Okay. Pick up the phone. Call the bridge and tell them about preparing the lifeboat. Mr. Lenin-san here is an expert seaman, so you don’t have to worry about us getting away safely, okay?”
“Can’t get up?” Noboru said. “Leave chair?”
“Wouldn’t advise it. Absolutely not.”
“What I do?”
“If you’re a good boy and don’t move, after we’re safely away from your boat, I’ll turn the bomb off with this remote thingy. Then you can get up. Otherwise…well, I can’t vouch for your personal safety.”
The captain, whose natural skin color was a greyish yellow, had gone more over to the grey side.
“Pick up the phone and call the bridge,” Paddy said, “and don’t try anything funny. I speak perfect Japanese.” He gave him a quick burst, asking the captain in Japanese where he kept the good sake locked up.
While Paddy and the captain were talking, Leo had gotten two Russian submachine guns out of his bag. The subguns were Bizon 2s. The Bizon was new, designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov’s son, Victor. Pretty straightforward weapon with a folding stock, standard black AK-74M pistol grip, and, at the muzzle, a small conical flash suppressor with teardrop ports. The magazine, aluminum, held sixty-four rounds.
Leo hefted the gun. Short and light, it was only twenty-six inches long. He looked at the subgun’s selector switch and moved it to what he called the “group therapy” position. Full auto. He didn’t anticipate much excitement with the Japanese fishermen up on deck, but you never knew. He put the weapon on the captain’s desk, pulled the portable sat phone from his bag, and handed it to Paddy.
When the guy on board the Russian megayacht Belarus answered his call, Paddy told him they had pretty much wrapped things up here and were ready to leave the Kishin Maru . They would be boarding the lifeboat within the next five minutes. He would call again once they were at sea, but Kapitsa had advised that they’d be able to arrive at their prearranged GPS coordinates for a pickup in one hour.
“Sit tight, Cap,” Paddy said to the captain as he went toward the door followed by the big Russian.
“Head,” the captain said in a strangled voice. He was clutching the arms of his chair, his knuckles showing white with the strain.
“Head?” Paddy said. “Fuck’s wrong with his head?”
“He means the bathroom,” Leo told him, going out into the companionway with his Bizon submachine gun out in front of him. “He’s gotta go.”
“Bad idea, Cap. Seriously bad idea. I’d try and hold it if I were you, think about something else.”
Paddy took one last look at the captain sitting there on the pressure-sensitive plate bomb and then went out and pulled the door closed behind him.
Nice touch, he thought to himself, the pressure-plate idea. He’d have to remember to send corporate an appreciative note about that.
10
B ERMUDA
H awke entered the book-lined library and saw C sitting quietly by the fireside. The room was an octagonal tower, bookcases on all sides rising two stories tall, with a clerestory window at the top. Sir David Trulove had a small volume of poetry lying open in his lap and had removed his gold-rimmed glasses. He was pinching the bridge of his nose and seemed lost in thought. A wine-red-shaded table lamp cast him in shadow.
The former admiral, one of nature’s immutable forces, was a great hero of the Falklands War. Tonight he seemed subdued. It was out of character and gave Hawke pause.
“Good evening, sir,” Hawke said, as mildly as possible. “Nice surprise, finding you here on Bermuda.”
“Ah. The reclusive Lord Hawke,” Sir David Trulove said, closing the book and looking up at him with an unreadable expression. He placed the slender volume on an end table beside the telephone and got to his feet, extending his hand. The older man was a good inch taller than Hawke, exceedingly fit, with a full head of white hair, furious white eyebrows, and a long
“Can’t get up?” Noboru said. “Leave chair?”
“Wouldn’t advise it. Absolutely not.”
“What I do?”
“If you’re a good boy and don’t move, after we’re safely away from your boat, I’ll turn the bomb off with this remote thingy. Then you can get up. Otherwise…well, I can’t vouch for your personal safety.”
The captain, whose natural skin color was a greyish yellow, had gone more over to the grey side.
“Pick up the phone and call the bridge,” Paddy said, “and don’t try anything funny. I speak perfect Japanese.” He gave him a quick burst, asking the captain in Japanese where he kept the good sake locked up.
While Paddy and the captain were talking, Leo had gotten two Russian submachine guns out of his bag. The subguns were Bizon 2s. The Bizon was new, designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov’s son, Victor. Pretty straightforward weapon with a folding stock, standard black AK-74M pistol grip, and, at the muzzle, a small conical flash suppressor with teardrop ports. The magazine, aluminum, held sixty-four rounds.
Leo hefted the gun. Short and light, it was only twenty-six inches long. He looked at the subgun’s selector switch and moved it to what he called the “group therapy” position. Full auto. He didn’t anticipate much excitement with the Japanese fishermen up on deck, but you never knew. He put the weapon on the captain’s desk, pulled the portable sat phone from his bag, and handed it to Paddy.
When the guy on board the Russian megayacht Belarus answered his call, Paddy told him they had pretty much wrapped things up here and were ready to leave the Kishin Maru . They would be boarding the lifeboat within the next five minutes. He would call again once they were at sea, but Kapitsa had advised that they’d be able to arrive at their prearranged GPS coordinates for a pickup in one hour.
“Sit tight, Cap,” Paddy said to the captain as he went toward the door followed by the big Russian.
“Head,” the captain said in a strangled voice. He was clutching the arms of his chair, his knuckles showing white with the strain.
“Head?” Paddy said. “Fuck’s wrong with his head?”
“He means the bathroom,” Leo told him, going out into the companionway with his Bizon submachine gun out in front of him. “He’s gotta go.”
“Bad idea, Cap. Seriously bad idea. I’d try and hold it if I were you, think about something else.”
Paddy took one last look at the captain sitting there on the pressure-sensitive plate bomb and then went out and pulled the door closed behind him.
Nice touch, he thought to himself, the pressure-plate idea. He’d have to remember to send corporate an appreciative note about that.
10
B ERMUDA
H awke entered the book-lined library and saw C sitting quietly by the fireside. The room was an octagonal tower, bookcases on all sides rising two stories tall, with a clerestory window at the top. Sir David Trulove had a small volume of poetry lying open in his lap and had removed his gold-rimmed glasses. He was pinching the bridge of his nose and seemed lost in thought. A wine-red-shaded table lamp cast him in shadow.
The former admiral, one of nature’s immutable forces, was a great hero of the Falklands War. Tonight he seemed subdued. It was out of character and gave Hawke pause.
“Good evening, sir,” Hawke said, as mildly as possible. “Nice surprise, finding you here on Bermuda.”
“Ah. The reclusive Lord Hawke,” Sir David Trulove said, closing the book and looking up at him with an unreadable expression. He placed the slender volume on an end table beside the telephone and got to his feet, extending his hand. The older man was a good inch taller than Hawke, exceedingly fit, with a full head of white hair, furious white eyebrows, and a long
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