As for Gleb the man, Petrov had expected a strong personality—Gleb was a ship’s captain and a commander of men, and he had agreed to this dangerous mission. As for Gleb’s suspicion that the Americans were looking for The Hana, Petrov did not believe that. And regarding Gleb’s other paranoia—that Petrov was going to kill him—well, that was understandable, though ironically it was not true, though it could become true.

Petrov drew his Makarov pistol and took the spiral staircase down to the salon, noting the location of the fourteen bodies on the floor so he could step around them when all the lights were out.

He also noted the bullet wound in Tasha’s heart, and this made him think again of her caterer friend at Tamorov’s house.

Even if this man, Depp, was an embassy watcher, how could he connect the amphibious craft and its occupants to The Hana?

Petrov had told Tamorov that they were going to a party in East Hampton and would return in the morning. So even if the FBI questioned Tamorov, that was all Tamorov knew. And if there was some suspicion that the amphibious craft had sailed out to meet a ship, how would anyone know which ship? And if the Americans were looking for the amphibious craft, they would not see it on the water or on the deck of a ship.

Petrov switched on his flashlight and began shutting off the lights in the salon. Outside, the deck lights were going off, and he could feel the vibration as Gleb started the ship’s engines.

He went outside and descended the exterior staircase to the main deck. He could now hear the sound of an anchor being raised. They would soon be underway.

Petrov moved to the stern where the prince’s ensign flew from a staff, and he drew his knife and cut the flag loose, letting it fall into the sea.

He looked out over the stern, noting that the fog was low, barely reaching the main deck. The sky was clear and the half-moon was overhead. Out in the distance to the south he could see ship lights—tankers and cargo ships—waiting in a line that stretched for over a hundred miles from the open ocean to the security checkpoint at Ambrose Buoy, which was ten nautical miles from the entrance to New York Harbor.

It must be frustrating, he thought, for those ships’ captains and crews to sail halfway around the world at good speed, only to be slowed to a crawl at this bottleneck; very unlike incoming aircraft that needed to land on time. And yet for all the Americans’ obsession with airport security and efficiency, they had still not perfected seaport security or efficiency. And thus a ship with evil intent could slip through. And would. Soon.

Petrov thought, too, of the aftermath of the nuclear explosion in New York Harbor. Not only would the New York seaport be shut down for a decade or more, but every other seaport in America—and probably Europe—would be shut down, as were the airports after September 11. And when the American seaports reopened, the lines of ships waiting to dock would stretch back to their home ports as each arriving ship was boarded and searched at length, costing the Americans great amounts of time and money. In fact, world commerce would be disrupted for years, and American imports and exports would slow to a trickle. And all of this would happen as a result of the trauma and devastation caused by Saudi Prince Ali Faisel’s nuclear attack on New York. Petrov smiled.

He took a last look at the ship’s lights on the horizon. Well, he thought, those ships would be fortunate if they did not get into New York Harbor before 8:46 A.M. And those ships that did would not be so fortunate.

The Hana began to move.

He turned and walked quickly into the bar area.

He surveyed his earlier work and wondered if the missing deckhand had seen this. And if he had, had that caused him to jump overboard? Or to hide? In either case, the man was not a threat to the mission unless he was picked up by a passing ship, which was unlikely with this blanket of fog on the ocean.

Well, he thought, if the deckhand was still onboard, he would be in his familiar surroundings on the tank deck below, which was a maze of storage rooms and infrastructure, providing many places to hide like a bilge rat. But Petrov would deal with that later.

Petrov looked down at His Royal Highness, Prince Ali Faisel. Ambition is a noble trait, but if you wear it like a crown, people will see it and use it for their own advantage. That was what he would have told His Highness if they had actually had that breakfast meeting to discuss their common problems.

Petrov looked at the diamond-encrusted watch on the prince’s left wrist, now covered with dried blood. In the end, death is indeed the great equalizer. Ali Faisel, though, was a man of faith—professed or real—and though he did not get his Russian prostitutes here on his wife’s namesake yacht, he was by now in Paradise, enjoying the virgins.

Petrov continued into the dining room, stepping around the bodies of the two stewards, then moved on to the warm galley where the unpleasant smell of mutton had been replaced by the unpleasant smell of the cooks’ blood.

He shut off all the galley lighting, then used his flashlight to guide him to a passageway that led to the main deck vestibule where the spiral staircase and elevator were located.

There was only one other door in the vestibule, a teak door that led to the prince’s suite and that Petrov knew had a bulletproof core. In the door was a peephole and above the door was a security camera. The prince, like all men with money and power, thought about his enemies. Unfortunately for him, he also thought that Colonel Petrov, the enemy of his enemy, was his friend.

Petrov tried the handle on the door, finding it unlocked. He held his handgun to his front and threw open the heavy door as he dropped into a crouch.

He thought it unlikely that the deckhand would pick the prince’s suite to hide, but he called out in English, “Is anyone there? Please help me.” He smiled. “The Russians are murdering everyone onboard.”

There was no reply.

Petrov stood and entered the sitting room of the suite, which was dimly lit by a few lamps. He went quickly through the sitting room, the bedroom and dressing room, then the large bathroom, finding only more gilded extravagance, and also some photographs of the prince’s many children, though none of his wife—or wives.

It occurred to Petrov that there might be some people, including Americans and Saudis, who could not bring themselves to believe that Prince Ali Faisel, who loved life and all it had to offer, had become a suicide bomber. On the other hand, the Americans did not think that deeply when it came to ascribing evil intentions to those who followed Islam; all Muslims were capable of all things.

And the prince’s own coreligionists were equally unthinking, and they would believe what they wanted to believe; that every Muslim—even a decadent royal, and especially such a sinner—could be touched by the light of God and become a martyr for Islam.

Yes, there could be some speculation and doubts about Ali Faisel ending his life in a nuclear holocaust. But that line of thought would go nowhere in the hysterical aftermath of the attack.

Petrov turned off the lights in the prince’s suite and descended the spiral staircase to the lower deck.

He began first in the quarters of the three officers whose doors were unlocked. Again, he didn’t think that the deckhand would choose a dead-end room in which to hide, so he moved quickly through the officers’ rooms.

As he went through the staterooms, his thoughts returned to the Americans. If they were looking for a ship at sea at night, they would rely more on radar and infrared scanning than on a visual sighting. They loved their technology. And on that subject, they had very sophisticated radiation detectors that were effective at great distances. And The Hana was now emitting radiation, though not for long.