But then he had another thought… a thought that he had been pushing to the back of his mind. Arkady Urmanov. Known to the Americans as Pavel Fradkov, the Russian Federation’s U.N. delegate for Human Rights. It was possible, he conceded, that the American State Department—or the FBI or CIA—had identified Pavel Fradkov as Arkady Urmanov, a nuclear physicist, whose specialty was miniature nuclear weapons.

But if they had made that identification, why had they allowed Urmanov into the country? Or allowed him to stay? Obviously, the Americans wanted to see why he was here—and if they knew why, then the mission was compromised. And if it was compromised, then Moscow would blame Colonel Petrov for insisting that Urmanov be sent to New York under an alias with diplomatic cover. And if that was true, then he, Colonel Vasily Petrov, had no future in Moscow.

It also occurred to him that if the FBI had questioned Tamorov, then it was possible that the rich oligarch may have been cooperative, to protect his money and his American visa. It was also possible that Tamorov had recalled that Petrov wanted to be introduced to Prince Ali Faisel. But would Tamorov make the connection between the prince and the prince’s yacht, and the amphibious craft that had taken them from the beach? Possibly.

Petrov stopped in the passageway to collect his thoughts. He still had the option of scuttling The Hana and returning to Moscow via the fishing trawler. But what awaited him in Moscow? Not a promotion to general. Not his father’s congratulations. The future of Russia has been placed in your hands, Vasily. And if this mission failed because of him, what awaited him in Moscow was possibly a firing squad.

He leaned his back against the wall and drew a long breath. There was really only one option left. Complete the mission—at any cost.

Petrov continued through the passageway between the guest staterooms, finding most doors locked, which he opened by firing one or two rounds from his Makarov.

He then proceeded toward the ornate doors at the end of the passageway that led to the flooded tender garage, noticing the blood on the wall as he passed by.

Yes, there was only one option left for him. And the two things that he needed to complete his mission had just arrived. Captain Gleb and the bomb.

Come home in glory. Or do not come home.

Vasily Petrov was no longer sure that he was coming home. But if he did not, his father would know how his son met a glorious end.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Vasily Petrov entered the garage, which was dimly illuminated by indirect lighting and by the underwater lights on the flooded deck.

Tied to the opposite dock was the amphibious craft that would take him, Gorsky, and Gleb from The Hana to the pier on the Brooklyn waterfront—though if he eliminated Gleb, he was sure he could operate the craft himself. As for finding the pier, he had been there twice, once by car and once by boat, and he had flown over it in a helicopter, so he knew he could find it even at night because of the large boathouse that covered the pier. That was the plan. But the plan might have to change.

Tied to the dock in front of him was the lifeboat from the fishing trawler, and sitting in the center of the boat’s deck was a black trunk.

Petrov motioned for Gorsky and Urmanov to stay in the lifeboat, and he walked along the dock to the catwalk, out of earshot of the two men, and used the intercom to call the bridge.

Gleb answered, “Captain.”

“Vasily. Report.”

“Well, we are underway, as you see. I have plotted a course twenty nautical miles from shore, close to the shipping lane. It will take us a few more minutes to get up to speed, and if I can get twenty-five knots out of the engines, we will be approaching the entrance to New York Harbor at the Verrazano Bridge in less than two hours—depending on tides and currents.”

Petrov checked his watch. That would put them outside the harbor at about midnight. Perhaps earlier if the currents were with them. And if the Americans were waiting for him, he would proceed at full speed straight into the harbor, and as The Hana got within a hundred meters of Manhattan Island, he could manually detonate the device.

Like an Arab suicide bomber.

But that might not be necessary. He needed more information.

Gleb said, “I saw another helicopter heading east. Also two high-speed craft on the radar.” He pointed out, “If I see them, they see us.”

“They don’t know what they are looking for.”

Gleb didn’t reply to that, but said, “The fishing trawler will remain on station for five more minutes. If he doesn’t get a radio signal from me, he will head back to Saint Petersburg.”

“I hope he has had good fishing.”

“Well then, the die is cast.”

“It was cast a long time ago in Moscow.” Petrov changed the subject and asked, “Why did you close the bridge door?”

“So I don’t get a bullet in my back.”

“I assume you are referring to the deckhand.”

Gleb did not reply.

“Have you locked the door?”

“That is the procedure if there is a danger onboard.”

Petrov knew that the bridge door could be locked from the inside without a code, but it could not be opened from the outside without entering the code. So Gleb had effectively locked Petrov out, and he had a reasonable excuse to do so. Petrov said, “I will have full access to the bridge.”

“When you come up, bring me some coffee.”

Petrov didn’t reply to that and said, “You can communicate with me through the ship’s speakers. I am in the tender garage.”

“I see you on the monitor, and if that thing you’re working on starts to smoke, I’ll be in the water.” He laughed.

Petrov shut off the intercom and walked quickly along the dock to the lifeboat and jumped in.

Gorsky stood and said, “I assume you have not found the deckhand.”

Petrov shook his head, then put his hand on the black trunk. “This now deserves our full attention.” He looked at Gorsky and Urmanov. “Are we ready?”

Gorsky nodded. Urmanov did not.

Petrov said to Gorsky, “Unlock the trunk.”

Gorsky knelt before the trunk, which had a conventional hasp and padlock securing the lid, as though it was actually a steamer trunk, though the combination lock and hasp were made of titanium alloy, as was the trunk itself.

Gorsky, from memory, entered the six-digit combination. He heard a soft click and pulled the lock open.

Petrov said to Urmanov, “The honor is yours, Doctor.”

Urmanov stared at the black trunk, then stood and put his hands on the sides of the watertight lid. He lifted the heavy, lead-lined lid until the two steel arms locked into place.

Petrov, Gorsky, and Urmanov looked down at the device, which filled the entire trunk. Engraved in the lower right-hand corner of the cast aluminum face was RA–115, followed by –01, which designated this device as submersible.

Petrov and Gorsky exchanged glances and nodded. Yes, this was exactly like the device they had trained on, except this one had a plutonium core, about the size and shape of an American football.

The size of the fissionable core never failed to impress Petrov. It was difficult to imagine how anything that small could produce a fireball the size of six sports stadiums, rising over five hundred meters into the air and generating temperatures of over ten million degrees Celsius, consuming everything within the firestorm, and igniting anything combustible within another half kilometer, melting steel, glass, and flesh.

And then there was the shock wave that would travel at the speed of sound, tearing apart buildings and throwing people and vehicles into the air like leaves in a storm.