Radiant Angel (3 page)

“Okay.” She asked me, “You going to eat that cookie?”

I broke it in half and gave her the bigger half.

Surveillances can be boring, which is why some people try to make them not boring. Two guys together talk about women, and two women together probably talk about guys. A guy and a woman together either have nothing to talk about, or the long hours lead to whatever.

In the last six months, Tess Faraday has been assigned to me about a dozen times, which, with one hundred fifty DSG agents in New York, defies the odds. As the team leader, I could reassign her to another vehicle or to leg surveillance. But I haven’t. Why? Because I think she’s asking to work with me, and being a very sensitive man I don’t want to hurt her feelings. And why does she want to work with me? Because she wants to learn from a master. Or something else is going on.

And by the way, I haven’t mentioned Tess Faraday to Kate. Kate is not the jealous type, and there’s nothing to be jealous about. Also, like Kate, I keep my work problems and associations to myself. Kate doesn’t talk about Tom Walsh, and I don’t talk about Tess Faraday. Marital ignorance is bliss. Dumb is happy.

Meanwhile, Vasily has been inside the Mission for over an hour, but his Mercedes is still outside, so he’s going someplace. Probably back to the Bronx. He sometimes runs in Central Park, which is a pain in the ass. Everyone on the team wears running shoes, of course, and I think we’re all in good shape, but Vasily is in excellent shape. Older FBI agents have told me that the Soviet KGB guys were mostly
lardasses who smoked and drank too much. But the only kind of bars and clubs these guys from the new Russia were into were granola bars and health clubs. Their boss, bare-chested Putin, sort of set the new standard.

Vasily, being who he is, also has a girlfriend in town, a Russian lady named Svetlana who sings at a few of the Russian nightclubs in Brighton Beach. I caught a glimpse of her once and she looks like she has good lungs.

I did a radio check with my team and everyone was awake.

A soft breeze fluttered the white, blue, and red Russian flag in front of the Mission. I remember when the Soviet Hammer and Sickle flew there. I kind of miss the Cold War. But I think it’s back.

My team today consists of four leg agents and four vehicles—my Chevy Blazer, a Ford Explorer, and two Dodge minivans. We usually have one agent in each vehicle, but today we had two. Why? Because the Russians are tricky, and sometimes they travel in groups and scatter like cockroaches, so recently we’ve been beefing up the surveillance teams. So today I had two DSG agents in the other three vehicles, all former NYPD. I had the only trainee, an FBI wannabe who probably thinks the DSG job sucks. Sometimes I think the same thing.

In the parlance of the FBI, the Diplomatic Surveillance Group is called a quiet end, which really means a dead end.

But I’m okay with this. No office, no adult supervision, and no bullshit. Just follow that asshole.

A quiet end. But in this business, there is no such thing.

D
iplomatic Surveillance Group agents are not typically assigned to only one group of foreign diplomats. I do, however, seem to pull a lot of Russian duty, maybe because the Russians have a very big diplomatic contingent in New York—about two hundred people, including their consulate building up on East 91st. And maybe that would explain why every time Tess Faraday was with me the target was the Russians. Or maybe that didn’t explain it. So to clear this up, I asked her, “Is it a coincidence that you’re working with me only when I’m following the Russians?”

“I think it’s the law of averages.” She explained, “The other big targets are the Islamic dips, and someone told me you’re not allowed to come within a hundred yards of a Muslim.”

I suppose that would explain it—law of averages. But I’ve also watched the Chinese, the Cubans, and the psychotic North Koreans, and Ms. Faraday hadn’t been with me on any of those occasions. But I didn’t pursue this and assured her, “I’m currently taking a class in Islamic cultural sensitivity.”

She laughed.

In fact, I was told that I needed to remember that most of my targets had diplomatic status, and thus diplomatic immunity, even if they were spies or potential terrorists. That didn’t mean they could blow up 26 Federal Plaza with impunity, but it did mean that I needed to be more judicious and less physical in my methods. I did
punch an Iranian diplomat in the balls once in Atlantic City, but that was when I was with the ATTF, before the DSG and before I received the proper training in dealing with the diplomatic community. I’m much nicer now.

On a related subject, a lot of people in the intelligence community (and the general public) think of the U.N. as a house of spies, which to some extent it is. But I see it as job security. I mean, if the U.N. was moved someplace else, I wouldn’t have this wonderful job. Look at what happened to all the horseshit shovelers in New York when the automobile was invented. On the other hand, I could do without this job and without guys like Colonel Vasily Petrov in town.

On the subject of job security, I asked Tess, “Who’s talking about me?”

“Everyone.”

“All good, I hope.”

“You’re a legend.”

“Is that why you ask to work with me?”

“I never asked.” She chided me, “You have a big ego.”

Tess, I reminded myself, was not a kid trainee who just fell off the turnip truck. She was a Wall Street lawyer, probably went to good schools, and she seemed self-assured. She also seemed like a lady who was used to getting her way. I’m surprised we haven’t butted heads by now.

So we sat and waited for Colonel Petrov.

I find that the Russians are more of a challenge than the Islamic, Korean, or Cuban targets. The Russians are better trained at spotting surveillance, and as I mentioned, they know how to give you the slip, or send you off on a wild-goose chase.

I’ve discovered, too, that in some ways the Russians think like us, which the Islamic guys do not. And if they think like us, they can predict our moves, and we can predict theirs. This is what makes following the Russians interesting. Plus, they’re more likely than Abdul to wind up in a tittie bar.

“What are you thinking about?”

“This guy I know went into a sex shop and asked the proprietor for a blow-up sex doll.”

“Is this a joke?”

“So the proprietor asks, ‘You want a Christian doll, a Jewish doll, or a Muslim doll?’ And the guy says, ‘What difference does it make?’ And the proprietor says, ‘Well, the Muslim dolls blow themselves up.’ ”

Tess laughed, then said, “That’s terrible.” She suggested, “I think you were in the Mideast section too long.”

“Apparently.” But it wasn’t a bad gig, and I of course distinguished myself, though I started to lose my patience with the Muslim gentlemen I was investigating. Also, the political correctness of the ATTF and the FBI was a little hard to take, and maybe I crossed the line now and then.

And, if the truth be known, my presence on the 26th floor of 26 Federal Plaza was compromising my wife’s career. Also, some might say, her position saved my ass a few times.

What I like about the DSG is that I’m out of the office most of the time, and I’m my own man, meaning I’m authorized to make quick decisions, and no one is going to second-guess me as long as I do my job. It’s almost like being a cop again.

Tess said, “Petrov’s driver just got a phone call.”

I looked at the Mercedes down the block and saw the driver get out of the car and open the rear door. I recognized the driver, a guy named Dmitry who was competent but not too tricky behind the wheel.

Tess started the Blazer and I blinged a call-out to the team. “Game time.”

Each of the DSG vehicles is equipped with what is called the police package—flashing lights in the grille, sirens, tinted windows, and other bells and whistles. We all have D-1 Nikons with zoom lenses, Sony 8mm video cameras, directional listening devices, and other high-tech toys depending on the assignment, like a little gadget that detects radioactive substances in the area. I never want to hear that thing beeping.

The gate of the wrought-iron security cage in front of the Mission opened and out came Colonel Vasily Petrov, dressed casually in
tan slacks, a red polo shirt, and sandals not made for running, which was good.

With Petrov were two similarly dressed gentlemen who were carrying large overnight bags. I recognized one of them as Pavel Fradkov, a middle-aged man who was a more recent arrival than Vasily Petrov. The other guy, a big dude with a black crew cut, was unknown, at least to me, but someone might ID him from the NYPD video surveillance tape that was monitored at 26 Fed. Dmitry and the unknown guy put the bags in the Mercedes’ trunk, and everyone got in the car, except Petrov, who looked up and down the block, nodding his head like he’d spotted the four surveillance vehicles and the four guys on leg. As I said, it’s non-discreet surveillance, and we’re not trying to look like lampposts or something.

Petrov got in the rear with Fradkov and off they went.

I radioed the team, “Vaseline on the move in Benz with dip plate CYR-0823. I’ll follow with Matt and Steve. Everyone else keep an eye on the store.”

Tess fell in behind the Mercedes, and the Dodge minivan fell in behind us with Matt Conlon behind the wheel and Steve Lansky riding shotgun. I Nexteled the team, “The guy with the green shirt is Pavel Fradkov. Anyone recognize the big guy?”

No one did, so I said, “Unknown is hereafter called Igor until we ID him.”

Petrov’s vehicle turned south on Park Avenue.

Tess said, “Well, they’re not going back to the Bronx. Maybe they’re going to the Glass House,” meaning the U.N. building.

She was picking up the lingo. In another few weeks she’ll be swearing like a cop.

Park Avenue is one of the few two-way avenues in Manhattan, divided by a wide median, and thus the only avenue where you can make a legal U-turn. I said to Tess, “Watch for the U-turn.”

But Dmitry wasn’t doing any escape and evasion, and this looked like it was going to be a Sunday drive.

We took the elevated road around Grand Central Terminal and continued south, which ruled out the U.N. building. Traffic was light
on a Sunday, and we made good time down to 34th Street, where the Mercedes turned left and continued on toward the entrance ramp to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, meaning he was going to Queens, Brooklyn, or Long Island.

Tess pointed out, “They have bags. So maybe they’re going to JFK.”

“That would be nice.” Arrivederci, assholes.

The Mercedes entered the tunnel under the East River and we followed.

Tess asked, “Should we call this in?”

Phone calls mean conversation, and conversation means someone on the other end thinks they need to give you advice or patch you through to a supervisor. So as I usually do, I texted the case agent:
Target mobile. 4 pers. Mercedes, dip plate CYR-0823. East in QMT. 2 surv. veh.

A minute later, the reply read: Copy.

Obviously, the case agent didn’t give a shit with a response like that, so all is good. I love this job.

We came out of the tunnel into the sunlight, and the Mercedes veered toward a cash-only booth so there would be no electronic E-ZPass record of their travel. Good tradecraft, except they’ve got two surveillance vehicles up their ass so what’s the point?

We used E-ZPass and slowed up until the Mercedes got through the slower toll booth and caught up with us.

And off we went, eastbound on the Long Island Expressway, destination unknown.

Tess asked, “Where else would Petrov be going with luggage?”

“His girlfriend’s apartment in Brighton Beach.”

“Why does he need the other guys?”

“Maybe they have a nightclub act.”

“You’re supposed to be teaching me.”

“I just did. Here’s another lesson. Keep the target in sight and don’t speculate. Lesson three—you’ll know where he’s going when he gets there. Four, if you lose him, you’ll be looking for a job tomorrow.”

“I won’t lose him.”

The Mercedes was in the far left lane, what we call lane one, going about 60 mph. I called Matt and Steve in the minivan and said, “Use
lane three and watch for the target to swerve toward an exit.” I further briefed them, “He’s got a girlfriend in Brighton Beach.” Meaning, as we say in the business, he’s probably following his dick today, but I didn’t say that in mixed company.

We continued east through the borough of Queens. We passed the exit that would have taken us south to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, which blew that theory, then the exit to La Guardia Airport, then the Kennedy Airport exit. We also passed the exit to Shea Stadium, so we weren’t going to be watching the doubleheader with the Russians today.

We crossed the city line into suburban Nassau County and continued east.

I didn’t know how much Tess knew about the Russians, so I informed her, “The Russian dips have a weekend house in Upper Brookville, not too far from your ancestral castle in Lattingtown.”

She ignored my sarcasm and replied, “Well, if that’s where they’re going, I know the territory.”

“And that’s as far as they’re allowed to go.” Upper Brookville is actually a few miles past the twenty-five-mile limit, but if they go directly there without deviation it’s okay.

The Diplomatic Surveillance Group also has a confidential off-site office near the Russian weekend house, so maybe we could hand this to them.

I informed Tess of this, and she said, “Great. I can make the game.” She asked me, “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

No, I wasn’t sure. But I was saved from a bad decision when we passed the exit that would have taken us north to Upper Brookville.

Tess said, “Damn it.”

My Nextel blinged and Matt said, “Where the hell is this guy going?”

“I’ll bet if we follow him, we’ll find out.”

So we continued following the Russians, who were now past their allowable radius.

We actually weren’t authorized to bust them unless we were told by higher up to do that, so we always let them run, to see where they were going. They might try to use SDR—surveillance detection
route, meaning escape and evasion—but their drivers weren’t as good as ours. It was when they were on foot in Manhattan or Brooklyn that they’d get tricky with subways and taxis, and sometimes give you the slip. On the open road, however, they were pretty pathetic. So they weren’t going to a secret meeting or something; they were off on a jaunt. Maybe the Hamptons.

Tess said, “Maybe you should call this in.”

“Later.”

She shrugged and continued to follow the Mercedes, keeping a distance of fifty yards, not letting more than one car come between us and the target. She was a good driver. Matt and Steve continued in the slow lane, but now and then they moved to the center lane to catch up.

The only good thing about following the Russians in New York was that they weren’t trying to kill people or blow things up, the way the Islamic radicals did. They were mostly into industrial spying, stealing technology, intercepting our diplomatic and intel commo, or trying to recruit people to do all that. Basic espionage as opposed to acts of terrorism. Still, they posed another kind of threat—long-term. An almost existential threat. So they needed close watching.

Colonel Vasily Petrov, however, had a different pedigree. According to the intel on this guy, his old man, Vladimir Petrov, is a former KGB general who was once head of SMERSH, the assassination arm of the old KGB, and, as they say, the apple does not fall far from the tree. Vasily himself has been implicated in rubbing out political foes of his esteemed president, Mr. Putin, and Vasily had also served in Chechnya where the CIA says he ran the mass execution program of Chechen civilians suspected of aiding the rebels. If true, this was a ruthless man, and a cold-blooded killer.

But I couldn’t imagine how Petrov’s occupational skills could be used here. Well, maybe I could. The Russians had a long history of sending agents out to the four corners of the world to find and kill dissidents and traitors who’d gotten out of Russia. That’s what SMERSH was about, and that could explain why Petrov was here. But even though the Russians had whacked dissidents all over the
planet, including England, they hadn’t done that here, but if they did and got caught, the shit would really hit the fan.

On the other hand, the Russians were getting ballsy again, and Putin, formerly of the KGB, was beating his bare chest and growling a lot. You can change the name of the KGB to the SVR, but that didn’t change anything.

All of this, however, is not my problem or my job anymore. Let somebody else worry about what Petrov is up to. My job is to follow the target, record and report. I’m not a bloodhound anymore; I’m the second dog in a dogsled team. Follow that asshole.

And yet… well, Vasily Petrov has aroused my detective instincts. Unfortunately, whenever that happens, I usually get in trouble.

Tess asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“A pastrami sandwich.”

She replied, “A warhorse put out to pasture doesn’t think about the pasture.”

I didn’t reply.