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 introduced 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.