Radiant Angel (11 page)

T
he Hana
was underway again, heading west toward New York City.

Colonel Vasily Petrov stood in the yacht’s long salon, waiting for the prince to welcome him and his Russian guests aboard.

The salon, Petrov thought, looked as outlandish as the photos he’d seen of it: gilded chandeliers, gold-brocaded furniture, and a floor covered with garish oriental rugs. The walls and ceiling were draped with loose folds of white silk to replicate a tent, a nostalgic reminder, perhaps, of the royal family’s nomadic origins. All that was missing was a camel.

A dark-skinned steward offered Petrov, Gorsky, and Urmanov refreshments, but they declined and the young man bowed and left.

Petrov glanced at the three overnight bags that sat on an ottoman and that held his and Gorsky’s MP5 submachine guns with silencers and also their Makarov handguns. The satchel that had arrived Wednesday in the diplomatic pouch from Moscow had been sent by courier to Tamorov’s house, along with a verbal message telling Mr. Tamorov to put the satchel in Colonel Petrov’s guestroom. Urmanov’s overnight bag contained the tool kit and also the third handgun from the satchel, though he’d be surprised to discover the gun didn’t work.

Petrov opened a door and stepped out to the side balcony. On the lighted main deck below, his twelve ladies had made themselves
at home in the upholstered swivel chairs, and a steward was serving them champagne while they smoked. There was a spa pool on the deck, and one of the ladies took off her cover-up and lowered herself into it. The women all looked happy, Petrov thought, and it made him feel better knowing they would leave this life in such luxury.

Petrov looked at the girl named Tasha. A beautiful woman, and perhaps brighter than the rest. Certainly she was the most spirited, and under other circumstances he would have had her for himself, though by choosing her to come with him he had chosen her for death. And he had done this because she had been speaking to the tall caterer, Depp, who seemed out of place among the others, and she had possibly given this man her phone number, which was not allowed.

Gorsky joined Petrov, who commented, “There seems to be alcohol aboard this Islamic vessel, Viktor.”

Gorsky laughed and added, “And scantily clad prostitutes.”

“We are far from Mecca,” Petrov observed, and they both laughed.

Petrov looked up at the top deck where the ship’s bridge sat, and where Captain Wells was in command. Petrov said, “It tells you something, Viktor, when these Arabs don’t trust their own countrymen to steer a modern ship.”

Gorsky readily agreed. “If not for their oil, they would still be living in tents. Now they decorate their yachts like tents.”

Petrov smiled and said, “The only use for these people is to make them pawns in the game against the West.” He added, “And in this case, to help them become better terrorists.”

Gorsky understood Petrov’s contempt for the Arabs and Muslims in general. But Petrov’s contempt, Gorsky knew, masked his grudging respect for the jihadists and mujahideen whom they had both fought in Chechnya and elsewhere, and whom Petrov’s father had fought in Afghanistan.

Petrov looked at his watch. “We will soon have Captain Gleb at the helm.”

Gorsky nodded, glad that Colonel Petrov was so confident in this plan. Gorsky thought the plan depended on too many unknown and variable factors, but he had worked with Colonel Petrov for many
years, and he had seen how the colonel, through sheer will, intellect, and courage, made everything go well for himself and for their country. Petrov had always said, “Believe in yourself and believe in the cause of a new Russian Empire. The Islamists believe in their god, and that makes them dangerous, but not always competent. The Americans believe in their superiority, but they have no goal other than to remain at the top. And both sides are obsessed with the other, so when all is said and done it will be Russia that will stand on the corpses of Islam and the West. History is on our side.”

And, thought Gorsky, Colonel Petrov had no goal other than to please his father, and to be promoted to his father’s rank of general. As for the new Russian Empire, Gorsky didn’t know how much Petrov believed in that, but Colonel Petrov believed in himself, and that made working with him easier than working with a man who believed in a cause or a god.

Petrov returned to the salon and Gorsky followed.

A steward dressed in traditional Arab garb stood at the aft door of the salon, then, as if he’d received a signal, he opened the door and announced in English, “His Royal Highness, Prince Ali Faisel.”

Urmanov rose to his feet and faced the door. Petrov and Gorsky, too, turned toward the doorway.

The prince entered, and the three Russians made a half bow.

Ali Faisel, wearing khaki trousers and a white polo shirt, strode directly across the salon to Colonel Petrov and, smiling, extended his hand and said in English, “Welcome aboard The Hana, Colonel.”

They shook hands and Petrov replied, “Thank you, Your Highness, for receiving us.”

“Yes, but we are friends, so please call me Ali.”

Petrov nodded. In fact, they were not friends, but they had been introduced by Georgi Tamorov some months before at a U.N. reception, where Colonel Petrov had suggested a more private meeting with His Highness at some future time to discuss a common problem—Islamic radicals. Those radicals within the Russian Federation were fighting wars of independence to become free of Russia; those within the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia wanted nothing less than the end of the monarchy, which they saw as decadent and corrupt, to be replaced by
a more pure Islamic state. It was ironic, Petrov thought, that their two countries, with nothing in common, shared a common enemy, and that the enemy was Islam.

Petrov had let the prince know at the U.N. reception that he, Vasily Petrov, had come upon some interesting information in Chechnya that the royal family would find useful in their fight against their internal enemies. Petrov had also hinted that he and the prince could discuss another common problem—the price of crude oil, which both countries would like to see rise a few dollars a barrel. Petrov had mentioned their mutual friend, Georgi Tamorov, in this regard, and the prince seemed interested and agreed to meet privately to discuss these matters. Petrov had suggested the prince’s yacht, away from prying eyes and ears, and he had also suggested that he could provide some female dinner companions and perhaps something stronger than alcohol. The prince had nodded his assent, and they had both agreed to keep this to themselves.

Ten years ago, Petrov knew, this meeting would have been unlikely. Russia had been broken, chaos ruled, and the people’s spirit was crushed. Now, under Vladimir Putin, the humiliation of defeat was being replaced by a new spirit of confidence, and Russia was again taking its rightful place in the world. And thus the Saudis, the Americans, the Europeans, the Chinese, and others were happy and honored to meet with the Russians to discuss the evolving world order.

Petrov had also told the prince that he would like to bring two colleagues with him to brief His Highness, and the prince agreed and asked for their names, as Petrov knew he would. It had been decided in Moscow that Petrov would stay close to the verifiable truth, so Petrov had given the prince Gorsky’s name, and he now said to the prince, “This is Mr. Viktor Gorsky, who I told you about. My assistant in the Human Rights office.”

The prince had, of course, inquired about Viktor Gorsky, and he was happy that the SVR officer had diplomatic status.

As for Dr. Arkady Urmanov, nuclear physicist, the SVR had transformed him into Mr. Pavel Fradkov of the GRU—Russian Military Intelligence—and Petrov introduced him as such and added, “Mr. Fradkov also works with me in Human Rights, as you may
know, and he, too, enjoys diplomatic status, as does his highness.” He added, smiling, “So we are all U.N. diplomats, here to discuss world peace and understanding.”

The prince returned the smile and invited his Russian guests to sit, and they all made themselves comfortable around an ivory-inlaid coffee table. The prince said, “Dinner will be served within the hour. But perhaps you would enjoy some aperitifs.”

Petrov replied, “Just water, please.”

The prince said something to the steward, who left the salon.

Petrov looked at his host. Ali Faisel was thirty-one years old according to the SVR biography, with typical Saudi features, including a pronounced nose, which Petrov imagined was a result of royal inbreeding, and Petrov suspected that his royal host was not particularly bright. But Ali Faisel was ambitious, and according to the SVR profile on him, this young prince strove to stand out among the numerous princes in his kingdom. Petrov didn’t know why this was so, and he didn’t care; but it did make the young idiot open to the suggestion that they should discuss important matters. If the truth be known, the prince’s best qualification for this meeting—aside from his gullibility—was that he owned a yacht that sailed regularly to New York City.

Two stewards brought bottled water, sparkling and still, in ice buckets, with lemon and lime wedges, along with crystal glasses that bore the royal emblem.

The prince apologized. “No Russian mineral water, I’m afraid. But will you have French?”

Petrov replied, “We will pretend it is champagne.”

Everyone laughed politely at the bad joke.

The steward poured sparkling water for everyone and Colonel Petrov toasted, “To His Royal Highness, the prince, and to his uncle, the king, and to the future cooperation of our two great nations.”

Everyone clinked glasses, and the prince added, “And to your president.” Everyone drank.

Despite the congeniality, Petrov knew that the prince might have some misgivings about Colonel Petrov of the SVR. For one thing, he, Petrov, had killed many Muslim Chechens, and his father had also
killed many of the prince’s coreligionists in Afghanistan. But at the U.N. reception, Petrov made it clear that he had no animosity toward Islam, only toward Islamic extremists who were the enemies of both their countries.

And of course, the subject of the Americans had come up, and both men agreed that America, along with Israel, was the cause of much of the unrest in the Middle East. The prince further agreed that the Saudi and American alliance mostly benefited the Americans and the Jews, and needed to be reevaluated, and Colonel Petrov had promised to share with the prince the SVR’s thinking on this subject.

In fact, the prince, though he didn’t know it, would be an important player in this reevaluation when
The Hana
sailed into New York Harbor and the nuclear device onboard detonated, thus ending the Saudi-American alliance, which was already strained because of the fifteen Saudis who had taken part in the 9/11 attack.

Also, as Petrov knew, Prince Ali Faisel and the monarchy were playing a double game and had given great sums of money to the madrassas—the Islamic fundamentalist schools throughout the Mideast—and this annoyed the Americans, though they were powerless to end this Saudi policy. Thus, when
The Hana
became a weapon of mass destruction, the American government and people would have no difficulty believing that a Saudi prince had obtained a Soviet miniature nuclear weapon on the black market, which Petrov knew were available for the princely sum of a million dollars a kiloton. And the Americans would also have no trouble believing that Prince Ali Faisel, nephew of the king, had become a jihadist and martyr for Islam. Perhaps the Americans would even retaliate with a nuclear weapon of their own.

Petrov delighted in the dual benefit of this plan, which was first suggested by his father. “In a microsecond of nuclear fission,” said the general, “the Americans and the Saudis will be split like the atom and both will be badly wounded in the same explosion.”

The prince, Petrov recalled, had been flattered to be asked to a secret meeting, though in reality, Prince Ali Faisel had no power; he was, in fact, a decadent royal, a playboy, and a dilettante, playing at U.N. diplomacy. It was ironic that when the nuclear device onboard
The Hana
destroyed Lower Manhattan, this wastrel would be hailed by many of his coreligionists as a nuclear suicide bomber, and given more credit than he was ever worth while alive.

Petrov smiled at the prince. “This is a beautiful ship.”

“Thank you.” The prince informed his guests, “I designed the interior finishings myself.”

“You have excellent taste.”

Petrov glanced at Gorsky, who understood he needed to say something, and Gorsky said, “Very beautiful.”

Petrov knew that Viktor Gorsky made some people uncomfortable. Gorsky looked like what he was—a killer. And he did nothing to soften his demeanor, which annoyed Petrov. But the man was good at what he did, and as far as Gorsky was concerned there was no reason to be polite to someone you were going to kill within the hour.

Petrov looked at Urmanov, who seemed to be lost in thought, though Petrov knew he was in a nervous state. This man engineered nuclear weapons, Petrov thought, designed to kill millions of people, but Urmanov would be sick at the sight of blood.

Petrov knew, of course, that Urmanov had not volunteered for this mission, but the SVR had presented Dr. Urmanov with two choices, as they were good at doing, and Arkady Urmanov had taken the better of the two bad choices.

Also, though Urmanov had not been fully informed of the operational aspects of the mission, he must have known that everyone on this yacht would be dead before too long—everyone, except, of course, Colonel Petrov, Viktor Gorsky, the Russian sea captain, and himself. Though if Dr. Urmanov believed that about himself, he was mistaken.

Petrov said to the prince, “Forgive Mr. Fradkov for his silence. His English is not very good.”

The prince nodded, perhaps wondering how this Russian Military Intelligence officer was going to brief him or how he could do his job in America with poor English.

The prince asked Petrov, “How was your voyage to The Hana?”

Petrov smiled. “The ladies enjoyed it.”

“Good.” He informed his guests, “Hana is Arabic for ‘happiness.’ ”