“No,” I replied.

“Yes,” she corrected.

Sergeant Conte suggested, “You get that straightened out.” He asked, “Coffee?”

I inquired, “You got a head on that SAFE boat?”

“Nope. But we got a bucket.”

That was good enough for Tess and she poured herself a mug of black coffee.

Conte informed us, “We topped off with U.S. government gas, so we can be out for about five hours, give or take.”

“Good.” I asked him, “You have some printouts for me?”

He reached into his float coat and extracted some folded papers.

I put them on the coffee bar and looked at the website printout in the dim light.

The color picture of The Hana showed a big, tall, gleaming white yacht with Hana in gold letters on its fantail. In the background was a sandy beach, blue skies, and palm trees. I noticed, too, a flag flying from its stern with what looked like a royal crest of some sort. It’s good to be a prince.

I flipped through the deck plans and saw that The Hana had five decks, many staterooms, a long dining room, a huge salon with balconies, and a spa tub. Vasily Petrov should be enjoying life rather than plotting to nuke a city. Asshole.

I looked at the schematic of the lower deck and saw the two-dock tender garage toward the stern of the ship. The garage had a door in the side of the hull, and I remembered that Kalish said it was a float-in garage, and I pictured the twenty-five-foot amphibious craft with Petrov and his pals sailing through the open door and into the yacht. The ladies must have been excited. I wondered if Petrov intended to escape from The Hana using the amphibious craft. Or was he going down—or blowing up—with the ship?

I still couldn’t figure out if this was a suicide mission or if Petrov had an escape plan. And even if Petrov was willing to die, I wasn’t sure the men with him were so anxious to give their lives for Mother Russia. I wondered, too, about the fate of the twelve ladies.

I turned my attention back to the ship plans and noticed that in the stern near the tender garage was something labeled “Beach Club,” and I pointed this out to Conte and Andersson.

Conte informed us, “Most of the big yachts have that.” He pointed to the plans, “This is a swimming platform, just above sea level. You can have chairs and stuff and you can swim off the platform. Unless the boat’s moving.”

I looked again at the so-called beach club, and I could see on the plans that it had a doorway that led to two staircases going up to the next deck.

“That swimming platform,” I said, “is the way into The Hana.”

Conte agreed. “Better than trying to toss grappling hooks twenty feet up to the main deck.”

Andersson reminded us, “First we have to find the target ship.” She asked me and Tess, “You have any new info?”

Tess replied, “The latest is what you know. It’s a yacht named The Hana and we have these specs on it, so we’re hoping it will be sighted or picked up by infrared.”

Sergeant Conte said, “I doubt if this ship is still in our police district.”

I replied, “We don’t know that, but I do know that we will be available to assist when the target is located.”

“Right.” Conte asked, “What is the threat assessment?”

“Intel says there are at least three armed terrorists aboard.”

“What are they doing on a Saudi prince’s yacht?”

“They may have taken over the ship and they may have picked up some other people at sea. But we don’t know.”

“How many crew aboard?”

“Maybe twenty or more, and maybe some guests. Plus twelve hookers.”

Conte looked at me and asked, “What’s this about?”

“It’s about whatever Captain Kalish told you it’s about.”

“He said it was Russian U.N. guys and Russian hookers going out to a party boat. Then it became terrorists.”

“Right.”

“He also said pay close attention to the radiation pager.”

“Correct.”

“We looking for a nuke?”

Tess replied, “There may be radioactive material aboard the target craft. Maybe enough to make a dirty bomb.” She added, “There is a potential for radiation exposure, but we’re assuming the radioactive material is contained.”

Conte nodded. Officer Andersson looked concerned.

Okay, I thought, better to admit to a small nightmare than a big one. Sounds more believable than denying the whole thing. Ms. Faraday knew how to bullshit.

Conte pointed out, “Well, if the target ship is emitting radiation, it can’t hide.”

“Right.” So why hadn’t any of the search boats or aircraft detected a radiation source? Well, because they weren’t looking for that until about an hour ago. But now… I looked at The Hana’s plans again. The tender garage. I asked Conte and Andersson, “Can this ship sail with the garage flooded?”

Conte replied, “According to the notes on The Hana, the ship is seaworthy with the garage flooded.”

Well, that might be the answer. I wasn’t sure how the nuclear device got aboard The Hana, but I was fairly sure now how Petrov was keeping it from emitting detectable radiation. It was underwater.

Conte had come to a similar conclusion and said, “Holy shit. You think this radioactive material could be in the flooded garage?”

“Makes sense.”

He thought about that, then told us what we already knew. “That’s what we’re always worried about. A nuke riding underwater on the hull of a ship.”

“Right.” Or in this case, inside the ship, in a flooded compartment.

Every time I started to doubt that this was really a nuclear attack, something else popped up and pointed in that direction. Buck was right. The Russians had a plan.

I said to Conte, “You should call Captain Kalish and advise him of this possibility, and tell him to put that out to all parties.”

“Right.” He added, “This is a game changer.”

Conte used his cell phone to call Kalish, and while he was giving Kalish the bad news, Tess announced, “I need to hit the head.”

Andersson pointed. “Over there.”

Tess asked me, “Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“No.”

She hesitated, then said, “Don’t leave without me.”

Don’t tempt me.

She walked toward the restrooms.

My Nextel radio blinged and I heard a voice say, “John, this is Howard. Are you up?”

I decided to stop these annoying calls and I moved out of earshot of Conte and Andersson and replied, “Up.”

“Where are you?”

“On the way to Manhattan.”

“What’s your ETA?”

“About two hours.”

“I want to see you when you get here.”

“I got that message.”

“Where are Conlon and Lansky?”

“They’re somewhere behind me.”

“Why do you have Conlon’s phone?”

“I dropped mine in the toilet.”

“Okay… I can’t reach Lansky.”

“Bad reception out here.” Or he’s in a noisy bar. Or he’s not taking your calls.

“I call and text out to the Hamptons all the time.”

“Howard, I don’t run Nextel. File a complaint.”

“Where is Tess Faraday?”

“Where she usually is. In the ladies’ room.”

“I thought you were on the road.”

“Pit stop.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in two hours.”

“It’s Sunday night, Howard. Go home. This can wait.”

There was a silence, then Howard Fensterman asked me, “What’s this about?”

“If you don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Okay… look, I owe you a favor from Yemen. So I’ll go to bat for you if you’re straight with me.”

“If you want to do me a favor, go home.”

“I’ve been instructed to wait for you.”

“Let’s meet halfway. You live on Long Island, right? Pick a place.”

“The place is 26 Fed. Be in my office—two hours, latest.”

“Copy.”

He signed off.

Well, hopefully that took care of Howard Fensterman for the next two hours. Longer if 26 Fed disappeared. I liked Howard, despite some crap in Yemen, and I wanted to get him away from the blast zone, and I tried, but… Well, maybe this will all become moot. One way or the other.