As he entered the bridge, the crew members turned in surprise. One of them, he saw, was Laszlo, the bosun he had met on his arrival. Another was an ordinary deckhand, while the third, whose epaulets identified him as the first mate, spoke at once in Russian. “Who are you?”
“You need to sound the alarm,” Ilya said. “We’re under attack. There isn’t time to—”
Even as he spoke, Ilya heard a high whine sear the sky overhead, followed an instant later by the explosion. Turning with the others, he saw the fireball bloom at the shadow boat. As smoke began to rise in the distance, the crew members ran toward the window, their faces lit up by the flames. The deckhand’s mouth hung open. “What the hell was that?”
Ilya went to the doorway of the wheelhouse, searching the sky above for any sign of movement. “An unmanned drone. It will have more than one rocket. The next will be for us—”
He broke off as another bright streak flew across the intervening space and a second rocket hit the yacht, shaking it violently. As the alarms on the bridge began to sound, Ilya saw it wheeling toward them again, a slightly darker shadow against the stars, and braced himself as it fired for the third time.
They were thrown to the floor as the final rocket struck the ship, which was already listing. The lights went out. For an instant, the wheelhouse was lit only by the fire burning on the shadow boat, screams rising thinly from the decks below. A second later, the emergency power came on, filling the wheelhouse with yellow light, and as the crew members got to their feet, Ilya heard the hull of the ship creaking dangerously beneath them.
On the bridge, the displays blinked back to life. The first mate managed to pull himself up to check the damage reports. “We’re holed below the waterline. There’s flooding in the engine room—”
The deckhand stumbled forward, steadying himself against the bulkhead, and groped his way toward the intercom. As the crew tried to raise someone on the lower decks, Ilya thought of Tarkovsky. Heading for the door, he was about to leave the wheelhouse when he heard a gun cock behind him.
Looking back, he saw that Laszlo had taken a pistol from the locker under the console. As the other crew members tried frantically to assess the damage, the bosun kept the gun trained on Ilya. “Put up your hands.”
Ilya complied, listening to the alarms going off on the bridge. “We don’t have time.”
“Shut up.” Laszlo looked at him over the sights of the gun. “I saw you in Yalta. Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Ilya said. “Listen to me. We need to begin the evacuation.”
Laszlo kept the gun raised. Ilya, his pulse booming in his ears, saw that the bosun was not about to let him go, but he also didn’t think that the other man would shoot him. He was about to put this idea to the test when a voice came from over his shoulder: “Officer, stand down.”
Ilya turned to see Orlov in the doorway, his face drawn and pale in the yellow lights. “This man is a member of my team,” the security chief said. “We were unable to disclose his presence until now. Give me the gun.”
After a beat, Laszlo uncocked the pistol. As he handed it to Orlov, the captain came through the door, the head stew and a second deckhand following close behind. Ilya took a step back as they crowded into the wheelhouse, each staring briefly at him in turn as they approached the bridge.
Orlov tucked the gun under his jacket. “I’m here to speak for Tarkovsky. The passengers are safe in the salon. Captain?”
The captain was studying the displays, his broad face lit from beneath by the console. “Tell me everything.”
“It was a rocket attack,” the first mate said, his voice quavering. “Catastrophic damage on lower and bottom decks. Engines and main generators lost. Without dynamic positioning, we’re drifting. Rudder and bow thrusters only.”
The captain absorbed this information without any change in expression. “Fire?”
“Flooding seems to have put it out,” the first mate said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Fuel tanks are intact. But we have three compartments taking water on the starboard side. Watertight doors closed, but it may be too late. Pumps aren’t responding. If a fourth goes—”
“I know.” The captain turned to the head stew. “How many were below when it hit?”
The stew’s face was haggard. “At least five or six in the galley. A few guests on the beach deck. Is there any word?”
The deckhand at the intercom shook his head. “No response. I’ll see what I can find.”
“Do it,” the captain said. As the deckhand raced out of the wheelhouse, nearly colliding with the bulkhead, Ilya continued to observe from the corner. So far, the crew members had fallen back easily on their training, but he knew that such a situation could change quickly under pressure.
Orlov was studying the damage reports. “Can we evacuate to the shadow boat?”
Laszlo set down the radio. “No. The crew says they have at least two dead. The fire is spreading and may reach the tanks. They’re going to set it to go out as far as it can, then abandon ship.”
The captain looked out at the fire across the water. “Send the distress call. What about the tenders?”
“Not if we’re listing like this.” The first mate checked the screen. “Almost twenty degrees. A critical line. Much more and we won’t be able to lower the lifeboats on the port side.”
“Then we take the others.” The captain rested his hands for a moment on the console, his head bowed, then abruptly straightened up. “Prepare for evacuation. If we drop the anchors, it should buy us some time—”
Laszlo broke in. “Captain, we have to talk about the helicopter. They’ll need the helipad and upper deck clear for the rescue, and if the list gets any worse, it could slide right over the edge.”
The captain closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them again. “Can it take off?”
Laszlo hesitated. “At twenty degrees, it could be hard. I can see if we can secure it. If not, we should just push it off now, before the evacuation starts. I need two men to do it safely.”
“I don’t have two to spare,” the captain said. “We’ll just need to take our chances—”
As Laszlo began to protest, Ilya saw that the level of tension on the bridge was rising. He spoke up. “I can go.”
The others turned to stare at him. Laszlo sized him up silently for a fraction of a second. At last, he said, “Fine. Dmitri, you, too.”
Without another word, Laszlo left the wheelhouse, along with the remaining deckhand. Ilya was about to follow when he felt a hand close around his arm. Turning, he saw Orlov looking at him intently. The security chief spoke in a whisper. “Tell me you didn’t know this was coming.”
Ilya heard the hint of a threat there, but he did not drop his gaze as they moved out of earshot of the others. “The plan was larger than any of us knew. They put me on board to make sure that Tarkovsky was dead, but they had no intention of letting any of us live. What about the girl?”
“I put her back in her cabin. Tarkovsky is safe as well. But if you’ve lied to me—”
Instead of finishing, the security chief released Ilya’s arm and turned back toward the bridge. Ilya watched him go, then headed for the ladder that led up to the helipad, his bag slung over one shoulder. As he took hold of the rungs, he heard the ship’s horn give seven short blasts and one long one, the signal for evacuation, which was repeated as he started to climb.
From below, he heard shouts in several languages as the crew began herding the passengers to their muster stations. As he ascended to the next level, he told himself that he would do what he could to aid the evacuation. Once he was onshore, he would turn his full attention to responding to this final betrayal.
Pulling himself onto the owner’s deck, he glanced up as a series of flares soared into the sky, bursting into ribbons of light. Around him, unsecured chairs and tables ha
d slid to starboard, and water was spilling over the edge of the pool. The bosun and deckhand were conferring at the helipad. As Ilya drew closer, moving against the slope of the deck, he saw that the helicopter was straining against its straps. He could tell from their faces that they had decided to cut it loose.
Laszlo motioned Ilya closer. “As long as you’re here, you can make yourself useful. We need to open the straps and stanchions. Dmitri will take care of the railing. As for you, whatever your name is—”
Ilya stood aside as the deckhand headed for the helipad’s edge. “My name is Ilya.”
“Come on, then.” As the deckhand lowered the rails, Ilya and Laszlo made their way around the helicopter, releasing all but two of the eight straps, which ran from tiedown provisions on the rotors and body to lashing points on the deck. When they were done, the two remaining straps were stretched taut on their hooks. Laszlo reached into his back pocket and removed a pair of knives. As he handed one to Ilya, he caught the other man’s eye. “Tell me the truth. Were you ever at Warsash?”
Ilya took the knife and turned aside, opening its sheepsfoot blade. “Of course not.”
Pulling out his radio, Laszlo asked the bridge to switch on the bow thrusters. As the ship began to turn, they stationed themselves well apart at the two remaining lashing points. Then they glanced over at the deckhand, who signaled that all was clear, and cut both straps at the same time.
At once, the helicopter began to slide slowly across the deck, heading toward the edge of the helipad. Ilya closed his knife and straightened up, watching carefully as the helicopter skated forward on its skids.
It was only then that he realized that the vibration had returned, carried once more across the night air. As soon as he heard it, his heart sinking, he knew. They never would have given up so easily—
Ilya turned in time to see the drone coming straight toward the yacht, low and fast, its insectile hum rising to a scream. He shouted for the others to get out of the way, his own words lost in the hellish whine as the drone descended at full speed and smashed into the highest point of the yacht.
The impact knocked him to the ground. Ilya fell back, rolling along the listing deck, the knife tumbling from his hands, and caught himself on the lowered railing just before sliding over. The bag slipped from his shoulder and fell into the sea. He heard the shriek of metal against metal as the fallen drone plowed forward, crashing into the loosened helicopter and crushing the roof of the owner’s cabin as fire rose from the crumpled wreckage of its wings.
As the yacht shuddered, tilting farther to starboard, the mingled ruin of the helicopter and drone collided with Laszlo and the deckhand and took them over the edge, trailing smoke as it slid into the water seventy feet below. The yacht heeled back, groaning, then listed forward again with the sound of breaking glass as mirrors and windows shattered throughout the lower decks.
Ilya was still clinging to the rails. He hauled himself onto the deck, hearing the crackle of flames, and managed to get to his feet. Looking around, he saw that half the deck had crumpled beneath the impact, destroying the owner’s suite on the lower level.
He staggered to the edge and looked down. Far below, the drone and helicopter were already sinking. There was no sign of the two other men, but as Ilya watched, water began to seep into the helicopter’s wiring, shorting out the switches. As the helicopter sank with the drone, its navigational lights lit up all at once, glowing like a ghost beneath the surface. Then it was swallowed up by the dark.
53
When Maddy awoke, she found that she had been walking for some time without knowing it, her right arm slung across someone else’s shoulders. A voice from far away was shouting in Russian. As she was set down with her back to something firm, she opened her eyes to find she was still on the main deck, the world strangely angled, the air tinged with smoke.
She looked over to see who had been carrying her. It was Elena. “Talk to me. Do you know what day it is?”
Maddy’s hand went to the crown of her head, where a lump had recently appeared. As she blinked up at the yellow lights, she found that her vision, at least, was clear and unblurred. “Sunday. I think. What’s going on?”
“They’re evacuating the ship,” Elena said, kneeling next to Maddy. The two of them had taken shelter on the starboard side, at some distance from the confusion. “I found you by the railing—”
Listening to this, Maddy suddenly remembered why she had gone out to the deck in the first place. With Elena’s help, she managed to rise. The yacht was listing badly, so she had to steady herself against the bulkhead, the pain in her head easing to a dull ache as she got her first good look at her surroundings.
To her right, toward the stern, passengers were moving frantically toward their muster stations, with the stewardesses trying to line them up for a head count. Remembering the smoke, she looked up to see that the deck two levels above was in ruins, flames burning at intervals along the twisted metal. “What happened?”
Elena’s voice was without emotion. “The crew is saying it was a drone attack. It fired three rockets, then came around again and crashed into the sun deck. The owner’s suite was destroyed.”
As the meaning of the assistant’s words hit home, Maddy felt sick at heart. “And Tarkovsky?”
“I don’t know.” Elena glanced over at the stern. “We can’t stay here. Can you walk?”
“I think so.” Maddy took a step, feeling out the slope of the deck beneath her feet, and found that it was easier with her shoes off. She followed carefully as Elena began to head toward the others. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough,” Elena said. “We’re going down. At least four or five of the crew were killed in the galley. People are saying there were guests on the beach deck, too, members of the design team—”
“Rahim,” Maddy said, remembering that he had said he was going downstairs shortly after she arrived at the party. She stared at the faces on deck. “Do we know if he made it?”
Elena only shook her head as they joined the rest of the crowd. Maddy saw that all unsecured objects and furniture had slid to one side and were resting against the starboard rail, a pileup of lounge chairs, tables, deck trees. The passengers, who had also tended to collect at the low end of the yacht, were milling about in uncertain clusters, most still in gowns or black tie, with an air of mounting anxiety on the verge of breaking out into hysteria.
As they headed toward the nearest group, Maddy saw Nina, the oligarch’s daughter, moving among the passengers, clutching her shoes in one hand. She slid across the deck to the two women, her mouth clamped in a trembling line. “I don’t know where my mother is—”
Elena glanced at Maddy. “I’m sure she’s all right. Stay here. I’m going to get us some life jackets.”
As the assistant picked her way up the deck to the locker at the far end, where a stewardess was passing out life vests and emergency gear, Maddy led Nina to a spot safely away from the others. “Your mother will be looking for you. It’s better if you stay in one place.”
Nina glanced down at her stockings, one knee of which had been torn. “My dress is ruined. I don’t know how I did that.”
“I don’t think anyone will care,” Maddy said. In fact, she doubted that anyone would notice even if they fell overboard. Watching as runners scrambled to pass out flashlights, she saw that the scene was one of barely controlled panic, as passengers sought out their loved ones or demanded answers from the shorthanded crew, and that it might all spiral out of control at any moment. “Your father built a strong ship. We’ll all get out in one piece.”
As Maddy spoke, she put a hand on Nina’s shoulder without thinking. At first, she thought the girl would pull away, but instead, she pressed closer, putting her arms around Maddy’s waist. “I know,” Nina said, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve. “It’s all insured, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure it i
s.” Maddy almost smiled, but the feeling died as she reflected what Tarkovsky’s true legacy to his daughter would be. Nina was scheduled to inherit much of his wealth when she came of age, but this was nothing compared to her darker birthright, invisibly attached to her father’s influence, which meant that she, too, would inevitably be drawn into the game.
A second later, Nina pulled free. Following the girl with her eyes, Maddy saw Tarkovsky’s wife approaching from the port side, followed by Elena, who was carrying a set of life jackets as if she had gone to retrieve her employer’s dry cleaning. Ludmilla gathered up her daughter, then turned to Maddy, a question in her eyes. When Maddy shook her head, the other woman only looked away.
Taking a life jacket from Elena, Maddy put it on, then did what she could to help the guests around her. A second later, the evacuation signal sounded once more, and the crew began to divide up the passengers. After taking a final head count, the nearest deckhand told them to head for the starboard side, in single file, where the lifeboats had been readied for their departure.
Maddy made her way with the others to a flight of steps that led to the davit below. The panels of the compartment had been slid open, exposing it to the night air, with a narrow walkway leading to an enclosed lifeboat with an orange roof. Because of the list, a gap had opened up between the walkway and the boat, the dark surface of the water visible forty feet down.
Leaning over the gap, the deckhand slid the hatch open and began herding the passengers inside. It was a slow process, and Maddy, waiting her turn on the walkway, was one of the last to board. For an instant, as she stepped across the empty space between the lifeboat and the yacht, she felt the yawning immensity of the sea below. Then she crossed the gap and found herself in a crowded space large enough to accommodate thirty passengers.
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