by Leslie Jones
As soon as they’d passed the twelve-mile mark, she’d given the signal. In ones and twos, they ambled below and found seats.
“Gentlemen. Is everyone settled?” She stood in front of the television. It dwarfed her. Barely waiting for the nods of assent, she said, “This will be a closed bidding. You’ll find pens, paper, and envelopes near you. Please enter your bid and seal it. I’ll announce the highest bidder, and you’ll have the opportunity to increase your bid, if you so choose. If you decide not to continue on, you’ll return to your guests on the upper decks. Is everyone clear on how this will work?”
“I want to see the merchandise,” the Iranian bidder said. The others murmured agreement. “I insist on examining it myself.”
She’d been afraid of that. She played a dangerous game, auctioning off a bomb she no longer possessed. She’d come up with an equally dangerous solution. Forcing herself not to fidget, she nodded.
“The winner of the auction will examine it prior to payment,” she said. “And can then choose to take it with him when he debarks; or for a small fee, arrange to have it delivered to the address of his choice.”
The mutters of displeasure irked her. “Gentlemen, please be reasonable. The item is in the ship’s hold. We can’t all be seen traipsing down there. It would arouse suspicion, don’t you think?”
“Then let us begin.” The arrogant Iranian took the paper and scrawled on it. His condescending attitude nettled her. She hated control being taken from her, even on such a small scale as this. He wouldn’t win, she decided.
“Gentlemen, you may enter your first bid.”
One by one, the others sealed their envelopes. Fyodor collected them, opening them and handing them to her. She scanned them. The high bid came in at a measly five million. Unacceptable.
“The high bid stands at five million,” she announced calmly.
Two of the bidders got up and walked out. Imbeciles. Did they really think they were going to buy a nuclear weapon for so little? The second and third rounds brought the bid to eleven million. Four more bidders left in defeat. The field shrank with every round.
At last, only five remained. The bid stood at a respectable thirty-three million. What would happen now? The New Irish Republican Army should have bowed out already; how could they have the kind of money required here? Venezuela was desperate to become a nuclear power and probably wanted to reverse-engineer the device, but she doubted they had much more in the coffers than had already been offered. The Iranian had the advantage of Middle Eastern oil money, but the drug cartel raked in billions every year in profits. She couldn’t even guess why the American mobster wanted to buy a mini-nuke, but that wasn’t her problem. Time to finish this.
“Gentlemen, this will be the final round. The bidding stands at thirty-three million. Put your best and final bid in the envelope. The high bidder wins the merchandise.”
Her fingers shook as she took each slip of paper from Fyodor. Now came the most dangerous part of her plan. She held up the winning bid, higher than his closest competitor by ten million dollars. “The device goes to the American gentleman for fifty million dollars.”
A muted whoomp shook the floor under her feet.
Chapter 37
Saturday, February 25. 9:15 p.m.
Chartered Yacht. Atlantic Ocean.
Lark grabbed the nearest thing—which turned out to be Mace—as the reverberations from the explosion vibrated against the soles of her feet. He ended his brief phone call and widened his stance for balance, holding her tightly as the yacht began to list to starboard. The lighting system flickered, died, and came back on. Crystal flower vases, wineglasses, and plates crashed to the deck and shattered. Trays of canapés tumbled, spilling food onto the polished wood. Chairs slid across the deck and hit the railing. She ignored the cries and screams of the guests as they tumbled to the deck or latched onto whatever stable thing was closest to keep themselves upright. Her heart pounded as fear rushed through her. Had the engines exploded?
“What happened?” she asked him, struggling for calm. “Are we sinking? We’re sinking, aren’t we?”
He turned her face up to his with a gentle finger under her chin. “Everything’s fine, Lark. I signaled Tag to blow a small breach in the hull. Tag’s the best there is with explosives. We’re not going to sink. The pilot will be forced to head back to land.”
A crewman rushed to the staircase and disappeared below deck. The two stewards looked no less terrified than the passengers. One slipped on an oyster, his foot flying up as he landed hard on his butt. The yacht shivered and shifted more, starting another round of screaming. She rolled her eyes. Like that would help.
“I need to get below deck,” Mace said, standing. “I want you to go to the bridge and stay there, okay? I’ll come get you.”
She had no idea where the bridge was located. “Can’t I come with you?”
He put a hand on each shoulder and smiled down at her. “Normally, I’d be thrilled you want to stay with me. Right now, though, I need to meet up with the team before we get underway again.”
“Your swim team.” She returned his smile, unsurprised that the supersoldiers were poised to board the yacht. She cupped his cheeks and pressing a quick kiss to his mouth. “More of that later.”
“A whole lot more, I hope.” His eyes twinkled as he backed away, then turned and sprinted to the staircase.
She looked around for a crewman. Several passed her, so she hastened after them. Down the stairs, through the passageway, heading to the bow of the ship. Most of the crew crowded the area. She slipped between them until she could see the captain, who had a microphone to his mouth.
“Attention, all passengers and crew. This is the captain speaking. We’ve experienced a minor fire in the engine room, taking one of our engines offline. There is absolutely no cause for alarm. The ship might continue to list slightly, but will remain afloat. Repeat. There is no cause for alarm. All passengers should remain calm, and obey the crew’s orders as we sail back to port.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire. The ship would be taking on water. He had to know his ship’s hull had been breached, even if he didn’t yet know why. Still, telling frightened people a hole had opened in the bottom of the ship would only incite panic.
“How close are we to shore?” she asked.
The captain spared her a quick glance. “We’re about ten miles out. I’ve dropped our speed to five knots. Should take two hours to get back to the pier. I’m just being overly cautious here. There’s no cause for alarm.”
She heard it before she saw it, a shift in the sound of the ocean against the hull of the yacht. The coast guard cutter appeared before them like a specter, coming alongside and activating a spotlight so powerful it blinded her.
“Ship ahoy! This is the coast guard cutter Leviathan. Cut your engine and prepare to be boarded.”
The captain cursed. “I knew I should have skipped this trip. Killing the engine.”
Lark pushed forward to the bridge window so she could see. A helicopter came into view, hovering thirty-five feet above the bow. Four ropes dropped onto the deck, dark shapes sliding down them until they hit the deck. They unclipped themselves from the ropes, then swarmed port and starboard, running full tilt without using the life rails. The helicopter lifted up and headed to the stern.
Two of those dark shapes burst into the bridge, assault rifles aimed and steady.
“Hands up where I can see them,” one ordered. “No one move a muscle.”
Lark squeaked, flinging her arms up and freezing in place until she realized that under the Army helmets and uniforms they wore, she recognized them.
“Jace!” she blurted out.
He didn’t so much as glance at her as he covered Alex, who systematically searched the captain and crew. “It’s all right, Lark. We’re securing the ship. Has anyone given you anything to hold? A package, or anything you’re not sure what it is?”
“Not a thing.”
“Are you a
ware of any danger in this room or elsewhere?”
“No. Well, the bodyguards have guns.”
“We’re aware. Thank you.”
“Where’s Mace?”
“He’s with the team securing the auction room. All of you, please follow me to the main deck.” He lowered his rifle across his chest, watchful and wary as he led the captain and crew toward the main deck. Alex brought up the rear, equally alert.
From amidships, they all heard the gunshots, rapid exchanges that sounded like an entire army to her. The group staggered to a stop.
“Please keep moving up to the main deck,” Alex said. The normally laid-back farm boy’s tone brooked no disobedience. “We need to secure the boat.”
“Is that Mace? Mace is down there, isn’t he?”
Jace shot her a warning look. “Lark, please help me get these people to safety.”
“Okay,” she said in a small voice. “Listen up, everyone. This is the cavalry. You’ll all be safe on deck. No, don’t push and shove. It’s okay.”
Despite their jackets, the captain and crew shivered in the frigid air, joining the frightened throngs of partygoers. Several of them passed their jackets to guests, who slid into them gratefully. She saw other black-clad figures, soldiers, systematically moving down the boat, searching passengers and sending them to the bow. Men in blue uniforms and hats identifying them as coast guardsmen began to interview the guests, asking for identification.
Where was Mace? In the middle of that firefight? The shooting had stopped. If he’d been hurt, Jace would know about it, right?
Jace pressed a small device in his right ear. “Bow secured. Roger, Sandman. Heading down there now.”
“Where are you going?” Lark asked, taking a few steps after him. “Are we secure? Secured?”
“We have positive control of the boat, yes.” He leaned down to murmur into her ear, “We need to find the nuke. I’m heading down to the hold to meet the rest of the team.”
“No one got shot?”
“None of the good guys.” He gave her a nod and strode away.
Curiosity gnawed at her. What did a nuclear weapon look like? A shiny missile, or a tangle of cords in a big suitcase? Jace said the ship was safe now. Surely it wouldn’t hurt anything if she took a peek? Without getting caught, of course. She eased away from the group, then trotted to the stairs that would take her to Mace.
The hold had to be at the bottom of the yacht, right? She kept heading down the stairs until she came to a corridor with a ladder. Climbing down in her heels turned out to be more awkward than she’d anticipated, but she managed. She hustled down the passageway to the entrance of the cargo hold and peeped through the hatch.
Just inside, Alex swung the muzzle of his rifle away from her. His eyes narrowed. “Lark, you shouldn’t be down here.”
So much for remaining undetected. “I just wanted to see.”
She tried to peer past him, but he put out an arm, blocking her way. “You need to be up on the main deck with the others. Look, I’ll find someone to escort you.”
She plonked her fists onto her hips. “Are you going to shoot me?”
He gaped at her, appalled. “Of course not.”
“Then I want to see.”
He curled his fingers in indecision, then dropped his arm with a sigh. “Fine. Get me in trouble. Mace’ll have my head.”
“I’ll stay up here, okay? I don’t want to cause problems.”
She tried to make herself inconspicuous beside the ladder leading into the cargo hold, which seemed bigger than it ought to be, and much more crowded than she’d imagined. Behind the ladder, furniture had been strapped down, probably in case anything above broke. About halfway down the hold area, she saw an enormous walk-in refrigerator. Two tall metal shelves had been bolted into the floor, one filled with sealed boxes of tea and coffee, palettes of bottled water and sodas, and crates of champagne. The second was crammed with cleaning supplies and toilet paper. Lots and lots of toilet paper.
Half a dozen men, both Delta Force and coast guard, stood in a loose semicircle around a large crate. She found Mace unerringly, as though an invisible force locked her onto him. He stood with his legs apart, arms folded across his chest and an assault rifle slung over his shoulder. His face might have been chiseled from stone; he seemed hard, focused, and deadly. A ripple of lust hit her. This was not her gentle lover. This was a battle-hardened warrior. She smiled.
Someone had pried the front of the crate off, setting a crowbar across one edge of it. Four others carefully lifted out a black suitcase. Not one of those fabric ones, either. This one had hard sides and was the biggest case she’d ever seen. The men set it carefully atop the crate.
“We got it,” one of the coast guardsmen crowed. Several others high-fived, looking satisfied. But she watched Mace and the other Delta Force special operators. They shared uneasy glances. Why? What was wrong?
Mace and the one she remembered as the Sandman thumbed open the latches and raised the lid bit by bit.
“Careful,” a tall man barked.
The Sandman cast him an irritated look. “How many hours do you have training on nuclear weaponry? None? Then shut the hell up and let us have a look.”
Lark craned her neck to see.
They eased the lid back so it lay on the crate, anger and frustration flashing across their faces. She jumped as Mace slammed a hand onto the suitcase, swearing in Cajun French. It impressed her even as her heart sank. He turned to the others.
“It’s empty,” Mace said.
Chapter 38
Sunday, February 26. 9:00 a.m.
FBI Field Office. Boston, Massachusetts.
Fatianova twisted her fingers around and around, taking slow, even breaths. She didn’t need the presence of her interrogators to know how much trouble she was in. If she were deported back to Russia, she would face up to twenty years in prison for treason. Twenty years of concertina wire, a ten-by-ten box for two with bars for walls, and tasteless food cooked in vats.
Surely the United States treated its prisoners better? She hadn’t actually sold a nuclear bomb to anyone. And maybe they couldn’t prove she brought it into the country in the first place. No one needed to know Otis Fitch had double-crossed her. They would have to let her go.
But they could still deport her.
The interrogation room had two-tone gray walls and a large mirror on one side. Two-way, she assumed. Who else was back there? A functional fluorescent light shone on the rectangular Formica table and the video camera pointed her way. A tall, distinguished-looking man with gray hair wearing a cheap suit, and a fine-boned, beautiful woman with red hair sat on the other side of the table in the generic stackable chairs. The hard seat hurt Fatianova’s backside. She shifted, crossing her legs in an effort to get more comfortable. The gray-haired man reached forward and pressed a button on the video camera.
“First interview with Fatianova Uvarov,” he said. “Started at 9:00 a.m. on February twenty-sixth, conducted by Douglas Huckabee, Special Agent in Charge of the Boston Field Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Also in attendance is Heather Langstrom-Reed as Russian interpreter. Interview begins now.”
The woman leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “Ms. Uvarov,” she said in Russian. “I’m here in case you need an interpreter. I know you speak excellent English, but if at any point during this conversation you find you need help with certain words or terms, please don’t hesitate to utilize me, all right?”
Fatianova inclined her head. “I understand.”
“We all set?” the gray-haired man asked Heather in English. At her nod, he turned to Fatianova. “Ms. Uvarov, my name is Douglas Huckabee, and I’ll be conducting this interview. Before we start, is there anything you need? Coffee? Water? A soda?”
“No.” A full bladder would weaken her resolve. They were clever, these Americans, but Russians had mastered the art of interrogation hundreds of years before the United States even existed.
“Fatianova Vladimirovna Uvarov.” She gave her Moscow address. Pretend to cooperate. Reveal nothing incriminating.
“Thank you. And when did you arrive in the United States?”
Act unconcerned. Breathe normally. It became her mantra.
“I came here with other members of the Kuznetsov Institute of Applied Nuclear Physics for the International Symposium on Nuclear Safety. The symposium took place last week.”
Douglas Huckabee opened the folder in front of him and flipped up the first page. “On a B-1 visa, I see. It says here you’re a nuclear engineer?”
“Da. Yes.”
He flicked a finger against the paper. “And yet you didn’t arrive on the same flight as the rest of your group. Neither you nor your associate, Fyodor Petrov, show up on the manifest for that flight. Can you explain that?”
“We decided to come a few days early to sightsee, that’s all. Nothing nefarious.”
His gaze snapped up to hers and stayed there. “Yes. That’s the crux of things, isn’t it? Your nefarious activities. Did you know we have Mr. Petrov in another room? He’s been very helpful in filling in some gaps. In fact, we can’t get him to shut up.” He grimaced. “Ms. Uvarov . . . may I call you Fatianova?”
She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. They’d given her an insipid set of scrubs to wear, along with an ill-fitting pair of tennis shoes, taking possession of all her belongings. The fabric scratched against her skin. “If you like.”
“Fine. Good. So, Fatianova, can you account for your whereabouts since you arrived in our country? I’ll need specific details of where and when, please.”
She pretended to think. “Well, we drove around the city quite a bit. I don’t know if I remember every place we stopped to see.”