin, where Orlov waited as she unlocked and opened her door. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No,” Maddy said, going into the stateroom. She kept the door open long enough to look back at the security chief, who had remained in the hallway outside. “Any other instructions?”

“I advise you to remain in your room for the rest of the night,” Orlov said. “Tell us at once if anyone tries to contact you.”

“I will.” Maddy managed to smile at Orlov. “Thank you for all you've done.”

Orlov gave her a faint smile in return. “Thank me when we are both in Sochi.”

He turned aside and headed along the companionway. Maddy watched until he had disappeared up the stairs, then closed the door of her cabin and switched on the overhead light.

There was no one else there. Going to the bedside table, Maddy picked up her phone. She stood there for a moment, thinking. Then she went to the door again, opened it, and headed back into the hall.

Maddy glanced around the companionway, seeing that she was alone, and took the stairs to the lounge deck. Around her, the yacht was silent, except for the faraway sound of voices and music from the party on the level below. Moving quietly, still in her black dress, she made her way to the sky deck, which lay at the rear of the ship, the stars shining coldly overhead.

Going to the railing, she paused to look out at the sea. The moon had not yet risen, but in the distance, she could make out the outline of the shadow boat. Feeling the wind on her face, she stood there for a minute in silence, trying to prolong what felt like the last peaceful moment she would ever have.

She looked over the railing at the aft deck. For a second, she thought she saw something by the transom, as if a shadowy figure was moving toward the rear of the yacht, but it might have been just her imagination.

Her phone was still in her hand. She pressed a button to illuminate the screen, in order to see what time it was, and saw that she had a voicemail from hours before, from a number she didn't recognize.

Maddy put the phone to her ear, looking out at the shadow boat as she listened to the message. A woman's voice began to speak: “Maddy, this is Rachel Wolfe from the Serious Organised Crime Agency. I don't know if you remember me, but I used to work with Alan Powell. You need to call me back as soon as you get this. I believe you're in great danger—”

Even as she heard this, there was a high whine, like the amplified sound of an insect's wings. Something flew across the night sky, leaving a streak of brightness, and then the shadow boat across the water burst into flame.

Maddy recoiled, feeling the push of heat against her face as the explosion lit up the sea. She stared at the burning ship, the hand with the phone falling to her side, and saw something else in the sky above.

Outlined against the stars, illuminated faintly by the fire, a dark winged shape was wheeling around again toward the yacht. A second later, there was another insectile scream, a line of white darting straight in her direction, and a rocket struck the
Rigden
itself.

The explosion threw her off her feet. Maddy fell to her knees, the cell phone slipping from her hand and skittering along the deck as the yacht listed heavily to one side. She saw the phone slide under the railing, caught for an instant in the glow of the flames, and then it was gone.

Maddy crawled blindly forward. Screams rose from the salon below as a third rocket hit the yacht, the deck shuddering beneath her fingers. As the world tilted sideways, she tumbled along with it. Her head struck the railing at the edge of the deck, and then she knew no more.

Darius gave it as his opinion that the Scythians intended a surrender of themselves and their country. . . . To the explanation of Darius, Gobryas . . . opposed another which was as follows: “Unless, Persians, ye can turn into birds and fly up into the sky, or become as mice and burrow under the ground, or make yourselves frogs, and take refuge in the fens, ye will never make escape from this land, but die pierced by our arrows.” Such were the meanings that the Persians assigned to the gifts.

—Herodotus,
The Histories

We love the flesh: its taste, its tones,

Its charnel odor, breathed through Death's jaws . . .

Are we to blame if your fragile bones

Should crack beneath our heavy, gentle paws?

—Alexander Blok, “The Scythians”

I
lya had
heard the sound a few moments earlier. On the aft deck, facing the pool, the two levels of the yacht above had cast a rectangle of shadow. Moving silently onto the deck, Ilya crouched down in this area of darkness, not far from the transom where he would lower himself to the water. He was carrying nothing but a life jacket and the bag with the signal repeater and gun.

Placing the life jacket across his knees, Ilya found the light marker, which was designed to switch on as soon as it hit the water, and tore it off. He was about to remove his shoes and tie them together when he paused, frowning, and turned toward the starboard side. At first, he wasn't sure what had caught his attention. A second later, he felt it again, more in his bones than anything else, nothing more than the faintest of vibrations on the breeze.

Ilya rose to his feet, turning to face the lights of the city a mile across the water. The moon had not yet risen. He continued to look toward the harbor, keeping himself very still, trying to trace that rumor of a vibration to its source. Then he heard it at last with his ears, a low, insistent hum carried across the silence of the sea, and knew at once what was coming.

He dropped the life jacket, keeping only the bag with the gun, and ran forward along the side of the yacht. His first thought was that he had been a fool to believe that they would allow the plan to rise or fall based on his own loyalty. His second thought was that it was already too late.

A ladder on the starboard side led to the deck above. Ilya climbed to the main deck, then ascended one more level to the bridge. Up ahead, he could see the lights of the wheelhouse, with three crew members on lookout outlined against the window. Without hesitation, he opened the door and went inside, aware all the while of the vibration rising on the wind.

As he entered the bridge, the crew members turned in surprise. One of them, he saw, was Laszlo, the bosun he had met on his arrival. Another was an ordinary deckhand, while the third, whose epaulets identified him as the first mate, spoke at once in Russian. “Who are you?”

“You need to sound the alarm,” Ilya said. “We're under attack. There isn't time to—”

Even as he spoke, Ilya heard a high whine sear the sky overhead, followed an instant later by the explosion. Turning with the others, he saw the fireball bloom at the shadow boat. As smoke began to rise in the distance, the crew members ran toward the window, their faces lit up by the flames. The deckhand's mouth hung open. “What the hell was that?”

Ilya went to the doorway of the wheelhouse, searching the sky above for any sign of movement. “An unmanned drone. It will have more than one rocket. The next will be for us—”

He broke off as another bright streak flew across the intervening space and a second rocket hit the yacht, shaking it violently. As the alarms on the bridge began to sound, Ilya saw it wheeling toward them again, a slightly darker shadow against the stars, and braced himself as it fired for the third time.

They were thrown to the floor as the final rocket struck the ship, which was already listing. The lights went out. For an instant, the wheelhouse was lit only by the fire burning on the shadow boat, screams rising thinly from the decks below. A second later, the emergency power came on, filling the wheelhouse with yellow light, and as the crew members got to their feet, Ilya heard the hull of the ship creaking dangerously beneath them.

On the bridge, the displays blinked back to life. The first mate managed to pull himself up to check the damage reports. “We're holed below the waterline. There's flooding in the engine room—”

The deckhand stumbled forward, steadying himself against the bulkhead, and groped his way toward the intercom. As the crew tried to raise someone on the lower decks, Ilya thought of Tarkovsky. Heading for the door, he was about to leave the wheelhouse when he heard a gun cock behind him.

Looking back, he saw that Laszlo had taken a pistol from the locker under the console. As the other crew members tried frantically to assess the damage, the bosun kept the gun trained on Ilya. “Put up your hands.”

Ilya complied, listening to the alarms going off on the bridge. “We don't have time.”

“Shut up.” Laszlo looked at him over the sights of the gun. “I saw you in Yalta. Who are you?”

“It doesn't matter,” Ilya said. “Listen to me. We need to begin the evacuation.”

Laszlo kept the gun raised. Ilya, his pulse booming in his ears, saw that the bosun was not about to let him go, but he also didn't think that the other man would shoot him. He was about to put this idea to the test when a voice came from over his shoulder: “Officer, stand down.”

Ilya turned to see Orlov in the doorway, his face drawn and pale in the yellow lights. “This man is a member of my team,” the security chief said. “We were unable to disclose his presence until now. Give me the gun.”

After a beat, Laszlo uncocked the pistol. As he handed it to Orlov, the captain came through the door, the head stew and a second deckhand following close behind. Ilya took a step back as they crowded into the wheelhouse, each staring briefly at him in turn as they approached the bridge.

Orlov tucked the gun under his jacket. “I'm here to speak for Tarkovsky. The passengers are safe in the salon. Captain?”

The captain was studying the displays, his broad face lit from beneath by the console. “Tell me everything.”

“It was a rocket attack,” the first mate said, his voice quavering. “Catastrophic damage on lower and bottom decks. Engines and main generators lost. Without dynamic positioning, we're drifting. Rudder and bow thrusters only.”

The captain absorbed this information without any change in expression. “Fire?”

“Flooding seems to have put it out,” the first mate said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Fuel tanks are intact. But we have three compartments taking water on the starboard side. Watertight doors closed, but it may be too late. Pumps aren't responding. If a fourth goes—”

“I know.” The captain turned to the head stew. “How many were below when it hit?”

The stew's face was haggard. “At least five or six in the galley. A few guests on the beach deck. Is there any word?”

The deckhand at the intercom shook his head. “No response. I'll see what I can find.”

“Do it,” the captain said. As the deckhand raced out of the wheelhouse, nearly colliding with the bulkhead, Ilya continued to observe from the corner. So far, the crew members had fallen back easily on their training, but he knew that such a situation could change quickly under pressure.

Orlov was studying the damage reports. “Can we evacuate to the shadow boat?”

Laszlo set down the radio. “No. The crew says they have at least two dead. The fire is spreading and may reach the tanks. They're going to set it to go out as far as it can, then abandon ship.”

The captain looked out at the fire across the water. “Send the distress call. What about the tenders?”

“Not if we're listing like this.” The first mate checked the screen. “Almost twenty degrees. A critical line. Much more and we won't be able to lower the lifeboats on the port side.”

“Then we take the others.” The captain rested his hands for a moment on the console, his head bowed, then abruptly straightened up. “Prepare for evacuation. If we drop the anchors, it should buy us some time—”

Laszlo broke in. “Captain, we have to talk about the helicopter. They'll need the helipad and upper deck clear for the rescue, and if the list gets any worse, it could slide right over the edge.”

The captain closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them again. “Can it take off?”

Laszlo hesitated. “At twenty degrees, it could be hard. I can see if we can secure it. If not, we should just push it off now, before the evacuation starts. I need two men to do it safely.”

“I don't have two to spare,” the captain said. “We'll just need to take our chances—”

As Laszlo began to protest, Ilya saw that the level of tension on the bridge was rising. He spoke up. “I can go.”

The others turned to stare at him. Laszlo sized him up silently for a fraction of a second. At last, he said, “Fine. Dmitri, you, too.”

Without another word, Laszlo left the wheelhouse, along with the remaining deckhand. Ilya was about to follow when he felt a hand close around his arm. Turning, he saw Orlov looking at him intently. The security chief spoke in a whisper. “Tell me you didn't know this was coming.”

Ilya heard the hint of a threat there, but he did not drop his gaze as they moved out of earshot of the others. “The plan was larger than any of us knew. They put me on board to make sure that Tarkovsky was dead, but they had no intention of letting any of us live. What about the girl?”

“I put her back in her cabin. Tarkovsky is safe as well. But if you've lied to me—”

Instead of finishing, the security chief released Ilya's arm and turned back toward the bridge. Ilya watched him go, then headed for the ladder that led up to the helipad, his bag slung over one shoulder. As he took hold of the rungs, he heard the ship's horn give seven short blasts and one long one, the signal for evacuation, which was repeated as he started to climb.

From below, he heard shouts in several languages as the crew began herding the passengers to their muster stations. As he ascended to the next level, he told himself that he would do what he could to aid the evacuation. Once he was onshore, he would turn his full attention to responding to this final betrayal.

Pulling himself onto the owner's deck, he glanced up as a series of flares soared into the sky, bursting into ribbons of light. Around him, unsecured chairs and tables had slid to starboard, and water was spilling over the edge of the pool. The bosun and deckhand were conferring at the helipad. As Ilya drew closer, moving against the slope of the deck, he saw that the helicopter was straining against its straps. He could tell from their faces that they had decided to cut it loose.

Laszlo motioned Ilya closer. “As long as you're here, you can make yourself useful. We need to open the straps and stanchions. Dmitri will take care of the railing. As for you, whatever your name is—”

Ilya stood aside as the deckhand headed for the helipad's edge. “My name is Ilya.”

“Come on, then.” As the deckhand lowered the rails, Ilya and Laszlo made their way around the helicopter, releasing all but two of the eight straps, which ran from tiedown provisions on the rotors and body to lashing points on the deck. When they were done, the two remaining straps were stretched taut on their hooks. Laszlo reached into his back pocket and removed a pair of knives. As he handed one to Ilya, he caught the other man's eye. “Tell me the truth. Were you ever at Warsash?”

Ilya took the knife and turned aside, opening its sheepsfoot blade. “Of course not.”

Pulling out his radio, Laszlo asked the bridge to switch on the bow thrusters. As the ship began to turn, they stationed themselves well apart at the two remaining lashing points. Then they glanced over at the deckhand, who signaled that all was clear, and cut both straps at the same time.

At once, the helicopter began to slide slowly across the deck, heading toward the edge of the helipad. Ilya closed his knife and straightened up, watching carefully as the helicopter skated forward on its skids.

It was only then that he realized that the vibration had returned, carried once more across the night air. As soon as he heard it, his heart sinking, he knew. They never would have given up so easily—

Ilya turned in time to see the drone coming straight toward the yacht, low and fast, its insectile hum rising to a scream. He shouted for the others to get out of the way, his own words lost in the hellish whine as the drone descended at full speed and smashed into the highest point of the yacht.

The impact knocked him to the ground. Ilya fell back, rolling along the listing deck, the knife tumbling from his hands, and caught himself on the lowered railing just before sliding over. The bag slipped from his shoulder and fell into the sea. He heard the shriek of metal against metal as the fallen drone plowed forward, crashing into the loosened helicopter and crushing the roof of the owner's cabin as fire rose from the crumpled wreckage of its wings.

As the yacht shuddered, tilting farther to starboard, the mingled ruin of the helicopter and drone collided with Laszlo and the deckhand and took them over the edge, trailing smoke as it slid into the water seventy feet below. The yacht heeled back, groaning, then listed forward again with the sound of breaking glass as mirrors and windows shattered throughout the lower decks.

Ilya was still clinging to the rails. He hauled himself onto the deck, hearing the crackle of flames, and managed to get to his feet. Looking around, he saw that half the deck had crumpled beneath the impact, destroying the owner's suite on the lower level.

He staggered to the edge and looked down. Far below, the drone and helicopter were already sinking. There was no sign of the two other men, but as Ilya watched, water began to seep into the helicopter's wiring, shorting out the switches. As the helicopter sank with the drone, its navigational lights lit up all at once, glowing like a ghost beneath the surface. Then it was swallowed up by the dark.