Radiant Angel (7 page)

T
ess and I moved quickly to the kitchen and I went straight for the wall phone and dialed Steve’s number. On the second ring, a hairy hand reached over my shoulder and hit the cradle.

I glanced back at the big Russian and explained, “I need more mushrooms.”

“No call.”

Yob vas.

Okay, so Tess and I made busy in the kitchen for a minute, then I said to Dean, “We need to split.”

He nodded. “Carry those crates of dirty napkins to the truck.”

I grabbed a crate and so did Tess, and we headed for the service entrance.

The two security guys gave us a quick glance, then went back to their MTV show.

Outside in the garage, we ditched the linens and considered our next move. There was no way we were getting through the gates, so we had to jump the fence of the adjoining property.

We pulled off our caterer smocks, threw them in one of the trucks, and moved quickly out of the garage.

Tamorov’s house was separated from the next beach house by thick shrubs, behind which I could make out a high fence. I glanced down the driveway and saw the two security guys, about a hundred
feet away, sitting in chairs under the post lights of the iron gates. The Dobermans were with them.

Tess said, “Go for it.”

I dashed across the gravel driveway and into the shrubbery with Tess right beside me. The Dobermans, who were smarter and more alert than their handlers, started barking.

I found my way through the landscaping and reached the wood-slat fence, which was about eight feet high, and Tess and I started climbing it just as the Dobermans got into the shrubbery. I wished I’d thought to bring five feet of kolbasa with me.

Anyway, we got over the fence, and the dogs were left sniffing our trail and letting out a few tentative barks.

The neighboring oceanfront mansion that Matt said he’d used for surveillance looked dark, but some security lighting, probably activated by motion sensors, came on and lit up the area.

I could hear the dogs barking again on the other side of the fence, and I also heard voices speaking Russian.

Tess informed me, “There’s a public beach access path to Gin Lane a few houses down.”

We ran toward the shore at high speed, angling away from Tamorov’s house, then scrambled over a dune and found ourselves on the beach. I looked out at the water, but I couldn’t see the running lights of the amphibious landing craft. I glanced back at Tamorov’s house, about a hundred yards away, and could make out people moving on his tonga-lit deck.

I didn’t see anyone following us, and no one was on the beach. We turned east, away from Tamorov’s house, and broke into a trot, as though we were just jogging the moonlit beach.

Tess said, “Past the next house is the beach access to Gin Lane.” She reminded me, “I know this area.”

She also knew a little about escape and evasion, as though she’d been trained—or maybe she picked it up being married to Grant.

We reached the access path, which took us between two mansions up to Gin Lane. I saw our vehicles still parked where we’d left them, closer to the Tamorov house, and we doubled back toward them.

Steve and Matt jumped out of the van with their guns drawn, then recognized us. “What’s happening?”

“Petrov took off in a boat.”

“Shit!”

Steve asked, “You being chased?”

“No. Give me your phone.”

He holstered his Glock and gave me his Nextel. I accessed his directory, looking for the number of Scott Kalish, a Suffolk County Police captain with the Marine Bureau who used to be one of my ATTF contacts out here. “You don’t have Scott Kalish.”

Matt said, “I’ve got him,” and speed-dialed Kalish’s number and handed me his phone.

Tess suggested, “You need to call the case agent or the duty agent.”

“No, I need to find that boat now.”

Scott Kalish answered, and I said, “Scott, this is John Corey.”

“Hey, John. What’s up?”

“I need some help.”

“We’re here to serve and protect.”

“Good. Look, I’m with the DSG now—”

“Who?”

“Diplomatic Surveillance Group.”

“No kidding?”

“I’m in Southampton, Gin Lane, following a Russian dip—”

“I’m home watching Law and Order reruns.”

“Great. And this dip just gave me the slip.”

“That sucks.”

“Right.” I gave Captain Kalish a short briefing of my long day, then said, “The amphibious craft was heading due south from Tamorov’s. White hull, no markings, two-man crew, maybe twenty-five feet, covered cockpit, open deck, inboard motor, making about ten knots.”

“He could be a couple miles from shore by now.”

“Right. So let’s get some of your Suffolk County Marine Bureau units and aviation on it now.”

“Okay… and
who
was onboard?”

“Colonel Vasily Petrov, SVR Legal Resident, and two of his guys, Pavel Fradkov and an unknown—”

“I got
that
. Did you say twelve young ladies in bikinis?”

I rolled my eyes. “Right.”

“Hey, I’m joining the search.”

“Scott—”

“All right, I’ll get on it. What’s the beef?”

“Just pick up the surveillance. The target has diplomatic immunity—”

“I know.” He asked, “Any crime committed or suspected?”

“Well… maybe drugs,” I lied. “Maybe a few of the girls are underage. Also the three Russians are past their twenty-five-mile radius without permission.” Also, Petrov gave me the finger, but this wasn’t a personal beef. Well… all surveillance becomes personal.

“So we just locate and follow.”

“Right. No bust.”

“Okay. I’ll also call the harbor constables in the area.”

“Good, but I don’t think that craft is going to make port, Scott. I think it’s on its way to a big ship.”

“How do you know?”

“I didn’t see him turn to run along the shore when he left.”

“Sometimes a boat goes out to get away from the surf and sandbars.”

“Right, but—”

“From what you’ve told me, John, it sounds like these Russkies are going from one party to another party.” He reminded me, “Twelve babes onboard.”

“Right. But the party could be on a
ship
.”

“Could be,” he conceded. “Lots of high rollers out here go outside the three-mile limit. Gambling, drugs, prostitutes. Hijinks on the high seas.”

“Right. So let’s locate that craft—”

“But it’s an amphibious craft, so he could make land anywhere he can climb ashore.”

“I know, Scott, that’s why it’s called an amphibious craft. But I think—”

“I sense some urgency in your voice, John. What’s the problem?”

“I just lost the fucking guy I was supposed to be following.”

“Right. It happens.”

“Not to me.”

“Okay… so there’s no national security issue.”

That was the thing that Scott Kalish, an Anti-Terrorist Task Force liaison guy, would want to know for sure. I didn’t want to blow any more smoke up his butt, so I answered, somewhat truthfully, “I have no direct knowledge of that. But Petrov is SVR.”

“You said. Okay, I’ll give this a high priority and say maybe the SVR guy is up to something and we need to mobilize all resources. But basically, what I’m hearing is that I’m just helping you out of a tight spot.”

“Right. I owe you.”

“I’ve already made a note of it.” He asked me, “What happens when you lose your target?”

“Professionally, not too much. Personally, I go into a deep depression.”

Kalish laughed, then assured me, “If this amphibious craft comes to shore anywhere around here—a marina, a yacht club, a private dock, or even up on the beach like a D-Day landing—we’ll find him.”

“I know you will. But I’m really thinking the craft is going to rendezvous with a ship at sea.” I explained, logically, “If Petrov was going to a party on land, he’d have taken his car and driver. He doesn’t need a landing craft, Scott.”

“He needs the landing craft to deliver the twelve babes. Or the party’s on an island.”

“Think ship.”

“That would have to be a very big ship to take a twenty-five-foot craft aboard.”

“Then look for a big ship.”

“Or maybe this craft was just ferrying these people out to a small ship.”

“Then look for a small ship.”

“Okay. Are you going to ask your people to call the Coast Guard?”

“Let’s keep it in the family.”

“Right. What the bosses don’t know, they don’t know.” He assured me, “We can handle it for you.”

“Good.” I gave him Matt and Steve’s Nextel numbers, explaining why I didn’t have my phone, and told him, “I’ll have Matt’s phone.”

Scott suggested, “Go back to Tamorov’s place and squeeze some nuts.” He offered, “I can send a few detectives with you based on your suspicion of illegal activity.”

I’d thought about that, but I doubted if Georgi Tamorov knew where Petrov was going. SVR guys, like the CIA, do not give out information—only disinformation. And neither would Dmitry know where his boss was heading. But they might know
something
. I said to Kalish, “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“All right. And thanks for your confidence in the Suffolk County Police Department, and for fucking up my Sunday night.”

“Anytime.”

“And John…?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t wait too long to call your boss. That’s how we get in more trouble than we’re in.”

I didn’t reply and we signed off. Thanks for the tip, Scott.

Well, this was not the first time I engaged in multi-tasking—covering my ass while covering the problem. But this could be the last time. A quiet end, indeed.

T
ess Faraday seemed not happy that I’d called the cops before I called 26 Fed. Steve and Matt seemed okay with that, and they trusted me to do the right thing—which was to cover all our asses.

More importantly, I got the wheels moving, and no one could find fault with that. The Diplomatic Surveillance Group has access to FBI resources, but those resources weren’t immediately available out here on the east end of Long Island. And in any case the wheels of the Feds moved slowly—and sometimes in the wrong direction. Captain Scott Kalish, like all local cops, could get things moving, and he knew his beat. In fact, that was the purpose of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force: to form alliances and liaisons between the Feds and the local law enforcement agencies—synergy, they called it—to combat domestic terrorism. True, Vasily Petrov wasn’t a terrorist and I wasn’t with the ATTF anymore, but Petrov
was
an asshole, and today he had become my hemorrhoid.

Steve said to me, “You made the right move to go undercover, boss. But before too long, we need to call this in.”

I didn’t reply.

Matt pointed out, “If John hadn’t gone in there, we’d all be sitting here waiting for the black Mercedes to come out of Tamorov’s driveway.” He added, “So we have that going for us, and maybe the Suffolk PD will spot the boat, then we just pick up the surveillance where we left off.”

I was also a little pissed off at myself for not covering this with an air
or sea surveillance craft. But as I said, the Russians did not get the full treatment the way the Islamic guys did. Scott Kalish, too, didn’t get all worked up about the Russians the way he would have about an Islamic intelligence agent going off in a boat. This was a perception problem; the Russians did not murder three thousand people on 9/11. And these three Russians had a dozen babes with them, which looked more like Russian hijinks than a security issue. And probably that’s all it was—a party.

I advised everyone, “I’ll give it an hour.” Cops understand how to adjust the timelines so it doesn’t appear that anyone failed to make a timely report. I mean, sometimes you need a little time to cover your butt and get your stories straight. Also, to call the case agent now would start a pissing match between the Feds and the local police—a turf war, which always led to chaos and confusion, and never to synergy. I was working for the Feds, but I was still Detective John Corey.

I looked at Tess, who was not a cop, and who wanted to be a Fed. She could be a problem.

But she’s bright and savvy and she understood all of this, so she said, “I have no idea what the protocol is, and I wasn’t in the room when you three were talking.”

Good enough.

I asked Steve, “You hear from the office?”

“Just a text asking me why you didn’t reply to the CA’s last text. I said you were catching some Zs. Also we got an ID on Igor. He’s Viktor Gorsky, an SVR agent.”

“No surprise.”

“Right. He just got here, like, two weeks ago, and he works in Petrov’s office.”

“That sounds like a scary Human Rights office.”

“And according to the intel he worked with Petrov in Chechnya.”

I nodded, recalling what Colonel Petrov was reported to have done in Chechnya. When bad actors get together, bad things happen.

Steve also informed me and Tess, “The CA will get a relief team out here at first light if we’re still here waiting for Petrov to come out of Tamorov’s house.”

“Okay. And I assume you didn’t mention that I was moonlighting with Hampton Catering.”

“It didn’t come up.”

I nodded. My undercover mission, like most rule-bending, showed either poor judgment or good initiative. To be determined. But all’s well that ends well. Or it doesn’t.

I asked, “Did the deli delivery ever get here?”

“Yeah, but we ate your sandwiches,” Matt admitted.

I suggested, “When the catering trucks come out of Tamorov’s, about midnight, talk to Dean and tell him he did a good job, but if he breathes one f-ing word of this to anyone, he’s toast. And get his personals.”

“Right, and maybe some leftovers.”

I continued, “If the Mercedes comes out, call Suffolk PD and have it pulled over for some violation, then call me. Same if any other vehicle leaves Tamorov’s.”

Steve asked, “You going someplace?”

“I need gas.” I said to Tess, “You can stay here, or you can come with me.”

“I’m yours.”

“Okay.” I told Matt, “I’ll keep your phone.”

Tess and I retrieved our creds, my wallet, her bag, and our guns and ammo, and we got in the Chevy Blazer with her at the wheel. I suggested to her, “Tell me about your gun.”

She started the Blazer. “I’m licensed.”

“By whom?”

“We can discuss this later.”

She moved slowly up Gin Lane, past the Tamorov house. The two security guys, now back in their chairs, gave us a look and the Dobermans barked.

I dialed Tasha’s number, but the call went right into voice mail—English and Russian. I didn’t leave a message and hung up. I got Kalish back on the phone and said, “I have a cell phone number onboard the target craft.”

“That makes life easier.”

I gave him Tasha’s number and Kalish said, “I’ll get the location triangulated, but I gotta tell you it’s not that easy if they’re still on water.” He asked, “Whose phone is that?”

“Tasha.” I explained my professional interest in Tasha, and also advised Kalish that all the ladies’ phones might have been confiscated and maybe had their batteries removed. But to be more optimistic, I said, “Petrov has no idea that two DSG agents saw him take off in a boat, and he has no idea that I have the cell phone number of one of the ladies onboard. So even if he confiscated the phones, he might not bother to remove the batteries.”

“We’ll give it a try. Meanwhile, I’ve got boats and aviation rolling.”

“Thanks.” We signed off.

Tess said, “If Petrov didn’t remove the batteries, he needs to go back to spy school.”

“I’ve had suspects who’ve done stupider things.”

“Were they Russian intelligence agents?”

I asked her, “Did you learn your tradecraft on Wall Street?”

“I watch spy movies.”

On the subject of cell phones, mine and hers were in a basket waiting for us to reclaim them from Tamorov’s security guys. When we didn’t—or long before that—they’d realize two catering staff skipped out. But what would they make of that? And would the security guys mention it to Tamorov? Not if they wanted to keep their jobs. That’s how the Russkies think and act. Us, too, sometimes.

As for the phones themselves, they were code-locked and useless, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw them for sale in Brighton Beach.

On that subject, no matter how this played out tonight, I’d have to let 26 Fed know how we’d lost our government Nextels. More paperwork. But more importantly, people couldn’t get hold of us, which was not necessarily a bad thing.

I asked Tess, “You want to call your husband?”

“Later.”

She drove back to Montauk Highway and pulled into a local no-name two-pump gas station with the highest gas prices in North America. I got out and gassed up on my government credit card. I suggested to Tess that this would be a good time to use the restroom, but she suggested we go to a nearby diner.

She headed west on Montauk Highway and pulled into the parking lot of the Southampton Diner, a twenty-four-hour place that I’d been
to, and a place where Tess said she’d had many sunrise breakfasts after an all-night party. Nothing like coffee and bacon fat to sober you up.

We went inside the upscale diner, which was mostly empty on this Sunday night in September. I checked my watch—9:21
P.M.
I was deep into overtime with no end in sight.

We got a quiet booth in the corner, but before Tess sat, she said, “I need to use the restroom.”

“I’ll get you a coffee.”

“I need to borrow your phone.”

“I have to make some calls. Use the pay phone.”

“I want to text Grant.”

I handed her Matt’s phone and she headed for the restrooms.

Well, by now I’m thinking that Tess Faraday is working a second job. Let’s see… she carries a gun, she knows the ropes too well, and she disappears a lot to use the restroom. If she was with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility, I’d be answering some questions at 26 Fed about how I handled this surveillance.

But I’d been around FBI people for a lot of years now, and Tess Faraday did not strike me as one of the Fabulously Boring Individuals, as the cops called the FBI. She had a different demeanor—a sort of panache—plus she didn’t use any mind-numbing FBI jargon.

The waitress came with two menus and I ordered two coffees.

I finished mine and still no sign of Tess, who was either having bladder problems or husband problems. Or neither.

The Southampton Diner had a liquor license, thank God, and I ordered my next coffee with a shot of medicinal brandy. I think you can drink on overtime.

I calculated Kalish’s chances of finding that amphibious craft, or finding the ship it rendezvoused with, or the place where the craft had come ashore. The chances were good that the craft would be found, and that Petrov would also be found. But if not, Petrov and his two goons would probably show up back at Tamorov’s for a morning car ride back to the city. I mean, his car and driver were at Tamorov’s, so why was I overthinking this? The simplest explanation for what you see is the explanation.

And yet… I kept thinking of Petrov, Fradkov, and the newly IDed
Viktor Gorsky, an SVR agent, sitting on Tamorov’s deck, not seeming to be in a party mood.

Or I was imagining things—hoping I had stumbled onto something big.

If Kate was here, that’s what she’d say. But she’d also listen and evaluate the evidence and play devil’s advocate. I thought about calling her, but she’d just tell me to call 26 Fed immediately and ask forgiveness for not calling earlier. She had an FBI head, and now a supervisor’s head. Plus, she didn’t want to hear anything from me that she might be asked about by her boss, Tom Walsh, who was a certified asshole.

Tess returned and I inquired, “How’s the home front?”

“Okay.”

“Who else did you call?”

“I said I was texting.”

“Right. Who else did you text?”

“I canceled my morning pedicure.” She picked up her menu. “I’m hungry.”

“When do I find out who you’re working for?”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m hungry for an answer.”

She looked up from her menu and we made eye contact. She said to me, “He told me you were very bright.”

“
Who
told you?”

“An old friend of yours.”

“I asked you a direct question, counselor. Who are you working for?”

“You actually asked me
when
you’d find out. The answer is tonight.”

“When tonight?”

“Shortly.” She assured me, “You have time for a burger.”

“That’s the good news.”

“That’s the only good news.”