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.”

Everyone laughed politely at the bad joke.

The steward poured sparkling water for everyone and Colonel Petrov toasted, “To His Royal Highness, the prince, and to his uncle, the king, and to the future cooperation of our two great nations.”

Everyone clinked glasses, and the prince added, “And to your president.” Everyone drank.

Despite the congeniality, Petrov knew that the prince might have some misgivings about Colonel Petrov of the SVR. For one thing, he, Petrov, had killed many Muslim Chechens, and his father had also killed many of the prince’s coreligionists in Afghanistan. But at the U.N. reception, Petrov made it clear that he had no animosity toward Islam, only toward Islamic extremists who were the enemies of both their countries.

And of course, the subject of the Americans had come up, and both men agreed that America, along with Israel, was the cause of much of the unrest in the Middle East. The prince further agreed that the Saudi and American alliance mostly benefited the Americans and the Jews, and needed to be reevaluated, and Colonel Petrov had promised to share with the prince the SVR’s thinking on this subject.

In fact, the prince, though he didn’t know it, would be an important player in this reevaluation when The Hana sailed into New York Harbor and the nuclear device onboard detonated, thus ending the Saudi-American alliance, which was already strained because of the fifteen Saudis who had taken part in the 9/11 attack.

Also, as Petrov knew, Prince Ali Faisel and the monarchy were playing a double game and had given great sums of money to the madrassas—the Islamic fundamentalist schools throughout the Mideast—and this annoyed the Americans, though they were powerless to end this Saudi policy. Thus, when The Hana became a weapon of mass destruction, the American government and people would have no difficulty believing that a Saudi prince had obtained a Soviet miniature nuclear weapon on the black market, which Petrov knew were available for the princely sum of a million dollars a kiloton. And the Americans would also have no trouble believing that Prince Ali Faisel, nephew of the king, had become a jihadist and martyr for Islam. Perhaps the Americans would even retaliate with a nuclear weapon of their own.

Petrov delighted in the dual benefit of this plan, which was first suggested by his father. “In a microsecond of nuclear fission,” said the general, “the Americans and the Saudis will be split like the atom and both will be badly wounded in the same explosion.”

The prince, Petrov recalled, had been flattered to be asked to a secret meeting, though in reality, Prince Ali Faisel had no power; he was, in fact, a decadent royal, a playboy, and a dilettante, playing at U.N. diplomacy. It was ironic that when the nuclear device onboard The Hana destroyed Lower Manhattan, this wastrel would be hailed by many of his coreligionists as a nuclear suicide bomber, and given more credit than he was ever worth while alive.

Petrov smiled at the prince. “This is a beautiful ship.”

“Thank you.” The prince informed his guests, “I designed the interior finishings myself.”

“You have excellent taste.”

Petrov glanced at Gorsky, who understood he needed to say something, and Gorsky said, “Very beautiful.”

Petrov knew that Viktor Gorsky made some people uncomfortable. Gorsky looked like what he was—a killer. And he did nothing to soften his demeanor, which annoyed Petrov. But the man was good at what he did, and as far as Gorsky was concerned there was no reason to be polite to someone you were going to kill within the hour.

Petrov looked at Urmanov, who seemed to be lost in thought, though Petrov knew he was in a nervous state. This man engineered nuclear weapons, Petrov thought, designed to kill millions of people, but Urmanov would be sick at the sight of blood.

Petrov knew, of course, that Urmanov had not volunteered for this mission, but the SVR had presented Dr. Urmanov with two choices, as they were good at doing, and Arkady Urmanov had taken the better of the two bad choices.

Also, though Urmanov had not been fully informed of the operational aspects of the mission, he must have known that everyone on this yacht would be dead before too long—everyone, except, of course, Colonel Petrov, Viktor Gorsky, the Russian sea captain, and himself. Though if Dr. Urmanov believed that about himself, he was mistaken.

Petrov said to the prince, “Forgive Mr. Fradkov for his silence. His English is not very good.”

The prince nodded, perhaps wondering how this Russian Military Intelligence officer was going to brief him or how he could do his job in America with poor English.

The prince asked Petrov, “How was your voyage to The Hana?”

Petrov smiled. “The ladies enjoyed it.”

“Good.” He informed his guests, “Hana is Arabic for ‘happiness.’ ”

Petrov replied, “Yes, and an appropriate name.”

“Also, it is the name of my wife.”

Gorsky asked, “Which one?”

The prince looked at him, then replied, “My first wife, of course.” He joked, “Now my other wives want yachts named after them.”

Gorsky did not smile, and the prince turned away from him and asked Petrov, “And how was your party at Mr. Tamorov’s house?”

“Very enjoyable. He sends his regards and looks forward to seeing you at his home in the city on Wednesday.”

“I, too, look forward to seeing him again.”

Actually, Petrov thought, Georgi Tamorov knew nothing about a meeting with the prince, nor did Tamorov even know that he, Petrov, was on the prince’s yacht. The less Tamorov knew, the better. And if Tamorov suspected that there was a connection between Vasily Petrov and the nuclear explosion in New York Harbor, he would keep that thought to himself. Russia had changed, but the KGB had changed only its name, not its DNA, and even rich oligarchs understood that.

Petrov glanced at his watch, and knowing that dinner would be served shortly, he needed to get to the real business at hand, which was planning how to kill everyone aboard The Hana. He asked his host, “And who will be joining us for dinner?”

The prince replied, “I have six other guests onboard, four of whom are my countrymen who I will introduce at dinner. Two are businessmen from China.” He added, “Unfortunately, their English is not good.”

Petrov joked, “Seat them with Mr. Fradkov,” and everyone laughed, except Arkady Urmanov.

The prince assured his Russian guests, “As Colonel Petrov requested, I have not mentioned any of you by name, and I will introduce you all by first name only, and as Russian petroleum executives who are my overnight guests until we dock in New York.”

Petrov nodded, thinking that His Highness was enjoying this game of secret diplomacy. He inquired, “Will Captain Wells or the other officers be dining with us?”