Gorsky didn’t need advice from Colonel Petrov, but he nodded and said, “It will go well. It always does.”
Petrov looked at the wrapped submachine gun in his hands. The German-made MP5 was a good choice for this job. This model, with the telescoping stock retracted, was only twenty-two inches long and weighed less than six pounds. It could be held in one hand by its grip and fired as a machine pistol, which was actually what the Germans called it—a Maschinenpistole, Model 5. MP5.
The magazine held thirty 9mm rounds, and though it wasn’t an accurate weapon, the cyclic rate of fire of 750 rounds a minute made it a very deadly weapon in close-in situations, which was what one would find on a ship.
Most importantly, it never jammed, and with the silencer it was as quiet as it was lethal. It was a favorite weapon of the American counterterrorist forces as well as over a hundred other countries that used the MP5 for their police and paramilitary forces. Even the Russians bought them, and Petrov had requested two, gift-wrapped.
Petrov looked up from the weapon and said to Gorsky, “Tell Urmanov to remain in his room with his door locked until we come for him.”
Gorsky nodded.
The slight vibration in the ship’s superstructure ceased, indicating that the engines had been set at idle, and Petrov felt the forward motion of the ship decrease, which he confirmed by looking out the porthole. Soon the anchors would be lowered. He had been assured at his briefing in Moscow that it was standard procedure for a ship that was intending to make a nearby port at dawn to drop anchor for the night at the dinner hour, allowing the deckhands and officers time to eat and rest while the stewards and cooks attended to the guests. And this worked well for Petrov and Gorsky, who would not have to put a gun to Captain Wells’ head to make him stop the ship so they could rendezvous with the Russian fishing trawler and take Captain Gleb and his cargo aboard. In fact, when Captain Wells dropped anchor, his and his crew’s usefulness was over, as were their lives.
Petrov and Gorsky checked their watches and agreed to meet in the hallway in ten minutes.
But before Gorsky left, he said, “That caterer troubles me.”
Petrov assured him, “It is of no consequence now.”
“We should have taken him—and that lady who appeared to know him—inside to question them.”
“Then you create a problem where none existed.”
“Or you solve a problem.”
“Tamorov would wonder why we were questioning two of his caterers.”
“Let him wonder.” Gorsky continued, “We should at least have told Tamorov to tell those two to leave.”
“And if they were embassy watchers, they would have gone directly to their vehicle and called the FBI, who would have sent aircraft and boats to watch Tamorov’s house. And we would not be here now.”
Gorsky thought about that. Yes, it was a difficult situation with difficult choices, and Colonel Petrov had made the choice to do nothing. And that may have been the best choice. Still… He said to Petrov, “We should have taken them inside and killed them.”
Petrov smiled. “There are times, Viktor, when killing solves problems and times when it creates problems.”
“The more people you kill, the fewer problems you have.” He explained, “People cause problems.”
Petrov again smiled. “You are a simple man, Viktor. I like that.”
Gorsky did not reply.
Petrov thought about all of this. It was possible, he conceded, that those two could have been the embassy watchers who had followed them from New York. And if that were true, then they had seen him and his two companions and the prostitutes board the amphibious craft and sail out to sea. But that was all they saw, and all they knew. They could not know where he was going, though it would seem obvious because of the ladies that they were going to another party. And as Petrov also knew, the embassy watchers only watched, then reported to the FBI, who, as in the past, would be slow to react to the missing Russian diplomats.
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 ent
er 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.
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.