There was a dull thud as the hammer hit the firing pin block.
Urmanov again pulled the trigger.
Gorsky suggested, “You need to re-cock it. Pull back on the slide.” He stepped toward Urmanov. “Here, let me show you.” He snatched the gun out of Urmanov’s trembling hand, cocked it, and put the muzzle to Urmanov’s forehead. He pulled the trigger, and again the hammer made a dull thud.
Urmanov sank to his knees, his hands covering his face and his body heaving.
Gorsky said, “I believe someone filed down your firing pin.” He tossed the gun into the water, then grabbed Urmanov by his shirt and pulled him to his feet. Gorsky took a step back, then drove his fist into Urmanov’s solar plexus.
Urmanov let out a grunt, doubled over, and again sank to his knees, holding his abdomen.
Petrov glanced up at the security camera, wondering if Gleb had seen any of this. He said to Gorsky, “I think we have shot enough people today. Tie him to the dock.” He told Urmanov, “You will be the first to see the nuclear explosion—the second it happens.”
Gorsky nodded appreciatively and dragged Urmanov off the boat and onto the dock.
Petrov closed the watertight lid on the trunk and snapped the padlock onto the hasp. He pulled his Makarov and fired eight rounds into the hull and watched as water spurted from the bullet holes. He gathered Urmanov’s bag and the two arming devices and jumped from the sinking boat onto the dock.
Gorsky had taken a coiled line from the dock and bound Urmanov’s arms to his side with his hands behind his back, tied to a cleat. Urmanov was now in a sitting position, facing the boat with his legs dangling in the water. Gorsky said to him, “You can stare at your bomb until eight forty-six tomorrow morning. Then you should close your eyes so you are not blinded by the incandescent flash.” He crouched beside Urmanov and asked, “Were you trying to destroy the device? Or detonate it?”
Urmanov did not reply.
“Well… perhaps you yourself don’t know.”
Petrov said to Gorsky, “Shut off the lights, but leave the underwater lights on so we can monitor this space.”
Gorsky went quickly to the connecting catwalk and turned off the indirect lighting, leaving the garage bathed in the shimmering underwater lights.
Petrov watched the lifeboat as it sank under the weight of the nuclear device. No air bubbles rose to the surface, indicating that the trunk was indeed waterproof. The lifeboat settled on the deck of the garage beneath two meters of water.
Petrov took a last look around the garage. “It is done.”
Gorsky agreed, “It is done.”
As they were leaving, Urmanov shouted, “You are the monsters! Monsters!”
Petrov stopped and turned. “We are monsters? Perhaps, but you, Doctor, you are the monster’s creator. Think about that as you wait for your creation to kill you.” He added, “Good evening.”
Petrov and Gorsky left the garage and closed the doors behind them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
We made the border crossing from the Shinnecock Nation to Southampton, and my former trainee suggested some shortcuts to Tamorov’s house, trying, I suppose, to make herself useful.
She asked, “Are you still angry?”
I didn’t know if she meant angry at her or angry at Buck, but thinking back on all those conversations with her when she was conning me, maybe I felt a little foolish, and thus angry at myself. I mean, if they’d sent a guy instead of a good-looking woman I would have just clocked him.
Ms. Faraday advised me, “Anger gets in the way of good judgment and good performance.”
“I liked you better when you were a clueless trainee.”
“No you didn’t.” She changed the subject and told me, “I can see why Buck wanted me to work with you.”
“Then you can also see why I don’t want to work with either of you.”
“Well, you should know that it was Buck who first got onto this.” She explained, “About two months ago, the Russian Foreign Ministry notified the State Department that Pavel Fradkov was to be assigned to the Russian U.N. Mission. Buck’s job is to vet these guys. He’s one of the last of the SDI Cold Warriors and he knows all there is to know about the former Soviet Union. He even wrote a memo on Vladimir Putin from when Putin was a KGB officer, saying to watch this man closely.”
Clearly Ms. Faraday was impressed with old Buck, which colored her perception of him, just as mine was colored by his double-cross in Yemen.
She went on, “So Buck saw the photo of Pavel Fradkov in the diplomatic visa application that the Russians submitted to the State Department, and though Fradkov had aged and altered his appearance, Buck recognized him as Dr. Arkady Urmanov, a nuclear weapons physicist from the days of the Soviet Union.”
“Buck is smart,” I agreed. “But whoever let the nuke guy in the country was not so smart.”
“Sometimes we can turn these guys. We actually have a program where we buy Russian nuclear physicists and give them a job in the U.S.”
“How about Gorsky and Petrov? Do you have jobs for them?”
She didn’t reply for a second, then said, “We—someone—wanted to see what they were up to.”
“Well, now you know.”
She had no response to that and asked me, “What happened in Yemen?”
I was sorry I’d lost my cool with Buck while she was standing there. “I may have misinterpreted what happened.”
“I’m sure you did.” She let me know, “Buck is a patriot.”
So was Adolf Hitler. And so is Vasily Petrov.
I ended the conversation by calling Scott Kalish. He answered, and I said, “I’m driving, on speaker with a Federal trainee, Ms. Tess Faraday.”
“Okay, I’ll speak slowly.” He let me know, “I’m at Timber Point,” meaning the Suffolk County Marine Bureau Headquarters. I felt guilty about pulling him away from his Law and Order reruns. I asked, “How’s it going?”
“Not so good. I thought this amphibious craft would show up someplace.” He tried to assure me, “In addition to the sea-and-air search, we’ve issued a BOLO—be on the lookout—to the Bay Constables and local PD for all the marinas, yacht clubs, public docks—”
“The craft is sitting on the deck of a ship by now, Scott. You need to find that ship.”
“Hundreds of ships out there.” He let me know, “We have all four of our choppers flying search patterns, using infrared thermal imaging, and the Midnight Sun—the searchlight. But none of the choppers have spotted the amphibious craft you described, either on the water or onboard a large ship.”
This was not looking good.
Kalish continued, “I’ve got ten harbor units deployed and they’re running search patterns east and west of Tamorov’s house, from the shore out to the Fairway—the shipping lane—which starts about twenty miles offshore.” He further informed me, “Basically we’re covering about a thousand square miles. And the search area is getting bigger as time passes.”
“I understand that.” I let him know, “The Coast Guard has been called in to assist.”
“Okay, we’ll coordinate.” He reminded me, “We don’t even know how fast this ship is traveling or what direction, or what it looks like.”
“It looks like it has an amphibious landing craft on its deck. If it’s covered with a tarp, use the infrared imaging.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
I ignored the sarcasm and informed him, “We have some info that this ship is heading west, destination New York City.”