Radiant Angel (25 page)

“Radioactive material.”

He didn’t respond for a second, then said, “Well, whatever it is, if it’s underwater, it’s not going to be lighting up the PRDs. So we have a problem.”

“Right.”

The night had grown colder, but there was no wind, so the basin was calm and the fog just sat on the water. The SAFE boat also sat motionless on the water, and the only sound was our footsteps on the concrete dock.

As we got closer I could see the small boat that was going to take us out on the ocean. The hull was aluminum, surrounded by what looked like a huge blue inner tube with the words “Suffolk County Police” in white.

The cabin took up about half the twenty-seven-foot deck, and on the roof of the cabin I recognized a radar tower, a Forward Looking Infrared Radar antenna, and a GPS and VHF antenna. There was also a spotlight, floodlights, blue police lights, a public address speaker, and a foghorn, but unfortunately no naval cannon to blow
The Hana
out of the water.

Conte walked down the aluminum gangway and stepped onto the port side gunnel, followed by Andersson. Tess and I followed, but before we jumped aboard, Tess said to me, “Last chance.”

“That ship came and went.”

I hopped onto the gunnel and put my hand out for Tess, who took it, and I pulled her aboard. We looked at each other for a moment, then I entered the cabin.

The gray cabin had aft, port, and starboard doors that Conte said were weathertight and sound resistant, as were the windows. The cabin was upholstered to further deaden the sound of the big outboard engines, so the ride should be relatively quiet, according to Conte, who was probably engine-deaf.

Conte said, “Put on your float coats.”

Tess and I found the bulky float coats on the two rear seats and slipped them on.

I noticed two Kevlar vests draped over the backs of the two forward seats, and Conte apologized for not having two more bulletproof vests aboard. “Nikki and I didn’t know we were having company.” He added, “You may take a bullet, but you won’t drown.”

Cop humor is sick and dark. I felt at home.

I asked, “Any more MP5s laying around?”

“You want guns, too? This is the basic cruise package.”

Funny. But not the answer I wanted.

Conte sat in the air-ride captain’s seat and Andersson entered the cabin and sat in the navigator’s seat. She said to Tess and me, “This is going to be a bumpy ride at fifty knots. As you can see, there is one air-ride seat behind me, and one not so comfortable jump seat behind the captain.”

Tess offered, “You take the air-ride seat, John. You’re older.”

I sat in the jump seat.

Conte turned the breaker switches on and fired up the twin 225-horsepower Mercury engines.

Conte and Andersson went through a checklist, looking and listening for normal operations of the radar, GPS, FLIR, and engine readings.

Everything seemed okay, and Andersson left the cabin and cast off, then re-entered, took her seat, and leaned out the port side pocket door and cast off the remaining line from the mid cleat. “Clear.” She said to us, “Seat belts.”

Tess and I strapped ourselves in as Conte engaged both engines and maneuvered away from the dock while Andersson sounded the horn to signal we were leaving the berth.

Andersson monitored the radar, depth finder, and GPS as Conte ran parallel to the Ponquogue Bridge, then cut southeast running a high-speed course through the fog.

As promised, the cabin was relatively quiet if anyone wanted to say anything.

In less than five minutes we passed through the Shinnecock Inlet and we were out into the North Atlantic.

Conte pushed the throttles forward and said, “Hold on.” The rear of the boat squatted and the bow stood almost straight up, then settled down to a forty-five-degree angle as the boat reached fifty knots, nearly sixty miles an hour.

Conte called back to me, “I have a search pattern we can run unless you’ve got something else in mind.”

Actually, I did. “Head due west.”

He cut to starboard and we began running along the shore, about twelve miles out.

The sea was getting choppy and the SAFE boat was bouncing and slapping the water.

“Hold on,” cautioned Officer Andersson.

To the south, I could see the lights of a long line of cargo ships and tankers in the shipping lane, heading west toward Ambrose Buoy, with a final destination of New York Harbor.

At fifty knots, the SAFE boat could be passing under the Verrazano Bridge and into the harbor in less than two hours. I checked my watch. It was half past midnight, and September 11 had come and gone without incident. This was the time when every law enforcement officer and citizen in New York usually let out a sigh of relief. But I wasn’t sure about September 12.

A
t 11:55, less than two hours after
The Hana
had gotten underway, Colonel Vasily Petrov stood on the bridge as Gleb sailed the ship under the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, following in the wake of a large cargo ship.

Petrov was surprised that inbound shipping had not yet been halted, making him think that the Americans were not certain what was happening. Or if they were, they had not expected
The Hana
to get this far, undetected, and they were still searching on the ocean.

As a last defense against a shipborne nuclear attack, there were two old fortresses on both sides of The Narrows that once guarded the harbor with cannons, but now guarded it with radiation detectors. These detectors, like the ones at sea, would remain silent.

Petrov said to Gleb, “Apparently we are a step ahead of the opposing team. They are still playing on the field and have not organized their defense here at the goal.”

Gleb did not reply, and glanced at his radar screen.

They were in the huge harbor now, and within twenty minutes they would be close to the southern tip of Manhattan Island. But Petrov knew it was now impossible to anchor the ship and leave the timer set to 08:46 hours.

He wasn’t certain how the Americans had reached the conclusions that they had, and even if the American intelligence services could connect him and his compatriots to
The Hana
, it did not necessarily
follow that Russia was complicit in the nuclear explosion; it would appear that he and Gorsky, and also Urmanov—whom he hoped they knew only as Fradkov—had boarded the prince’s yacht thinking they had been invited to a party, which was why they had brought the prostitutes. Prince Ali Faisel, however, unbeknownst to his Russian guests, planned to become a nuclear suicide bomber, and he had invited the Russians aboard so that the Americans would believe it was the Russians, not the Saudis, who were behind the attack. Which of course was true, but not obviously so.

As Petrov knew, almost any event could be interpreted in several ways—especially if one created a hall of mirrors, where truth and reality were distorted. And not only distorted, but vaporized, leaving no physical evidence so that even the Americans with their famous forensic science would be left with nothing to examine except radioactive ash and rubble.

Yes, he thought, the Americans would be filled with doubt. Who was responsible for the attack? The Russians? The Saudis? Or someone else? And that doubt would divide them and lead to dissention and inaction, which would be a terrible humiliation on top of the attack itself.

Gleb looked at his radar. “There are two small craft a kilometer ahead that could be police boats heading in our direction.”

Petrov stared at the radar screen. He knew he could order Gleb to make a high-speed run to Manhattan, ignoring any security craft in the area, and when they were close to the shore, he would send a radio signal to the nuclear device and advance the clock to detonate in minutes.

Gleb, however, might refuse to continue toward the security craft—or he might put on a life jacket and jump overboard. Or Gleb might even try to surrender the ship to the Americans, though Petrov would kill him before he could do that. In fact, Petrov would kill all of them by detonating the device. But he needed to get closer to Manhattan Island, so he needed another plan. And he had one.

He said to Gleb, “We will sail The Hana now to the pier that we will escape to later in the amphibious craft.”

Gleb did not reply.

Petrov continued, “The pier is a construction project—a new waterfront recycling facility with a boathouse.” He informed Gleb, “We will hide The Hana there until we can proceed to Manhattan.”

“It is not easy to hide an eighty-meter yacht, Colonel.”

“The boathouse is large enough to hold three ships of this size, and it has solar panels on its roof that will confuse infrared scanning devices.” He also informed Gleb, “The construction site is surrounded by a security fence and there are construction barges blocking the view from the harbor.” He assured Gleb, “I have chosen this site carefully.”

Again, Gleb did not reply, but turned starboard toward the Brooklyn waterfront and switched on his GPS, saying, “We cannot leave this on for more than five minutes.”

As they got closer to the shore, Gleb asked, “What is your plan?”

“The plan is the same. In a few hours we will sail to the tip of Manhattan and anchor The Hana with the timer set for eight forty-six. We then sail from The Hana aboard the amphibious craft back to the recycling pier where our car is parked on the street.” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “A black Ford Mustang.”

Gleb looked at the keys, but had no reply.

Petrov continued, “We then drive to JFK Airport and board our private jet for Moscow.”

Gleb pointed out, “We would be very lucky to get The Hana all the way to Manhattan without being seen. We would be more lucky to get into the amphibious craft and sail to the pier. And even if we do, and we get as far as our car, you can be sure that the airport will be closed and there will be no private jet for us.” He looked at Petrov and said, “The mission has been compromised.”

“You are in command of the ship. But I am in command of the mission. Do as I tell you.”

“Yes, Colonel.” Gleb proceeded at ten knots toward the Brooklyn shore, dividing his attention between the GPS, his radar, and the windshield.

Petrov glanced at Gleb. The man was correct, of course. And by now Gleb was thinking that this could become a suicide mission. And he was also correct about that. But as long as Gleb believed there
was an escape, he would follow orders. In fact, however, after they got underway again, and as they were approaching Manhattan Island, Petrov would detonate the nuclear device.

He understood now that there was no escape and that he would die here. But it would be a quick death. A nanosecond. And a million people would die with him. That was a far better fate than the one that awaited him in Moscow if he failed. And far better than spending his life in an American prison.

So, yes, the mission was compromised, but not fatally so. The mission just needed some adjustments. The goals had not changed: destroy Lower Manhattan and destroy all evidence of who had perpetrated the attack.

Gleb slowed the yacht to a few knots, and coming up on their right—less than six kilometers from the southern tip of Manhattan Island—was the huge construction project and the massive steel boathouse extending over the pier and into the water.

Gleb shut off his GPS, then brought
The Hana
around and reversed the propellers. He switched on his infrared camera and watched his aft video screen as he sailed in reverse between two construction barges, then maneuvered the yacht under the steel boathouse, a few meters away from the concrete pier.

He shut down the engines and lit a cigarette.

Petrov looked through the wraparound windshield. It was dark inside the boathouse, and they were a hundred meters from the entrance, so any passing security craft would not be able to see them unless they used a searchlight and also had a clear line of sight between the construction barges.

The boathouse had solid vertical walls on either side of the pier, and the roof provided overhead concealment from passing helicopters. Also, as he told Gleb, the entire construction site was surrounded by a security fence so Petrov knew that police cars could not enter.

Gleb drew on his cigarette, then asked, “Can you signal Moscow for instructions? To let them know the mission has developed problems?”

“Yes, I will do that.”

But of course he would not signal Moscow. Nor would Moscow
signal to him. He always understood that he was not a guided missile—he was a ballistic missile; once fired, there was no further guidance from those who launched him on his mission. There was no fail-safe and no callback. The very least he was expected to do was to detonate the device—anywhere—and destroy all evidence of the murders onboard, and of his country’s involvement in the nuclear attack. And that now included destroying himself. And he had sworn to his superiors—and to his father—that he would do this, if necessary.

He put his hand in his pocket and felt the arming device.

If a boat appeared or if a police patrol got through the security fence and approached them from the land he could advance the timer clock and at least destroy a large area of the Brooklyn waterfront. The winds were from the southeast and the radioactive plume would pass over Manhattan Island. That was not what he had hoped for, but it was good enough. His superiors in Moscow and his father would understand that he had done his best, and he would receive his promotion posthumously.

Gorsky appeared on the bridge and asked, “What is happening?”

Petrov replied, “We will wait here.” He added, “There are two patrol boats in the area.”

“There will be more later.”

Petrov did not respond.

Gleb shut off the one radio they had left on to monitor the police frequencies. “We are now deaf and blind. But so are they. We have disappeared.”

Gorsky looked at Petrov. “What is your plan?”

“To wait.”

“For what?”

“For the right time.”

Gorsky did not reply, but Petrov knew that Gorsky—and Gleb—must have realized that the escape plan was either no longer possible, or at best very difficult.

An easier escape plan, however,
was
possible and obvious, and Gorsky said, “We are already at the pier we planned to escape to. So we should reset the timer clock for an hour from now and leave this ship and go to our car, and to the airport—”

Gleb said, “The Americans will soon be closing all airports.”

Gorsky looked at Petrov. “We can drive to our residence. Or even to Tamorov’s.”

Petrov saw that Gorsky, like Gleb, was becoming concerned. Viktor wanted to live to kill again. Petrov said, “We wait here.”

Gleb said, “I like Viktor’s plan.”

Petrov looked at both of them. “I did not come all this way to destroy a few abandoned piers and a recycling center.”

Neither Gorsky nor Gleb replied.

Petrov said to them, “It is obvious from what we saw on the radar and what we heard on the radio that the Americans are concentrating their search on the sea. They have no indication that we are already here, and they wish us not to be here, so they continue their search on the ocean, substituting hope for intelligence. They continue to look for our radiation, but they will not detect it.” He concluded, “Soon they will institute a desperate defensive plan and use all their available craft to block The Narrows. They will look out to sea, but we are already behind them. We are in the goal zone.”

Gleb glanced at Gorsky, but neither man had anything to say to Colonel Petrov, who now seemed distant and remote.

Petrov stared through the windshield into the darkness, then said, “We can pick the time when we wish to move, and nothing can stop us from sailing the last few kilometers to Manhattan Island—to the financial heart of the beast.” He added, “And then we return home to glory and gratitude and with pride.”

Neither Gorsky nor Gleb inquired about the escape, but each man was thinking similar thoughts: Colonel Petrov’s plan did not include an escape.

Petrov changed the subject and said to Gorsky, “I assume you did not find the deckhand.”

“I did not.” He added, “He must have gone overboard earlier.”

“Or,” Petrov said, “he has eluded you.”

Gorsky had no response, but he went to the security screen and switched from camera to camera, looking at the images of the lifeless ship. He stopped at the tender garage, where he could see Urmanov tied to the dock, his chin resting on his chest.

Gleb said, “You should be kind and put him out of his misery.”

Petrov replied, “I would have done just that, but he tried to betray the mission and the Motherland.”

Gleb understood that this was a message meant also for him, and he did not reply. He deeply regretted having gotten involved with the SVR, but no one else was offering him two million Swiss francs for captaining a ship. He put his hand in his pocket and felt his gun, which gave him some comfort.

Colonel Vasily Petrov seemed at ease now. He had seen the towering skyscrapers of Manhattan. And soon, if all went well, he would see them again. And that would be the last thing he saw on this earth. Most importantly, no one on this earth would ever see those skyscrapers again.