Radiant Angel (24 page)

“What else would it be?”

“The East Coast of the United States is what we call a target-rich environment. For instance, there’s the nuclear submarine base in Groton, Connecticut, which the Russians would love to see vaporized.”

“But if you’re saying that it’s supposed to look like Islamic terrorists—9/11, Part Two—then the target is once again Lower Manhattan.” She suggested, “Don’t overthink this, Detective.”

“Right.”

I know never to underestimate the enemy, but I also know never to overestimate him. Somewhere in between was the sweet spot, the
place where facts, clues, logic, instinct, and experience come together to form reality.

In any case, I had no other goose to chase tonight, so I either chased this one or I went for a drink. End of tour.

Tess said, “I need to call Buck.”

“He knows everything we know, and probably more. And if Buck wants you to know what he knows, he’ll call you.”

“Okay… but I need to tell him we’re going out with a search unit.”

“That’s the kind of call you make after the fact.”

She thought about that and concluded, “You have a problem with authority.”

“No problem.”

She said, again with some insight, “Your NYPD days are over. You need to adjust your thinking and your attitude or get out.”

I think that decision had already been made for me. But if I was going out, it would be in a blaze of… well, something.

As I drove through the fog, it occurred to me that
The Hana
could be in New York Harbor now, with its timer ticking down the last few minutes. Well, when we got on that SAFE boat, if I saw the western horizon light up it wouldn’t matter that I got it right if I got it right too late.

M
s. Faraday got us on the right road, and up ahead I could see the lights of the Coast Guard Station through the mist.

My Nextel—actually Matt’s Nextel—chimed and I looked at the message:
Corey, call me ASAP—Fensterman
. Apparently he’d learned I had Matt Conlon’s phone.

Tess asked, “Who texted?”

“Fensterman.”

She didn’t waste her breath telling me to call him.

FBI Supervisory Special Agent Howard Fensterman, as I recalled from when he was the legal attaché in Yemen, was big on rules and procedures, chain of command, and all that, so I would be hearing from him again, but he wouldn’t be hearing from me.

There was a twelve-foot chain-link fence around the Coast Guard Station and I pulled up to a call box at the gate and picked up the phone. “John Corey, FBI.”

The electric-powered gate rolled open, and the watchstander, a young woman in a blue uniform, stepped out of a nearby building as I pulled ahead and lowered my window.

I handed my and Tess’ creds to the young lady, whose nametag said, “Mullins,” and she asked me, “Sir, what is your business here?”

“We’re meeting a county police harbor unit.”

She handed our creds back, and having met Buck Harris awhile ago, she asked, “What is going on tonight?”

Tess replied, “Ship lost at sea.”

Seaman Mullins didn’t ask why State Department Intelligence or the FBI was interested in this, but she did glance at the portable radiation detector on the console, then said, “Okay… please proceed to the boathouse,” and gave us directions.

The old Shinnecock Coast Guard Station was picturesque, especially in the swirling mist, and we drove past a few white-shingled buildings toward a brick boathouse where an illuminated American flag hung limply from a tall pole.

I parked near the boathouse and we got out. Tess pocketed the PRD, though there would be one on the SAFE boat.

There were no Coast Guard vessels at the docks, and I assumed they were all deployed looking for
The Hana
. In fact, there didn’t seem to be anyone around, but at the end of the second finger dock was a Secure Around Flotation Equipped craft—a SAFE boat.

My Nextel rang and the Caller ID read
26 Fed.

It kept ringing and went into voice mail.

Again, Tess did not bug me about returning the call. She had come aboard the good ship Corey. I wish I could get my wife to do the same.

We walked to the boathouse and entered the cavernous, dimly lit interior.

A man and a woman wearing bulky blue-and-orange float coats were standing at a coffee bar on the far side of the room. On the back of their coats were the words, “Suffolk Police,” and slung over their shoulders were MP5 submachine guns. They turned as we approached, and I said, “John Corey, and this is Tess Faraday.”

The guy introduced himself as Sergeant Pete Conte and the woman was Police Officer Nikola Andersson. We all shook hands and Sergeant Conte said, “So we’re going yacht hunting.”

“Right. Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.”

Conte was about late thirties, and his face was weather-beaten from long hours at sea. Nikola Andersson had a prettier face and looked too young to be a police officer, but maybe I’m getting older.

In any case, Marine Bureau duty, as I knew, was good duty until
it wasn’t. Sunny summer days on the water were nice. Cold winter nights, looking for bad guys, weren’t so nice. No job is perfect.

Conte looked at his new crew and asked, “You have any experience or training boarding a hostile craft?”

I assured him, “I used to ride the Staten Island Ferry.”

He laughed, and Officer Andersson smiled.

Conte knew from Scott Kalish that I was former NYPD, so we were brothers and all was good. He wasn’t sure about Ms. Faraday, however, and he asked her, “Are you coming along?”

“No,” I replied.

“Yes,” she corrected.

Sergeant Conte suggested, “You get that straightened out.” He asked, “Coffee?”

I inquired, “You got a head on that SAFE boat?”

“Nope. But we got a bucket.”

That was good enough for Tess and she poured herself a mug of black coffee.

Conte informed us, “We topped off with U.S. government gas, so we can be out for about five hours, give or take.”

“Good.” I asked him, “You have some printouts for me?”

He reached into his float coat and extracted some folded papers.

I put them on the coffee bar and looked at the website printout in the dim light.

The color picture of
The Hana
showed a big, tall, gleaming white yacht with
Hana
in gold letters on its fantail. In the background was a sandy beach, blue skies, and palm trees. I noticed, too, a flag flying from its stern with what looked like a royal crest of some sort. It’s good to be a prince.

I flipped through the deck plans and saw that
The Hana
had five decks, many staterooms, a long dining room, a huge salon with balconies, and a spa tub. Vasily Petrov should be enjoying life rather than plotting to nuke a city. Asshole.

I looked at the schematic of the lower deck and saw the two-dock tender garage toward the stern of the ship. The garage had a door in the side of the hull, and I remembered that Kalish said it was a float-in garage, and I pictured the twenty-five-foot amphibious
craft with Petrov and his pals sailing through the open door and into the yacht. The ladies must have been excited. I wondered if Petrov intended to escape from
The Hana
using the amphibious craft. Or was he going down—or blowing up—with the ship?

I still couldn’t figure out if this was a suicide mission or if Petrov had an escape plan. And even if Petrov was willing to die, I wasn’t sure the men with him were so anxious to give their lives for Mother Russia. I wondered, too, about the fate of the twelve ladies.

I turned my attention back to the ship plans and noticed that in the stern near the tender garage was something labeled “Beach Club,” and I pointed this out to Conte and Andersson.

Conte informed us, “Most of the big yachts have that.” He pointed to the plans, “This is a swimming platform, just above sea level. You can have chairs and stuff and you can swim off the platform. Unless the boat’s moving.”

I looked again at the so-called beach club, and I could see on the plans that it had a doorway that led to two staircases going up to the next deck.

“That swimming platform,” I said, “is the way into The Hana.”

Conte agreed. “Better than trying to toss grappling hooks twenty feet up to the main deck.”

Andersson reminded us, “First we have to find the target ship.” She asked me and Tess, “You have any new info?”

Tess replied, “The latest is what you know. It’s a yacht named The Hana and we have these specs on it, so we’re hoping it will be sighted or picked up by infrared.”

Sergeant Conte said, “I doubt if this ship is still in our police district.”

I replied, “We don’t know that, but I do know that we will be available to assist when the target is located.”

“Right.” Conte asked, “What is the threat assessment?”

“Intel says there are at least three armed terrorists aboard.”

“What are they doing on a Saudi prince’s yacht?”

“They may have taken over the ship and they may have picked up some other people at sea. But we don’t know.”

“How many crew aboard?”

“Maybe twenty or more, and maybe some guests. Plus twelve hookers.”

Conte looked at me and asked, “What’s this about?”

“It’s about whatever Captain Kalish told you it’s about.”

“He said it was Russian U.N. guys and Russian hookers going out to a party boat. Then it became terrorists.”

“Right.”

“He also said pay close attention to the radiation pager.”

“Correct.”

“We looking for a nuke?”

Tess replied, “There may be radioactive material aboard the target craft. Maybe enough to make a dirty bomb.” She added, “There is a potential for radiation exposure, but we’re assuming the radioactive material is contained.”

Conte nodded. Officer Andersson looked concerned.

Okay, I thought, better to admit to a small nightmare than a big one. Sounds more believable than denying the whole thing. Ms. Faraday knew how to bullshit.

Conte pointed out, “Well, if the target ship is emitting radiation, it can’t hide.”

“Right.” So why hadn’t any of the search boats or aircraft detected a radiation source? Well, because they weren’t looking for that until about an hour ago. But now… I looked at
The Hana
’s plans again. The tender garage. I asked Conte and Andersson, “Can this ship sail with the garage flooded?”

Conte replied, “According to the notes on The Hana, the ship is seaworthy with the garage flooded.”

Well, that might be the answer. I wasn’t sure how the nuclear device got aboard
The Hana
, but I was fairly sure now how Petrov was keeping it from emitting detectable radiation. It was underwater.

Conte had come to a similar conclusion and said, “Holy shit. You think this radioactive material could be in the flooded garage?”

“Makes sense.”

He thought about that, then told us what we already knew. “That’s what we’re always worried about. A nuke riding underwater on the hull of a ship.”

“Right.” Or in this case, inside the ship, in a flooded compartment.

Every time I started to doubt that this was really a nuclear attack, something else popped up and pointed in that direction. Buck was right. The Russians had a plan.

I said to Conte, “You should call Captain Kalish and advise him of this possibility, and tell him to put that out to all parties.”

“Right.” He added, “This is a game changer.”

Conte used his cell phone to call Kalish, and while he was giving Kalish the bad news, Tess announced, “I need to hit the head.”

Andersson pointed. “Over there.”

Tess asked me, “Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“No.”

She hesitated, then said, “Don’t leave without me.”

Don’t tempt me.

She walked toward the restrooms.

My Nextel radio blinged and I heard a voice say, “John, this is Howard. Are you up?”

I decided to stop these annoying calls and I moved out of earshot of Conte and Andersson and replied, “Up.”

“Where are you?”

“On the way to Manhattan.”

“What’s your ETA?”

“About two hours.”

“I want to see you when you get here.”

“I got that message.”

“Where are Conlon and Lansky?”

“They’re somewhere behind me.”

“Why do you have Conlon’s phone?”

“I dropped mine in the toilet.”

“Okay… I can’t reach Lansky.”

“Bad reception out here.” Or he’s in a noisy bar. Or he’s not taking your calls.

“I call and text out to the Hamptons all the time.”

“Howard, I don’t run Nextel. File a complaint.”

“Where is Tess Faraday?”

“Where she usually is. In the ladies’ room.”

“I thought you were on the road.”

“Pit stop.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in two hours.”

“It’s Sunday night, Howard. Go home. This can wait.”

There was a silence, then Howard Fensterman asked me, “What’s this about?”

“If you don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Okay… look, I owe you a favor from Yemen. So I’ll go to bat for you if you’re straight with me.”

“If you want to do me a favor, go home.”

“I’ve been instructed to wait for you.”

“Let’s meet halfway. You live on Long Island, right? Pick a place.”

“The place is 26 Fed. Be in my office—two hours, latest.”

“Copy.”

He signed off.

Well, hopefully that took care of Howard Fensterman for the next two hours. Longer if 26 Fed disappeared. I liked Howard, despite some crap in Yemen, and I wanted to get him away from the blast zone, and I tried, but… Well, maybe this will all become moot. One way or the other.

Which reminded me. I dialed Kate’s cell phone and it went right into voice mail, so maybe she was still at the Sheraton in D.C., sleeping, with her cell phone off—or she was airborne, heading home.

I left a message: “Kate, I’m using one of my guys’ cell phones, Matt Conlon. Call this number as soon as you get this. Important.” I added, “Love you.”

I tried our home number, but it went into the answering machine, and I left the same message.

It occurred to me that if we didn’t connect tonight, one or both of us might not be receiving or sending any further messages in the morning. We had both missed taking the elevator up to the North Tower minutes before the plane hit. So we were sort of on borrowed time. Luck is often the result of missing your plane or your elevator, and fate is what the gods give you when you run out of luck.

I moved back to the coffee bar and asked, “Are you guys the whole crew?”

Conte was off the phone and replied, “The SAFE boat has a two-man crew, three in bad weather, with bench seats below deck for twelve personnel.” He asked me, “You want more people?”

I did, but I didn’t want to wait for them, and also extra people meant a slower speed and more fuel consumption. “We can handle it.”

“Is your friend coming along?”

She thought so. And actually it might be better if she wasn’t left behind to rat me out. Also, I could see a situation—if we were lucky enough to find and board
The Hana
—where I could use another gun.

“Detective?”

And to be honest, I sort of… well, I was getting used to her. I said, “She’s coming.”

“What’s she doing in there?”

“Is there a pay phone in the ladies’ room?”

Officer Andersson replied, “No.”

While I was contemplating an unwise remark about women in the ladies’ room, Tess appeared, and said, “Ready to go.”

“Then let’s go,” said Sergeant Conte, and we exited the back door onto the illuminated dock. He said to me, “Kalish thinks you could be right about the flooded garage. He’ll put that out to all agencies.”

“Good.”

He asked me, “Are we talking about radioactive material? Or a nuclear bomb?”