Jet

As they walked towards the marina, she slipped her arm through his and pulled close to him, looking to all the world like lovers. She could feel Samuel flexing his muscles to appear more fit. Men were so funny.

“So what do you do, Sylvia?”

“A better question might be what don’t I do?” She laughed again. “I’m a writer.”

“A writer! You’re kidding.”

“Why is that so hard to believe? Are you surprised any woman you meet can string two sentences together without calling for help?”

“No. It’s just that…I never thought I’d meet a sexy, incredibly beautiful writer in head-to-toe black leather at the casino.”

She inched closer. “You had me at sexy.”

He tried to kiss her as they walked, and she moved just out of reach.

“You need to buy me a drink first, almost-famous Samuel, remember?”

“You’re amazing. What do you write?”

Her spike-heeled boots clipped along the pavement as the marina came into view, its regalia of yachts a breathtaking spectacle. As they ambled towards the water, she took a deep breath of the salt air.

“Why, Samuel. I thought you might have guessed. I write erotica. Dirty books, non? They are also somewhat popular, like your movies, although I think they shock many people.”

If Samuel had been a fish, he would have stripped off two hundred yards of line and leapt out of the water in an aquatic dance of delight. The hook was set. There was no way he would let her get away tonight. Fireworks exploded overhead in a festive display she couldn’t have timed better.

“Interesting,” he said, his voice cracking, just a little, every one of his innermost hidden fantasies about to be realized.

“We’ll see. Now where is your friend’s big, decadent penis symbol?”

Chapter 30

Petrushka’s security was what she’d expected. Four extremely dangerous-looking men in monkey suits met them at the bottom of the passerelle that led up onto the rear deck of the large yacht. They recognized Samuel and waved him through, but asked to see Jet’s small clutch purse, which they went through carefully. All it contained was the plastic casino card, lipstick, some chewing gum and makeup, a miniature bottle of perfume, her cell phone and a gold Cartier pen — plus two condoms, one of which fell onto the wharf as they rummaged through the contents. An embarrassed guard hastily retrieved it. She beamed a thousand kilowatt smile at Samuel, who looked like he had just won the lottery.

Onboard, a jazz trio played in muted tones as thirty or so well-groomed socialites mingled, white-jacketed stewards navigating easily between them with plates of appetizers and drinks. As promised, the ship was opulent beyond imagination.

“I heard he spent over three hundred million on her,” Samuel said nonchalantly as they moved into the salon and headed towards the bar.

“Refreshingly vulgar. And where is the great man? Your friend, the host?”

“Over by the bar, talking to that older gentleman.”

They approached the bar, and Grigenko regarded Samuel with a grin.

“They will let anyone on this boat, nyet? Did security go home early tonight?” he said, then embraced Samuel with enthusiasm.

“I heard drinks were free till midnight so I decided to slum it,” Samuel said, laughing.

“And who is this magnificent creature?” Grigenko boomed, eyeing Jet. She noted he looked exactly like his dead twin. She fought down the image of Arkadi’s dying eyes as she drove her serrated blade into his heart, and instead smirked in a decidedly interesting way. Jet hoped that her expression didn’t hint at the sizing up she was doing, nor of her rapid calculation of the chances of making a clean escape if she rammed her pen through Grigenko’s eye and ran for it.

“Misha, this is Sylvia. Sylvia, Misha: our host and master of ceremonies.”

“Avec plaisire,” Jet said as Grigenko grasped her hand and kissed it.

“The pleasure is all mine. Welcome to my little indulgence, Sylvia. May I get you a drink?” Grigenko asked, eyes locked on her face.

“Champagne. French, if you have it,” she said, and he smiled.

“Is there any other kind?”

Grigenko snapped his fingers, and the bartender approached. In rapid-fire he ordered a flute of champagne for her and two vodkas, straight up, for himself and Samuel.

The drinks arrived within seconds. Samuel held his drink aloft as though inspecting it, and then toasted.

“To new friends,” he said, and the two men downed their vodka in a single swallow, as was the Russian custom, while she sipped her champagne. Veuve Clicquot, with a hint of citrus on the finish that was as distinctive as a DNA sample.

“Mmm. Delicious. Thank you,” she said, and then looked around at the crowd.

Samuel and Grigenko bantered, and the Russian listened as Samuel regaled him with an off-color story about a famous actor who had almost died from auto-asphyxiation before being discovered in the nick of time by his personal assistant. Midway through the recounting, she excused herself, asking where the bathrooms were. Grigenko pointed to a powder room at the far end of the salon, and told her there was another one — upstairs a level — on the second entertainment deck if the salon head was occupied. She pretended to only register the last part and moved up the stairway in search of relief.

Once locked in the bathroom, she flipped out her cell and pressed a speed dial number.

“I’m in. Give me fifteen minutes, and then you should be clear,” she said.

She listened at the door, on alert for sounds of movement, but didn’t hear anything. From the blueprints, she knew that one more level up was the bridge with a suite of offices for the busy owner — a command center and a security hub, which would be manned by at least two sentries.

Below decks were the seven massive staterooms and the engine room, as well as the climate control equipment and electrical junctions.

Jet thumbed through a couple of screens on her phone and located the detail on the yacht’s electrical layout. She’d need to be quick so as not to arouse suspicion.

Easing the door open, she spotted a security guard at the far end of the second level, and she waved her champagne glass at him, smiling. He didn’t return her smile, but didn’t give her any further scrutiny, which was fine. Most men wouldn’t suspect a beautiful woman of anything in a party setting — a trait she was using to her advantage.

She descended the forward stairs and continued down to the lower deck, then made her way quickly to the engine room, which was accessible from both the interior and the transom. The heavy watertight door slid open, and she slipped in, closing it behind her. The entire room was painted stark white, glossy and clean looking. Counting the bays on the port side of the massive engines, she stopped at the third floor-to-ceiling box.

The panel swung ajar with a pop, and she quickly sorted through the color-coded wires, stopping when she found two purple cables. She opened her purse and extracted a stick of chewing gum and unwrapped it, then wound it around the two wires at the top. She sprayed the gum with a squirt of the perfume, and after a few moments, it started crackling and smoking. The underwater security sensors would be out of commission within thirty seconds, ensuring that David’s approach would go undetected.

She closed the panel and returned to the forward door and opened it, swinging herself through and back into the corridor that housed the staterooms. Moving along the hall, she heard footsteps on the stairs. A hard-looking man in a tux descended, and she opened the nearest door, peering in.

“What are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be down here,” he said, first in French, then in Russian- accented English.

She responded in French.

“I was looking at the bedrooms. They’re really cool. What a great layout.”