Radiant Angel (15 page)

They all laughed.

Gorsky smiled.

The ladies from the balcony and the lounge were in the salon now, and the two stewards looked as though they were about to leave, but Gorsky said to them, “Please stay. This will take only a minute.”

Gorsky stood motionless, looking at the twelve women, and a feeling of sadness came over him. He had killed women before, but not Russian women—only Muslim women who were enemies of the Russian Federation.

“Viktor! Why are you standing there? Are you drunk?”

He looked at the woman, Tasha, the one who had given her phone number to the American. He would have liked to question her about the man, but Colonel Petrov wasn’t interested in any information that would abort this mission. And in any case, now that the killings had begun aboard
The Hana
, the mission was unstoppable.

The ladies were getting restless, and they were all probably drunk, Gorsky knew, and therefore more difficult to communicate with than usual.

One of them called out, “We want our cell phones back, Viktor.”

They all joined in agreement. “Our cell phones. Give them to us.”

He took a deep breath and said, “Yes, but first, the prince has a gift for all of you.” He held up his package, and though it was poorly wrapped and oddly shaped, he said, “There are diamond necklaces in here. And the prince wants a photograph of all of you wearing them.”

The ladies became excited and one of them called out, “Open it!”

“Yes, but now…” He motioned to the chairs around the coffee table. “You must sit and I will give them to you for the photo.”

A few of the ladies seemed impatient, but they all moved to the seating area where Tasha took charge, seating six of the women, with three standing behind them, and three kneeling in front, including herself.

“Excellent,” said Gorsky.

One of the ladies suggested to the others, “Take off your cover-ups so the prince can see his diamonds on our skin.”

Everyone thought that was a wonderful idea and they pulled off their cover-ups.

Gorsky noticed that the stewards now seemed more interested in staying in the salon, and he said to them, “Please see that each lady has a glass of champagne.”

One of the women protested, “Give us the diamonds, Viktor, and to hell with the champagne.”

They all laughed.

“Please,” said Gorsky, “the prince deserves a beautiful photograph.”

This was becoming more difficult than his work on the bridge. But he knew it would be.

The stewards were handing out glasses and pouring champagne into them.

Gorsky stepped onto the ottoman and faced the ladies and the two stewards.

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—real 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.