He took no chances. Often threats weren’t enough. They could, in fact, instigate recklessness, so he watched them prepare his food to ensure they didn’t do to him what he would have done to them, if the circumstances had been reversed.
He glanced at the small screen and saw a magnificent video of water. “Water everywhere, and not a drop to drink…” A westerner’s words, but who cares. It was he, a Russian, who had made those words blaze with truth: Water flooding the capitals of the United States, Britain, the major ports of Europe and Asia. And all of it saltwater from the rising seas. Nothing good for drinking, but plenty good for drowning.
And, yes, some small problems in his homeland. But the Russian President was on TV right now, looking supremely confident. And who had made that possible? The right people knew the answer.
He ate quickly. In thirty minutes he was driving up the coast. He wished he could have called in a helicopter or two, but there were limits, given the small-scale crises facing the defenders of the Russian shoreline. But he had placed calls to every rural police agency up to Tuapse in the north, telling them he was tracking down the Porn Star Spy in their jurisdictions, news that had excited every one of them — until he informed them in his gravest voice that if she escaped from any of their areas of responsibility, they would answer to Russia’s top cop, the minister of Internal Affairs. Those interrogations were not known for their concessions to sentiment.
The officers were already calling him from hamlets all along the Russian Riviera, and from seaports used by the owners of magnificent pleasure craft, men mostly long accustomed to soaking up the sun in the company of whores and paramours.
Nobody had seen PP’s Macan. All had seen boats heading out to sea. Of course they were: rivers were reversing their flow, flooding and breaking up homes that had withstood hundred-year floods. But with docks disappearing and homes ripping apart and floating away, this was a force much greater. This was a once-in-a-millennium flood caused by a millennial man. No human in the annals of recorded history had ever accomplished what he had done. Jesus might have turned water into wine, but only Oleg Dernov had turned water into the world’s most powerful weapon.
Thanks to him, Russia had flipped the hegemony of the west on its head in a matter of days. So drown the river rats down there. Sink their shitty little homes. He imagined he could even hear them cracking apart from up on the highway. These people should be grateful to him. Most would live, unlike so many others. The great nation would have the resources to let them adapt to the new world forming all around them.
Would the Dutch be able to do that for their citizens? The Americans? The British? The French? The Chinese? He smiled at the very thought of those Asian pretenders. The “Beijing Miracle”? The great growth monster was turning into a joke. They were no longer a rival. Russia had no rivals left. All were drowning, first and foremost in their own regrets.
Water, water everywhere…
His phone started ringing. Police officers with nothing to report. No sightings. But the fourth call came from an officer looking down from the highway to a village so small it had no name. Not officially, but the officer, who sounded as if he’d been running, said the village had a nickname: “Raghead City.”
Oleg smiled.
“And there are boats getting ready to leave,” the officer added.
“Of course there are boats leaving.” What an idiot. “Have you gone down to look for her?”
“The Porn Star Spy?” He sounded even breathier using her nickname.
“Yes,” Oleg shouted. “The naked one on TV. In a silver SUV. Porsche. Go!”
He ended the call, furious over the timidity of these rural officers.
When the phone rang seconds later, though, he was furious over another man’s temerity: Numero Uno was demanding that Oleg approve the second missile launch now: “If you don’t make that decision, I will,” he threatened. “You can’t stop me.”
“Can you give me a little time?” Oleg asked, sounding so timid himself that he wanted to spit — in Uno’s eye. But he could do better than that, much better.
“How long?” Uno asked.
“Just give me till tomorrow, six p.m. I promise the answer will be worth the wait.”
“There is only one answer,” Uno replied.
“Six, tomorrow?” Oleg asked again, grinding his teeth.
“Yes, I will give you till then.”
Oleg hung up, relaxing his jaw. All the time in the world.
Galina had gone dark. Who can blame her? Lana thought.
She and Don were in a small, powerful boat skipping over the waves. It looked like a seagoing version of an AFV, armored fighting vehicle. She felt them go airborne at times, but always under control. To her surprise, Don didn’t appear to relish the experience, calling the swift vessel a “stinkpot,” which she understood to mean a fossil-fuel-powered watercraft.
The half dozen SEALs accompanying Don and her gave off the same vibe she’d felt last year when their cohorts had saved her life in Saudi Arabia. A little different now: they were putting Don and her in danger, while offering some short-term protection that would pass as soon as they sailed that boat into Russian waters.
The wind that had buffeted the Clinton still howled, as the sailor had predicted, which did brighten Don’s mood:
“Almost as good as it gets for what we’ve got to do,” he announced. “We’ll be on a broad reach heading into Russian waters. If the Dehler does the job as well as advertised, we’ll be carrying twelve to fifteen knots. That’s quick. You’ll love it.”
“Love it?” He sounded as though they were about to embark on a day of sport racing.
“Why not? Carpe diem,” he bellowed to the wind.
She saw light creasing the dark sky ahead. Despite the whump-whump-whump of the hull hitting swells and cutting through whitecaps, she tried reaching Galina. She had signals. She lacked only Galina.
Briefly, Lana wondered if she’d been set up by Russian intelligence. But she immediately worried that Galina and her seriously ill daughter were the ones fixed most firmly in those crosshairs.
These concerns were not far off the mark.
Galina’s persuasiveness, or cash — she wasn’t sure which — had convinced the captain that she was worthy of his assistance. He’d let her know that he himself had scarcely escaped death in fleeing Iran.
He had just started his big diesel engine, black puffs rising into the gray sky, when a Lada with a cherry top drove down to the dock. The officer behind the wheel parked next to the Macan. The contrast was remarkable, but Galina didn’t notice, so concerned was she that Alexandra keep her head down.
“You are under arrest,” the hefty officer said, squeezing out of the small car in such a rush that he didn’t have his handgun fully drawn.
Before she was consciously aware of it, Galina had her derringer aimed at his chest, rushing him as though fearless.
“Don’t try anything,” she warned him. “I’ve already killed Sergey the Beast. I will kill you, too, so keep your gun down.”
He complied.
She kept moving forward. “Back up.” As he obeyed, she had him drop his weapon, a Glock. The Lada might have been ancient but his pistol was impressive. She snapped the slide back, chambering a bullet, and slipped her empty derringer back inside her pocket.
“Take his handcuffs,” she ordered the captain, “and put them on him, hands behind his back.” As she spoke, she pointed the Glock at the ship captain just long enough to offer an unspoken threat to him. For her savior’s sake, she didn’t want him to appear to be collaborating with her. “So now I have two prisoners,” she told the officer.