He then went to Karim and searched him for a weapon, finding only a dagger, reminding him of an American expression: “Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight.”

Petrov checked his watch. Four minutes from start to finish.

He put a fresh magazine into his pistol, and another into the submachine gun, which he wrapped in the bartender’s towel.

Now on to the galley.

Viktor Gorsky came to the vestibule at the top of the spiral staircase. To his left was a door whose brass plaque read, in English, CAPTAIN, and to his right was a door whose plaque said SHIP’S OFFICE.

Behind him was the elevator door, and ahead was the bridge, where he saw two men in white officers’ uniforms sitting in high-backed pedestal chairs at the long instrument panel. The man on the left had swiveled his chair toward the man on the right, and they were speaking. Neither man was Captain Wells.

Gorsky also noticed that on the bulkhead to the right of the bridge opening was an intercom and also the security pad that according to his briefing would activate a sliding bulletproof door. The bulkhead, too, was bulletproof. A good security feature in case of pirates or mutiny. Or assassins.

Gorsky strode into the light, airy bridge carrying his wrapped parcel, and the man whose chair was turned saw him and asked, in Irish-accented English, “Can I help you, sir?”

Gorsky recognized the man from the photos that Gleb had taken in Monte Carlo as Conners, the first mate. “I am looking for Captain Wells.” He held out his wrapped parcel. “I have something for him.”

“He’s in his quarters, sir.” He suggested, “You can knock.”

“Yes, thank you.”

The man on the right, who Gorsky recognized as Donato, the engineer, swiveled his chair and looked at Gorsky and at the wrapped object in his hands and said with an Italian accent, “His room is there.” He pointed. “Captain.”

Gorsky glanced over his shoulder, then stepped farther onto the bridge, trying to position himself and his shots to avoid hitting the instrument panel or the wraparound windshield that he knew was bulletproof, but would shatter.

Conners stood and said, “Here, let me show you.”

“Thank you. That will make it easier for me.”

Conners walked past Gorsky, who pulled his Makarov from under his shirt and fired a bullet into the man’s lower spine, sending him sprawling onto the deck.

Donato swiveled completely around and stared at his shipmate, facedown on the deck, blood spreading across his white shirt. He looked up at Gorsky, confused, then saw the pistol, which Gorsky fired at a downward angle into the man’s groin, causing him to let out a surprised grunt. Gorsky watched as the engineer slid off his chair and slumped to the deck, holding his groin with both hands and moaning in pain. As the man tried to stand, Gorsky put a bullet into the back of his head.

Gorsky also put a bullet into the first mate’s head, then without breaking stride he exited the bridge, pushing the button to close the sliding security door. Gorsky then walked to the captain’s door and knocked.

“Come in.”

Gorsky stuck the pistol under his shirt, opened the door, and saw Captain Wells, still in his uniform, sitting cross-legged in an easy chair in his spacious quarters, reading a book. Wells seemed surprised at the visit and said, “Mr…. Gorsky. Correct?”

“That is correct.”

“How can I help you?”

“Two of your officers, Mr. Conners and Mr. Donato, were kind enough to show me around the bridge, and I wanted to thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Mr. Gorsky.”

“I have here a gift”—he held up his package—“for your officers. Where may I find the other officer?”

Wells seemed a bit confused and said impatiently, “I believe Mr. Lentini is in the ship’s office. Right behind you.”

“Thank you. And I wanted to assure you that my ladies will not trouble you on your last voyage.”

Captain Wells looked into the eyes of Viktor Gorsky and knew something was very wrong. But before he could think about how to get to his gun, the Russian pulled a pistol and fired a round through the book and into the captain’s chest. Captain Wells, still holding the book, looked down at his chest and Gorsky fired a bullet into the top of Captain Wells’ head. “Bon voyage.”

Gorsky turned and left the captain’s quarters, closing the door behind him. He crossed the vestibule, and knocked on the door of the ship’s office.

“Come in.”

Gorsky stuck his pistol under his shirt and opened the door. The ship’s navigator, Carlo Lentini, dressed in his whites, was sitting at a computer keyboard. Without looking up, the man asked, “Yes?”

Gorsky did not reply, and the officer turned his head toward him and asked in Italian-accented English, “Who are you…?” Then, “Oh…” He stood and said, “How may I help you?”

“You may sit, Mr. Lentini.”

The officer hesitated, then sat and waited for the guest to say something.

Gorsky asked, “What are you doing?”

The navigator looked at his unannounced guest, and there was something in the man’s tone and manner that troubled him. He replied, “I… I am entering in the ship’s log.”

“And where will the officers dine tonight?”

“We dine tonight in the captain’s quarters.”

“And who will have the watch?”

“A deckhand will take the watch.”

“And who will bring you your dinner?”

“A steward. Why—?”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Good.” Gorsky looked at his watch and said, “Make a final entry in your log, Mr. Lentini.” He pulled his small pistol from his belt and said, “All ship’s officers were killed by twenty-one hundred hours…” He fired a single shot into the navigator’s chest, which spun the swivel chair around, and Gorsky put another round into the base of the man’s skull. “… and dined in hell.”

Gorsky left the ship’s office, closed the door, and took up a position in the vestibule behind the spiral staircase, near the elevator, waiting for the steward and the deckhand.

Hunting people, like hunting game, had two basic elements—stalking and waiting in ambush. He preferred stalking, but sometimes one needed to wait. Killing was an art. Being killed, not so much.

Vasily Petrov slung his submachine gun, wrapped in the bartender’s towel, over his shoulder and walked quickly past the two dead stewards and through the long dining room whose table was set for ten. He noticed through the large windows that the sea was calm, though there was a fog coming in from the south. This could be a problem for the rendezvous with the fishing trawler and for the trawler’s lifeboat with only Captain Gleb onboard to find The Hana. But they had made provisions for a bad-weather rendezvous, and Petrov was confident that Gleb and the nuclear device would be aboard The Hana within the hour. He hoped that Gleb had been fully briefed about the corpses all over the ship.

Petrov passed through the butler’s pantry and entered the main galley.

The four kitchen staff were putting garnish on ten appetizer plates, which appeared to be some sort of pink creamed fish. Petrov disliked French food and he was glad he didn’t have to eat this.

One of the kitchen staff saw him and tapped the chef’s arm and nodded toward the door.

Chef André, a tall thin man, looked up from his food preparation and said, “Yes?”

Petrov knew that the galley would be a problem; it was filled with tightly packed steel equipment, open flames, and propane tanks. Not a good place to fire an automatic weapon. Also, the five kitchen staff—three men, one woman, and the chef—were spread out and moving quickly as they went about their duties.

“Monsieur, may I help you?”

“His Highness has permitted me to see your kitchen.”

“Yes? What do you wish to see?”

“A photo, s’il vous plaît.” Petrov held up his cell phone. “It will go quickly,” he promised.