One of the ladies suggested to the others, “Take off your cover-ups so the prince can see his diamonds on our skin.”

Everyone thought that was a wonderful idea and they pulled off their cover-ups.

Gorsky noticed that the stewards now seemed more interested in staying in the salon, and he said to them, “Please see that each lady has a glass of champagne.”

One of the women protested, “Give us the diamonds, Viktor, and to hell with the champagne.”

They all laughed.

“Please,” said Gorsky, “the prince deserves a beautiful photograph.”

This was becoming more difficult than his work on the bridge. But he knew it would be.

The stewards were handing out glasses and pouring champagne into them.

Gorsky stepped onto the ottoman and faced the ladies and the two stewards.

Thirty rounds in the magazine, fourteen targets. He would probably have to reload.

One of the women said to him, “Now give us our diamonds, Viktor.” She stood and walked toward him, her hand extended.

He tore the paper from the submachine gun.

Tasha said, “What is…? Oh my God!”

Petrov quickly searched the tank deck—the engine room, laundry room, storage compartments, and all the belowdeck areas of the large ship—calling out, “Is anyone here? I am lost! Can anyone help me?”

But no one replied.

Petrov climbed a staircase to the lower deck where the tender garage and the swimming platform were located, as were the guest staterooms and the officers’ quarters.

He went first toward the stern, calling out in the tender garage, “Hello! Is anyone here?”

He then moved to the glass doors that led outside to the swimming platform and noticed that the doors were bolted from the inside, meaning that no one had gone out to the swimming platform and abandoned ship by this route. He unbolted the doors and walked out to the platform.

The low clinging fog was getting thicker, and the sky was filled with stars, with a half-moon rising in the east. The sea, he saw, was still calm. Off in the distance, he saw the lights of a helicopter, hovering unusually low. He put this out of his mind and looked at his watch. Captain Gleb would be arriving in half an hour. And there was still work to do aboard The Hana.

Petrov left the swimming platform, rebolted the doors, and passed through the tender garage. He walked down the long, wide passageway between the ten staterooms, knocking on the locked doors and opening the unlocked ones, calling out, “Hello! Is anyone here?”

No one replied, except Dr. Urmanov, still locked in his stateroom. Petrov called to him, “Stay where you are!”

It would be good, he thought, if Gorsky had come upon the last deckhand. It would be bad, however, if this Bulgarian had seen the dead bodies and was hiding. Well, Petrov thought, they had anticipated this in their planning, and as long as the man had no access to the radios on the bridge, then for all Petrov cared he could hide like a rat until the ship exploded in a mushroom cloud.

But the thought of the bridge with all its communication equipment troubled him, though Gorsky should have finished his business in the salon and returned to the bridge by now. Petrov passed through the officers’ quarters and took the elevator up to the bridge level.

Viktor Gorsky remained standing on the ottoman, surveying the carnage in the salon.

Yes, it was a difficult thing, and though he had tried to do it quickly, there were too many targets, and he had to go first for the men, and after he emptied his thirty-round magazine some of the ladies began running or crawling toward the exits, and he had to reload quickly and take them down, one at a time, with short bursts of fire. They had been terrified, and their screaming still echoed in his ears.

But at least he hadn’t hit any of the windows, so there would be no outward evidence of violence onboard The Hana as it sailed into New York Harbor and lay at anchor through the night.

He stepped down from the ottoman, drew his pistol, and surveyed the nearly naked and still-bleeding women. A few were wounded only in the legs and were crying, or trying to crawl away, or imploring him to spare them. He went quickly from one to the other until his magazine was empty. He reloaded and continued.

He came to Tasha, who was lying on her back, a bullet wound in her abdomen and a grazing wound across her thigh. She was crying, though not so much from the pain, he thought, as from sadness.

He said, “I am sorry.”

She looked at him and managed to say, “Why…?”

“Close your eyes, Tasha.”

She shut her eyes and he fired a bullet into her heart.

He saved the two mortally wounded stewards for last, then went to the bar, washed his hands, and poured himself a flute of champagne.

Gorsky checked his watch. Twenty-two minutes since he had first walked onto the bridge. The operations officer in Moscow had estimated fifteen. But the desk idiots didn’t know anything.

The stereo was still playing Swan Lake, which he liked.

Vasily Petrov exited the elevator into the vestibule of the bridge deck.

He held the MP5 in one hand, his finger on the trigger and the firing switch set to fully automatic.

He noticed that the bridge door was closed, and he wondered if Gorsky had closed it, or if the officers had been alerted and sealed themselves off. He felt his heart beating quickly in his chest, but then he saw to his left the bloodstains on the wall and floor near the captain’s quarters, and he knew that Gorsky had been successful here, which gave him a sense of relief.

He moved quickly to the door marked SHIP’S OFFICE and pointed his MP5 at the door as he threw it open and dropped to one knee.

He saw that Gorsky had also been there, and he stood, closed the door, and went to the captain’s quarters and threw open the door.

It took him a second to process what he was seeing, and he wasn’t certain how this scene had come about and he didn’t care, but he saw that the deckhand, Malkin, was now a confirmed kill. Sprawled across a food cart was a steward, and sitting in his easy chair was Captain Wells, staring at the book in his lap.

Petrov closed the door, then went directly to the bridge door and pushed the intercom buzzer.

No answer.

He pushed the entry pad, leveled his submachine gun, and dropped to one knee as the door slid open, revealing the two dead officers on the floor.

Petrov stood and went onto the bridge, moving quickly to the instrument console to inspect it for damage.

“I was very careful.”

Petrov spun around to see Gorsky standing in the opening. He caught his breath and snapped, “That is a good way to get yourself killed, Gorsky.”

Gorsky wanted to say, “You are the one who would now be dead.” But he said, “I trust your quick judgment, Colonel.”

Petrov did not respond to that, but asked, “Are you finished in the salon?”

“It is done.”

“Good… so tell me.”

“You can see this for yourself. All four officers, a deckhand, and a steward. As for the ladies… they are all gone, as are two stewards.”

Petrov confirmed, “That accounts for all seven stewards.”

“How do we get that number?”

“There were four with the prince and his six guests.”

Gorsky nodded, and inquired, “And all the cooks were in the galley?”

“They still are.” He smiled.

Gorsky, too, smiled, and asked, “Did you remember to shut off the gas?”

“I forget nothing, Viktor.”

“Yes, Colonel.” He asked, “And how was your visit to the crew’s quarters?”

“Four, and one in the passageway.”

They stood there a second, each waiting for the other to point out that a deckhand was missing. Finally, Petrov said, “So, unless you have forgotten a man you killed, there is one not accounted for.”