Radiant Angel (6 page)

A
nother hour or so passed, and the gentlemen were getting shitfaced and the ladies were knocking down the bubbly to make these guys more interesting.

I took a break and stood at the rail, looking out at the ocean. A few motor craft and sailboats ran parallel to the shore, and jetliners cut across the blue sky. A biplane flew low, dragging a banner that read
SUNDAY NIGHT SUNDOWNERS AT SAMMY’S SEASIDE GRILL
. I’ll keep that in mind.

I was aware that someone was standing to my left, and I glanced over to see a young lady in a cover-up, her elbows on the rail, gazing out to sea, holding a glass of champagne. Her skin was paper white and her long, straight black hair fell past her shoulders.

She looked at me with big brown eyes, smiled, and pointed in the direction we were facing, toward the south. “Rooshia.”

I corrected her geography and pointed east. “That way.”

“Yes? So long away.”

“Right. But Russia is here today.”

She laughed. After a moment, she said, “I am Tasha.”

“I’m John.” I translated, “Ivan.”

Again she laughed, but she looked a bit sad or wistful. I guess if I had to sleep with one of these guys, I’d feel a little blue myself.

She held her glass toward me. “Champagne?”

“I’m on duty.” I asked her, “How can I contact you after work?”

She gave me her cell phone number.

Before I could ask her if she was a Pisces, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Tess’ unsmiling face. She said curtly, “We need to return to the kitchen.”

“I still have zakuski—”

She handed me an empty tray. “Let’s go.”

I bid Tasha, “Das vidanya,” and followed Tess. I explained to Mrs. Faraday, “I was getting her phone number because she’s a potential witness to interview tomorrow.”

Tess seemed to buy part of that—though it was all true—but she said, “The security guys were looking at you.”

“Don’t be as paranoid as the Russians.”

Back in the kitchen I caught Dean’s eye and glanced toward the wall phone. He gave me a nod.

Tess and I grabbed trays, and on the way out I told her, “Dean called Matt from the kitchen phone and relayed my situation report.”

“I hope the phones aren’t monitored internally.”

“Good paranoia.” I also informed her, “Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor are not drinking.”

She seemed to understand that could have some significance and she nodded.

I told her, “If Petrov is still here when the caterers leave, I’m going to duck into a closet or something and stay here.”

“John, they counted everyone coming in and they will count everyone going out.”

“True… but—”

“We leave here together.”

“Actually, you’ll do what I tell you—”

“I don’t know how you survived this long.”

“Balls and brains.” I reminded her, “I am a legend.”

“Don’t push it.”

We came out on the deck and Tess walked away from me and held out a tray of eggs à la Russe to a Russe, who popped one in his mouth and popped another into Tess’ mouth. I hoped she was having fun.

I worked the poolside where a few of the ladies, including Tasha, were now lying in chaises, chatting in Russian with one another, probably about what a great party this would be if they didn’t have to fuck all the guests.

I offered Tasha my hot kolbasa, but she declined, then pantomimed holding a phone to her ear and mouthed, “Call me.” The other ladies giggled.

One of the security guys caught all this, and he fixed me with a stare.

The feeding frenzy seemed to have subsided for now, and a few bloated gentlemen floated in the pool on inflatable rafts. A half dozen men and women went down to the beach and cavorted in the surf. One guy was lying motionless on a chaise in the sand, and a seagull checked him out to see if he was possibly dead and edible.

I suppose you could say that the Russians had a big appetite for life, or you could say they were dissolute and decadent, which was the opposite side of the same ruble. In either case, they were becoming more confident in themselves and their country. Rarely has an empire fallen so quickly, then experienced such an equally fast resurgence. They should be happy with that, and happier that we didn’t kick them when they were down. But it seemed to me that Putin and his goons were still pissed off that we knocked them down in the first place. So we weren’t going to be buddies soon.

Meanwhile, the diplomatic and security apparatus in Washington was obsessed with Islamic terrorists and distracted enough not to notice all of this. Or if they did, it wasn’t a priority. The Russians, however, were making it a priority to fuck America. When I saw people like Petrov, and when I compared them to the Islamists I spent years following and investigating, I had no doubt who was the most dangerous.

The afternoon slipped into early evening, and the sun was dropping into the western sky. I noted that the bartenders were serving mostly hard stuff now, but Petrov was content with nursing his mineral
water, as were Fradkov and Igor. Georgi Tamorov, however, was knocking down a few shots of iced vodka, as was Dmitry, who must have known he wasn’t driving back to the city tonight.

It was possible, I conceded, that Petrov and his companions were actually just here for the party. That made more sense than anything else I might suspect or imagine. Or, if there
was
something else going on, it would go down later, behind closed doors, and I’d never know about it. Especially since they were all speaking Russian. And whatever they were up to, it would most probably have nothing to do with American national security; it would have to do with money, or with Georgi Tamorov asking Vasily Petrov for a favor, which was usually the deal when a rich oligarch sucked up to someone like Colonel Petrov of the SVR. Tamorov probably wanted one of his competitors to meet with an unfortunate accident. A million Swiss francs should get the job done.

According to the intel on Georgi Tamorov, he was spending more time in New York and London, and he was tied to the economic interests of the West. Money protects its money, and people like Colonel Petrov made people like Georgi Tamorov nervous. And yet they were here together, and not for the first time. Why?

I used to watch Mafia guys when I was on the Organized Crime Task Force, and it was sometimes hard to figure out who was selling and who was buying. So the other possibility here was that Georgi Tamorov was not looking to buy something from Colonel Petrov—it was Petrov who was selling something to Tamorov. Like his life. Like, Georgi Tamorov would be a lot safer if Colonel Petrov was watching his back. Or maybe Petrov was sent here by the Kremlin to whack Tamorov, who had somehow pissed them off.

The possibilities of why the billionaire oligarch and the SVR assassin were palling around were endless. But as I said, thinking about this was not in my limited job description.

I looked again at Vasily Petrov in the fading light. He did not look like a man who’d come for the party. And if he’d made his deal with Tamorov, he should be leaving. But he wasn’t. It seemed instead that he was waiting for something, or someone.

My instincts told me that I had made the right move to stick close to this guy.

Petrov caught my eye and held up his glass.

I went to the bar and got him another mineral water and he stared at me as I handed it to him on a tray.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Johnny Depp.”

He kept looking at me, then turned away and said something to Igor in Russian.

Igor nodded and stared at me.

As a former homicide cop, I know a killer when I see one, and I just saw one.

I
t was twilight time, and the household staff lit tonga torches and hurricane lamps, illuminating the sprawling deck in flickering light. The sound system crackled, and Bobby Darin started singing,
Somewhere beyond the sea…
Setting the mood for love and romance.

The ladies’ tops had come off in the hot tub, and a few of the Russian gentlemen had gone au naturel in the swimming pool. Thank God my wife was not here to see this. Or Grant for that matter, who would not approve of his wife passing drinks to naked men in the swimming pool. One oaf, floating on a raft with his periscope up, tried to grab Tess’ arm as she handed him a drink, but she was too nimble for him.

The Latina serving ladies seemed indifferent to the bare butts in the pool and the bobbing boobs in the hot tub; and they went about their business, even as the Russian gentlemen tried to entice the younger of the señoritas into the pool. I mean, there were two dozen Russian ladies who’d been hired for this, but men always want what they can’t buy. On that subject, a few of the men had gone into the house accompanied by a young lady, who presumably had been pre-paid by the host to provide services.

Tess and I were at the bar, getting drink orders, and she whispered to me, “This is getting a little uncomfortable.”

“No job is perfect.” I suggested, “Think of it as a Wall Street Christmas party.”

“I’m going to stay in the kitchen.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable.”

She hesitated, then said, “I’ll stay with you.”

I hadn’t seen any sign of drugs and I smelled no pot, and the girls all seemed to be of age, so I assumed that Georgi Tamorov knew not to compromise his U.N. guests. Thus, even if I was on the vice squad, I’d have to conclude that nothing really illegal was going on here—especially if the ladies were doing it for love.

It would be good, though, if we could compromise Petrov and get him booted out of the country, which would make our unpaid labor worthwhile. Meanwhile, I have to serve drinks to topless ladies.

The speakers were now blaring,
Jeremiah was a bullfrog
, and I felt like dancing. In fact, a few corpulent gentlemen were gyrating on the deck with a few of the ladies, who seemed intent on drinking these guys handsome. The bad light helped.

Our drink orders were ready, and as Tess and I moved off with our trays, five ladies, led by Tasha, lined up at the edge of the pool, took off their tops, then slid off their bottoms and dived into the pool in unison, which got a round of applause.

Tess said, “This is too much. John?
John?
”

“Huh? Oh… I can’t watch. I need better light.”

She made a sound of disgust and walked away from me.

Anyway, the music switched to Russian nightclub music, like Pitbull, the drinking and dancing continued, and more people got naked in the pool or the hot tub. Tasha and a few of the other ladies were now sitting on the hairy shoulders of the guys in the pool, playing some sort of game with a beach ball. I couldn’t figure out the rules, but it looked like everyone was a winner.

Tamorov was still knocking down frozen vodka and smoking up a storm, but Petrov and his two companions just sat there, making perfunctory conversation, barely noticing the naked ladies. Clearly they had more important things on their minds. In fact, I noticed that Fradkov seemed almost nervous, though Igor appeared calm and alert, like a pit bull waiting for a command. Petrov glanced at his watch, then checked his cell phone for a text.

Tess came up to me and said, “They’re laying out another buffet, so I’m going to the kitchen.”

“Okay.”

“Are you coming?”

“I’m still on surveillance.”

“Take a break, John. You’ll get eyestrain and go blind.”

“Right. We need more tonga torches.”

Naked Tasha was kneeling on a guy’s shoulders, her arms outstretched, waiting for a beach ball pass. The pass came, wide, she reached for it and fell into the water, and everyone laughed. I wondered how much of this I should put in my surveillance log. That reminded me that I had to call Tasha tomorrow.

“John? Are you coming?”

“You go ahead.”

She turned toward the house, but I said, “Hold on.”

“What?”

I tilted my head toward the ocean and she followed my gaze.

Coming toward us were the running lights of a watercraft, maybe a hundred yards from shore, and as the craft got closer I could hear its motor. I also noticed that one of Tamorov’s security guys was on the beach, holding a flashing green light.

I looked toward Petrov and saw in the flickering lamp light that he was standing, along with Fradkov and Igor. Tamorov, too, was standing, and he was now barking orders in Russian to his security guys. Dmitry, Petrov’s driver, stayed in the pool, as though he’d been pre-instructed to stay put.

Tess asked, “What’s happening?”

“Don’t know. But Petrov does.”

The security guys were quickly rounding up some of the Russian ladies, who were slipping back into their bikinis and cover-ups, grabbing their bags, and assembling near the steps that led down to the beach.

The boat got closer and I could see by the light of the rising half-moon that it was maybe twenty-five feet, with an open deck and a man steering from the covered cockpit, and another man sitting beside him.

Tess observed, “It’s heading right to the shore.”

“Seems so.”

“Who are they?”

“Don’t know.”

I didn’t sense any danger, and it was obvious that the boat was expected. Nevertheless, it was times like this when a boy missed his gun. I said to Tess, “Go back to the kitchen. See if you can get a call off to Matt. We need aviation and harbor units.”

She hesitated, then said, “Let me see what’s going on so I know what to say.”

I didn’t want to argue with her, and in any case I doubted she’d be able to use the phone.

The security guys on the deck began motioning to the dozen or so women, including Tasha, to descend the stairs.

I moved nonchalantly toward the women, collecting empty glasses on my way. Tess followed.

Tasha was about to go down the stairs and I got close to her and asked softly, “Where are you going?”

She looked at me and shrugged. One of the security guys came between us and nudged her toward the stairs.

The women all descended the long wooden staircase to the beach. Some of them seemed indifferent, and some seemed unhappy about leaving the party, but most of them appeared to be excited about what looked like a boat trip. Maybe Tasha thought she was going back to Russia.

The security guy motioned for me and Tess to get back to work.

Tess and I moved to the far end of the deck into a dark corner and watched as the women walked across the wide beach toward the water. The boat was about ten yards offshore, and as it got closer, I could see it had a blunt bow and a wide beam—the sort of watercraft that was more of a ship’s tender or utility boat than a sports boat.

Tamorov’s guests, including the dozen or so ladies who’d been left behind, were now lined up along the rail, chatting away, laughing, waving, and calling out to their friends on the beach, who waved back.

I glanced at where Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor had been standing and they were gone. Then I saw them coming out of the sliding glass doors of the house, dressed now in pants and polo shirts and carrying
their overnight bags. Without so much as a good-bye to their host, they headed for the staircase. This was not good.

I looked back at the boat and saw it hit the beach. I expected someone to throw a line to or from the craft, but all of a sudden the boat started to climb the beach and I saw it was an amphibious craft. The wheels kicked up sand as the flat-bottomed craft got traction and drove onto the shore, then stopped. I saw, too, that there were no markings on the shiny white fiberglass hull—no name and no numbers—which was odd, if not illegal, and again I had the impression of a ship’s tender.

The security guys herded the women toward the boat and they began boarding via a short ladder that hung over the side. The second guy onboard was helping the tipsy ladies up and directing them to sit on the benches that ran along the sides and stern.

Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor were on the beach now, heading toward the amphibious craft. Within a few minutes they were onboard and the craft made a U-turn on the beach and returned to the water.

Tess said, “I think you just lost your Russian.”