Radiant Angel

Chapter two

If I wanted to see assholes all day, I would have become a proctologist. Instead, I watch assholes for my country.

I was parked in a black Chevy Blazer down the street from the Russian Federation Mission to the United Nations on East 67th Street in Manhattan, waiting for an asshole named Vasily Petrov to appear. Petrov is a colonel in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service — the SVR in Russian — which is the equivalent to our CIA, and the successor to the Soviet KGB. Vasily — who we have affectionately code-named Vaseline, because he’s slippery — has diplomatic status as Deputy Representative to the United Nations for Human Rights Issues, which is a joke because his real job is SVR Legal Resident in New York — the equivalent of a CIA Station Chief. I have had Colonel Petrov under the eye on previous occasions, and though I’ve never met him he’s reported to be a very dangerous man, and thus an asshole.

I’m John Corey, by the way, former NYPD homicide detective, now working for the Federal government as a contract agent. My NYPD career was cut short by three bullets which left me seventy-five percent disabled (twenty-five percent per bullet?) for retirement pay purposes. In fact, there’s nothing wrong with me physically, though the mental health exam for this job was a bit of a challenge.

Anyway, sitting next to me behind the wheel was a young lady whom I’d worked with before, Tess Faraday. Tess was maybe early thirties, auburn hair, tall, trim, and attractive. Also in the SUV, looking over my shoulder, was my wife, Kate Mayfield, who was actually in Washington, but I could feel her presence. If you know what I mean.

Tess asked me, “Do I have time to go to the john, John?” She thought that was funny.

“You have a bladder problem?”

“I shouldn’t have had that coffee.”

“You had two.” Guys on surveillance pee in the container and throw it out the window. I said, “Okay, but be quick.”

She exited the vehicle and double-timed it to a Starbucks around the corner on Third Avenue.

Meanwhile, Vasily Petrov could come out of the Mission at any time, get into his chauffeur-driven Mercedes S550, and off he goes.

But I’ve got three other mobile units, plus four agents on legs, so Vasily is covered while I, the team leader, am sitting here while Ms. Faraday is sitting on the potty.

And what do we think Colonel Petrov is up to? We have no idea. But he’s up to something. That’s why he’s here. And that’s why I’m here.

In fact, Petrov arrived only about four months ago, and it’s the recent arrivals who are sometimes sent on the field with a new game play, and these guys need more watching than the SVR agents who’ve been stationed here awhile and who are engaged in routine espionage. Watch the new guys.

The Russian U.N. Mission occupies a thirteen-story brick building with a wrought-iron fence in front of it, conveniently located across the street from the 19th Precinct, whose surveillance cameras keep an eye on the Russians 24/7. The Russians don’t like being watched by the NYPD, but they know they’re also protected from pissed-off demonstrators and people who’d like to plant a bomb outside their front door. FYI, I live five blocks north of here on East 72nd, so I don’t have far to walk when I get off duty at four. I could almost taste the Buds in my fridge.

So I sat there, waiting for Vasily Petrov and Tess Faraday. It was a nice day in early September, one of those beautiful dry and sunny days you get after the dog days of August. It was a Sunday, a little after 10 A.M., so the streets and sidewalks of New York were relatively quiet. I volunteered for Sunday duty because Mrs. Corey (my wife, not my mother) was in Washington for a weekend conference, returning tonight or tomorrow morning, and I’d rather be working than trying to find something to do solo on a Sunday.

Also, today was September 11, a day when I usually go to at least one memorial service with Kate, but this year it seemed more appropriate for me to mark the day by doing what I do.

There is a heightened alert every September 11 since 2001, but this year we hadn’t picked up any specific intel that Abdul was up to something. And it being a Sunday, there weren’t enough residents or commuters in the city for Abdul to murder. September 11, however, is September 11, and there were a lot of security people working today to make sure that this was just another quiet Sunday.

Kate was in D.C. because she’s an FBI Special Agent with the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, headquartered downtown at 26 Federal Plaza. Special Agent Mayfield was recently promoted to Supervisory Special Agent, and her new duties take her to Washington a lot. She sometimes goes with her boss, Special Agent-in-Charge Tom Walsh, who used to be my ATTF boss, too, but I don’t work for him or the ATTF any longer. And that’s a good thing for both of us. We were not compatible. Walsh, however, likes Kate, and I think the feeling is mutual. I wasn’t sure Walsh was with Kate on this trip, because I never ask, and she rarely volunteers the information.

On a less annoying subject, I now work for the DSG — the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. The DSG is also headquartered at 26 Fed, but with this new job I don’t need to be at headquarters much, if at all.

My years in the Mideast section of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force were interesting, but stressful. And according to Kate, I was the cause of much of that stress. Wives see things husbands don’t see. Bottom line, I had some issues and run-ins with the Muslim community (and my FBI bosses) that led directly or indirectly to my being asked by my superiors if I’d like to find other employment. Walsh suggested the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, which would keep me (a) out of his sight, (b) out of his office, and (c) out of trouble.

Sounded good. Kate thought so, too. In fact, she got the promotion after I left.

Coincidence?

My Nextel phone is also a two-way radio, and it blinged. Tess’ voice said, “John, do you want a donut or something?”

“Did you wash your hands?”

Tess laughed. She thinks I’m funny. “What do you want?”

“A chocolate chip cookie.”

“Coffee?”

“No.” I signed off.

Tess’ career goal is to become an FBI Special Agent, and to do that she has to qualify for appointment under one of five entry programs — Accounting, Computer Science, Language, Law, or what’s called Diversified Experience. Tess is an attorney and thus qualifies. Most failed lawyers become judges or politicians, but Tess tells me she wants to do something meaningful, whatever that means. Meanwhile, she’s working with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group.

Most of the DSG men and women are second-career people, twenty-year retirees from various law enforcement agencies, so we have mostly experienced agents, ex-cops, mixed with inexperienced young attorneys like Tess Faraday who see the Diplomatic Surveillance Group as a stepping-stone where they can get some street creds that look good on their FBI app.

Tess got back in the SUV and handed me an oversized cookie. “My treat.”

She had another cup of coffee. Some people never learn.

She was wearing khaki cargo pants, a blue polo shirt, and running shoes, which are necessary if the target goes off on foot. Her pants and shirt were loose enough to hide a gun, but Tess is not authorized to carry a gun.

In fact, Diplomatic Surveillance Group agents are theoretically not authorized to carry guns. But we’re not as stupid as the people who make the rules, so almost all the ex-cops carry, and I had my 9mm Glock in a pancake holster in the small of my back, beneath my loose-fitting polo shirt.

So we waited for Vasily to show.

Colonel Petrov lives in a big high-rise in the upscale Riverdale section of the Bronx. This building, which we call the ’plex — short for complex — is owned and wholly occupied by the Russians who work at the U.N. and at the Russian Consulate, and it is a nest of spies. The ’plex itself, located on a high hill, sprouts more antennas than a garbage can full of cockroaches.

The National Security Agency, of course, has a facility nearby and they listen to the Russians, who are listening to us, and we all have fun trying to block each other’s signals. And round it goes. The only thing that has changed since the days of the Cold War is the encryption codes.

On a less technological level, the game is still played on the ground as it has been forever. Follow that spy. The Diplomatic Surveillance Group also has a confidential off-site facility — what we call the Bat Cave — near the Russian apartment complex, and the DSG team that was watching the ’plex this morning reported that Vasily Petrov had left, and they followed him here to the Mission, where my team picked up the surveillance.

The Russians don’t usually work in the office on Sundays, so my guess was that Vasily was in transit to someplace else — or that he was going back to the ’plex — and that he’d be coming out shortly and getting into his chauffeur-driven Benz.

Colonel Petrov, according to the intel, is married, but his wife and children have remained in Moscow. This in itself is suspicious, because the families of the Russian U.N. delegation love to live in New York on the government ruble. Or maybe there’s an innocent explanation for the husband-wife separation. Like she has an important job in Moscow or they just hate each other.

Tess informed me, “I have two tickets to the Mets doubleheader today.” She further informed me, “I’d like to at least catch the last game.”

“You can listen to them lose both games on the radio.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that.” She reminded me, “We’re supposed to be relieved at four.”

“You can relieve yourself anytime you want.”

She didn’t reply.

A word about Tess Faraday. Did I say she was tall, slim, and attractive? She also swims and plays paddleball, whatever that is. She’s fairly sharp, and intermittently enthusiastic, and I guess she’s idealistic, which is why she left her Wall Street law firm to apply for the FBI where the money is not as good.

But money is probably not an issue with Ms. Faraday. She mentioned to me that she was born and raised in Lattingtown, an upscale community on the North Shore of Long Island, also known as the Gold Coast. And by her accent and mannerisms I can deduce that she came from some money and good social standing. People like that who want to serve their country usually go to the State Department or into intelligence work, not the FBI. But I give her credit for what she’s doing and I wish her luck.

Also, needless to say, Tess Faraday and John Corey have little in common, though we get along during these days and hours of forced intimacy.

One thing we do have in common is that we’re both married. His name is Grant, and he’s some kind of international finance guy, and he travels a lot for his work. I’ve never met Grant, and I probably never will, but he likes to text and call his wife a lot. I deduce, by Tess’ end of the conversation, that Grant is the jealous type, and Tess seems a bit impatient with him. At least when I’m in earshot of the conversation.

Tess inquired, “If Petrov goes mobile, do we stay with him, or do we hand him over to another team?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“No, I mean you should wear Depends.”

One of us thought that was funny.

But to answer Tess’ question, if Vasily went mobile, most probably my team would stay with him. He wasn’t supposed to travel farther than a twenty-five-mile radius from Columbus Circle without State Department permission, and according to my briefing he hadn’t applied for a weekend travel permit. The Russians rarely did, and when they did they would apply on a Friday afternoon so that no one at State had time to approve or disapprove their travel plans. And off they’d go, in their cars or by train or bus to someplace outside their allowed radius. Usually the women were just going shopping at some discount mall in Jersey, and the men were screwing around in Atlantic City. But sometimes the SVR or the Military Intelligence guys — the GRU — were meeting people, or looking at things like nuclear reactors that they shouldn’t be looking at. That’s why we follow them, though we almost never bust them. The FBI, of which the DSG is a part, is famous — or infamous — for watching people and collecting evidence for years. Cops act on evidence. The FBI waits until the suspect dies of old age.

I said to Tess, “Let me know now if you can’t stay past four. I’ll call for a replacement.”

She replied, “I’m yours.”

“Wonderful.”

“But if we get off at four, I have an extra ticket.”

I considered my reply, then said, perhaps unwisely, “I take it Mr. Faraday is out of town.”

“He is.”

“Why have we not heard from Grant this morning?”

“I told him I was on a discreet — and quiet — surveillance.”

“You’re learning.”

“I don’t need to learn what I already know.”

“Right.” Escape and evasion. Perhaps Grant had reason to be jealous. You think?

Regarding the nature of our surveillance of Colonel Vasily Petrov, this was actually a non-discreet surveillance — what we call a bumper lock — meaning we were going to be up Vasily’s ass all day. They always spotted a bumper lock surveillance, and sometimes they acknowledged the DSG agents with a hard stare — or if they were pricks they gave you the Italian salute.

Vasily was particularly unfriendly, probably because he was an intel officer, a big wheel in the Motherland, and he found it galling to be on the receiving end of a surveillance. Well, fuck him. Everybody’s got a job to do.

Vasily sometimes plays games with the surveillance team, and he’s actually given us the slip twice in the last four months. He’s never given me the slip, but some other DSG teams lost him. And there’s hell to pay when you lose the SVR Resident. And that wasn’t going to happen on my watch. I don’t lose anyone. Well, I lost my wife once in Bloomingdale’s. I can’t figure out the logic of a woman’s shopping habits. They don’t think like us.

“So do you want to go to the game?”

Mrs. Faraday had already started the game. But okay, two colleagues going to a baseball game after work is innocent enough. Even when they’re married and their spouses are out of town. Right? I said, “I’ll take a rain check.”

“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.

Chapter three

Diplomatic 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:

A minute later, the reply read:

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.

“He thinks about the battlefield.”

I suggested, “Pay attention to the target.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter four

We crossed into Suffolk County, still heading east toward the end of Long Island, following the Mercedes with Dmitry at the wheel, Igor riding shotgun, and Petrov and Fradkov in the back seat.

Possibly this was a wild-goose chase to draw half the team away from the Russian U.N. Mission. Our Bureau car radios and our hand-helds didn’t work out here, but our Nextel radio feature did, so I blinged the other half of my surveillance team who were still on 67th Street, but they had nothing unusual to report. Kenny Hieb, who was my assistant team leader, also informed me that no one at 26 Fed was able to ID Igor from the PD surveillance tape, but they were working on it. The FBI never sleeps, but things move a little slower on weekends and holidays.

I let my team know we were in Suffolk County, following the target, and would not be returning to their location for a while, if at all. I also advised Kenny to request an additional team to make sure the Mission was covered.

We were now beyond comfortable commuting distance to Manhattan and the suburbs began to thin out. I looked at the fuel gauge and saw we could make it all the way to Montauk Point if we had to. I assumed the Mercedes could do the same, so there’d be no gas station stops unless Ms. Faraday had to pee again.

We were now about fifty road miles from Manhattan, and I let Tess know, “There’s a Russian oligarch, Georgi Tamorov, who has a big oceanfront house in Southampton. Petrov has been Tamorov’s guest a few times.”

“Do we still get relieved at four?”

“We can ask. But it’s Sunday and I think we’re it.”

“What if they stay overnight?”

“We take turns sleeping in the minivan.” I asked her, “Haven’t you been doing this awhile?”

“I never did an overnight.” She informed me, “Grant is flying in tomorrow morning.”

I reminded her, “We are protecting the homeland. Sometimes the hours are not convenient.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Are you sure you want this job?”

“I am.”

“And what does Grant want?”

“That’s none of your business. But since you asked, he’s not happy about this.”

“I’m disappointed in him.”

She thought a moment, then said, “I’m sure it’s easier if both spouses are in the same business.”

I didn’t reply.

A few miles later, she asked me, “Am I making a mistake? I mean about wanting to be an FBI agent?”

“Look inside. Your inner light will guide you.”

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s correct.”

We traveled in silence awhile, then Tess informed me, “I’ve applied for a gun permit.”

“Holy shit.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry. That just slipped out.”

“Be serious, John. I need to know if I have what it takes to carry and use a gun.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Have you ever used your gun?”

“Now and then.”

“Did you ever... you know, shoot anyone?”

“What do you hear?”

“I heard you were shot three times.”

“All on the same day.”

“Did you get them?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about this?”

“Not at this moment.”

“Okay.” She asked me, “Do you have any tips? I mean for when I go to Quantico and take the Pistol Qualification Course.”

“You’ll do fine on the Q Course. But here’s a tip for when you’re going to a real gunfight. Borrow money from the agents with you. It gives them an added incentive to protect you.”

She laughed.

“Remember,” I continued helpfully, “anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Ammo is cheap. And if your shooting stance is good, you’re probably not moving fast enough.”

Tess nodded, then glanced at me.

I went on, “When approaching a suspect, watch their hands. Hands kill. In God we trust. Everyone else, keep your hands where I can see them. Be polite. Be professional. But have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”

Tess again glanced at me, probably wondering how anyone so clever got plugged three times. I wonder about that myself. Shit happens.

I concluded, “Use a gun that works every time. As George Washington said, ‘All skill is in vain when an angel pisses in the flintlock of your musket.’ ”

We continued in silence. Finally, Tess said, “Thank you.”

So it’s come to this. Giving tips and assurance to a dilettante who’s rebelling against her background and her husband. How are the mighty fallen.

We were entering an area called the Pine Barrens, an empty stretch along the Expressway, and traffic was light here.

Tess asked me, “Why aren’t we calling this in?”

“We have nothing to report.”

“We’re a hundred miles from where we started, John.”

“Eighty.”

“The case agent should know that.”

“The phone works both ways.”

She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Maybe we should get some backup moving.”

“We’re not having any problems or issues.”

“Maybe they’re leading us into a trap.”

“I never thought of that.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but—”

“It’s beyond crazy.”

“All right... but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t say that.”

“Do you have an extra gun?”

“If I did, you’re not getting it.”

“You’ll be begging me to take it if this is a trap.”

“Change the subject.”

To be fair to Ms. Faraday and her paranoia, Vasily Petrov was a killer, but he wouldn’t risk carrying a gun. If he did, and we decided to have the local police pull his car over on some pretext, he’d be booted out of the country tomorrow, and that’s not what Colonel Petrov wanted. Or what the CIA wanted. The State Department should have rejected his diplomatic credentials and barred his entry into the U.S. But I’m sure the CIA wanted to see what Petrov was up to. I get this. But that’s like opening your door to a killer to see what he wants.

Tess suggested, “Maybe we should call for aviation.”

“Negative.”

“Why are you being stubborn?”

I informed her, “We are being tracked at 26 Fed through our GPS, so anyone there who wants to know where we are can know. We are on a routine surveillance in broad daylight, following one diplomatic vehicle that is probably on its way to their compatriot’s beach house. There are no ambushes ahead, and we do not need a spotter craft or a Black Hawk gunship overhead.” I suggested, “Just drive.”

“Yes, sir.” She added, “I hope we get ambushed.”

Me, too, if it shuts her up.

If Ms. Faraday thought that I was not in the best of moods, she was right. And if I thought about why, I’d conclude that I might be having some marital difficulties. Nothing major at the moment, except that we seemed to have little to say to each other.

When Kate and I worked together, we fought a lot about the job, but they were good fights and ironically it brought us closer together. Especially when my unorthodox methods led to the successful conclusion of a big case.

Now, however, I had no big cases and never would with this job. Meanwhile, Kate’s career arc was rising, and I’m following assholes all day. I don’t even carry handcuffs anymore. I’m not even sure I have arrest powers. On the plus side, my NYPD rank follows me for life and I’m still Detective John Corey. Small consolation.

Big egos deflate quickly, and mine even half-deflated is twice as big as anyone else’s. But I needed to do something — like get another job commensurate with my skills and experience, and my bloodhound instincts. And my big ego. Maybe something in foreign intelligence. I pictured myself calling Kate from, say, Iran. “I’ll just be another few weeks here, sweetheart. Gotta check out a secret nuclear facility and kidnap an atomic physicist. Don’t forget to pick up my dry cleaning. Ciao.”

The male ego is a wondrous thing.

On that subject, Mrs. Faraday decided to confess, “I have actually asked to work with you.” She inquired, “Do you want to know why?”

“No.”

“You do. So I’ll tell you.”

I waited for her to tell me, but she said, “But not today. I just wanted to fess up and make sure you don’t mind.”

I wondered who the hell she was talking to, and why Howard Fensterman, the FBI supervisor running the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, would even consider her request. That didn’t compute. In fact, there were a few things about Tess Faraday that were not computing. For all I knew, she was with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility — sort of like the NYPD’s Internal Affairs Bureau — and she was writing me up. But that’s a little paranoid. More likely, she or her family had some connections at 26 Fed, or she had good persuasive powers with whoever was running the DSG trainee program. Also, I could imagine some tongues wagging when pretty Tess Faraday asked if she could work with Detective Corey again. Like I don’t have enough problems at home or at 26 Fed.

“John? Do you mind?”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

The Manorville exit to the Hamptons was coming up and the Expressway was about to end. The Mercedes signaled and took the exit.

Tess followed, and Matt and Steve fell in behind us.

The Mercedes turned south on Captain Daniel Roe Highway and we followed. Traffic was light, so the three vehicles, all in a neat row, looked like a caravan of friends heading to the beach.

Tess commented, “We’ve been tailing these guys for over an hour and they don’t seem to care.”

“They like being followed. Makes them feel important.”

“They’re fucking up my day.”

I was surprised at the unexpected obscenity. I pointed out, “This gives us quality training time together.”

She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Grant expects me to meet him at JFK tomorrow morning.”

“Worry about it in the morning.”

“I’ll text him when we see what’s happening here.”

“Watch what you say.” I reminded her, “Whatever happens here stays here.”

“Okay.” She seemed less worried and said, “I like that. I can’t say where I am because it’s top secret.”

“Saves a lot of marriages.”

She laughed.

We continued for a few miles, then turned east onto Sunrise Highway, which would take us to Southampton.

Tess asked, “You think Petrov is going to this Russian guy’s house?”

“He’s done it before.”

“Who is this guy?”

“I told you. A zillionaire oligarch. Georgi Tamorov. Owns half the planet.”

“What is their connection?”

“Don’t know, and don’t have a need to know.”

“But I’ll bet you’d like to know.”

“Please don’t try to get into my head. My last two psychiatrists committed suicide.”

She laughed again.

Clearly Tess Faraday enjoyed my company. And clearly there was more to her than a pretty face.

Chapter five

The Mercedes continued east on Sunrise Highway, then suddenly made a sharp right onto a small side road. Tess hit her brakes and made the turn, as did Matt and Steve.

We stayed close to the target vehicle as it continued south toward the ocean.

Tess informed me, “My parents had a summer house in East Hampton.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“I know every back road in the Hamptons.”

“Where’s the ambush?”

She ignored that and continued, “If they’re going to Tamorov’s, they’ll turn left on Montauk Highway toward the oceanfront mansions.”

And sure enough, they turned left on Montauk Highway, which was a curving, two-lane Colonial-era road, somewhat picturesque, and slow with local traffic.

The Shinnecock Indian Reservation came up on our right, sitting on a billion dollars’ worth of prime waterfront real estate, a perfect setting for a future gambling casino. In lieu of a casino, the Shinnecocks had a trading post on the side of the road. Matt Nexteled, “What kind of Indians are these? Dot or feather?”

“Feather.”

“Oh... I was in the mood for curry.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

Tess asked me, “Where is Tamorov’s house?”

“Martini Lane.”

“Gin Lane.”

“Right.”

“Okay, so he’s going to make a right, probably on South Main.”

“Don’t anticipate. Just follow.”

“You’re lucky I’m with you.” She mocked, “Martini Lane. Is that where Gin Lane crosses Vermouth Road?”

“Drive.” I hate a wiseass. Unless it’s me.

“And for your information, gin is Old English for a common grazing area.”

“Everybody knows that,” I assured her.

“What’s the name of Tamorov’s house?”

“Tamorov’s house.”

“The houses have names.”

“Right. The Tides.”

“I know it.”

“Been there?”

“No.”

“You might get your chance today.”

She didn’t reply.

We continued, and Montauk Highway narrowed as it entered the shop-lined village of Southampton. An historical marker said JOBS LANE, 1664, which let everyone know they were in a three-hundred-percent markup zone.

Tess told me, “I had my first grown-up date in the Driver’s Seat—” She pointed to a pub up the road. “Right there.”

“How’d that work out?”

“I couldn’t get a drink. I was too young.”

“Did they let you use the bathroom?”

“Not funny. Now I have to go. Can I pull over?”

“Sure.” Maybe she’s pregnant.

She double-parked and hit the flashers, then scooted out of the Blazer and hurried toward the pub.

I blinged Matt and Steve, who were behind me. “Quick P-stop. Stay with the target.”

“Copy.”

The minivan went around me and continued on Jobs Lane, behind the Mercedes.

My Nextel blinged and Matt said, “Target turning right on South Main.”

“Copy.” Well, that removed any doubt that Petrov was going to Tamorov’s house. But why? Probably a party. This was going to be a long day.

Tess reappeared, hopped in the driver’s seat, and asked, “Where’d they go?”

“Right on South Main.”

“Told you.” She put the Blazer in gear and continued on Jobs Lane.

“Did you call Grant?”

“Quick text.”

I didn’t pursue that, and she turned right toward the ocean and we caught up with the minivan. “Go around.”

She passed Matt and Steve and took up a position fifty feet behind the Mercedes.

Tess lowered her window and said, “Smell that ocean.”

“Why?”

South Main was lined with Southampton’s iconic hedgerows, behind which were broad lawns that led to old, multimillion-dollar mansions.

Tess pointed. “The Raleighs lived there. Friends of my parents.”

“They owned the slum I grew up in. Nice people.”

“This brings back a lot of memories.”

“Glad for that.”

“There were no Russians here when I was growing up.”

“The world has changed.”

“Where do these oligarchs get all that money?”

“When you find out, let me know.”

“My father worked hard for his money. He didn’t steal it.”

“The Russian oligarchs didn’t steal money. They stole the country.”

“Disgusting.”

“The Shinnecocks would agree with that.”

We were approaching Gin Lane, which ran along the Atlantic.

Tess asked, “Why do they want to live here?”

“Russia sucks.”

“Never been. How about you?”

“Nope. Been to Brighton Beach, though.”

The Mercedes took a left on Gin Lane and we followed. There didn’t seem to be any other vehicles on the oceanfront road.

As I said, following Ivan is more fun than following Abdul. The Russians partied hard and they usually had some good-looking babes with them. Not that that’s relevant to the job. But if you’ve ever sat outside a mosque for three hours waiting for Abdul... you get my point.

On the right side of Gin Lane, the ocean side, lay huge waterfront mansions behind hedges and high walls. On the left were equally impressive mansions that became beachfront property when a hurricane blew in.

I’d followed Petrov here once, back in June, so I knew that Tamorov’s place was at the east end of Gin Lane. I knew, too, that Tamorov threw some wild parties. Petrov and his pals had overnight bags, so I could conclude that I’d be sleeping in the minivan tonight. I hoped Ms. Faraday didn’t snore.

I called Matt and Steve. “Target will turn into an oceanfront estate called The Tides. We will not.”

“Copy.”

I said to Tess, “Bumper lock this guy and when he turns, stop.”

She nodded and sat on the Mercedes’ tail.

The big double gates of Tamorov’s estate were coming up, marked by a brass sign saying THE TIDES. The Mercedes slowed, then without signaling it turned into the gates, which were already opening electronically, meaning the Russians had called ahead to announce their arrival and let the security guys know they were being followed.

Tess stopped opposite the entrance, and I saw two big guys behind the gates, dressed in black like Batman, and they tried to eye us through our tinted windows. They didn’t have visible weapons, but I was certain they were carrying.

The Mercedes stopped just inside the gates, and an arm extended from the right rear window where Petrov was sitting. He flipped us the bird.

Tess said, “That was rude.”

I lowered my tinted window just enough to get my arm out and returned the salute, adding, “Yob vas!” meaning, Fuck you.

“What did you say?”

“I wished them a nice day.” I instructed, “Continue fifty yards and make a U-turn.”

We continued past the estate, then Tess did a U-turn on the narrow sandy lane and stopped, facing the Tamorov estate down the road.

Matt and Steve did the same, and we all got out of our vehicles for a stretch.

A nice breeze came off the ocean and the sky was light blue, spotted with small puffy clouds. Gulls circled over the water looking for lunch, and the sun was slightly west of high noon. My stomach growled.

Matt Conlon, also a former NYPD homicide detective, said, “I can’t believe that scumbag gave us the finger.”

Steve Lansky, formerly with the NYPD Counterintelligence Unit, said, “They’re pissing me off.”

I looked down the road and saw that Tamorov’s two security guys had walked into the road and were looking at us.

Steve retrieved his Nikon with the zoom lens and focused on them. “They look Russian.” He explained, “One looks like my old man.” He shot a few pictures of the security guys.

“All right,” I said, “my guess is that Petrov is here for the day, maybe the night.”

Tess seemed resigned to the possibility that we’d be on surveillance until dawn, though she did ask, “Can we call for a relief team?”

“I need the overtime.” I also informed her, “These guys sometimes play a shell game, so if another vehicle exits the estate then we need to get the locals to pull it over and see if Petrov is in it.” I reminded her, “Petrov is the target. Not the Mercedes and not the driver.”

“How about Igor and Fradkov?” asked Ms. Faraday. “What if they leave without Petrov?”

“Then you can take the minivan and follow them if you’d like.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I thought you had a game to see and a husband to meet.”

“This is getting interesting.”

I reminded everyone, “The Russians are a major power, and they’re not our official enemy, so we need to avoid causing an incident.” Meaning, no punching anyone in the balls. But a “Fuck you” is okay.

Tess suggested, “Why don’t you call a supervisor for instructions?”

“I make the decisions in the field based on my estimation of the situation.”

“Okay. Have you decided who goes for lunch?”

“No one. I’m going to shoot a few seagulls. You want one?”

She seemed tired of my wit and informed us, “I know a few delis in town that deliver.”

Best news I’ve had all day.

So we gave Tess our lunch orders and she got on her cell phone and found a deli in Southampton that would deliver to two vehicles parked on Gin Lane. She hung up and informed us, “Half an hour.”

I hoped lunch arrived before the Mercedes reappeared.

This job gave you a lot of agita, but also a lot of freedom, like a traveling salesman. If your numbers were good, no one in the home office asked what you did all day.

But if you screwed up, as a contract agent, you went right into free fall and there was no one there to catch you. No union, no civil service job-for-life. And that was okay with me.

Meanwhile, my target was behind closed gates, which doesn’t mean I lost him — but I couldn’t see him. This was a bit worrisome, but it happens, and eventually the guy has to reappear. All I need to do is see him reappear. If, however, the target slips out the back door, we’ve got a problem. And Petrov had about ten miles of beach to disappear on and a whole ocean for his back door.

I thought about requesting aviation or one of our watercraft that we use for this kind of surveillance. But that could be overkill. Petrov was a person of prime interest, but, unlike some of our Muslim targets, he didn’t warrant the whole nine yards. At least that was the thinking at 26 Fed and beyond.

And in this case, things were probably just as they appeared, meaning Colonel Petrov was a houseguest of Georgi Tamorov, and maybe they were having a party and Petrov was looking forward to seeing boobies in the hot tub and having a few vodkas. No big deal.

All we had to do was make sure we didn’t miss him when he left. Eventually, he’d head back to the city. Another day in the life of Vasily Petrov and John Corey.

Unless today was different.

Chapter six

We stood on the quiet road, our backs to the minivan, drinking bottled water and getting some rays. Most of the summer mansions were empty after Labor Day, but the caretakers or occupants are understandably paranoid, and if anyone saw us they might call the cops. Or we might call the cops. We’d worked with the local and State Police on a few occasions relating to the Tamorov house and other matters of national security, and in fact a few of these local and State Police personnel had been trained by the Anti-Terrorist Task Force and were our local PD contacts.

The world had changed and shrunk, and no place was beyond the reach of the bad guys, and bad things could happen anywhere. Even here, among the hedgerows and the mansions of the rich and powerful.

Steve, who like me is not cut out for passive surveillance, decided he wanted to go piss off the Russian security guys. I don’t encourage confrontation, but I do like it. “If you shoot anyone, you do the paperwork.”

Steve walked down the road, and the security guys retreated behind the gates and closed them.

I texted the case agent:

It takes awhile to get a response when the case agent or anyone at 26 Fed has to answer a question or make a decision, especially on weekends and holidays, so I pocketed my cell phone.

Steve was at the gates now and he was being provocative by snapping photos through the iron bars.

Probably the security guys were yelling at him, though I couldn’t see or hear them at this distance, but I could hear dogs barking.

As I said, this is a non-discreet surveillance, so some interaction is inevitable — or necessary — like the time I double-parked next to a Russian dip car and wouldn’t let him out until my backup arrived. But Steve was pushing the protocol a bit.

Discreet surveillance and undercover work, on the other hand, requires a lot more skill and stealth, but it can produce interesting results. One of the reasons the DSG switches targets is so our faces aren’t known to the same guys, so we can go discreet or undercover if the target hasn’t seen us before. In the case of Colonel Petrov, I’ve followed him before, but I’m fairly certain he’s never seen me up close. On the other hand, the SVR may have taken a picture of me with a zoom lens. So maybe we all had pictures of each other taking pictures of each other. There must be a better way of making a living.

Steve was finished annoying the dogs and the Russians, and he walked back to the vehicles and said, “There are about a dozen cars parked inside.” He deduced, “It’s party time.”

Matt informed us, “I used the house next door in July for a surveillance. Nice people. Don’t care for their Russian neighbors.” He let us know, “The Russkies partied all night. Lots of babes. Topless.”

Steve got interested. “You never showed me those photos.”

Matt smiled. “They’re classified.”

Tess was rolling her eyes and probably hoping that FBI agents were more refined than ex-cops. Unfortunately, they are. She’ll miss us.

Well, this was going to be a long day. One of the first things you learn with surveillance work is piss when you can. There was a tall clump of bulrushes on the side of the road and the boys watered them. Tess was okay for now.

There was no sign of our deli delivery, but a few more cars turned into the Tamorov estate and Steve took pictures. Then a box van turned onto Gin Lane from Old Town Road and came toward us. Behind the van were two more vans. I could see the word CATERING on the side of one van, and I asked Tess, “How many sandwiches did you order?”

She didn’t acknowledge my quick wit.

I stepped into the road and held up my hand. The vans stopped, and on the side of the lead van I saw HAMPTON CATERING.

I went to the driver’s door and held up my creds. The window lowered and I asked the guy behind the wheel, “Where you going?”

He pointed. “The Tides.”

God was either smiling on me, or He was setting me up for a monumental disaster, which He sometimes does. With my help.

I asked the guy, “You need a bartender?”

“No...”

“Sure you do. What’s your name?”

“Dean. Dean Hampton. Same as the town.”

“That’s interesting. Okay, Dean—”

Tess approached and asked me, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to work for Dean.”

“Are you crazy?”

I already answered that question during my FBI interview. I asked Dean, who was wearing a white smock, “You got an extra shirt or something?”

“Uh... yeah. A few in the last truck. But—”

Matt and Steve joined us, and I said to them and to Tess, “You talk to this gentleman and get him squared away.” I unhooked my pancake holster, knowing the Russian security guys checked for guns, and I gave my gun and extra magazines to Steve. I also gave Matt my creds and my wallet in case the security guys asked me for ID.

Matt and Steve didn’t seem to think that me helping Dean cater Tamorov’s party was a good idea, but I explained, “I don’t want to lose the target.”

Matt pointed out, “We know where he is, John. This is as far as we need to go until he goes mobile again.”

“He could be going mobile out the back door.”

Steve volunteered, “I’ll go in with you.”

“They just saw you up close,” I reminded him.

Tess reminded me, “They saw you flipping them off.”

“They’d only recognize my middle finger.”

Tess suggested, “You need to clear this with the case agent.”

“To ask permission is to invite rejection.” I added, “Objections noted. Debate closed.”

Matt also volunteered to go in with me, but I said to my team, “You’re the posse. I’ll text or call in, say, an hour. But if you don’t hear from me in two hours, come get me.”

Matt and Steve exchanged glances, and Matt asked me, “Should we call the local PD for backup?”

“Only if you feel you can’t handle it. Okay, let’s not make the caterers late.” I headed toward the last van, and Tess came up beside me.

“I’m going in with you.”

“That’s not what I just told you to do.”

She held my arm and said, “This could be dangerous. They could recognize you. But they don’t know me, and they don’t know we’re together. You need someone to watch your back.”

I replied patiently, “This is not dangerous. If I’m recognized, they will just ask me to leave and Petrov will file a complaint with the State Department. They will not shoot me and feed me to the sharks.”

“But if they do, I’d like to see that.”

Funny. But also annoying. On the other hand, as I said, there was more to Tess Faraday than a DSG trainee and FBI wannabe. And maybe the best way to find out why she wanted to work with me and where she got the balls to go in undercover was to take it to the next level. “Okay. Get rid of your creds.”

She went back to Steve and gave him her creds, then reached behind her back and pulled out a pancake holster, which she handed to him.

She caught up to me and I inquired, “Where the hell did you get that?”

“I told you I had a gun permit.”

That’s not exactly what she said.

Tess and I walked toward the last of the three catering vans and I asked her, “Who are you working for?”

“Hampton Catering.”

I let that go and opened the double doors of the last box van. Sitting on the floor among piles of catering equipment were eight ladies, all wearing white smocks. “Buenos días,” I said as Tess and I climbed in and closed the doors.

There was a pile of linens in the corner and Tess found two uniform shirts, which we put on over our polo shirts.

The van started to move and we sat on the floor with the possibly undocumented aliens who, if they knew English, would probably have nothing to say to the Russian security guys about the two roadside pickups. I asked Tess, “You got a green card?”

The van turned left and we bumped over the cobblestone entrance to Tamorov’s driveway, then I heard the crunch of gravel. The van stopped and the doors opened.

One of the Russian security guards motioned everyone out, and we all piled out onto the gravel drive. The other two vans were stopped ahead of us, and the catering staff was standing in the long driveway while two security guards wanded them down.

Tess said softly, “They’re taking cell phones.”

And sure enough, the security goons were taking everyone’s cell phones. Maybe I should have anticipated that. But would that have changed my decision to go undercover? No. But I wouldn’t have let my trainee go in with me.

I counted eight security guys, including the two we’d seen at the gate, plus two black Dobermans.

I took my Nextel out of my pocket and code-locked it so no one could access my texts or directory. Tess did the same, and I moved away from her so it wouldn’t appear we were together. Though, to be realistic, not too many of the other fifteen or so catering staff looked quite as tall and pink as we did.

The guys with the wands reached the last van and ran the wands over everyone, finding coins, keys, religious medals, and one pocketknife, but no Glock 9mm automatics.

We all put our cell phones in a basket, and a Russian guy assured us, “You get when you leave.”

One of the security goons who was at the gate earlier was eyeballing me, then he looked at Tess as though she were a gumdrop in a bowl of chili.

The guy came over to me and said, “Wallet.”

“No wallet.”

Without even asking, he patted me down. Asshole.

He looked at Tess again, then at me, as though he’d seen me — or my middle finger — before.

Dean, who’d been briefed by Steve and Matt, saw what was happening and came over to us. He said to the Russian, “We have to get moving.” He tapped his watch. “We’re late.”

The Russian hesitated, then motioned us back in the van.

I made a mental note to put Dean in for the good citizen award.

As everyone was getting back into the vans, I looked at the Tamorov mansion at the end of the long landscaped driveway. It was a three-story contemporary, stark white with huge tinted windows for privacy. Georgi Tamorov did all right for himself. I mean, we’re talking about forty or fifty million bucks for oceanfront on Gin Lane in Southampton, and maybe a million bucks a year in property taxes, which the town loved without loving the source. Money may not buy you respectability, but it will buy you respect.

Tess and I got back into the van, the doors closed, and we started moving.

I glanced at Tess, who seemed a bit anxious.

Well, we’d have a good laugh about this when we got out of here. Even Kate, who likes to follow the rules, would give me credit for good initiative. Maybe. More importantly, the job and the day were getting interesting. I can make any job interesting. Or stressful.

Chapter seven

The three catering vans backed into a five-car garage that held a Jaguar and Bentley. The garage was connected to the service entrance, and everyone got out and started unloading food and equipment. I hefted a crate of tomatoes on my shoulder and walked through a pantry storage room into an industrial-sized kitchen.

There were a few household staff in the kitchen, mostly Hispanic but also a few Russians, including two security guys from the driveway who were watching everyone.

Tess, carrying a load of table linens, didn’t look like she did this often, but she’d probably seen the family caterers arrive enough times so she didn’t seem too out of place.

After everything was unloaded, we all got to work, slicing and dicing, firing up the stoves, and all that. Tess was in charge of cucumbers and I washed lettuce. I never knew it had to be washed.

A big Russian lady, who seemed to be the household cook, supervised the making of zakuski — Russian hors d’oeuvres, which unfortunately didn’t include pigs-in-a-blanket. What kind of party is this? I was starving, so when the fat lady wasn’t looking I scooped up about two hundred dollars’ worth of beluga caviar with my fingers and shoved it in my mouth.

Tess and I tried to make ourselves useful, but neither of us knew our way around a kitchen and the fat lady yelled at me a few times. The Latina ladies, however, were kind and helpful. Nevertheless, Tess and I sort of stuck out, and I was afraid that our cover was going to be blown. In fact, the two Russian security guys kept eyeing us.

Dean saw that we were clueless, so he made Tess and me his personal assistants, and showed us how to put garnish on the trays. Tess used the opportunity to pop a hard-boiled egg in her mouth. We exchanged glances and she smiled, though I could see she was still anxious about this unplanned undercover assignment.

Within twenty minutes there were enough trays loaded so we could begin serving, and I whispered to Dean, “We’ll help serve.”

He nodded and gave me a conspiratorial wink. Dean was probably CIA — Culinary Institute of America. And he was a patriot. Two good citizen awards for Dean Hampton.

Tess and I and four catering ladies, carrying trays, followed the fat lady into a service corridor that led out to a sprawling rear deck overlooking the ocean.

The party had already started, and everyone had a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I looked around for Petrov, but I was distracted by about two dozen young women in bikinis and skimpy cover-ups. The ladies were mingling with paunchy middle-aged men who were dressed mostly in shorts and Hawaiian shirts. There seemed to be no wives present, though it was nice to see that the men had all brought their daughters or nieces. I noticed, too, that everyone was speaking Russian. We’re not in New York anymore.

I counted about thirty men, and I also spotted three men in black who were not drinking. Tamorov had lots of security, which meant that he needed it.

There was a tiki bar set up on the deck, and two bartenders who looked Russian were pouring champagne. In the middle of the hundred-foot-long deck was a swimming pool where a few of the ladies were dangling their toes. At the far end of the deck was a hot tub, but no one was in it yet.

I didn’t see Petrov or Fradkov, or Dmitry the driver, or Igor the unidentified guy with them, and this gave me a little worry.

Also, I didn’t see Georgi Tamorov, whom I would recognize from surveillance photos.

All the servers put their trays on a table, and the Russian men converged like we’d thrown blood into shark-infested waters. We got out of there before we were eaten and returned to the kitchen.

On the way, Tess whispered, “I don’t see Petrov or the others.”

“Right.”

We got more trays, brought them outside, and removed the now empty trays. After about four trips, the food was coming out faster than the porkers could eat it. The women, however, only nibbled.

Meanwhile, Petrov, Fradkov, Tamorov, and Igor still hadn’t shown up, but I saw Dmitry, which was a good sign that his boss was still here. Dmitry was now dressed in shorts and sandals, and he was catching up on the champagne, so I assumed he wouldn’t be driving for a while.

We were now doing passed hors d’oeuvres, and a few of the Russian guys were flirting with Tess in English, and I heard one guy ask her if she was an hors d’oeuvre or the main course, which was maybe a great line in Moscow.

I, being the only male server, made it my responsibility to see that the young ladies were attended to. And being the only guy there who was taller than he was wide, I became popular with the female guests, who seemed interested in my zakuski. One of them put her champagne glass to my lips and insisted I drink. This didn’t happen much in the Mideast section of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. In fact, never.

On my fifth or sixth trip from the kitchen to the deck I finally saw Petrov. He was sitting at a cocktail table with Fradkov and Igor, and Georgi Tamorov. They were all dressed in shorts and tropical shirts, but only Tamorov was drinking champagne. Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor were drinking what looked like water, though it could have been vodka. Or not. Always watch the guys who are not drinking. If they’re not Muslims or AA guys, they have a reason. I looked at Igor, who was staring off into space with his dark, deep-set eyes. He looked like a killer.

I passed around some more zakuski, then went to the bar and said to the bartender, who spoke some English, “More vodka for those gentlemen.”

He informed me, “No wood-ka. Voda,” and poured three glasses of Russian mineral water from a bottle.

I didn’t want to get that close to Petrov, so I asked a server to deliver the drinks.

Well, you can’t make too much of men at a party who don’t drink alcohol. Sometimes the guy just wants to be standing at the end of the night without worrying about getting Willie to rise to the occasion and do his duty.

Back in the kitchen, Dean handed me another tray and asked, “How’s it going?”

“Great.” I asked, “How long are you on?”

“About midnight.” He informed me, “When the sun goes down, the party starts to get a little wild. Skinny-dipping and stuff.”

“Do we all get naked?”

Dean forced a smile, probably wondering what government agency I was with. I’d have shown my creds again, but I came in here clean. Regarding that, Tess and I had been here about two hours, and I knew I had to contact Matt and Steve or they’d be busting through the gates with the local police.

The two kitchen security guys were sitting at a table, eating pickles and watching a Russian-language soccer match on a flat-screen TV.

I asked Dean, “Can I use the phone?”

“No.”

“Can you use the phone? Like, what if you needed more pickled herring or something?”

“I guess...”

“I’ll give you a number to call. You’ll talk to Matt. Tell him about the cell phones and that J&T are okay, and we’ll keep Vaseline under the eye until the caterers leave.”

Dean glanced at the security guys.

“You understand that this is a matter of national security?”

He nodded.

I gave him Matt’s cell phone number and he repeated it.

I took my tray out to the deck, where Tess was now the cocktail waitress, going around with a tray of champagne glasses.

I informed her, “Dean says everyone gets naked later.”

“What the hell did you get me into?”

“You volunteered,” I reminded her.

She moved off with her tray of bubbly.

Indeed, this was a day of things not being what they seemed. Tess Faraday was not a serving girl, and maybe she wasn’t working with me because she liked me. And it was obvious that her frequent trips to the ladies’ room while on surveillance were also occasions to make a phone call — probably to her husband, but maybe to someone else. And Vasily Petrov was not a Human Rights delegate to the U.N., and maybe he wasn’t here for the party.

At the end of every masquerade, the masks come off and you know who’s who. And when you know who’s who, you know what’s what.

Chapter eight

Another 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.

Chapter nine

It 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.”

Chapter ten

Tess 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.

Chapter eleven

Tess 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.”

Chapter twelve

We 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:

A few seconds later, he replied:

I then texted Kalish:

He replied:

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.

Chapter thirteen

Tess 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:

He replied:

I texted Kalish:

He replied:

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.

Chapter fourteen

Because Ms. Faraday is a pro, she hit the kill switch for the interior lights before opening her door.

Because Detective Corey is also a pro, I said, “Give me the keys and your gun.”

She handed me the keys, then hesitated and drew her gun from her holster and handed it to me, butt first.

She carried a .40 caliber Glock, standard government issue. I pocketed her gun and said, “My last piece of gun advice, since you asked, is never go into a situation with an armed person you don’t trust.”

“Sorry you feel that way.”

“Let’s go. Leave your door open.”

Tess got out of the Blazer, leaving her door open in case one of us — specifically me — needed to make a quick getaway. “You lead.”

She moved onto a path between the gravestones, paved with broken seashells that crunched beneath our feet. I took my Glock out of my pocket and followed, keeping five feet between us.

The graveyard was dimly lit by the half-moon overhead, and tall trees cast moon shadows across the graves and paths. A sea breeze rustled the branches, creating the appearance of movement on the ground.

When someone tells you they want you to meet someone, you get the mental image of one person waiting for you to show up. In fact, however, there could be several people waiting for you. And this was not the first time my curiosity got the better of my usually good judgment.

Tess said, in a soft voice, “Straight ahead is Shinnecock Bay. That’s where we stop.”

We continued on the path. The gravestones were not big enough to conceal anyone, but the tree trunks were wide. Ahead, I could see the moonlight sparkling on the bay.

The ground sloped down toward the water and I closed the distance between us.

Tess glanced back at me and saw I was holding my gun at my side. “Relax, John.”

“Keep moving.”

She continued toward the bay and we came to the end of the gravestones, about twenty yards from the shore. She stopped, facing the moonlit bay. “It’s so beautiful here.”

I glanced to my left and right, and behind me, then I looked out at the bay. On the opposite shore, about three miles away, was the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station and the Ponquogue Bridge that connected the mainland of Long Island to the barrier island, along which I could see large waterfront homes.

It occurred to me that Petrov’s amphibious craft had hundreds of miles of shoreline where it could make land — beaches, inlets, coves, creeks, and marshland.

But losing Petrov might be the least of my problems tonight.

Tess turned around and faced me, glancing again at the gun in my hand. “You understand that if this is a trap, that’s not going to do you any good.”

“Wanna bet?”

“And I hope you also understand that... well, that I’ve grown honestly fond of you.”

I had no reply.

“Just to set the record straight, I’m not married. And to be honest, I’m sorry you are.”

Well, hey, if I were going to cheat on my wife, it would certainly be in a graveyard with a woman who lied to me for months. And to make it more enticing, I just disarmed her and we were waiting for a mystery man to show up. I wish I’d brought my handcuffs.

The good news, if there was any, was that Ms. Faraday’s personal interest in me could not possibly be a prelude to an ambush. Though perhaps she wanted me to drop my guard.

“John?”

“You’ll understand that there may be some trust issues here.”

“I understand. So let’s revisit this later when we get all this behind us.”

“Well... I’m happily married.”

“Now who’s lying?”

That sort of pissed me off, but she had a point — though I didn’t know where she got it.

My cell phone vibrated and I looked at the text:

I turned, and coming up the path was a man dressed in tan slacks and a dark blazer. As he got closer I could hear his footsteps on the seashells, then I could see his face, and it was none other than Buckminster Harris of State Department Intelligence, who I’d last seen in Yemen, right before he left me to be killed by a gang of Al Qaeda cutthroats.

So now one of us could take care of some unfinished business.

Chapter fifteen

I’m unarmed,” declared Buck Harris as he held out his hands where I could see them.

“I’m not.”

He stepped closer to me and inquired, “Will you shake hands with me?”

“Why don’t I just kick you in the balls?”

“I sense some anger, John.”

Tess interjected, “Whatever issues you both think you need to settle will have to wait.” She reminded me, “The mission comes first.”

I didn’t know I was on a mission. I was on a fucked-up surveillance. But I guess Tess and Buck were on a mission.

I stared at Buck Harris in the moonlight. He still looked good for a man in his seventies, though he was pale compared to the last time I saw him with his Yemen tan.

Buckminster Harris was an old Cold Warrior, a leftover from the days when all we had to worry about was nuclear annihilation. He was, I had to admit, a charming gentleman when he wasn’t plotting to get me killed.

He said to me, on that subject, “You may have misinterpreted what happened in Yemen.”

“Hey, I never thought of that.” I said, partly for Tess’ benefit, “So even though it looked to me like you and your CIA buddy were trying to get me, Kate, and Brenner whacked, we got it all wrong. Please accept my apology.”

“You haven’t lost any of your sardonic wit.”

“And my aim is still good.”

Tess said, “I think you two need to speak alone.” She looked at me. “Just listen and decide.” She turned and walked toward the bay.

So Buck and I were alone. Maybe. I asked him, “Anyone with you?”

“No.”

“If you lie, you die.”

“You have my word.”

“Me too.” I nodded toward Tess. “Who is she?”

“She’s not CIA if that’s your concern.” He tapped his side pocket. “I can show you her credentials.”

“Nice and easy, Buck.”

He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a cred case.

“Toss it.”

He pitched it to me and I glanced at the open case in the dim light. I could make out her photo and name, Tess Faraday, and also the State Department seal. This meant nothing, of course — spooks carry whatever creds they need, and Buck understood I wasn’t fond of the CIA, or vice versa. In fact, the Agency considered me — and Kate — unfinished business.

I put Tess’ creds in my pocket and said to Buck, “Turn around, hands against that tree, legs spread.”

He complied without complaint and I frisked him. In this business, when you declare you’re unarmed, you better be unarmed, or the conversation is over. “Turn around.”

He turned around, reclaimed his dignity, and took in his surroundings. “This is an appropriate place for a powwow. We will smoke the peace pipe and bury the tomahawk.”

“I’d like to bury it in your fucking head.”

“You’re not getting into the spirit of this place, John.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“Because you need to hear what I have to say about Colonel Petrov.”

“You have three minutes.”

He sat on the ground with his back against the tree. He looked like a tired old warrior who’d been called back to duty because the old enemy had suddenly reappeared.

He invited me to sit, like we were going to smoke a peace pipe or something, but I declined.

I glanced at the bay, where Tess had rolled up her pants and waded into the water up to her knees. These people — and I mean the entire sixteen separate agencies of the U.S. intelligence community — were a little weird. I stuck my gun in my belt and said, “Talk.”

Buck began, “Tess has been briefing me on a regular basis, and when she called me from the pub in Southampton I decided it was worth my time to come out here from the city. Then when she called me from the diner, I was glad I did.”

“Me too.”

“You need to put Yemen behind you.”

“I’m about to.”

He looked at me and said, “John... you understand that I was just following orders... orders that I didn’t necessarily agree with, or feel good about.”

“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’ll find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.”

Buck’s “just following orders” crap didn’t work, so he tried out his charm. “I congratulate you on your bold decision to go undercover into Tamorov’s party.” He let me know, “What you saw changed everything tonight.” Buck saw I wasn’t charmed and he changed the subject. “How is Kate?”

“You’re wasting your three minutes.”

He ignored me and said, “I was happy to hear she got a promotion. But I was puzzled by your... taking a position with lesser responsibilities.”

“Buck, fuck you.”

He continued, “You’re a remarkable man, John, but I don’t think they appreciated you on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

Buck was fluent in Russian, so I tried that. “Yob vas.”

He smiled, then went on, “Your supervisor, Tom Walsh, was undermining you. Which is strange, since he is so fond of Kate.”

“Are you trying to get me to shoot you?”

“I’m just making an observation.” He also let me know, “Tess has become perhaps overly fond of you.” He confided, “We almost took her off the case.”

“I already did that, and I also took her gun. That’s how much I believe her bullshit and your bullshit.”

“Even within a masquerade, some things are real.”

I strongly advised him, “Get to Vasily Petrov.”

“All right. Colonel Vasily Petrov is the son of Vladimir Petrov, a KGB general who once headed SMERSH.”

“I know that.”

“Then you also know that Junior is in a similar line of work.”

“I thought he was a U.N. delegate for human rights.”

“Well, he is, but he doesn’t know much about that.” He thought a moment, then said, “Tess tells me that Petrov and his two companions were acting a bit odd at Tamorov’s party.”

“Right.”

He smiled. “When a Russian isn’t drinking at a party, something is not right.” He thought again, then said, “And then Petrov, Fradkov, and Gorsky got into an amphibious craft and sailed off.”

“Correct.”

“I understand you’ve gotten the county police to mount a sea-and-air search for that amphibious craft.”

“Also correct.”

“What do you think their chances are of finding that craft, or discovering where Petrov was taken?”

“Chances were good two hours ago. Not so good now.”

He thought about that, then replied, “It is my understanding that your only interest in this is to find the surveillance target you lost.”

“Right.”

“But I think I know you, John. And I believe you’ve thought about Vasily Petrov and why he may be in America.”

I didn’t reply.

“Colonel Petrov,” he went on, “has as little knowledge of espionage as he does of human rights. He is a killer.”

“We all know that, Buck.”

“And Viktor Gorsky is also a killer.”

“And Fradkov?”

“That’s another matter. I will return to Pavel Fradkov later. But for now, I’d like you to continue your efforts with this Captain Kalish to locate our missing Russians.”

My next stop was probably Tamorov’s house, so I asked, “What is the relationship between Petrov and Georgi Tamorov?”

“Good question. And the answer is, we don’t know. But if I had to guess, I’d say it is as it seems — a relationship of mutual convenience. Tamorov wants the friendship of a powerful SVR colonel, and Colonel Petrov enjoys the hospitality of a rich oligarch.”

“Petrov wasn’t enjoying himself tonight. He didn’t even get laid.”

Buck forced a smile. “But he did take a dozen young ladies with him. So it appears that Petrov was using Tamorov’s beach house tonight as a place where he was to meet this amphibious craft, which was presumably taking him and his friends to another party.”

And maybe, I thought, Petrov collected some tools of his and Gorsky’s trade at Tamorov’s house that they couldn’t carry in their car. But that supposed Petrov was up to something. I mean, did he take off out the back door in a boat to give his DSG followers the slip because he was up to something? Or did he take off in a boat because he had another party to go to? That was the question.

Buck closed his eyes and I thought the old guy had nodded off, but he said, “I tried to convince my colleagues that the Russian threat was not being taken seriously. The intelligence establishment and the military and diplomatic community are funneling vast resources into the war on Islamic terrorism because of 9/11. And they are ignoring the awakening bear.”

I’d expect that from Buck, whose glory days were behind him. But I agreed with him that the Cold War was back and no one was paying attention.

Meanwhile, he wasn’t giving me the promised briefing, so I asked, “Is Petrov going to whack someone tonight?”

“I’ll get to that later.” He changed the subject and said, “I’ve also had the Coast Guard alerted, and they’ve agreed to send some boats and a helicopter to conduct a search. But as I discovered, their resources are limited compared to what the police have at their disposal.”

I nodded. Even in this age of counterterrorism and drug smuggling, the United States Coast Guard was being scaled back. The Suffolk County Police Marine Bureau, on the other hand, had about twenty watercraft of various sizes and capabilities and four helicopters for search, rescue, and law enforcement. Plus there were local harbor constables who also had watercraft that could be deployed at sea. Bottom line here, Scott Kalish had more air and sea resources at his disposal than the U.S. Coast Guard. Which was why I called him.

Buck said, “Tess told me that Petrov and his friends carried three overnight bags onboard the amphibious craft.”

“Correct.”

“Nothing larger? Like a suitcase?”

Before I could ask why he asked, I heard footsteps and saw Tess coming toward us.

She looked at me, then at Buck sitting under the tree.

Buck said to her, “I believe we’re almost finished here.” He smiled. “John has decided not to kill me.”

“Today,” I explained.

Tess looked at me. “Do you understand how important this is?”

“Not really.”

She looked at Buck, who said, “I haven’t yet gotten to Pavel Fradkov.”

“Then,” I suggested, “let’s get to Pavel Fradkov.”

Buck stood, looked at me, and said, “I understand that all your surveillance vehicles are equipped with portable radiation detectors.”

That is not what I wanted to hear.

He continued, “And Ms. Faraday tells me she heard no beeping, even when you were very close to Petrov’s vehicle. So I suppose it’s already on the ship that Petrov rendezvoused with.”

“What is on what ship?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Indeed I did.

There is little that spooks me, but atomic bombs are at the top of my very short list. I cleared my throat and said, “I assume you mean a nuke.”

“Correct.” He added, “Probably a suitcase nuke.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because Vasily Petrov is a psychotic mass murderer. And he, like his father, and like his megalomaniacal president, yearns for the glory days of the Soviet Empire. And all that stands in his and his president’s way is us.”

Buck saw I wasn’t buying all of this, so he tempered his concerns a bit and said, “We’re not sure this is what’s happening tonight, but if you put it all together, then what you saw today at Tamorov’s party doesn’t make sense except in that context.”

I thought back to all that had happened since Petrov went mobile, and I couldn’t come to any conclusion that involved a nuke. I said to Buck, “There’s a piece missing. Fradkov.”

“Correct. Pavel Fradkov, whose real name is Arkady Urmanov, is a nuclear physicist.” Buck informed me, “He once worked on the Soviet nuclear weapons miniaturization program. Suitcase nukes.”

Holy shit.

“Miniaturized nukes,” Buck informed me, “are temperamental and need periodic... well, tune-ups.” He continued, “The fear that they could get into the hands of terrorists is real. But no one knows if they’d actually detonate if they hadn’t been regularly maintained over the thirty years since most of them were made.” He concluded, “To be sure of that, and to properly arm the device, it’s good to have a knowledgeable nuclear weapons scientist on hand.”

Tess added, “Especially one who hasn’t had a drink all night.”

The evidence, as we say in criminal investigations, was mounting — and pointing in one direction.

I said to Buck, “I assume Petrov and his pals rendezvoused with a Russian ship.”

“I would assume so. And on that ship could be a nuclear device.” He informed me, “If it’s a suitcase nuke, it could be the biggest model, about the size of a steamer trunk, which would yield about ten kilotons of atomic energy.” He further informed me, “For comparison, the Hiroshima bomb was estimated to be between twelve and sixteen kilotons.”

I glanced at Tess, wondering when she knew all this.

Buck said, “We should also assume that this ship that Petrov and his friends rendezvoused with is heading for New York City.”

I didn’t reply, but that was a good assumption.

Buck continued, “The ship will enter the harbor, and at some point, before or after docking, the nuclear device will detonate and the fireball will completely destroy everything within a quarter-mile radius and incinerate structures within a half mile of ground zero.” He added, “And then there is shock wave damage, radioactive fallout, loss of communication and services, and mass panic.” He further added, “Over half a million initial deaths, followed by at least another half million more in the aftermath.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

He continued, “Assuming the target is Wall Street, the entire southern end of Manhattan Island will be gone, including the financial and government district — along with your offices at 26 Federal Plaza, and also the World Trade Center construction site. Also gone will be port facilities, bridges, tunnels, and subways and the entire historic district, all of which will be a nuclear wasteland for years. Not to mention the Statue of Liberty and collateral damage to the Brooklyn and New Jersey port facilities.” He added, “This would be a crippling financial and psychological blow to America, from which it will take decades to recover.”

“I get it.” I informed him, “It’s very difficult — actually impossible — to get a ship that’s emitting radiation past the harbor forts that aim radiation detectors at passing ships.” I further informed him, “Also, the NYPD Harbor Unit patrol boats have radiation detectors, as do the Coast Guard cutters.” I also told him, “And if the Russians tried to get a suitcase nuke off the ship and into the city, they wouldn’t get it past Customs, who also have radiation detectors on the piers.”

“I’m sure the Russians have a plan.”

Indeed they must. But it occurred to me that a Russian ship, such as a cargo ship or a luxury liner, would be subject to extra scrutiny at Ambrose Buoy, the security checkpoint, before it approached New York Harbor. It also occurred to me that the Russians wouldn’t want to be caught with a suitcase nuke aboard one of their ships. And if the nuke did go off, it could be determined that the Russian ship was ground zero, and that could start a nuclear war. So some of this wasn’t computing.

Also, why did Petrov, Gorsky, and the nuke guy, Urmanov, have to take an amphibious craft out to rendezvous with this Russian ship that had a nuke onboard? They could have boarded the ship in Russia. So maybe Buck got this wrong, and Petrov was now having a vodka on a party boat with Tasha on his lap. And that’s what I’d conclude — if it wasn’t for Urmanov.

Buck broke into my thoughts and said, “We don’t know if Petrov and his friends have a plan to escape the detonation, or if this is a suicide mission.” He added, “I think a man like Petrov would like to see the result of his work, so he may have a plan to get clear of the explosion, along with his two companions. But for the young ladies and everyone else aboard whatever ship they rendezvoused with, this is a suicide mission, though I’m sure they don’t know that.”

And never will, I thought; they will become one with the universe at the moment of the Big Bang. More importantly, I hoped this wasn’t a suicide mission for Petrov, because suicide missions, like 9/11, were more likely to succeed than missions where the perpetrators need an escape plan. Lots to think about. Especially the things that weren’t computing.

Buck may have thought that I needed more evidence. But he didn’t have any, so he told me a story.

“Not far from here,” he began, “is a place called Nassau Point.” He asked, “Have you heard of it?”

“Been there.”

“So was Albert Einstein, who spent the summer of 1939 there in a rented cottage.”

“He deserved a break.”

Buck continued, “In July of that year, Einstein received a visit from two well-known physicists, Eugene Wigner and Leó Szilárd, who convinced Einstein that he needed to write a letter to President Roosevelt alerting the president to the threat of the German atomic bomb program.”

I’d actually read the famous Nassau Point Letter, so I knew where this was going, but Buck likes to tell stories, so I let him continue.

“In that letter, Einstein says something that... well, is a warning from the past to us in the future.” Buck looked at me and said, “Einstein wrote to Roosevelt, ‘A single bomb of this type, carried by boat and exploded in a port, might very well destroy the whole port together with some of the surrounding territory.’ ” Buck stayed silent a moment, then said, “I believe that day has arrived.”

Well, I thought, the nuclear nightmare seemed to have begun in the minds of scientists long before anyone else even knew what nuclear energy was. Einstein was a smart guy.

Buck said, “Roosevelt took this seriously, and so should we.”

That seemed to be the end of the pointed story, and Buck asked me, “Do you take this seriously?”

“It’s credible.”

“Not everyone thinks so.”

“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

He didn’t respond to that and asked me, “Any word from Captain Kalish?”

“No.”

Tess said to me, “We’d like you to call the Suffolk PD and get some detectives to accompany you and me to the Tamorov house.”

“All right.” I guess I’m the front guy and the go-to cop. But before going to see Tamorov, I asked Buck, “What do you know about Georgi Tamorov?”

“Not much more than everyone else knows. He’s made billions from oil and gas and he has financial interests all over the world, including America. He’s close to Putin and he’s a globe-trotting playboy. He owns a Falcon 900 that flies him to the playgrounds of the world.”

“Does he own cargo ships or luxury liners?”

“Good question, but no.” Buck added, “Though I’m sure he knows people who do.”

I nodded and asked, “Personals?”

“Tamorov has been married to the same woman for about twenty-five years and they have a son and a daughter, both at university in England.”

I said to Buck, “I seem to remember that Tamorov has a place in Manhattan.”

“Yes, he has a townhouse in Tribeca and offices near the former World Trade Center.”

“He won’t have either if a nuke incinerates Lower Manhattan.”

“Correct. So I can’t imagine that Tamorov knows what his guest is up to.” Buck added, “Also, Tamorov’s wife is currently in New York.”

And Petrov’s wife isn’t.

So, I was off to see Georgi Tamorov, and also Dmitry the driver, both of whom knew something.

Buck gave me the standard warning. “What you’ve heard tonight is need-to-know and SCI — Sensitive Compartmented Information — not to be repeated to anyone under any circumstances.”

I didn’t reply.

“We know you can keep a secret, John, as you did in Yemen. We trust you.”

Sorry I can’t say the same.

Buck said to me and to Tess, “Let’s pray that we are wrong, and that we are misinterpreting what we see.”

Right. Just like in Yemen. I said, “I will leave you two to pray, and I’ll call when I have something.” I added, “Good powwow.”

Tess said, “I’m going with you.”

“You’re fired.”

Buck interjected, “I’m afraid I have to insist that you take Tess with you.”

“Really?”

“Please.” He explained, “Tess has contact information for resources that you may need at a moment’s notice.”

That might be true, but Buck also wanted his colleague to keep an eye on me. So, knowing I could dump her anytime, I said, “All right.” Buck wasn’t telling me what his next move was, and I didn’t ask. Maybe he was going to take a nap.

Buck wished us luck and offered me his hand, but I didn’t take it, and reminded him, “We have unfinished business.”

Tess and I walked through the graveyard back to the Blazer.

She asked me, “Do you believe what Buck is suggesting?”

“Do you?”

She walked on in silence, then replied, “It’s just so beyond anything I can imagine...”

Well, Albert Einstein imagined it long before the first bomb was even built, and that’s why we carry radiation detectors. I asked her, “When did you know about this?”

“I wasn’t fully briefed until I called Buck from the diner.”

That could be true, considering she didn’t want me to crash Tamorov’s party. The problem with compartmented information is that nobody knows what the hell is going on. Or why they’re doing what they’re doing. If the police operated like that, they’d never make an arrest.

She added, “When I told Buck that our three Russians took off in an amphibious craft, he suspected something was up.”

“He suspected something was up long before tonight. That’s why he was in New York and not Washington. And that’s why he stuck me with you.”

She didn’t reply.

I always believed that 9/11 never would have happened if these people talked straight to each other. Now we were looking at something that would make 9/11 look like a bad day at the office.

We reached the Blazer and I said, “I’m driving,” and got behind the wheel.

Tess got in the passenger side and reached back into the rear where all the toys were kept, including the pocket-sized portable radiation detector, which she placed on the console between us.

She asked, “May I have my gun back?”

I handed her her Glock and her creds.

I drove back to the road and headed out of the Shinnecock Reservation.

I looked at the portable radiation detector. There are two ways to detect radiation. One of them is with a PRD before nuclear fission takes place, and the other is too late.