Or more likely this man Depp was simply a day worker hired off the street and not very good at his job. The woman, however, seemed more intelligent, though equally inept. In any case, the mission had begun. They were aboard The Hana, and there was no turning back. Especially after they began shooting everyone.

Petrov said, “We have more immediate things to think about, Viktor. Do not let your mind become distracted.”

“Yes, Colonel.” Gorsky turned and left the stateroom.

Petrov resealed the blue wrapping paper around the MP5 and looked at his watch. Within fifteen minutes, the decks of this royal yacht would be running with blood. But that was nothing compared to what was going to happen when The Hana sailed into New York Harbor in the morning.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Colonel Petrov left his stateroom and went into the hallway where Gorsky was waiting. Both men carried their gift-wrapped MP5 submachine guns, and stuffed in their pockets were extra magazines and The Hana’s deck plans. Under their loose-fitting polo shirts they each carried the small Makarov pistol in a holster clipped to their belts in the small of their backs. Each man also carried a sheathed commando knife.

Petrov whispered to Gorsky in Russian, “I want no bodies—dead or alive—going overboard.” He made sure Gorsky understood, “I want no corpses that can be traced to this boat washing up on the shore with bullets in them. All evidence of our presence here and what we did will be vaporized in New York Harbor.”

Gorsky was annoyed that Petrov thought he needed to explain this, as though he, Gorsky, was little more than a killer with no thought of the finer details of the job. “Yes, Colonel.”

Petrov continued, “Remember, we cannot communicate with our cell phones, and we cannot use the crew’s handheld radios or the intercom system, which can be heard by everyone. So we must act independently, but in concert.” He asked, “Are we clear about our assignments?”

Gorsky nodded.

“And do you know this ship as well as you know your own house?”

“Better, since I have not been home in half a year.”

Petrov smiled and asked, “Are you feeling confident, Viktor?”

“I am, Colonel.”

“Good. Well, it is time for us to deliver our gifts.” He reminded Gorsky, “Fire low.” He and Gorsky shook hands, and Petrov said, “We will meet on the bridge when we are finished.”

Petrov walked toward the stern of the yacht and ascended a staircase to the main deck.

Gorsky walked in the opposite direction, through the officers’ quarters where there was a vestibule with a small elevator and a spiral staircase that connected all the decks. Gorsky climbed the spiral staircase to the bridge deck.

Vasily Petrov saw a deckhand at the top of the stairs, coming toward him. The man stood aside at attention and said to the prince’s guest, “Good evening, sir.”

Petrov didn’t want to kill him there, but he noted the man’s face and build, as he had done with the stewards and crew he’d already seen. The next time he saw those faces they would be dead or a second from death. And if he didn’t see one of those faces, it meant the man was hiding and needed to be found.

He asked the deckhand, “Where are you going?”

“To dinner, sir.”

The man, about thirty years old, had an accent and looked Slavic, so Petrov asked, “Russkii?”

“No, sir. Bulgarian.”

Petrov nodded. “Have a good dinner.”

“Thank you.”

Petrov ascended to the main deck where the ladies had gathered earlier for champagne and a dip in the pool. No doubt the prince had watched them from the salon deck above, and perhaps he had already made his choice. Or several choices. Petrov smiled.

He passed through double doors that led to a wood-paneled bar area adjacent to the dining room.

Standing around the bar were seven men, somewhat better dressed than he was—the four Saudi guests and the two Chinese businessmen, and also Prince Ali Faisel, his host, who saw him enter and said, “Welcome, Vasily.”

“I apologize for my lateness.”

“Come join us.”

But Vasily Petrov did not move from what would be his firing position.

Petrov also noted the bartender, whom he recognized as the steward who’d served them in the salon, and another steward, Karim, the one in traditional Arab garb who was the prince’s personal bodyguard and who was now serving hors d’oeuvres. He wondered if the man was armed. To the right of the bar was the entrance to the long dining room, partly separated by frosted glass partitions, where two other stewards were making last-minute preparations for dinner.

“Come. What do you drink?”

“Mineral water,” Petrov replied, but did not move to the bar, and the six guests looked at him quizzically, as did the prince, who said to Karim, “Don’t you see that this man has a package? Take that from him.”

The steward set down his hors d’oeuvre tray and hurried toward the Russian guest.

The prince inquired, “And where are Viktor and Pavel?”

“Directly behind me.” Petrov glanced behind him, though not to look for his compatriots, but to be certain no one was there. Then, as Karim reached for the package, Petrov tore the wrapping paper from his submachine gun and fired a single round, low, into the steward’s groin, throwing him to the floor.

The men at the bar, not having heard the silenced gun, could not process what their eyes had just seen, and they stood, looking at the bleeding steward, then at Petrov, then at the weapon in his hands.

Petrov aimed low so as not to hit the glasses and bottles behind the bar, and fired a long, traversing stream of 9mm rounds, from left to right into the tightly packed men, who all went down, some thrown against the bar, others falling where they stood. Only the bartender remained standing, dazed and frozen, looking at Petrov with terror in his eyes as he threw out his hands in a protective gesture and shouted, “No!”

Petrov fired a single round through the man’s chest and he fell back, crashing into the glasses and bottles behind him, then dropped behind the bar.

Petrov moved quickly through the entrance to the dining room, where the two stewards were hurrying toward him. It was obvious that they’d heard glass breaking, but not the muffled sound of the shots or the bodies hitting the carpeted floor.

The stewards stopped and stared at Petrov, then noticed the weapon at his side as Petrov brought it up with one hand and fired a round into each man’s abdomen. Both men doubled over, then dropped to their knees on the marble floor, holding their bleeding wounds. Petrov stepped closer and fired a round through each man’s head, then spun around and walked back to the bar area.

None of the seven men on the floor appeared to be dead, though there was blood everywhere. Petrov drew his silenced pistol and went from man to man, putting a bullet in each one’s head, coming last to the prince, who was sprawled on the floor with his back to the bar, his hands pressed against his spurting wounds, moaning loudly. The two men made eye contact, and Petrov said, with sincerity, “You have given your life to defeat America, and you will be praised throughout Islam as you ascend into Paradise.” Petrov smiled, and added, “I, unfortunately, will get no credit.” He squeezed the trigger and put a bullet into Prince Ali Faisel’s forehead.

Petrov did not forget the bartender, and he came around the bar and saw the man lying on his back with a pool of blood around him, and no further bleeding from his motionless chest. But to be sure, he fired a bullet into the man’s throat.