Radiant Angel (8 page)

W
e both ordered burgers and fries and I told the waitress, “Two Buds.”

Tess reminded me, “We’re on duty.”

“We’re on overtime.”

The waitress brought two bottles of Budweiser and Tess asked her, “How’d the Mets do today?”

“Won both.”

Tess held out her bottle and tapped mine. “Told you.”

She looked around the diner, then leaned toward me and said, “Regarding what you said to Captain Kalish, don’t be so sure that Petrov didn’t know who we were.”

I didn’t reply.

She continued, “Also, they picked up on your interest in Tasha.”

“They would take it as a personal interest.”

“Not if they thought you were one of the DSG guys who followed them from the city.” She asked, “Don’t you think that crossed their minds?”

“Are you suggesting that they took Tasha aboard for that reason?”

She didn’t reply directly to my question, but said, “The way I see it, we’re lucky we weren’t asked to come inside the house for a chat. Followed by a one-way boat ride.”

“You watch too many spy movies.”

She poured some beer in her glass and watched the foam rise. She
said, “The SVR is neither stupid nor forgiving.” She smiled. “Maybe I watch too many spy movies.”

I changed the subject and asked, “Where do you think that craft was going?”

“I don’t know. You could make a case for it rendezvousing with a ship at sea. Or you could make a case for it putting in on shore. In either case, it appears that Petrov was just party-hopping.”

“Right. Bring your own babes.”

“And he’ll be back at Tamorov’s later tonight or in the morning.”

“Right.”

“And,” she continued, “if we hadn’t gone in there, we wouldn’t even know we lost the target and we wouldn’t be worrying about it.”

“Correct. But we did, and we are.”

“You’ve followed Petrov before.” She asked, “Do you think he’s up to something?”

“That’s why he’s here, Tess.”

“I understand that. But I mean something
tonight
.”

“I have no direct or indirect knowledge of that.”

“But if he was into something very big, what would it be?”

Well, Colonel Vasily Petrov is a killer, but Tess Faraday, DSG trainee, wouldn’t know that, though Tess Faraday working for someone else would. And since I didn’t know who she was, I replied, “That’s way above my pay grade.”

“But you worked the Mideast section of the ATTF for many years and your job was to think, to analyze, to make an informed guess about what the bad guys were up to.”

“They weren’t Russians.”

“All bad guys are the same.”

“The Russians are a little more subtle than Abdul.” I reminded her, “They’re not terrorists.”

“But you do agree they are the enemy?”

“No one ever used that word in any of my briefings.”

“It’s understood.”

It seemed to me that Mrs. Faraday had something on her mind—like she had learned something during her long visit to the ladies’ room that was, as she indicated, not good news. Well, no use
wondering about it since I was sure I was going to hear about it soon, so I changed the subject again and asked her, “What did you learn today?”

“Well, I learned that when you have a problem, you call the police.”

“Right. And when you
want
a problem, you call the FBI.”

She smiled. “You can take a cop out of the street, but you can’t take the street out of the cop.”

“That’s why they hired me.”

She sipped her beer, and said, “I like you.”

“Is that you talking or the beer?”

“That’s me talking to the beer.”

I smiled.

She asked, “So what happens if you lose a target?”

“As I told Kalish, not too much the first time. But you shouldn’t make it a habit. And you shouldn’t lose the SVR Legal Resident anytime.”

“You went above and beyond on this one.”

“Catering is a bitch,” I agreed.

Our burgers came, I ordered two more beers, and we picked at our fries.

Tess asked, “Are you going to call the CA?”

“If this was a training exercise, Mrs. Faraday, and I was your instructor, I would advise you to communicate
up
the chain of command, starting with the guy on the street.”

“Show me how it’s done.”

I texted Steve:
Anything to report?

A few seconds later, he replied:
Negative.

I then texted Kalish:
Anything?

He replied:
I’ll let you know when there is.

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

“Right.” I turned my wristwatch toward me, explaining, “This is a two-way radio.” I said into my watch, “Corey calling home base. Come in home base.” I listened, but there was no response.

Tess called for the check and said to me, “You’re getting yourself in deeper. Just call and explain the situation, and tell them you have it covered. That’s all they want to hear.”

“I’d like to be able to tell them that the Suffolk PD has located the target.”

“I’d like to be five pounds thinner.”

I’d like to have a bigger dick. I said to her, “I’m thinking that we should get on a harbor launch or chopper and join the search.” I explained, “It looks good.”

“If it looks good, it
is
good. But first…” She glanced at her watch. “I’d like to reunite you with that old friend.”

I didn’t even bother to ask who, where, or why. I paid the bill, and we left the diner and got into the Blazer.

She headed east on Montauk Highway, and I said to her, “This better be important.”

“You know it is.”

Okay. So my trainee had gone into the phone booth and come out Superman. Amazing.

Obviously there was more going on tonight than even I knew. And I was about to find out what it was. Or did Ms. Faraday have more tricks up her sleeve? Stay tuned.

T
ess took a right onto a small road and continued past a sign that said
SHINNECOCK NATION—NO TRESPASSING
.

I pointed out, “You’re in Indian territory.”

“We’re meeting here. For a powwow.”

“Okay.” The FBI, as I indicated, could be a bit dull, but these people—and I don’t mean the Indians—were into drama and stagecraft.

The road was narrow, bumpy, and dark, and Tess slowed down. She said to me, apropos of nothing and something, “The charter of the Central Intelligence Agency expressly forbids the Agency from operating on American soil. Therefore, as you know, when the CIA has a person of interest who lands on American soil, they have to share the case with the FBI. The FBI, on the other hand, can legally operate in foreign countries.” She reminded me, “You, for instance, and your wife were posted to Yemen.”

I didn’t recall telling her that. But I did recall Yemen. And I knew why she mentioned it. And now I thought I knew who this old friend was. So I slipped my Glock out of my pancake holster and stuck it in my pocket.

She continued, “And then we have State Department Intelligence, which confines its activities to diplomatic spying, including so-called diplomats who are actually spies, such as Vasily Petrov.”

I inquired, “Is there a point to this monologue?”

She went on, “The CIA, as with any similar organization, is
reluctant to share or turn over important information or important suspects to another agency.”

“Reluctant might be an understatement.”

“So,” she continued, “the CIA has to find ways to operate freely and legally on American soil.” She informed me, “Sometimes, if the suspect is a foreign diplomat, they will work with State Department Intelligence, and most times they will work with the FBI.” She reminded me, “The Anti-Terrorist Task Force, for instance, has several CIA officers attached to the task force.” She prompted, “I believe you knew one or two of them.”

“Right.” My wife actually killed one of them. And probably slept with that asshole, Ted Nash, before she and I were married. But it wasn’t a crime of passion; it was self-defense. Or so it was ruled. But the CIA thought otherwise and they have long memories, as I found out in Yemen. And maybe as I was about to find out here.

Ms. Faraday continued, “In this case, the person of interest, Colonel Vasily Petrov, is a diplomat. And who is it that is watching Vasily Petrov the most closely?”

“His girlfriend?”

She ignored my wit and answered her own question. “Your group. The DSG.”

I kind of understood all this oblique baloney—Petrov was a person of interest to the CIA and to State Department Intelligence and they were sharing the case to give the CIA legal cover in the U.S. And my group, the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, would be a convenient and well-placed ally. But rather than ask us for help, the CIA or SDI penetrated the Diplomatic Surveillance Group with one of their people. And, voilà! Tess Faraday was my trainee. I asked her, “So are you CIA or SDI?”

“Does it matter who I’m working for?”

“Why am I asking?”

“It’s better for both of us if you didn’t know. In case you are asked later.”

“Right.” I asked another question. “What do you need from me?”

“Well, as it turns out, you set the wheels in motion to find
Petrov, and Captain Kalish, who has lots of resources, is working well with you.”

“So I’m the front guy.”

“You’re the go-to guy.” She stopped the Blazer on a lonely stretch of road and glanced at the dashboard clock. “And you’re very bright.”

I ignored that and asked her, “What is it that Petrov is suspected of?”

“What do
you
think?”

“Well, as you probably know, he’s an evil James Bond with a license to kill.”

“I know that.”

“Good.” So, as it turns out, my instincts were correct; I had stumbled onto something big. Something that the CIA and State Department Intelligence were on to, and might or might not be sharing with the FBI. Also, my instincts about Tess Faraday were correct; she wasn’t who she said she was. She was, in fact, a plant—sort of like a parasite that attached itself to the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. Well, that might be a little harsh. Also, I was relieved that she wasn’t with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility. The CIA, I could handle. And, finally, I was a little pissed off.

I don’t know why I cared, but I asked her, “Tell me about your legend.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I’m not actually a lawyer, but it fit the requirement for me to be an FBI aspirant.” She confided, “I was a little concerned about that. You’re married to a lawyer, and professions are hard to fake.”

“Not if you’re a lawyer. They fake it every day.”

She smiled and continued, “What’s true is that I’m from Lattingtown, and my family did actually summer in the Hamptons.”

“More importantly, are you a Mets fan?”

“Let’s go Mets.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“I think you were on to me.”

To burst her bubble, and because I was pissed, I said, “You need to work on your acting.”

“It’s not my strong point.”

“No, it’s not. And I have a target to find, and I’m not making any progress here. So—”

My Nextel—Matt’s Nextel—vibrated and I looked at the text, hoping it was from Kalish. But all it said was: I’m here.

Assuming this obscure message was for Mrs. Faraday, I showed it to her.

She nodded and said, “Good.” Then she said to me, “Also, if you’re wondering, Grant doesn’t actually exist. But if he did, he’d be the jealous type and I’d have to take calls from him all day and run to the ladies’ room to talk to him in private.”

I was relieved to hear that her bladder was okay. I advised her, “I don’t like being jerked around, Ms. Faraday—if that’s your name.”

“It’s my real name.” She added, “I enjoyed our conversations.”

“At some point I will need to see identification. Including your pistol license. Or I will confiscate your gun. And place you under arrest.”

“My ID is with the man we’re about to meet.”

“It better be.” I informed her, “At this point, I need to call my case agent.” I began dialing. “To cover my ass and report my conversation with you.”

She put her hand over mine. “That’s taken care of. You’re covered. But you can call Matt and Steve, and Captain Kalish if you’d like.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“John… this is sort of out of your hands now. And out of the FBI’s hands. But we’d like you to work with us and maintain contact with your team and your guy Kalish.”

“Who is
us
?”

“You’re about to find out.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“This is your job.”

“You just said it wasn’t.”

“We’re sharing the job.”

And, I, John Corey, was a loose cannon who needed to be kept close. “Let me ask you this—do you have reason to believe that Vasily Petrov is on some sort of mission tonight?”

She stayed silent for a few seconds, then replied, “We didn’t think he was up to anything in particular tonight. Then, as we both noticed, Petrov, Fradkov, and the guy you call Igor—Gorsky—got really strange at Tamorov’s. Then they take off in a landing craft, so we go from routine surveillance to… well, maybe something interesting. Or maybe nothing.” She added, “That’s why you follow guys like that.”

Right. I follow them to see who they meet, who they know, and how they spend their time outside their home and office, and now and then something interesting comes up. And I report it, with photos included, and that’s where my job ends and an FBI agent picks it up. Tonight, however, it seemed like I could rewrite my job description. If I wanted to.

I texted Steve:
Anything new?

He replied:
All quiet.

I texted Kalish:
Any luck?

He replied:
You’ll be the first.

How could a sea-and-air search not find a twenty-five-foot amphibious landing craft that started from a known point at a known time? Maybe the craft was already onboard a ship and covered with a tarp. Or it had come ashore somewhere along a lonely beach. More importantly, what was the purpose of Petrov leaving Tamorov’s party in a landing craft? Everything—boats, babes, and booze—pointed to a pleasure cruise, maybe ending on a small bay island, or a party ship. And maybe that’s all there was to it.

Tess said, “Just for the record, and to make you a little less angry, I did ask that I be assigned to you rather than any of the dozens of other team leaders who watch the Russians. And now I’ll tell you why. Because you’re very good at what you do. And I really enjoy working with you.”

I didn’t reply.

She put the Blazer in gear and we continued down the narrow road.

I asked her, “Did I say I wanted to work with you?”

“Just meet this guy, and listen. Then make your decision.” She added, “Time to come in from the pasture.”

Well, be careful what you wish for. We continued on the bumpy reservation road to a powwow.

She was peering into the darkness, then the headlights picked out two stone pillars and an iron gate, which was open. She turned between the pillars and the headlights illuminated a row of gravestones.

“This is the place,” Tess said. She glanced at the Blazer’s compass, then showing good tradecraft she turned the vehicle around toward the exit. She shut off the engine, leaving us in dark silence.