Radiant Angel

Chapter twenty-four

We made the border crossing from the Shinnecock Nation to Southampton, and my former trainee suggested some shortcuts to Tamorov’s house, trying, I suppose, to make herself useful.

She asked, “Are you still angry?”

I didn’t know if she meant angry at her or angry at Buck, but thinking back on all those conversations with her when she was conning me, maybe I felt a little foolish, and thus angry at myself. I mean, if they’d sent a guy instead of a good-looking woman I would have just clocked him.

Ms. Faraday advised me, “Anger gets in the way of good judgment and good performance.”

“I liked you better when you were a clueless trainee.”

“No you didn’t.” She changed the subject and told me, “I can see why Buck wanted me to work with you.”

“Then you can also see why I don’t want to work with either of you.”

“Well, you should know that it was Buck who first got onto this.” She explained, “About two months ago, the Russian Foreign Ministry notified the State Department that Pavel Fradkov was to be assigned to the Russian U.N. Mission. Buck’s job is to vet these guys. He’s one of the last of the SDI Cold Warriors and he knows all there is to know about the former Soviet Union. He even wrote a memo on Vladimir Putin from when Putin was a KGB officer, saying to watch this man closely.”

Clearly Ms. Faraday was impressed with old Buck, which colored her perception of him, just as mine was colored by his double-cross in Yemen.

She went on, “So Buck saw the photo of Pavel Fradkov in the diplomatic visa application that the Russians submitted to the State Department, and though Fradkov had aged and altered his appearance, Buck recognized him as Dr. Arkady Urmanov, a nuclear weapons physicist from the days of the Soviet Union.”

“Buck is smart,” I agreed. “But whoever let the nuke guy in the country was not so smart.”

“Sometimes we can turn these guys. We actually have a program where we buy Russian nuclear physicists and give them a job in the U.S.”

“How about Gorsky and Petrov? Do you have jobs for them?”

She didn’t reply for a second, then said, “We — someone — wanted to see what they were up to.”

“Well, now you know.”

She had no response to that and asked me, “What happened in Yemen?”

I was sorry I’d lost my cool with Buck while she was standing there. “I may have misinterpreted what happened.”

“I’m sure you did.” She let me know, “Buck is a patriot.”

So was Adolf Hitler. And so is Vasily Petrov.

I ended the conversation by calling Scott Kalish. He answered, and I said, “I’m driving, on speaker with a Federal trainee, Ms. Tess Faraday.”

“Okay, I’ll speak slowly.” He let me know, “I’m at Timber Point,” meaning the Suffolk County Marine Bureau Headquarters. I felt guilty about pulling him away from his Law and Order reruns. I asked, “How’s it going?”

“Not so good. I thought this amphibious craft would show up someplace.” He tried to assure me, “In addition to the sea-and-air search, we’ve issued a BOLO — be on the lookout — to the Bay Constables and local PD for all the marinas, yacht clubs, public docks—”

“The craft is sitting on the deck of a ship by now, Scott. You need to find that ship.”

“Hundreds of ships out there.” He let me know, “We have all four of our choppers flying search patterns, using infrared thermal imaging, and the Midnight Sun — the searchlight. But none of the choppers have spotted the amphibious craft you described, either on the water or onboard a large ship.”

This was not looking good.

Kalish continued, “I’ve got ten harbor units deployed and they’re running search patterns east and west of Tamorov’s house, from the shore out to the Fairway — the shipping lane — which starts about twenty miles offshore.” He further informed me, “Basically we’re covering about a thousand square miles. And the search area is getting bigger as time passes.”

“I understand that.” I let him know, “The Coast Guard has been called in to assist.”

“Okay, we’ll coordinate.” He reminded me, “We don’t even know how fast this ship is traveling or what direction, or what it looks like.”

“It looks like it has an amphibious landing craft on its deck. If it’s covered with a tarp, use the infrared imaging.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

I ignored the sarcasm and informed him, “We have some info that this ship is heading west, destination New York City.”

“How do you know that?”

I know that because if there’s an atomic bomb onboard, New York City is ground zero, as Buck so vividly explained. But in the world of compartmented information, I wasn’t sure I could share that with Scott Kalish, so I glanced at Tess, who shook her head.

I said to Kalish, “I can’t say. But trust me on this.”

“Okay... we’ll concentrate on westbound ships.”

“Good. And call your counterpart in the Nassau County Marine Bureau and ask them to begin a sea-and-air search to pick up where yours ends. Also, someone will need to call NYPD Harbor.” I further suggested, “Get the rest of your fleet out.”

There was silence on the phone, then Kalish said, “I don’t mind helping you out, John, but this has turned into a budget buster.” He asked, “How important is this? And am I covered?”

I again glanced at Tess, who held out her hand for the phone and I gave it to her.

She said, “Captain Kalish, this is Tess Faraday of State Department Intelligence.”

He didn’t reply, probably wondering how the trainee got promoted so fast.

She continued, “We have reason to believe that the amphibious craft rendezvoused with a ship that could be harboring a number of armed terrorists.”

There was a few seconds of silence, then Kalish said, “I thought this was about an amphibious craft with a bunch of Russian hookers onboard, going out to a party ship.”

“I can’t say anything further, Captain, but I will have someone in Washington contact you directly.”

“That would be good. Soon.”

Tess handed me the phone and I said to Kalish, “So that’s the deal, Scott. This got big and ugly.”

“Okay... but for all we know, the target ship could be a hundred miles south of the shipping lane. Or it could be at anchor, waiting to make its run.”

“That’s true...” Basically we had no information, and what information we had was old by this time. I said, “It would make sense that this ship is Russian registry.” I asked, “Can you find out what Russian ships — commercial or private — are due into the Port of New York?”

He thought a moment, then replied, “Yes and no. Yes if the ship has its Automatic Identification System transmitter operating. Then the Coast Guard can look on a screen and see the location of every approaching vessel, with all its info — its name, where it’s from, its cargo, and so forth.”

“Sounds good.”

“But if the ship is up to no good, it might turn off its AIS transmitter.” He added, “Like an aircraft would do if it was up to no good. But the difference is that aircraft will show up on radar as unidentified, but the sea is not so well covered by radar.” He further added, “A ship at sea can theoretically disappear by going electronically silent.”

“I understand.” But I still didn’t understand how Petrov thought he could get a ship emitting radiation past all the patrol craft, or past the old harbor forts that were equipped with very sensitive radiation detectors. I couldn’t use the word “nuclear,” so I asked, “How could a ship harboring terrorists get past all the checkpoints? Give me some scenarios.”

“Okay... well, a ship can theoretically slip past the Coast Guard and past the Ambrose checkpoint if it has shut off its AIS transmitter. And I suppose it can go right into the harbor unseen, especially at night.” He added, “But eventually the ship has to dock somewhere to unload the terrorists.”

Actually the ship only had to make it into the harbor, then detonate the nuke as it approached Manhattan.

Scott Kalish, however, was thinking it was a boatload of guys from Sandland, armed with AK-47s and hand grenades or something, so he said to me, “I’m not understanding Russians and terrorists in the same sentence.”

“Not all terrorists are named Abdul.” I further clarified my bullshit, “Maybe saboteurs would be a better description.”

Kalish still wasn’t satisfied and he said, “I’m not getting a clear picture of the threat or the mission.”

“I’ll get back to you on that.”

He continued, “I assume if there are terrorists — or saboteurs — onboard this ship, we need to approach with caution and be prepared for an armed confrontation.”

“That’s a good assumption.”

“I would have appreciated this information sooner.”

“Right. Well, now we’re sure.”

“Well, I’m still not sure about the mission or the threat.”

I really wanted to be straight with Scott, but you don’t want to yell “atomic bomb” and scare the crap out of everyone — especially if you’re not sure. But I kept coming back to Arkady Urmanov, who was not in America to get a job. Though it was still possible that he was just partying with his pals tonight.

Kalish asked, “Anything further?”

I glanced at Tess, who was looking at me as if to say, Don’t say it.

“John? Anything further?”

Time to make an important decision. The code name for a radiation detection operation is Radiant Angel, which Tess might not know, so I said to Kalish, “Pray that a radiant angel will guide you.”

There was a silence, then he asked, “Are you serious?”

“Don’t worry about the budget.” A nuclear takedown of Manhattan will cost a lot more. “That’s all I can say, Scott.”

“Holy shit...” He pointed out, “If I’d known this, I’d have made sure everyone was glued to their radiation detectors.”

Join the compartmented information club, Scott. I looked at Tess, who didn’t seem happy with me, then I said to Kalish, “I just got the word.”

“Okay... well, in a way, this makes finding this ship easier... but... geez...”

To change the subject, I asked him, “Any luck with Tasha’s cell phone?”

No reply. His head was still in Nukeland. “Scott?”

“No... but the commo people are working on it.”

“Okay, I’m on my way to Tamorov’s. I need two county detectives to meet me on Gin Lane. They should look for a black Dodge minivan and my black Chevy SUV.” I also told him, “I may want to get aboard one of your choppers or boats later.”

“Okay... you can rendezvous with either at Shinnecock Coast Guard Station. Just let me know.”

“Will do.”

I was about to hang up but Scott informed me, “I’m getting a report here... hold on.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“It is... if you’re the guy we’re looking for.” He told me, “There’s a fog rolling in from the south.” He added, “Typical this time of year.”

“Keep me posted.” I hung up.

Tess said to me, “You handled that well. Until you mentioned the unmentionable.”

“He needs to do his job.”

“Then someone else will make the decision to tell him. Not you.”

I informed her, “When you and Buck asked me to work with you, you knew what you were getting.” I strongly suggested, “Call your people in Washington and tell them to call Scott Kalish.”

She took my phone and began sending a text, telling me, “Buck is on his way to the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station. I’ll advise him to also go to Timber Point and see Captain Kalish in person.”

“Tell Buck he needs to be straight with Kalish.”

She sent the text to Buck and asked me, “What do you think Kalish’s chances are of finding an unknown ship on the high seas?”

“Not good at the moment. But at some point the target ship will get into range of a radiation detection device.”

“Can’t radiation be shielded with lead?”

“Yes and no.”

“Tell me about yes.”

“Well... from what I remember from a Nuclear Emergency Support Team class I took, if the device is encased in lead it may not emit enough gamma rays to be picked up by a detecting device — from a distance. But you will get a reading up close.”

“How close?”

“Depends on the amount of radiation being emitted, the sensitivity of the detector, and the thickness of the lead shield.” I also informed her, “The best shield is water, so the big scare is of a nuclear device riding underwater on the hull of a ship that might slip through.”

She didn’t reply to that, then asked me, “Can we get all shipping stopped at sea?”

“All legitimate ships will comply with a radio call from the Coast Guard. Unfortunately, the one ship we want stopped is not going to comply. Or respond.”

“All right... can we block the harbor?”

I’d played that scenario in my mind and replied, “It’s difficult to physically stop a large ship that’s intent on entering the harbor.” I let her know, “We have police and Coast Guard craft that can pull off a combat boarding of a large hostile ship going full speed ahead, but it’s not easy — especially if there’s armed resistance.”

“Can’t the ship be... like, blown out of the water?”

She was asking questions I’d already asked myself, and the answers were not good. I informed her, “Even a Coast Guard cutter doesn’t carry a gun big enough to stop a large ship, and all the shore batteries guarding the approaches to New York Harbor were deactivated after World War II. You’d need a Navy warship to be in the area — or jet fighters.” I added, “In any case, do we want to fire on a ship that may have an atomic device onboard? Or fire on the wrong ship by mistake?”

She thought about all that, then said, “You’re telling me that a ship with a nuclear weapon onboard could sail directly into New York Harbor and detonate.”

“Well... it’s possible. Especially if it was a ship that looked legit. Or if it was on a suicide mission.”

She thought a moment, then said, “Whoever planned this in Moscow understood that seaport security has some holes in it.”

“Big enough to sail a ship through.”

Tess stayed quiet, then said, “Maybe, as Buck said, we are misinterpreting what we see.”

“We’d all be happy to be proven paranoid.”

She didn’t respond and we drove in silence. Indeed, it was hard to believe this was happening. It seemed like an abstract problem in a training exercise. Find the nuke, Detective. We gave you some clues. Think. Is Abdul smarter than you?

No. But Ivan could be.

Holy shit.

Chapter twenty-five

As I drove along Gin Lane I could see the ocean fog rolling in. What else could go wrong tonight? Well, I was about to find out.

I drove past Tamorov’s gates, and up ahead I saw a Chevy sedan parked in the street. As I got closer, my headlights picked out a man and a woman talking to Steve and Matt.

I pulled over and got out, leaving the Blazer running. Tess followed.

The guy, a middle-aged man wearing a young man’s sports jacket and jeans, introduced himself as Suffolk County Detective Phil Florio, and the lady was Detective Beth Penrose. I actually knew Detective Penrose, having once worked with her on the Plum Island case. In fact, we had become romantically involved, as they say.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” I said sincerely.

“Nice to see you,” she replied, though she didn’t mean it.

This was a bit awkward. I mean, it didn’t end well, and may not have ended at all, except that Kate came into the picture and I had to stop double-dipping, so I’d made The Call and explained the problem to Beth, who did not seem to understand the solution. I would have told her in person, but she carries a gun.

Detective Florio asked, “You know each other?”

Neither of us replied, which was a clue for all the detectives standing there that this was not a happy reunion.

Also, Beth must have known from Kalish or Florio that she’d be meeting me here, and if not, she’d just heard it from Steve and Matt. But she apparently hadn’t told anyone that she knew me. Nor had she recused herself by explaining, “I slept with that asshole for a year and he dumped me for some FBI slut.” I would certainly recuse myself from any assignment that brought me into proximity of an ex, but women... Well, they’re into drama. Sometimes revenge.

Anyway, Tess took advantage of the silence to introduce herself. “Tess Faraday, State Department Intelligence.”

Matt and Steve, like Scott Kalish, seemed surprised that Tess had come up in the world in the last few hours.

I said to my team, “I’ll explain later.” I asked them, “Any word from the home office?”

Matt replied, “Just a few texts.” He let me know, “I told them you were on a meal break.”

It sounded like my FBI colleagues at 26 Fed didn’t know they were in a possible nuclear blast zone. Well, it’s not in my limited job description to tell them. Also, that’s compartmented information. Sorry, boys.

Beth asked me, “How can we help you, Detective?”

I looked at her in the light of the Blazer’s headbeams. It had been about six years since I’d last seen her. She looked the same and she still favored her tailored, almost masculine pantsuit, white blouse, and sensible shoes. Not particularly sexy, but professional. On the plus side, she still looked like she was smuggling balloons.

“Detective?”

“Sorry, Beth. What was the question?”

“All my friends call me Detective Penrose. Why don’t you do the same?”

Why don’t I just call you bitch?

She asked again, “How can we help you?”

“Have you been briefed?”

Phil Florio replied, “We were told you’re here on a Federal surveillance, and the target, a Russian dip, went in this Russian guy’s house, then sailed off in a boat with some guests, and you want to question the owner of that house. Georgi Tamorov.”

“Correct.” I let them know, “Tamorov is having a party, and there are about thirty Russian guys in there, maybe not all U.S. citizens, plus about a dozen Russian hostesses.” I added, “The Russkies who took off in the boat had another dozen escorts with them.”

Detective Florio smiled. Detective Penrose rolled her eyes.

I further briefed them, “As I’m sure you’ve heard, Ms. Faraday and I were in there undercover with the caterers, so we know the layout.”

Tess added, “Everyone is naked.”

“Right. So we don’t need to pat them down.”

Matt and Steve laughed. Even Beth and Tess smiled. And Detective Florio seemed anxious to get to the party.

I said, seriously, “I counted eight Russian security guys in there, dressed in black, and they may be carrying — and there could be more I didn’t see.”

Detective Penrose asked, “Do you expect any resistance?”

“I expect that the hired security guards will decide not to be heroes.”

Tess advised, “But, as you know, have a plan to kill anyone who poses a threat to you.”

I think I created a monster.

Florio suggested, “Maybe we need more people.”

“We can handle it.” I also informed them, “There are about fifteen caterers on the premises, mostly English deficient, and a few household staff, similarly challenged.”

Detective Penrose asked, “Do you have a warrant of any sort?”

“We don’t need one.” I explained, “We’ve been invited onto the premises.”

She knew me well enough to know I’d invited myself. I said to everyone, “Here’s the plan. Tess and I go in first with our vehicle and gain entry at the gate, followed by Phil and Beth... Detective Penrose. Matt and Steve bring up the rear and they secure the gate, the guards, and the dogs — bring your Mace — then Steve goes down to the beach. I don’t want anyone leaving the party. Especially if they’re naked.” I asked, “Any questions?”

Detective Penrose had a question. “What are we looking for?”

“For the record, we’re looking for drugs and underage females. Also illegal aliens and unlicensed guns.”

“And off the record?”

Tess answered, “That’s classified information.”

Beth ignored her and looked at me. When we parted, I was working for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, and sometimes I’d share a few things with her, and maybe that’s what she was thinking now. Finally, she asked me, “Do you anticipate any arrests?”

“That’s why you’re here, Detective.” I advised everyone, “Bring enough cuffs and zip ties. Okay, time is of the essence. Ready?”

Everyone nodded, though I could see that they all thought we could use more muscle and maybe a more detailed plan of attack. But if there’s one thing I learned from the Feds it was that they overplanned and overmanned. People know their jobs, and less is more. Especially when the clock is ticking. “Let’s go.”

I got behind the wheel of the Blazer, and Tess jumped in beside me.

As I turned the vehicle around, Tess asked, “What’s with you and Detective Penrose?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you must run into a lot of old girlfriends.”

“Detective Penrose was pre-marriage.”

“Okay.”

As I waited for the other two vehicles to get behind me, I asked Ms. Faraday, “You ever do anything like this before?”

“Only in my fantasies.” She asked, “Can I borrow five hundred dollars?”

“Just stick close.” A nice feature of these surveillance vehicles is that you can deactivate the airbags, which I did. “Seat belt.”

I glanced in my rearview mirror, then hit the accelerator and got to Tamorov’s gates in a few seconds. I cut hard left into the closed iron gates and busted through them, waking up the two security guards. I continued up the long driveway past the line of parked cars, and in my rearview mirror I saw the unmarked Chevy right behind me. The Dodge minivan had stopped and Steve and Matt were out and I could see them holding up their creds, guns drawn, screaming at the two Russian security guys who didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. The two Dobermans were trying to eat Steve, but he hit them with Mace.

There are less confrontational ways to gain entry, but I like the gangbuster method. It puts everyone — cops and suspects — in the right head. Also, it’s fun.

I crashed through one of the closed garage doors, which unfortunately was the one opposite the Jag, which more unfortunately I hit, driving the nice car into the concrete wall.

Tess screamed, “Are you crazy?”

“The caterers have arrived.” I jumped out of the Blazer and ran to the service door where the two Russian security guys from the kitchen had appeared, drawn there I suppose by the sound of the crashing objects. They seemed surprised to see us again, and more surprised when Tess pointed her Glock at them and I shoved them back into the storage room and yelled, “FBI! Down! Down! Hit the floorski!”

They understood that we hadn’t returned with the mushrooms and they got down on the floor where I frisked them and relieved them of two MP-443 Grachs — standard Russian military-issue.

Detectives Penrose and Florio arrived and they zip-tied both guys as Tess and I ran into the kitchen with our guns drawn.

Dean also seemed surprised to see us, and the catering staff appeared frightened but not surprised to see the Anglos back with guns. They always knew we were trouble.

I said to Dean, “Party’s over. Collect your people, leave your stuff, and vamoose.”

The staff seemed relieved this wasn’t an immigration bust and they dropped what they were doing and streamed past us toward the door. “Don’t step on the Russians,” I said.

I said to Dean, “Great party. What’s the bill?”

“Uh...”

“I’ll get you twenty thousand from Tamorov. If you keep your mouth shut about this.”

He nodded.

Florio and Penrose came into the kitchen and Tess and I led them into the service corridor. I informed them, “There were three or four security guys on the deck.”

I haven’t had this much fun since my shoot-out in Yemen.

We came onto the deck, where the Beatles were singing, Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. A fog shrouded the beach and a sea mist had settled on the deck, where half the tonga torches and hurricane lamps had gone out.

The party had reached the stupefied stage and no one seemed to notice us, so I sent Beth to the sliding glass doors that led into the house, and Florio went to the staircase that led down to the beach.

Most of the male guests were zonked out in chaises, and six guys were floating naked in the pool. Two other gentlemen were in the steaming hot tub with two hostesses. In addition to the twelve young ladies who’d gone out on the boat, there seemed to be another eight or ten ladies missing, and an equal number of men, so I assumed they were all upstairs having a happy meal.

I looked around and spotted the four security guys at the far end of the deck, sitting around a cocktail table, smoking and joking.

Only two catering ladies were on the deck, retrieving dirty dishes, and the two bartenders were staring off into space. I caught the attention of the two ladies and motioned for them to leave.

I needed to find Dmitry and Tamorov, but first you need to go for the guys with the guns, so I said to Tess, “Stay here and cover,” and I grabbed a metal tray and walked quickly along the rail, past Florio. I caught a glimpse of Steve standing in the fog down on the beach, gun drawn. Beth was still standing near the glass door with her gun at her side, watching me. A few heads turned toward me, and one guy yelled to me, “Vodka!”

The party’s over, asshole.

I got to the end of the deck where the four security guys were sitting around the low cocktail table. One of them puffed on his cigarette, then looked up at me in the dim light, and I could see recognition in his face. He asked me, “Where you go?”

To answer his question, I hit him between the eyes with the metal tray.

That seemed to get everyone’s attention, so I held up my creds, pointed my Glock, and shouted, “FBI! On the fucking floor! Down! Down!”

Nobody went for their gun, though they did hesitate, so to overcome the language problem I demonstrated my verbal command by throwing the stunned gentleman on the deck. “Down!”

The other three men slid off their chairs and lay facedown on the wooden deck.

Florio came over and relieved the men of their guns while I covered him. He had a pocketful of zip ties and he bound the four guys’ hands behind their backs.

Meanwhile, the Beatles were asking, What would you do if I sang out of tune?

All the commotion had roused the sotted guests and they started to stand, which is not what I wanted, so I yelled, “FBI! Down! Get down!”

Florio and Penrose joined in. “Police! Get down!” Florio shoved one guy back into his chaise, and Beth Penrose pushed a tipsy gentleman into the pool, which gave her an idea for how to corral the crowd, and she shouted, “Everyone in the pool! In the pool!”

Steve had run up from the beach and he got right into the action by rolling a wheeled chaise and its occupant into the swimming pool. The Russians must have thought they were back in the USSR.

Bottom line, even through their alcoholic haze, Tamorov’s guests understood this was an FBI and politsiya bust, and they complied with our shouted commands to get into the pool, including the two naked couples in the hot tub. The two bartenders, however, remained at their post in case anyone needed a drink.

Meanwhile, I was looking for Tamorov and Dmitry, but the light was bad, and the air was so misty it was hard to see clearly. Maybe they were upstairs with the girls playing hide the pickle.

But then I saw Dmitry staggering toward the pool, and I would have collared him, but he had no shirt, so I shoved him into a chair and said, “Stay there, Dmitry.”

He was surprised that I knew his name, but then he recognized me and his surprise turned to confusion. “Who is happening?”

Hard question to answer, but his English was good enough for him to answer my questions.

Tess tapped me on the shoulder and pointed, and I turned to see Georgi Tamorov, fully clothed, trying to sneak into his house.

I came up behind him and asked, “Where you going, Georgi?”

He turned and looked at me. “What do you want here?”

“I want you.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

Tess was beside me now and I said to her, “Frisk him and take him inside. I’ll be along shortly.”

I found Dmitry where I’d left him and motioned for him to follow me. He stood unsteadily and I escorted him to the hot tub and pushed him in.

I looked across the sprawling deck. Everything seemed to be under control. The pool was full of Russians, including all the cuffed security guys, and standing at poolside were Steve, Phil Florio, and my old friend Detective Beth Penrose, who was either regretting our breakup or happy she wasn’t dating a psycho.

The bartenders remained behind the bar, in the tradition of bartenders all over the world who see crazier things than this and just zone out.

A few lamps flickered on the tables, and the tonga torches spluttered. The fog got thicker, and steam rose off the pool filled with naked and half-naked people, like a scene out of The Inferno.

And somewhere out there on the ocean was a ship that held a radiant angel, Lucifer himself, the Angel of Light and of Darkness, sailing in the night toward eight million souls.

The Beatles were singing, We all live in a yellow submarine... I stripped down to my shorts and got into the hot tub with Dmitry.

Chapter twenty-six

Limo drivers overhear things, so I asked Dmitry, “Where did Colonel Petrov go?”

“Speak no English.”

“I have two questions for you, Dmitry — who is happening and where is Petrov?”

He shook his head.

Well, I’m not a big fan of enhanced interrogation, but if time is short, and there are lives at stake, you gotta do what you gotta do. So I got his neck in an armlock and forced him under. He thrashed like a wounded walrus, and when I let him up he seemed ready to have a conversation. I started with a softball question. “When do you expect Colonel Petrov back here?”

He drew a deep wheezy breath, then replied, “He say tomorrow.”

Actually, there might be no tomorrow. But Dmitry didn’t know that, though he knew other things that I needed to know.

“Has he called you since he left?”

He shook his head.

“Did you call him?”

“He say no call. No text. Phone is off.”

Meaning Petrov’s phone had no battery and was therefore not transmitting its location. Well, if true, that was not conclusive proof that Colonel Petrov was up to no good. The SVR guys sometimes pulled their batteries, plus they changed cell phones regularly.

I asked Dmitry again, “Where did Petrov go?”

Dmitry hesitated, then, remembering his breathless experience, he replied, “He say... party.”

“Where is the party?”

“He say... how you say...? East Hampton.”

East Hampton? Well, that blew a lot of theories. Like the theory that Petrov rendezvoused with a Russian ship carrying a nuclear device onboard, headed for Manhattan. I might as well go home.

But if that amphibious craft carrying three Russians and twelve party girls had docked or run ashore in East Hampton, Scott Kalish would have found it by now.

“Please... I tell you—”

“Shut up.” To test Dmitry’s truthfulness, I asked him, “Who were the two men with him?”

He hesitated again, then replied, “Pavel Fradkov,” using Arkady Urmanov’s alias. “Viktor Gorsky.”

“Have you ever driven them before?”

“No.”

“What are their jobs?”

“I do not know.” He reminded me, “I am only driver.”

“What were they talking about in the car?”

“I... not listen.”

I pushed his face a few inches from the water and held it there. I knew that Dmitry was racking his brain for something that would save him from another near-death experience, and I hoped he came up with something.

Finally he said, “I hear... one word...”

“Repeat the word, please.”

He stayed quiet a moment, then said, “Yakut. How you say this?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Yakut. The big boat for rich.”

“You mean... a yacht?”

“Yes. Yakut. Fradkov speak this in car. Colonel say not to speak this. So now I tell you.”

I asked Dmitry, “Is that where Petrov’s boat went? To a yacht?”

“I think.”

“Was this yacht going to East Hampton?”

“Please, I do not know.”

“A Russian yakut?”

“I do not know.”

“What is the name of this yakut?”

“I hear only yakut.”

Okay, so if Dmitry was to be believed, the amphibious craft took Petrov and his companions to a yacht. And maybe the yacht was going to East Hampton. So why would anyone think there was anything sinister about that? Well, maybe because of the passengers — an SVR colonel with a license to kill, an SVR assassin, and a nuclear weapons scientist. The most innocent people in that amphibious craft were the prostitutes.

I asked Dmitry, “What is Petrov’s cell phone number?”

He hesitated, out of fear or loyalty, but then he recited the number.

“And Fradkov and Gorsky’s numbers.”

“I do not know. If I know, I tell.”

Sounded reasonable. Well, if I had more time I would have spent it with Dmitry to see if he could remember anything else about his passengers’ conversation during the long car ride. But my time as a loose cannon was probably running out, and I needed to speak to Georgi Tamorov before the Feds got their act together and showed up. And quite frankly, if I spent any more time in the hot tub with Dmitry, my colleagues would start to wonder about me.

I released my hold on Dmitry, but before we parted, I said, “Your friends in the pool will tell Colonel Petrov that you spoke to the FBI. But we can protect you if you continue your voluntary cooperation. The choice is yours. Siberia or Brighton Beach.”

He nodded.

I climbed out of the hot tub and Beth walked over to me as I squeezed water out of my tighty-whities. I informed her, “This gentleman, Dmitry, works for the Russian U.N. Mission as a driver. He is a potential government witness, so he needs to be kept incommunicado, away from his compatriots.”

She glanced at Dmitry still standing in the tub and said to me, “This must be important for you to engage in that kind of interrogation.”

“Dmitry’s not complaining.” I added, “It’s important.”

I knew she wanted to tell me, “You look good in wet underwear,” but she controlled herself and motioned for Dmitry to come out of the hot tub.

Meanwhile, I pulled on my pants and polo shirt and gathered my shoes and socks and my holstered Glock.

To further compromise Dmitry in front of his compatriots, I pointed him toward the bar and said, “Go get yourself a drink.”

He didn’t need to be told twice and he scooted off.

Detective Penrose reminded me, “You’re in my jurisdiction. Follow the rules and the law.”

“I always do. Meanwhile, I need your assistance.”

“What’s this about?”

“This is sensitive compartmented information.”

She reminded me, “You used to confide in me.”

“I also used to call you Beth.”

She looked at me. “Please call me Beth.”

“Well... all right, Beth.” I confided in her, “There may be a nuclear device on a ship headed for Manhattan.”

She took that in, then glanced around, as though trying to fit this party into a nuke on a ship. Finally, she said, “The Russians?”

“They’re not all about fun.”

“I’m not understanding...”

“Call Scott Kalish. But first get some uniforms here, and a prisoner bus. I want everyone brought in for questioning — but not about nukes. The beef is prostitution and consorting with prostitutes. Also we got guys with guns, probably unlicensed.”

She nodded, but said nothing, still thinking about the nuke.

I continued, “Also, do visa checks, immigration status, and so forth, and look for drugs, and seize all the cell phones. And ask the young ladies here if they’ve heard from their friends who took off in the amphibious craft. And see if you can find my and Tess’ Nextels that were taken by the security guys. Also see if Dmitry remembers any more about where Petrov went.”

She informed me, “This is going to be a legal mess — and an international incident.”

“That should be the least of our problems tonight.”

She nodded, then said, “I need to call the FBI.”

“You should first determine if there’s a Federal beef here.” I advised her, “They don’t like to be called on Sunday.”

“How much time do you need to play Lone Ranger?”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“Okay. And thanks for your help.”

As I headed toward the house, I heard her call out, “See me before you leave.”

I acknowledged with a quick wave as I slid open the glass door.

And now for Georgi Tamorov. But first, a call to Scott Kalish with a possible lead. Colonel Petrov and his pals had sailed off to rendezvous with a yacht. A yakut. But why? Party? I hope so.

Chapter twenty-seven

Georgi Tamorov was sitting on a white couch in his spacious contemporary-style living room, looking very pissed off, and Tess was sitting opposite him, legs crossed, staring at him. It appeared that Mr. Tamorov was being uncooperative. I hoped he would talk to me. In fact, I knew he would.

The air-conditioning was set to simulate a Russian winter, and the transition from the hot tub was a shock. Fortunately, I spotted a warming station — a bar — in an alcove off the living room, where I threw my shoes and my Glock and helped myself to Mr. Tamorov’s French cognac. I picked up the phone on the bar and dialed Vasily Petrov’s cell phone, hoping if Petrov saw the Caller ID from Tamorov’s phone, he’d answer. But there was a short recorded message in Russian and the phone went dead.

I gave Tasha’s phone another try, but I got the same message as last time. I pictured guys all over New York waiting for Tasha’s callback. They might be waiting a long time.

I used my cell phone to dial Scott Kalish. He answered and I said, “I’m at Tamorov’s with your two detectives, interviewing witnesses.”

“Anything good?”

“You first.” I took a swig of cognac. Hypothermia is dangerous.

“Okay, I’ve got the Nassau County Marine Bureau out looking, and I’ve got the rest of my units deployed, as per your request, and I’m in contact with the Coast Guard, and I’ve alerted NYPD Harbor.”

“Good.” He sounded a bit tired and strained, so I said, “You’re doing a great job.” I asked, “Have you met Buck Harris yet?”

“Yeah. He dropped in.” He let me know, “Looks like he escaped from an assisted living facility.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. Like, this is really important. He forgot to mention the nuke thing, so I brought it up and he didn’t deny it, but then he said we never had this conversation.”

I guess that was Buck’s way of being straight with the local police. The FBI has the same problem. The CIA has no problem; they speak to no one, except to lie. As for State Department Intelligence... well, they got off to a bad start with me.

Kalish continued, “I also got a conference call from Washington, from people who didn’t fully ID themselves. They wanted me to know that I was doing an important job and that I was serving my country, and that they were a hundred percent behind me.”

“Wonderful.”

“Yeah, but meanwhile, they’re not telling me squat about a nuke, and I didn’t bring it up, but somebody said there could be terrorists onboard the target vessel. I guess that’s the cover story. So I should take any and all action, using all available resources to locate and intercept the target vessel.”

Sounded like they were taking this very seriously in Washington. I took another swig of the cognac. “What else did they say?”

“Well, unfortunately there are no naval vessels in the immediate area, but the Coast Guard will take the lead in a boarding if they’re close by. Otherwise, it’s my show — if they give me the go-ahead. Also, Washington has notified Customs and Border and also Coast Guard headquarters in New York City, and I told them I’d given the NYPD Harbor Unit a heads-up.” He added, “So we have the Atlantic Ocean covered between here and New York Harbor.”

“Good. And I might have something for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, I spoke to Petrov’s driver, a guy named Dmitry, who says that his boss and his friends went to a party in East Hampton.”

“I’m positive that amphibious craft would have been spotted by now if it went ashore anywhere.” He also let me know, “Actually, I just heard from our commo people — they just IDed a hit on Tasha’s phone. Maybe twenty minutes after you saw the amphibious craft leaving the beach. The signal came from six miles out, almost due south of Tamorov’s, then it went dead.”

“I told you they went out to sea.”

“Good guess. Now we know they went six miles out. But that’s all we know.”

“Well, I have something else for you.” I told Kalish about Dmitry overhearing one of his passengers saying something about going to a yakut — yacht.

“All right... so are we looking for a yacht?”

“If we believe Dmitry. And if there was nothing lost in the translation. And this yacht must be big enough to hold a twenty-five-foot amphibious craft, twelve hookers, three Russian guys, maybe other passengers, and the ship’s crew.”

Kalish suggested, “That sounds more like a party than a nuclear attack.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to look like, Scott.” I urged him, “Think nuke, not nookie.”

“Okay.” He asked me, “Is your witness reliable and truthful?”

“He appeared to be giving truthful answers.” I confessed, “I held his head underwater.”

“I should do that with my supervisors.”

“Me too. So if we believe this twenty-five-foot amphibious craft was taken aboard a yacht, not only is this a big yacht, it may not be a sailing ship. It’s probably an ocean-going motorized vessel. Correct?”

“Probably.” He asked, “Whose yacht is this?”

“Not mine. Yours?” I asked him, “How big would a yacht have to be to take a twenty-five-foot craft onboard?”

“Maybe... at least a hundred and fifty feet. Maybe closer to two hundred.”

“Good. Easy to spot with the amphibious craft on deck.”

Kalish stayed silent a moment, then informed me, “People who own a yacht that big, especially one of those newer, half-billion-dollar super yachts, usually have what’s called a tender garage below deck.”

“That sucks.”

“Also, FYI, some of these super yachts even have submersibles — a small submarine — for exploring. Even cars and helicopters. So that’s something to think about.”

“Right.”

“Okay, I think I’m getting a picture of this ship. I’ll put the word out to the search units. Maybe they’ve already spotted something like this.”

“That would be good.” I asked, “How fast is this two-hundred-foot yacht?”

“Maybe... twenty, twenty-five knots.” He added, “Depends on a lot of factors.”

“So where is it now?”

“John, I don’t know its speed, or what route it’s taking. I don’t know if it’s lain at anchor for a few hours. Also, I have to check winds, currents, and tides.”

“Assuming the best conditions, how close is it to New York Harbor?”

He did some quick math and replied, “If it started at Southampton, maybe a half hour after you saw the amphibious craft heading out to sea, and if this ship — this yacht — took the direct ocean route at twenty knots, it could be approaching New York City now.”

Shit.

“Or, since we’re apparently now looking for a private yacht, you should also know that private vessels are allowed to sail through the Long Island Sound and down the East River or the Hudson as a route to New York Harbor. The good news is that would add hours to its sail time to New York — the bad news is that it more than doubles our search area.”

“Right... well, then we have to get the Sound covered.”

“I guess we do. So I’ll call my counterparts in Connecticut and also notify the Coast Guard in New Haven.” He asked, “How did I become the admiral?”

“Enjoy the moment. The Feds will soon throw you overboard. Meanwhile, you have intel they don’t have. A two-hundred-foot motorized yacht.”

“I will share that information with all agencies.”

“Don’t mention my name. That came from your conversation with Detective Penrose, who is going to call you. I’ve told her about Radiant Angel, so you can tell her everything you know.”

“Understood.” He added, “I hear that you know her.”

“We worked a case together.” I continued, “I’m assuming this yacht is Russian registry, so see if you can find out if a Russian yacht has requested a berth in New York Harbor.”

“I can ask. But if this yacht and its crew and passengers are up to no good, they’re not advertising their intentions.”

“But get ahead of the Feds and check it out.”

“Will do.” He also informed me, “There’s another possibility that we consider when we run these security scenarios in training sessions.”

“Is this bad news?”

“Well... not good news.” He told me, “This yacht could have already docked in New York Harbor, like yesterday or this morning, and if so it would have been cleared at Ambrose, then cleared by ICE at the pier. Then the captain can ask to go out on a short pleasure cruise.” He continued, “If that were the case, when the yacht returns to New York Harbor he can skip the checkpoint at Ambrose and proceed directly to his assigned pier. And sometimes the ship’s captain decides not to pick up a harbor pilot.”

“Sounds like a security lapse.”

Kalish explained, “It’s sort of a courtesy for pleasure craft so the ship doesn’t have to wait hours at Ambrose with all the cargo ships or wait for a pilot. Especially if it’s a pleasure craft from a friendly nation.”

I wasn’t sure Russia was a friendly nation, which gave me another thought, though it was stuck somewhere in the back of my mind.

Kalish continued, “Also, if the ship is just out for a short cruise, sometimes it isn’t re-boarded by ICE when it returns to the pier.”

“What if the ship picked up something at sea? Like drugs, or maybe a small suitcase nuke?”

“Well, they still have to go through Immigration and Customs if they leave the ship.”

I thought about all that and said, “I don’t think they intend to take the nuke ashore. In fact, they may not even dock. They could blow the nuke in the harbor.”

“Right... if there is a nuke.”

“Think worst case.” I asked, not altogether rhetorically, “How the hell could this happen?”

“Well, seaport security is not like airport security. Everyone involved with seaport security has to evaluate every situation and decide what level of security is appropriate for each ship, and for the ship’s passengers and crew.” He further added, “We have what we call trusted cargo carriers, and trusted pleasure craft flying the flag of friendly nations, and so forth. Otherwise, the boat traffic into New York Harbor would be backed up to Europe and South America.”

“Okay... I understand that.” And I also understood why the Russians would choose this method to deliver a nuke. I said to Kalish, “But in this case, if we’re looking for a radiation source—”

“Then it doesn’t matter if the ship is flying the flag of the Pope. If the detectors light up, all hell breaks loose.”

“Right.” I asked Kalish, “Do you think a ship can shield its radioactive signature?”

“The Feds tell me no.”

“Good answer.” But we both knew otherwise.

Kalish said, “I’ll check with the Coast Guard to see if they’ve got an inbound private yacht in the AIS system.” He assured me, “There are a lot fewer super yachts than cargo ships or tankers coming into New York, so if you’re right about a yacht, this narrows it down. Also, I’ll check with ICE to see if maybe a yacht put into New York Harbor, then went out on a cruise.”

“Right.” Well, I was feeling a bit more confident that someone would find that yacht. Assuming Dmitry was telling me the truth. But maybe Dmitry had been more interested in air than asylum. That’s the problem with enhanced interrogation.

But if Dmitry was telling me the truth, then the search was getting focused. The bigger picture, however, was still blurry. It didn’t make sense for Petrov to board a Russian yacht with a nuke onboard, because if he got stopped at sea and a Russian-made miniature nuke was found, Petrov and his government would have a lot of explaining to do. And if the nuke detonated in New York Harbor, there would be Russian fingerprints all over the explosion, and we’d be looking at World War III.

This made no sense when I’d first heard about a nuke from Buck, and it still made no sense. So I tried to put myself in Colonel Petrov’s head, and in the head of his SVR and Kremlin bosses, and I said to Kalish, “I’m thinking that this yacht is not Russian. As you suggested, it could be from a friendly country that would be extended some courtesies regarding security.”

“I don’t think friendly countries carry nukes into New York Harbor.”

“They probably don’t know they have a nuke onboard, Scott.”

“Right... lots of contraband is smuggled aboard trusted ship carriers — usually hidden in crates of provisions.” He added, “Or this yacht could rendezvous at sea with a Russian ship... and Petrov would tell his host that they’re taking aboard a hundred kilos of caviar or something, compliments of the Russian government.” He informed me, “Drug smugglers do stuff like that.”

There were a lot of possible scenarios, including Petrov and his killer Gorsky hijacking the yacht, then taking the nuke aboard, along with a Russian sea captain. I mean, piracy was not out of the question for a man like Petrov and his organization.

I said, “Look, Scott, we might be wrong about some of this, but what we know for sure is what I saw — Colonel Petrov, along with an SVR assassin named Gorsky and a nuclear weapons scientist named Urmanov and twelve ladies, took off in an amphibious craft out to sea. And now I just found out about a yacht.”

“And this is the first I’m hearing about a nuclear weapons scientist.”

“Now you know why I’m worried.”

“And now I’m worried.”

“And when you find the yacht, we’ll know if it’s a party ship or a nuclear weapon delivery system.”

He didn’t reply.

I told Kalish, “I’m about to interview Georgi Tamorov. If I get anything out of him, I’ll call you.”

“Hold his wallet underwater.”

I gave him Petrov’s cell phone number to try to locate the signal and said, “I’m sure it’s as dead as Tasha’s, but try.”

“Will do.”

“Okay, talk to you—”

“One more thing... look, if my guys find this ship or this yacht, and we attempt to board, and if there’s a nuke onboard, what stops somebody from getting desperate and lighting the fuse?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Say they don’t want to commit suicide.”

“I can’t say that.”

“Say something.”

“Okay. I don’t want that ship sailing into New York Harbor with a nuclear bomb onboard and the timer ticking.”

There was silence on the phone, then Scott said, “I need to let my people know what this is about.”

“If you do that, it will go viral and cause mass panic.”

He didn’t reply.

“We need to find that yacht while it’s still at sea.”

“Okay... If it’s still in my area of operation, I will find it. If it’s someplace else, someone will find it.”

“Right.” One way or the other. I had another thought — another theory that I’d been kicking around in my mind — and I shared it with Kalish. “Look, tomorrow is September twelfth. So maybe this attack is supposed to look like an Islamic terrorist repeat of 9/11.”

“Okay...”

“Follow my reasoning. Today, September eleventh, we have a heightened security alert, making an attack more difficult. Also, it’s a Sunday and there are a lot fewer people in Manhattan to kill.”

“Right.”

“Islamic extremists are into symbolism, anniversary dates. Right? So the nuke could be set to detonate at eight forty-six A.M. — the same time, if not the same day, as the first plane hit on 9/11. Or maybe nine oh-three A.M. when the second plane hit — when there will be hundreds of thousands of people making their Monday commute into Manhattan. So maybe we have some time.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Meanwhile, I’d like to join the search. Can you get a high-speed unit to meet me at the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station?”

“I have a twenty-seven-foot SAFE boat that can make fifty knots.”

“Call him in.”

“I’ll let you know when he’s a half hour out. But call me after you speak to Tamorov.”

“Will do.”

He asked me, “How the hell did this happen?”

“Nothing has happened yet. And we’re going to make sure it doesn’t.”

“I’ve got a daughter in Manhattan.”

I thought of Kate, who would be flying back from Washington late tonight — or hopefully tomorrow. I also thought of the millions of people who lived and worked in the potential blast zone, and the millions more who would be affected by the radiation and fallout. The real question was, How could anyone do this?

“John?”

I remembered when the first plane hit the North Tower, and I thought, Thank God it’s only this, and they don’t have a nuke. And my second thought was, Not this time. And if my reasoning was correct — that this was a Russian attack, made to look like an attack from an Islamic country — then everyone would have no problem believing that Abdul finally did the unthinkable.

I said to Scott Kalish, “Call your daughter.”

I hung up and walked into the living room where Tess was keeping Tamorov company. This asshole was my last play before I got on a boat and went out to find a ship that might be carrying a nuclear weapon guarded by a couple of trained killers.

Nobody asked me to do that, and nobody would expect me to do it. In fact, I got put out to pasture because I wasn’t a team player. And because I bent the rules until they broke. So why was I doing all this again? All I really needed to do according to my dead-end job description was text 26 Fed:

And, by the way, get your asses out of that building.

That’s what I should do, then go on a 10–63 — a meal break — and have a beer at Sammy’s Seaside Grill and hope things turn out okay. But that’s not what I was going to do. And why not? Well, because Colonel Vasily Petrov was my responsibility today and I lost him. And in my NYPD head, I’d like to call in a 10–91 — “Condition Corrected.”

Also, to be totally honest, I wouldn’t mind showing those assholes at 26 Fed — including Tom Walsh — who I was. Kate, too. Right?

Chapter twenty-eight

I threw my shoes, socks, and my holstered Glock on the coffee table and sat in a comfortable leather chair, facing Georgi Tamorov. We looked at each other.

He was about mid-forties, fairly trim compared to his porky friends, and he had a thin face with dark narrow eyes. He was not handsome, but women found the bulge in his back pocket irresistible. He was still wearing shorts and his silly Hawaiian shirt, but he’d lost his sandals somewhere. He may have been drunk earlier, but the events of the last half hour seemed to have sobered him up.

I asked Tess, “This guy have a cell phone?”

“Not when I frisked him.”

I looked at Tamorov. “You throw it in the pool?”

He didn’t reply.

I asked Tess, “Cat got his tongue?”

“He wants to call his lawyer.”

I looked at Tamorov. “You can’t call your lawyer if you don’t have a phone.” I asked, “Where is it?”

No reply.

I tried a compliment. “Great party. Love your caterers.”

At this point, the suspect usually says something like, “I knew all along that you were a cop,” which they say because they’re feeling stupid about getting conned. I recently had the same feeling. But Tamorov didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t determine if he or Petrov had any suspicions about the two caterers who were now sitting with him. In the end, though, it didn’t change Colonel Petrov’s plans, though it did change mine.

I got down to business and informed him, “As you may have guessed, this is a raid. A joint operation by the FBI and the county police, code-named Revenge of the Caterers.”

He didn’t respond to that, but asked me in good English, “Do you have a search warrant?”

“No, but I have a caterer’s license.”

He wasn’t amused and said to me, “I must see your credentials and your search warrant.”

I tapped my Glock on the coffee table. “See?”

He kept his eyes fixed on me.

I informed Mr. Tamorov, “Not only do I not need a warrant, but you have no right to remain silent.”

“I wish to call my attorney.”

“He’ll tell you what I’m telling you, Georgi. You’re in a lot of trouble — but you can get out of it if you cooperate.”

He didn’t reply.

I’d established that he was married with children, and with men of substance and standing you go right for the family jewels. So I told him, “I understand that your wife is in your townhouse in Tribeca. So I’m going to call her and tell her you’ve been arrested for engaging the services of two dozen prostitutka, and you got a blow job in the pool where she swims.” I added, “Then you’ll really need to call your lawyer.”

His impassive face showed a little concern. Even oligarchs are afraid of their wives. Right?

“However,” I continued, “I can make all this go away.”

Our eyes met, and he tried to get a measure of me. To help him with that, I said, “You have to decide who you’re most afraid of — me, Vasily Petrov, or your wife.”

“I am afraid of no one.”

“Come on, Georgi. You’re afraid of your wife.”

“Americans are afraid of their wives.”

He could be on to something. More importantly, I got him talking.

I also informed him, to put him on the defensive, “Every gun here better be licensed. And every foreign national better have a valid visa.”

“I have no knowledge of that.”

“I hope you have knowledge of everything in your house when we search it.”

“I need to see your search warrant.”

“When I find it, I’m going to roll it up, put a coat of oil on it, and shove it up your ass.”

He had no response to that.

I pulled on my socks and shoes, but left the Glock on the coffee table. There was a crystal cigarette box and ashtray on the table, and a silver table lighter. I said to him, “Smoke if you want.”

He looked at the cigarettes, and I’m sure he needed one, but his experience in his homeland told him not to go anywhere near the gun.

“Go ahead,” I urged. “Reach for the cigarettes.”

He sat back on the couch and stopped trying to stare me down, and he looked off into space.

I let him know, “You can answer my questions here, or you can answer them at 26 Federal Plaza in Manhattan.”

He must have had a law degree or something, because he said, “Prostitution is not a Federal crime.”

“Right. But assaulting a Federal officer is. That’s me.”

“I have not assaulted you.”

“You tried to bite my toes.”

He seemed confused, but then he understood that I was crazy and he was fucked. But he was a smart guy so he called my bluff and said, “If you allow me to call my attorney, I will accompany you to your headquarters.” He added, “I have done nothing wrong.”

Well, I didn’t have time to go to 26 Fed, and I certainly didn’t want to be there when the building disappeared in a nuclear firestorm. But apparently that was not a concern for Georgi Tamorov. I could deduce, therefore, that Mr. Tamorov had no idea what his three U.N. guests were up to tonight. Or I could conclude that Colonel Petrov and his pals were not up to anything. But I think I was past that point. I was believing the unbelievable, and thinking the unthinkable.

I said to him, “You understand this is about Colonel Petrov.”

He understood that, though he’d hoped it was about prostitutes, unlicensed guns, and expired visas. He seemed a bit uneasy now, so this was the time to reveal the true nature of the suspect and of the crimes under investigation.

I said, “As I’m sure you know, Vasily Petrov is not actually a Human Rights delegate to the United Nations. He is an SVR colonel, and a killer.”

No response.

I continued, “We have information that he is in this country to do harm, which is why we followed him from the Russian Mission to here.” Actually, we follow everyone, but that was none of his business. I asked Tamorov, “Why was Petrov here?”

He realized that he needed to answer at least the easy questions and he replied, “For the party.”

“Why did you invite him?”

“I... he is an acquaintance.”

“How do you know him?”

“He was introduced to me... at a United Nations reception.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Maybe your wife will remember.”

“By our U.N. ambassador.”

“Did your ambassador mention that Vasily Petrov was an SVR assassin?”

“Of course not—”

“Or that his father, Vladimir, was a KGB general, and the head of SMERSH?”

“I did not know that.”

“So I know more than you do?”

“It is no business of mine who this man is. That is your business.”

“Do you understand the legal concept of guilt by association?”

No reply.

“You could be looking at twenty years in jail.”

“I know nothing about this man.”

“Bullshit. He’s your friend.”

“We are acquaintances.” He added, “We are compatriots.”

“No, you are co-conspirators in a criminal conspiracy to do harm to the United States.”

“No.”

“Maybe thirty years.” He was on the run now, and I pressed on. “We’ll seize all your assets in America and around the world. Your wife will be shopping at Kmart, and your kids will be waiting on tables in the Russian Tea Room.”

He knew this was part bluff, but he didn’t know which part.

He insisted, “I know nothing about this man.” He also reminded me, “Colonel Petrov is a United Nations delegate vetted by your country—”

“And I’m Santa Claus.” I said to Tess, “Get a car and we’ll take Mr. Tamorov to 26 Fed.”

She glanced at me, knowing we weren’t going to 26 Fed, and we’d already seen that Mr. Tamorov didn’t wet his pants when I told him I was taking him to Lower Manhattan. So Tess understood she was supposed to say something clever, and she said to me, “I think we can resolve this here if Mr. Tamorov cooperates.”

“He’s an asshole.” I told her, “Cuff him.”

She actually didn’t have any cuffs, so she said, “Let me talk to him.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “Five minutes.”

Tess leaned forward and pushed the cigarettes and lighter toward Tamorov, who hesitated, glanced at me, then took a cigarette and lit up.

Tess assured him, “If you are cooperative, and if we can determine by your answers that you have no knowledge of Colonel Petrov’s illegal activities in America, then you are free to remain here, at liberty, subject to further interviews with your lawyer present.”

Not bad for an intelligence officer.

She asked him, “Do you understand?”

He nodded.

She got down to business and asked, “Who were the two men who arrived here with Colonel Petrov?”

Tamorov guessed correctly that we must know the answer to this, and that in any case he should know who his guests were, so he was quick to reply. “They are Petrov’s U.N. colleagues. One is Viktor Gorsky and the other is Pavel Fradkov.”

Also known as Dr. Arkady Urmanov, a suitcase nuke guy. But I was fairly sure Tamorov didn’t know this. And if I’d told him that his three compatriots had sailed off to obliterate his Manhattan real estate along with Mrs. Tamorov, he’d be shocked. You can reveal some stuff to a witness or even a suspect, but you don’t give them sensitive information, so Tess didn’t mention nuking New York.

Tess asked him, “Where did that amphibious craft come from?”

“I do not know.”

“You know it came from a ship. And that it was going back to the ship. And you knew the amphibious craft was coming. I saw that you knew.”

He looked at both of us, and I was sure he was pissed off at Colonel Petrov, the pro, for not getting on to us and getting rid of us.

“Mister Tamorov?”

“Petrov told me that he had a party to go to.”

“Whose party?”

“He did not say. But he mentioned East Hampton.”

I said to Tamorov, “We’ve already checked this out. There has been no sighting of an amphibious craft filled with Russian hookers anywhere on the east end of Long Island.” I assured him, “Someone would have noticed.”

Tamorov shrugged. “I am telling you what he told me.”

I said to him, “We know that Petrov sailed out to a ship at sea.” I suggested, “Tell me about that.”

“I have no knowledge of that.”

“Did he tell you when he intended to return here?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Can you call him?”

“I do not have his cell phone number.”

“When we find your cell phone, we’ll see if that’s true.”

No reply.

“Okay, so you invited him to your party, provided him with a dozen prostitutes to take with him to another party, and you don’t have his cell phone number. Is that right?”

Tamorov thought about this, then replied, “Petrov is a man of few words and he shares very little.”

“You need better friends.”

“He is not my friend.”

I nodded to Tess and she continued, “I know that Colonel Petrov is fond of alcoholic beverages. But tonight, neither I nor this gentleman nor anyone served him a drink.” She asked, “Why is that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well then, I’ll tell you — because he and Gorsky and Fradkov wanted to remain sober because they are on a mission tonight. A mission to inflict harm to my country.”

Tamorov looked a little uncomfortable, and he replied, “I assumed they were... saving themselves for the other party. Yes. In fact, Gorsky said that.”

I interjected, “Bullshit.”

Tamorov was in a tough position, wanting to be cooperative enough to get us out of his house, and at the same time not saying anything that Colonel Vasily Petrov of the SVR would disapprove of if and when they met again. Tamorov was not protecting Petrov; he was protecting his own life. And that was the problem. Petrov kills.

I said, “Look, Georgi, you and I both know who Petrov is and I’m really sensitive to your concerns. But I want to assure you that I will take care of Colonel Petrov.”

He looked at me and asked, “And will you also take care of the entire SVR?”

He had a valid point there, but I couldn’t help saying, “When you dance with the devil, Georgi, you’re going to get burned.”

He got what I was saying and replied, “One cannot always refuse the invitation of the devil.”

Right. Especially if you have relatives and oil wells in hell.

I told him what he already knew. “Colonel Petrov is not good for business.”

He gave me a half nod.

Tess returned to the topic and asked, “What was in the luggage they took with them?”

“How would I know?”

I was positive that Petrov and his pals did not have guns with them in the car, so if they needed guns they picked them up here. And Tess knew that, too, so she asked, “Is it possible that one of your guests — or one of your security men — gave something to Petrov and the men with him?”

“How would I know this?”

He was annoying me, so I picked up the heavy silver lighter and shattered the ashtray, startling Mr. Tamorov and even Tess. I shouted, “Stop the bullshit! We know Petrov picked up guns here! And you know it!”

Tamorov didn’t reply and just looked at the mess I’d made.

“You,” I informed him, “are what we call a useful idiot. Understand?”

He understood. Better than being a co-conspirator.

“Maybe an accessory to a crime.”

“No.”

“You’re also an asshole.”

That was not an indictable offense, so he didn’t argue with that.

“Last chance to come clean. Tell me about the ship.”

He insisted, “I do not know of any ship.”

I leaned across the table and looked him in the eye. “Yakut?”

He seemed confused by the word in his own language and replied, “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t understand Russian?”

“I understand the word, but—”

“Do you own a yacht?”

“No.”

“Do you have friends who own yachts?”

“No. Yes.”

“Did you introduce Colonel Petrov to someone who has a yacht?”

He hesitated a second, then replied, “I do not recall making such an introduction.”

“You need to think about this, Georgi.”

He did not respond.

Tess asked him, “Was it Colonel Petrov who suggested that you have this party tonight?”

Good question.

Tamorov thought so, too, because a yes answer meant that all this was pre-planned, and that he, Tamorov, was complicit in something, even if he didn’t know what it was. So he replied, “No.”

Tess pressed on, “So it was just coincidence that your party was on the same night that a yacht was passing by? A yacht that Petrov had been invited to?”

“I do not know of any yacht.” He added, “As I told you, he said he was going to a party in East Hampton.”

I pointed out, “These people at your party were your friends, from your world. Not Petrov’s. There were no other diplomatic people here. So why did you invite Petrov, Gorsky, and Fradkov?”

“I... Petrov and I sometimes have business to discuss.”

“Yours or his?”

“He is a useful man for me to know. In Russia.”

“Does he whack people for you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, Georgi, you’re in deep shit, and it’s up to your ears now.” I looked at him. “I want a yes or no answer. Did Petrov ask you to have this party tonight?”

He understood that we both knew the answer to that, but he couldn’t bring himself to say yes, though he didn’t say no.

Well, if I could reverse-engineer this evening, it seemed that it started with a non-Russian ship that Petrov needed to deliver a nuclear weapon to Manhattan Island. It was hard to figure out how all this came about and it was hard to know how much of this was Petrov’s bright idea, and how much was cooked up in Moscow. Probably Petrov had the idea, and Moscow had the suitcase nuke. All they needed were a few clueless idiots like Georgi Tamorov and a ship owner — who Tamorov probably knew — to pull it off, and to be sure there were no Russian connections to the nuclear explosion. Well, but there were — Petrov, Gorsky, and Urmanov — but only if American intelligence could connect those three Russians to a yacht that became ground zero in a nuclear explosion. And there was really no way to make that connection. Or so Colonel Petrov thought.

The plan seemed a bit complex to me, but it also had a certain simplicity to it. If the goal was for Russia to nuke Manhattan and make it look like someone else had done it, like the North Koreans or the Chinese — or an Islamic group, if this was supposed to look like a replay of 9/11 — then it was a good plan. Not nice, but good.

I leaned toward Tamorov and said, “Look at me.”

He looked at me and I asked, “What is the name of this yacht’s owner? What country is he from, and what is the name of his yacht?”

“I do not know of any yacht.”

“I know you do. And you know you do.”

Georgi Tamorov took a deep breath, then said to me, “I mean no harm to your country.” He waved his hand around the big room. “I enjoy my time here.” He further informed me, “I am a Russian by birth, but I am a citizen of the world.”

More likely a citizen of Switzerland for tax purposes. But I got his point, though that didn’t mean he couldn’t answer my question. “The name of the yacht. And the name and nationality of the yacht’s owner.”

“I do not know... but I will think about what you are asking.”

Right. Lots to think about. Like, what to get in return. It’s all about the deal. Not to mention who was most likely to ruin his life. Or end it.

He had no idea how serious this was, nor did he know that the clock was ticking and his window to make a deal was closing.

I said to him, “Information that comes too late is no information. Meaning you have nothing to trade.” I asked him, “Understand?”

He nodded, but said nothing.

While I was contemplating inviting Mr. Tamorov for a dip in the hot tub, my cell phone rang and it was Scott Kalish. I took the call and Kalish said, “I have that SAFE boat for you, about twenty minutes from the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station.”

“Okay.”

“And before you ask, still no sighting. Also, I’m asking about all yachts that are due in or have already docked in New York. And I checked with the East Hampton Police and the Bay Constables, and rechecked with my people, and everyone’s sure there is no amphibious craft full of hookers docked at a party anywhere.”

“Right. Can’t talk now. I’ll call you later.”

I hung up and said to Tamorov, “Here’s the deal, Georgi — if Vasily Petrov blows something up tonight, or kills someone, you are in a world of shit. So think hard about what we’ve asked you, and maybe what we didn’t ask you. And if you think of something, especially about a yacht, you tell a lady named Detective Penrose that you need to speak to me. Not your fucking lawyer. Understand?”

He nodded.

I picked up my Glock, and Tess and I stood. I instructed Tamorov, “Do not move. But before you’re taken into protective custody, you will write a check for twenty thousand dollars to Hampton Catering. Actually, make it twenty-five.”

Money he understood, and he said, “Perhaps I can write a check to each of you for a million dollars.”

“I’ll get back to you with my Swiss bank account number.”

“I am serious.”

“Good. I’ll add bribery to the charges.” I reminded him, “Think about who and what you’re most afraid of.” I looked him in the eye. “Time is running out.”

I was about to leave, but then I decided that this was a situation that was desperate enough for me to break the rules and to share a great secret with this Russian. I moved close to him and said, “We have good reason to believe that onboard this yacht is a Soviet-made miniature nuclear weapon, heading for Manhattan.”

Tamorov looked like I’d just hit him in the nuts.

Tess said, “John—”

I continued, “If this nuke detonates, you can say good-bye to your Manhattan real estate, your Wall Street investments, and also your wife, and your life.”

He stared at me, trying I guess to see if I was lying, but he was smart enough to see that I wasn’t. And smart enough to know that his pal Colonel Vasily Petrov was capable of mass murder.

I said, “The yacht.”

He replied, in a barely audible voice, “I... made an introduction... but...”

“You introduced Petrov to whom?”

“To a Saudi prince. Ali Faisel.”

Right. A Saudi prince. It all made sense now. Our sometimes friends the Saudis take the rap for the nuclear terrorist attack. Or Ali Faisel was complicit. Lots to think about and lots to figure out. And not much time to do either. “And the prince owns a yacht named...? What?”

“The Hana.”

“Spell it.”

Tamorov was staring at the floor now, and he spelled the prince’s name and the name of the yacht, then said, “That is all I know.”

I hope that’s all I need to know. I said to him, “If you pray, Georgi, say a prayer for Mrs. Tamorov and for a million other innocent people.”

He nodded, and I thought I heard him say, “My God.”

“As my mother used to say to me, pick your friends carefully.”

Tess and I left Georgi Tamorov to contemplate the results of his bad choices.

Chapter twenty-nine

Out on the back deck, the Suffolk County PD had arrived. Phil Florio and Beth Penrose, as the first responding detectives, were in charge, and they were conversing with two uniformed sergeants.

Detective Florio seemed anxious to get a team together to go upstairs and bust the Ivans and their ladies, but I told him he needed to go to the living room and sit on Tamorov and not let him communicate with anyone.

Someone had found the audio controls and shut off the music, and I could hear the surf breaking on the shore. There was no sea breeze and the fog lay motionless over the ocean and the beach. The floodlights came on and reflected off the mist, adding more weirdness to an already surreal night.

I texted Scott Kalish:

Tess asked me, “How did you know about a yacht?”

“From Dmitry, the driver.”

She nodded, and came to the same conclusion I did. “The nuke would not be on a Russian ship. But it could have come from one.”

“Correct.”

“And this Saudi prince will look like a nuclear terrorist. Or he actually is a terrorist.”

“It almost doesn’t matter at this point. But we’ll know when we find The Hana.”

“I hope it’s The Hana that we’re looking for.”

“It is.”

“And that we’re not too late.”

I was fairly sure now that the attack was supposed to look like a jihadist follow-up to 9/11 — or it actually was, if this Saudi prince was in cahoots with Petrov. I said to Tess, “I think we have until eight forty-six A.M. or nine oh-three A.M.”

She looked at me, then nodded.

“Unless Petrov is spooked and goes early.”

She had no reply.

Tess and I found Detective Penrose talking to a uniformed sergeant about how best to get a few dozen naked people out of the pool, dressed, cuffed, and into the waiting prisoner bus.

I said to Beth, “The homeowner, Mr. Tamorov, is inside with Florio. I have told Tamorov about Radiant Angel and he needs to be kept in strict isolation. The only phone call he’s allowed to make is to you. Give him your card and instruct him to ask someone at the county lockup for permission to call you if he remembers anything further. Call me and I’ll get back to him.” I added, “And please be sure Mr. Tamorov writes a check to Hampton Catering. Twenty-five thousand.”

“Does he get the police raid discount?”

Funny. Even Tess laughed. I also asked Beth, “Has anyone found our cell phones?”

“Unfortunately, the caterers grabbed the whole basket when you told them to leave.” She scolded me, “You are not supposed to let anyone leave the premises.”

“They had a tough day.”

“Me too. And I’m still here.”

“Well, I’m leaving. But please send someone to get our phones, deliver the check, and remind Dean Hampton to keep quiet. National security.”

She reminded me, “You and Ms. Faraday and your team have to log in your presence.”

Sounded like my wife. Another stickler for rules. Even when the world was about to blow up. “We’ll be sure to log in and log out.”

“Where are you going?”

“Just between us, I’m going out on a SAFE boat.”

“I suppose that’s better than having to deal with all this.”

“I always know when to run from a shit storm.”

“You usually run into a worse one.”

“That’s my M.O.”

Ms. Faraday sensed a private moment coming, so she moved off to where Steve and Matt were speaking to another uniformed sergeant.

Beth and I looked at each other, and I said, “It’s good to see you again.”

She didn’t reply.

She wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but in this business you often don’t. I said, “I married that woman.”

“Congratulations.”

“You?”

“Looking for a rich Russian.”

“You came to the right place.”

Well, that seemed to cover it, so I got down to business and asked, “Have you spoken to Scott Kalish?”

“I did.”

“So you understand there are no rules tonight.” I added, “I want all these people kept under wraps until at least noon tomorrow. Make up some charges.”

“The FBI will be all over this in an hour.”

Not to mention the CIA if they were working with the State Department. I advised her, “If my name comes up, you don’t know where I went.”

“All right. But can I mention that you appeared crazy as ever?”

“That’s our secret.” I added, “I’m sure we’ll be in touch when you write your report.”

“I’m sure the Feds will make you unavailable for the next ten years.”

Longer, if the CIA whacked me. “Call me anytime.”

“You don’t have a phone.”

I smiled. “You’ll find it. Meanwhile, Tess and I are sharing Matt Conlon’s phone.” I gave her the number.

She told me, “I have discovered that you are with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, and that your duties and responsibilities are very limited.”

“My job is to keep the surveillance target in sight at all times, and to find him when I lose him. And that’s what I’m doing.”

“Don’t get yourself killed doing it.”

“Anything further?”

“No. I’ll take care of this.” She gave me her card. “Call me later and let me know what’s happening.”

“If you see an incandescent flash on the western horizon, you’ll know what’s happening.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Talk to you later.”

We both hesitated, then hugged for a brief second. “Careful,” she said.

I walked toward Steve, Matt, and Tess, who saw the public display of affection. They were speaking to a patrol sergeant, and I motioned to my team to join me.

Steve informed me, “I just got a call from a supervisor, Special Agent Howard Fensterman. He says he knows you.”

“We worked together in Yemen.”

“He said you’ve exceeded your authority—”

“How does he know that?”

“Not from us. I told you, the last we texted was that you and the trainee were on a meal break.”

“Okay.” So the word had reached 26 Federal Plaza, probably through Washington, that there was a situation in progress. And somehow my name came up, and my name at 26 Fed causes concern for some reason.

Steve continued, “Fensterman said you are relieved of your duties and you are to report to him at 26 Fed with all due haste.”

I didn’t think I wanted to be at 26 Fed tonight. And neither did Howard Fensterman, who obviously didn’t know he was in a nuclear blast zone. I mean, that’s compartmented information. To the max.

Steve also told me, “Matt and I are also relieved. We’re all going to see Fensterman.”

Matt asked, “Are we getting fired?”

“Probably.”

“Shit.”

My boys looked at me as though I’d let them down and totally fucked up their second careers and their lives. I asked Steve, “And Tess?”

“Fensterman didn’t mention her.”

Right. Fensterman probably knew who she was. I glanced at Tess, and she understood that I wanted to let my team know what was going on, but she shook her head.

I assured Matt and Steve, “Don’t worry about your jobs.”

Matt said, “I don’t think you can fix this one, boss.”

Steve added, “Fensterman was really pissed.”

“Well,” I informed them, “he’s going to be more pissed, because I’m not going to 26 Fed.”

“You gotta go,” Steve said.

Matt added, “We all have to go. Now.”

Tess surprised them by saying, “John is not going to 26 Fed, and neither are you.”

They looked at her, then at each other. Steve asked, “What the hell is going on here?”

I replied, “You don’t need to know and you don’t want to know.”

Matt asked, “Where you going?”

“Can’t say.”

“We’ll go with you.”

I reminded my team, “You’re done here. E.O.T. End of tour. Go get a drink.” I suggested, “Sammy’s in Southampton. Have one for me.” I let them know, “Good job tonight.” I shook hands with both men and assured them, “You’re covered.” I added, “Do not go back to Manhattan. That is an order.”

Tess and I went into the service corridor to the kitchen where two uniformed officers were securing the scene and sampling the unserved desserts. We showed our creds and headed toward the service entrance.

There were four household employees in the kitchen, including the fat housekeeper, who saw me and shouted, “Yob vas!”

That’s the thanks I get for slicing a hundred feet of kolbasa.

Tess suggested, “We can stop at Hampton Catering for our phones.”

“The less commo we have the better.”

“I’ve never heard that one before.”

She never worked an unauthorized case with me before.

We walked through the storage room and into the garage.

Tess asked, “Do you think your wife has been trying to call you?”

“I don’t know.”

I inspected the damage to the Blazer. The front end was a little banged up, but the headlights were okay. The Jag was going to cost Tamorov big bucks. But that was the least of his problems.

Tess asked, “Is she staying in D.C. tonight?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you should call her.”

I’d thought about that — many times — and I said, “I can’t do what we are telling other people not to do.”

“This is your wife.”

I did tell Scott Kalish to call his daughter in Manhattan, but Tess didn’t know I’d had a weak moment.

Tess suggested, “Just tell her she needs to stay in Washington tonight. And tomorrow.”

“I’m assuming the Feds will halt air traffic into New York at some point.”

“Okay, but she could be at the airport now, ready to board.”

I looked at Tess and reminded her, “There are a million people in the blast zone.”

“We just told Steve and Matt not to go to Manhattan without telling them why. You can do the same for your wife.”

This was none of her business, but I said, for the record, “Special Agent Mayfield is a stickler for rules and procedures and she wouldn’t want special treatment.”

Tess and I looked at each other. Finally, she said, “You have to live with that decision.”

“And you don’t.” I moved to the driver’s door. “And you don’t need to come with me.”

She didn’t reply and went around to the passenger’s door and got in.

I got behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed out over the broken garage door panels, and off we went down the driveway, now lined with police vehicles.

Two uniformed officers were at the gate and we showed our creds and logged out, then exited the oceanfront estate of Georgi Tamorov, whom I envied when I got here. Goes to show you.

I remembered a line that I’d read when I was a kid — a line about the nuclear war we all thought was coming. The survivors will envy the dead.

Chapter thirty

The United States Coast Guard Station is about six miles west of Tamorov’s house, but the Shinnecock Inlet separates the beach road, so we had to go around the bay, and Tess navigated the foggy roads. What would I do without her? I’d use my GPS.

Tess seemed to be having second thoughts. She asked, “Are you sure we should be doing this?”

“What else would you like to do tonight?”

“Maybe our job is to stay with the police at Tamorov’s, then work the case at police headquarters.”

“Actually, I have no job.” I suggested, “We can keep going and be at 26 Fed in two hours, as per orders.”

She didn’t reply.

“Or I can leave you at the Coast Guard Station.”

“I’m with you.”

I called Kalish, he answered, and I said, “Ms. Faraday is with me on speaker.” I asked him, “Did you find the yacht, Scott?”

“I haven’t, but I have some info for you about The Hana.”

“Great.”

I heard some paper shuffling and Kalish said, “Here’s the scoop — The Hana is indeed registered to a Saudi prince named Ali Faisel, and is here in New York. The ship got cleared at Ambrose yesterday, around noon. It had arrived from Istanbul with a refueling stop in the Azores.” He continued, “The Hana, with the prince onboard, picked up a harbor pilot, then docked at Pier 11 and was inspected by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who found no problems or issues, and everyone onboard who had passports and a valid visa was cleared to disembark. Six crewmembers and five passengers, including the prince, left the ship, and everyone returned by three A.M. according to ICE.”

“I hope they partied like there was no tomorrow.”

“Not funny. Okay, then this morning, around nine A.M., The Hana’s skipper, a Brit named Jack Wells, asked for a harbor pilot and for permission to leave the pier and go on an overnight cruise, within U.S. territorial waters, expecting to return about eight Monday morning.”

The facts were starting to match the theories. I glanced at Tess, who was paying close attention. I said to Kalish, “Have the Feds check out the names on The Hana’s manifest.”

“Already being done, no red flags so far.” He continued, “This prince has some sort of U.N. diplomatic status, plus, of course, he’s a member of the Saudi royal family, so he’s VIP.”

“Where did you get this info on Ali?”

“A reliable source.” He confessed, “The Internet.”

“What’s the Internet say about The Hana?”

“Not much, but I did get some info from a luxury yacht website.” He read, “Built in Ancona, Italy, by CRN Shipyard, The Hana is two hundred and twenty feet, with a forty-foot beam, and weighs in at six hundred and thirty tons, powered by two twenty-one-hundred-horsepower engines, and has a cruise speed of twenty-one knots and a max speed of twenty-five knots. It can sleep a crew of about twenty, plus four officers, and will accommodate ten to twelve overnight guests.”

I guess the twelve hookers sleep with the twelve overnight guests — or they’re all sleeping with the fishes.

He continued, “Here’s the interesting part — it has a float-in garage space below deck for two twenty-five-foot tender craft.”

“Does it say anything about an amphibious craft?”

“No, just the max length of the tender craft.”

“Well, the length is right.” I recalled something Kalish had said earlier and asked, “Does this yacht have a submersible craft?”

“I don’t see that on this website. But some of these yachts are built in semi-secrecy, and some are retrofitted later.”

“Okay. Well, this sounds like what we’re looking for.”

“Where did you get the name of the yacht?”

“From Tamorov. But I can’t directly connect this yacht with Petrov, though it looks like a no-brainer.”

“Right. And the yacht seems to fit the profile we discussed — friendly nation, good creds, previously cleared at Ambrose and cleared by ICE at the pier, out for a cruise, and holds up to two twenty-five-foot tenders.” He asked me, “What more evidence do you need?”

“None. I need the yacht.”

“I don’t understand why Petrov and his pals didn’t just meet The Hana at its pier this morning before it set out on its cruise.”

“Because the Diplomatic Surveillance Group is up Petrov’s ass 24/7, and we would have seen him boarding, and even if he gave us the slip he’d still have to go through security at the pier. And obviously he wants no connection between him and The Hana.”

“Right.”

“What else have you done for me tonight?”

“Well, now that we have the name of the ship, we were able to tune in to The Hana’s AIS transmitter to find its location.”

“But it wasn’t transmitting or you’d be aboard by now.”

“Correct.” He also told me, “It’s illegal to shut off the transmitter.”

“The transmitter could be out of service.”

“It could be, but then The Hana would have radioed this fact to the Coast Guard, but they haven’t. Also, the Coast Guard has decided not to call The Hana on the hail and distress channel, so as not to tip them off.”

“Right.”

“And finally we have no signal from The Hana’s GPS.”

“Well, that just about nails it, Scott. No GPS signal and no transmitter signal. The Hana is hiding.”

“It would appear so.” He added, “We’ve seen this M.O. with drug smugglers.”

“Right.” And for all I knew, The Hana had rendezvoused with a South American ship and taken a ton of Colombian marching powder aboard, and this had nothing to do with Russians or nukes. This wouldn’t be the first time I was investigating one crime and discovered another. In fact, there was really nothing to conclusively link Petrov and his pals to The Hana, or to a nuke. Except that Tamorov introduced Petrov to the prince, and if everything looks like a coincidence, it isn’t.

Kalish informed us, “This fog is not helping, but we’re using infrared imaging now that we have an idea what this ship looks like. And we also know we’re not looking for an amphibious craft on its deck.” He also let us know, “By now the search area is thousands of square miles, and quite frankly even with every available craft from every agency out there, it’s not easy looking for an electronically silent speck in a fog-shrouded ocean at night. And if The Hana is hiding it probably has all its lights off.” He added, “But if you’re right about the nuke, we do have the radiation emission going for us.”

Unless Petrov had a way to shield his nuke. I said, “I think we’ll have more luck as the shipping lanes narrow and funnel into New York Harbor.”

“Right. But you don’t want that ship getting that close.”

“Correct.” That’s a goal-line defense, and it wouldn’t take much to get The Hana into the end zone. Or it was already there.

Kalish speculated, “By now they could know we’re looking for them, and their first clue would be if they noticed helicopters flying search patterns overhead, or saw high-speed craft on their radar, or saw we were using the Midnight Sun. And a bigger clue would be if The Hana was monitoring police search and rescue frequencies.” He added, “But of course no one is using the name Hana on the air, so Petrov and his pals could think they were seeing and hearing a search and rescue. Or a drug interdiction.”

“Hope so.” But Vasily Petrov, a.k.a. Vaseline, might have guessed we were looking for him. A sane man would have dumped the nuke overboard and aborted the mission. But no one who intends to murder a million innocent people is sane.

Kalish asked me, “You think this Saudi prince is in cahoots with Petrov?”

“I don’t know. Could be that Petrov hijacked the ship. Or conned the prince. Or the prince is complicit. I don’t know.”

“Okay... so we don’t know how many hostiles are onboard.”

“Correct.”

Tess asked Kalish, “How many crew would it take to run a ship of that size?”

“Three for a long cruise. But for a short run, like to New York Harbor, one person could do it if he knew how to steer, navigate without GPS, and set the engine speeds.”

Tess said, “So this captain, Jack Wells, or one of his officers, could sail The Hana by themselves?”

“Theoretically,” Kalish replied, “but why would they? Unless they were in cahoots.”

I didn’t think any of The Hana’s crew was in cahoots. But you never know what money can buy. Or how much cooperation you could get from a man with a gun to his head. It was also possible that the officers and crew were clueless about what was going on. The last possibility was that Captain Wells and his officers were no longer in charge of the ship, and Petrov picked up a Russian sea captain and crew along with the nuke.

There were a lot of unknowns here, and as someone once said, you need to know how many unknowns there are that you don’t know about. On the other hand, you can get lost in weeds if you go down that path. To simplify this, all we needed to know and to believe was that a yacht named The Hana was headed to Manhattan with a suitcase nuke onboard. It was amazing, I thought, how something so small could alter the course of history.

Vasily Petrov, however, must understand by now that his mission was compromised. But maybe he saw it as a challenge. Or maybe he was so crazy that he couldn’t understand that all the odds were against him. Or were they?

Tess said to Kalish, “I assume the Coast Guard and all Federal authorities are up to speed on this.”

“I have shared all this information.”

“And what did they suggest?” she asked.

“Nothing.” He let us know, “We have a good relationship with the Coast Guard, but sometimes with the Feds they suck in information like a black hole and nothing comes back.”

I advised him, “Don’t take it personally.”

“Right. They can’t help themselves. And they’re not helping me much.”

“But they want you to help them.”

“They appreciate my assistance.”

“That’s all you need to know, Scott. And I mean, that’s all you need to know.”

“Right.” He also let us know, “The thinking is that this ship — The Hana — is no longer in my area of operation. It could be much farther west by now, close to New York Harbor. But the Coast Guard has asked the Suffolk County Marine Bureau to continue the search in our area in case The Hana is lurking around in the fog, waiting to make its run.”

“Good thinking. And I hope that’s the case.”

Scott Kalish and I both knew through long experience with the Feds that they needed you when they needed you. And the minute they didn’t need local law enforcement, you were dropped like a cheap date, and you never heard another word about the case until you read about it in the papers. Well, two can play that game.

He asked me, “Where are you?”

“About ten minutes from the Coast Guard Station.”

There was a silence, then Kalish said, “I was told that the Diplomatic Surveillance Group is no longer part of this operation.” He concluded, correctly, “I think that means you.”

“Probably. But Ms. Faraday has deputized me to join her on the SAFE boat.”

“Can I have that in writing?”

“No.”

“Well...”

“Who’s in charge here, Scott? You or the Feds?”

“This is a joint operation.”

“If the worst happens with this joint operation, which joint gets blamed?”

He didn’t reply, so I added, “And if this has a happy ending, you’ll be lucky if you get a one-line mention in a press release or two words at a press conference.”

“That doesn’t matter.” He let me know, “I don’t think you can get aboard my SAFE boat, John.”

Time to call in my I.O.U. “Did you phone your daughter?”

“I didn’t tell her why she needed to come home tonight.”

“But I assume she’s on her way.”

“Right...”

I changed the subject and asked him, “Does that website have a photo of The Hana?”

“Yeah. Plus plans of its five decks.”

“Did you send that out to all the units?”

“Everyone.”

“Good. Please make sure there are printouts of this info at the Coast Guard Station.”

“All right.” He let me know, “You did a good job. But if I were you, I’d let it go.”

“You’re not me.”

“And you’re not me. And I don’t need you out on one of my units.” He asked me, “What is your purpose?”

“You’re breaking up.”

“Do you think you’re going to take part in a combat boarding?”

“Why not?”

“Are you trained to do that?”

“Why don’t you just find The Hana? And let me worry about what I’m going to do.”

He didn’t reply to that, but said, “You owe me dinner.”

“Ecco’s,” I said, naming a restaurant in the nuclear blast zone.

He knew the place and replied, “We hope.”

“Speak to you later. And thanks.”

“Anytime, except not next time.”

I hung up and Tess said, “He made a good point. About you not being authorized, or trained—”

“You’re staying at the Coast Guard Station.”

“I am not. If you go, I go.” She did ask, however, “What is your purpose? What is driving you?”

“I’m driving myself.” I turned the steering wheel. “See?”

She said, with some insight, “You don’t have to prove to your bosses — or to your wife—”

“You’re out of line.” I should have left her with Buck. I said, “For the record, you did not approve of my actions, and chose to stay at the Coast Guard Station.”

“You’re not getting all the glory, Mr. Corey.”

“There will be none, I assure you.”

She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “We will finish this together.”

I didn’t reply.

She changed the subject and asked, “What was that about Scott Kalish’s daughter?”

“She lives in Manhattan.”

“Sounds like you both discussed it and you said it was okay to tell her to get out.”

Ms. Faraday has a deductive mind. She should be a detective.

“You need to call your wife,” she reminded me.

“Later.”

She continued, “If, as you said, Petrov is spooked, he will advance the time, and there will be no later.”

“Or he could abort the mission.” I added, “There is a lot we don’t know, so don’t make assumptions. In fact, aside from the fact that we’re not sure we’re dealing with a nuclear threat, we don’t even know the target, if there is one.” I reminded her, “We only assume it’s the financial and government districts of Lower Manhattan.”

“What else would it be?”

“The East Coast of the United States is what we call a target-rich environment. For instance, there’s the nuclear submarine base in Groton, Connecticut, which the Russians would love to see vaporized.”

“But if you’re saying that it’s supposed to look like Islamic terrorists — 9/11, Part Two — then the target is once again Lower Manhattan.” She suggested, “Don’t overthink this, Detective.”

“Right.”

I know never to underestimate the enemy, but I also know never to overestimate him. Somewhere in between was the sweet spot, the place where facts, clues, logic, instinct, and experience come together to form reality.

In any case, I had no other goose to chase tonight, so I either chased this one or I went for a drink. End of tour.

Tess said, “I need to call Buck.”

“He knows everything we know, and probably more. And if Buck wants you to know what he knows, he’ll call you.”

“Okay... but I need to tell him we’re going out with a search unit.”

“That’s the kind of call you make after the fact.”

She thought about that and concluded, “You have a problem with authority.”

“No problem.”

She said, again with some insight, “Your NYPD days are over. You need to adjust your thinking and your attitude or get out.”

I think that decision had already been made for me. But if I was going out, it would be in a blaze of... well, something.

As I drove through the fog, it occurred to me that The Hana could be in New York Harbor now, with its timer ticking down the last few minutes. Well, when we got on that SAFE boat, if I saw the western horizon light up it wouldn’t matter that I got it right if I got it right too late.

Chapter thirty-one

Ms. Faraday got us on the right road, and up ahead I could see the lights of the Coast Guard Station through the mist.

My Nextel — actually Matt’s Nextel — chimed and I looked at the message:

Apparently he’d learned I had Matt Conlon’s phone.

Tess asked, “Who texted?”

“Fensterman.”

She didn’t waste her breath telling me to call him.

FBI Supervisory Special Agent Howard Fensterman, as I recalled from when he was the legal attaché in Yemen, was big on rules and procedures, chain of command, and all that, so I would be hearing from him again, but he wouldn’t be hearing from me.

There was a twelve-foot chain-link fence around the Coast Guard Station and I pulled up to a call box at the gate and picked up the phone. “John Corey, FBI.”

The electric-powered gate rolled open, and the watchstander, a young woman in a blue uniform, stepped out of a nearby building as I pulled ahead and lowered my window.

I handed my and Tess’ creds to the young lady, whose nametag said, “Mullins,” and she asked me, “Sir, what is your business here?”

“We’re meeting a county police harbor unit.”

She handed our creds back, and having met Buck Harris awhile ago, she asked, “What is going on tonight?”

Tess replied, “Ship lost at sea.”

Seaman Mullins didn’t ask why State Department Intelligence or the FBI was interested in this, but she did glance at the portable radiation detector on the console, then said, “Okay... please proceed to the boathouse,” and gave us directions.

The old Shinnecock Coast Guard Station was picturesque, especially in the swirling mist, and we drove past a few white-shingled buildings toward a brick boathouse where an illuminated American flag hung limply from a tall pole.

I parked near the boathouse and we got out. Tess pocketed the PRD, though there would be one on the SAFE boat.

There were no Coast Guard vessels at the docks, and I assumed they were all deployed looking for The Hana. In fact, there didn’t seem to be anyone around, but at the end of the second finger dock was a Secure Around Flotation Equipped craft — a SAFE boat.

My Nextel rang and the Caller ID read

It kept ringing and went into voice mail.

Again, Tess did not bug me about returning the call. She had come aboard the good ship Corey. I wish I could get my wife to do the same.

We walked to the boathouse and entered the cavernous, dimly lit interior.

A man and a woman wearing bulky blue-and-orange float coats were standing at a coffee bar on the far side of the room. On the back of their coats were the words, “Suffolk Police,” and slung over their shoulders were MP5 submachine guns. They turned as we approached, and I said, “John Corey, and this is Tess Faraday.”

The guy introduced himself as Sergeant Pete Conte and the woman was Police Officer Nikola Andersson. We all shook hands and Sergeant Conte said, “So we’re going yacht hunting.”

“Right. Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.”

Conte was about late thirties, and his face was weather-beaten from long hours at sea. Nikola Andersson had a prettier face and looked too young to be a police officer, but maybe I’m getting older.

In any case, Marine Bureau duty, as I knew, was good duty until it wasn’t. Sunny summer days on the water were nice. Cold winter nights, looking for bad guys, weren’t so nice. No job is perfect.

Conte looked at his new crew and asked, “You have any experience or training boarding a hostile craft?”

I assured him, “I used to ride the Staten Island Ferry.”

He laughed, and Officer Andersson smiled.

Conte knew from Scott Kalish that I was former NYPD, so we were brothers and all was good. He wasn’t sure about Ms. Faraday, however, and he asked her, “Are you coming along?”

“No,” I replied.

“Yes,” she corrected.

Sergeant Conte suggested, “You get that straightened out.” He asked, “Coffee?”

I inquired, “You got a head on that SAFE boat?”

“Nope. But we got a bucket.”

That was good enough for Tess and she poured herself a mug of black coffee.

Conte informed us, “We topped off with U.S. government gas, so we can be out for about five hours, give or take.”

“Good.” I asked him, “You have some printouts for me?”

He reached into his float coat and extracted some folded papers.

I put them on the coffee bar and looked at the website printout in the dim light.

The color picture of The Hana showed a big, tall, gleaming white yacht with Hana in gold letters on its fantail. In the background was a sandy beach, blue skies, and palm trees. I noticed, too, a flag flying from its stern with what looked like a royal crest of some sort. It’s good to be a prince.

I flipped through the deck plans and saw that The Hana had five decks, many staterooms, a long dining room, a huge salon with balconies, and a spa tub. Vasily Petrov should be enjoying life rather than plotting to nuke a city. Asshole.

I looked at the schematic of the lower deck and saw the two-dock tender garage toward the stern of the ship. The garage had a door in the side of the hull, and I remembered that Kalish said it was a float-in garage, and I pictured the twenty-five-foot amphibious craft with Petrov and his pals sailing through the open door and into the yacht. The ladies must have been excited. I wondered if Petrov intended to escape from The Hana using the amphibious craft. Or was he going down — or blowing up — with the ship?

I still couldn’t figure out if this was a suicide mission or if Petrov had an escape plan. And even if Petrov was willing to die, I wasn’t sure the men with him were so anxious to give their lives for Mother Russia. I wondered, too, about the fate of the twelve ladies.

I turned my attention back to the ship plans and noticed that in the stern near the tender garage was something labeled “Beach Club,” and I pointed this out to Conte and Andersson.

Conte informed us, “Most of the big yachts have that.” He pointed to the plans, “This is a swimming platform, just above sea level. You can have chairs and stuff and you can swim off the platform. Unless the boat’s moving.”

I looked again at the so-called beach club, and I could see on the plans that it had a doorway that led to two staircases going up to the next deck.

“That swimming platform,” I said, “is the way into The Hana.”

Conte agreed. “Better than trying to toss grappling hooks twenty feet up to the main deck.”

Andersson reminded us, “First we have to find the target ship.” She asked me and Tess, “You have any new info?”

Tess replied, “The latest is what you know. It’s a yacht named The Hana and we have these specs on it, so we’re hoping it will be sighted or picked up by infrared.”

Sergeant Conte said, “I doubt if this ship is still in our police district.”

I replied, “We don’t know that, but I do know that we will be available to assist when the target is located.”

“Right.” Conte asked, “What is the threat assessment?”

“Intel says there are at least three armed terrorists aboard.”

“What are they doing on a Saudi prince’s yacht?”

“They may have taken over the ship and they may have picked up some other people at sea. But we don’t know.”

“How many crew aboard?”

“Maybe twenty or more, and maybe some guests. Plus twelve hookers.”

Conte looked at me and asked, “What’s this about?”

“It’s about whatever Captain Kalish told you it’s about.”

“He said it was Russian U.N. guys and Russian hookers going out to a party boat. Then it became terrorists.”

“Right.”

“He also said pay close attention to the radiation pager.”

“Correct.”

“We looking for a nuke?”

Tess replied, “There may be radioactive material aboard the target craft. Maybe enough to make a dirty bomb.” She added, “There is a potential for radiation exposure, but we’re assuming the radioactive material is contained.”

Conte nodded. Officer Andersson looked concerned.

Okay, I thought, better to admit to a small nightmare than a big one. Sounds more believable than denying the whole thing. Ms. Faraday knew how to bullshit.

Conte pointed out, “Well, if the target ship is emitting radiation, it can’t hide.”

“Right.” So why hadn’t any of the search boats or aircraft detected a radiation source? Well, because they weren’t looking for that until about an hour ago. But now... I looked at The Hana’s plans again. The tender garage. I asked Conte and Andersson, “Can this ship sail with the garage flooded?”

Conte replied, “According to the notes on The Hana, the ship is seaworthy with the garage flooded.”

Well, that might be the answer. I wasn’t sure how the nuclear device got aboard The Hana, but I was fairly sure now how Petrov was keeping it from emitting detectable radiation. It was underwater.

Conte had come to a similar conclusion and said, “Holy shit. You think this radioactive material could be in the flooded garage?”

“Makes sense.”

He thought about that, then told us what we already knew. “That’s what we’re always worried about. A nuke riding underwater on the hull of a ship.”

“Right.” Or in this case, inside the ship, in a flooded compartment.

Every time I started to doubt that this was really a nuclear attack, something else popped up and pointed in that direction. Buck was right. The Russians had a plan.

I said to Conte, “You should call Captain Kalish and advise him of this possibility, and tell him to put that out to all parties.”

“Right.” He added, “This is a game changer.”

Conte used his cell phone to call Kalish, and while he was giving Kalish the bad news, Tess announced, “I need to hit the head.”

Andersson pointed. “Over there.”

Tess asked me, “Can I borrow your cell phone?”

“No.”

She hesitated, then said, “Don’t leave without me.”

Don’t tempt me.

She walked toward the restrooms.

My Nextel radio blinged and I heard a voice say, “John, this is Howard. Are you up?”

I decided to stop these annoying calls and I moved out of earshot of Conte and Andersson and replied, “Up.”

“Where are you?”

“On the way to Manhattan.”

“What’s your ETA?”

“About two hours.”

“I want to see you when you get here.”

“I got that message.”

“Where are Conlon and Lansky?”

“They’re somewhere behind me.”

“Why do you have Conlon’s phone?”

“I dropped mine in the toilet.”

“Okay... I can’t reach Lansky.”

“Bad reception out here.” Or he’s in a noisy bar. Or he’s not taking your calls.

“I call and text out to the Hamptons all the time.”

“Howard, I don’t run Nextel. File a complaint.”

“Where is Tess Faraday?”

“Where she usually is. In the ladies’ room.”

“I thought you were on the road.”

“Pit stop.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in two hours.”

“It’s Sunday night, Howard. Go home. This can wait.”

There was a silence, then Howard Fensterman asked me, “What’s this about?”

“If you don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Okay... look, I owe you a favor from Yemen. So I’ll go to bat for you if you’re straight with me.”

“If you want to do me a favor, go home.”

“I’ve been instructed to wait for you.”

“Let’s meet halfway. You live on Long Island, right? Pick a place.”

“The place is 26 Fed. Be in my office — two hours, latest.”

“Copy.”

He signed off.

Well, hopefully that took care of Howard Fensterman for the next two hours. Longer if 26 Fed disappeared. I liked Howard, despite some crap in Yemen, and I wanted to get him away from the blast zone, and I tried, but... Well, maybe this will all become moot. One way or the other.

Which reminded me. I dialed Kate’s cell phone and it went right into voice mail, so maybe she was still at the Sheraton in D.C., sleeping, with her cell phone off — or she was airborne, heading home.

I left a message: “Kate, I’m using one of my guys’ cell phones, Matt Conlon. Call this number as soon as you get this. Important.” I added, “Love you.”

I tried our home number, but it went into the answering machine, and I left the same message.

It occurred to me that if we didn’t connect tonight, one or both of us might not be receiving or sending any further messages in the morning. We had both missed taking the elevator up to the North Tower minutes before the plane hit. So we were sort of on borrowed time. Luck is often the result of missing your plane or your elevator, and fate is what the gods give you when you run out of luck.

I moved back to the coffee bar and asked, “Are you guys the whole crew?”

Conte was off the phone and replied, “The SAFE boat has a two-man crew, three in bad weather, with bench seats below deck for twelve personnel.” He asked me, “You want more people?”

I did, but I didn’t want to wait for them, and also extra people meant a slower speed and more fuel consumption. “We can handle it.”

“Is your friend coming along?”

She thought so. And actually it might be better if she wasn’t left behind to rat me out. Also, I could see a situation — if we were lucky enough to find and board The Hana — where I could use another gun.

“Detective?”

And to be honest, I sort of... well, I was getting used to her. I said, “She’s coming.”

“What’s she doing in there?”

“Is there a pay phone in the ladies’ room?”

Officer Andersson replied, “No.”

While I was contemplating an unwise remark about women in the ladies’ room, Tess appeared, and said, “Ready to go.”

“Then let’s go,” said Sergeant Conte, and we exited the back door onto the illuminated dock. He said to me, “Kalish thinks you could be right about the flooded garage. He’ll put that out to all agencies.”

“Good.”

He asked me, “Are we talking about radioactive material? Or a nuclear bomb?”

“Radioactive material.”

He didn’t respond for a second, then said, “Well, whatever it is, if it’s underwater, it’s not going to be lighting up the PRDs. So we have a problem.”

“Right.”

The night had grown colder, but there was no wind, so the basin was calm and the fog just sat on the water. The SAFE boat also sat motionless on the water, and the only sound was our footsteps on the concrete dock.

As we got closer I could see the small boat that was going to take us out on the ocean. The hull was aluminum, surrounded by what looked like a huge blue inner tube with the words “Suffolk County Police” in white.

The cabin took up about half the twenty-seven-foot deck, and on the roof of the cabin I recognized a radar tower, a Forward Looking Infrared Radar antenna, and a GPS and VHF antenna. There was also a spotlight, floodlights, blue police lights, a public address speaker, and a foghorn, but unfortunately no naval cannon to blow The Hana out of the water.

Conte walked down the aluminum gangway and stepped onto the port side gunnel, followed by Andersson. Tess and I followed, but before we jumped aboard, Tess said to me, “Last chance.”

“That ship came and went.”

I hopped onto the gunnel and put my hand out for Tess, who took it, and I pulled her aboard. We looked at each other for a moment, then I entered the cabin.

The gray cabin had aft, port, and starboard doors that Conte said were weathertight and sound resistant, as were the windows. The cabin was upholstered to further deaden the sound of the big outboard engines, so the ride should be relatively quiet, according to Conte, who was probably engine-deaf.

Conte said, “Put on your float coats.”

Tess and I found the bulky float coats on the two rear seats and slipped them on.

I noticed two Kevlar vests draped over the backs of the two forward seats, and Conte apologized for not having two more bulletproof vests aboard. “Nikki and I didn’t know we were having company.” He added, “You may take a bullet, but you won’t drown.”

Cop humor is sick and dark. I felt at home.

I asked, “Any more MP5s laying around?”

“You want guns, too? This is the basic cruise package.”

Funny. But not the answer I wanted.

Conte sat in the air-ride captain’s seat and Andersson entered the cabin and sat in the navigator’s seat. She said to Tess and me, “This is going to be a bumpy ride at fifty knots. As you can see, there is one air-ride seat behind me, and one not so comfortable jump seat behind the captain.”

Tess offered, “You take the air-ride seat, John. You’re older.”

I sat in the jump seat.

Conte turned the breaker switches on and fired up the twin 225-horsepower Mercury engines.

Conte and Andersson went through a checklist, looking and listening for normal operations of the radar, GPS, FLIR, and engine readings.

Everything seemed okay, and Andersson left the cabin and cast off, then re-entered, took her seat, and leaned out the port side pocket door and cast off the remaining line from the mid cleat. “Clear.” She said to us, “Seat belts.”

Tess and I strapped ourselves in as Conte engaged both engines and maneuvered away from the dock while Andersson sounded the horn to signal we were leaving the berth.

Andersson monitored the radar, depth finder, and GPS as Conte ran parallel to the Ponquogue Bridge, then cut southeast running a high-speed course through the fog.

As promised, the cabin was relatively quiet if anyone wanted to say anything.

In less than five minutes we passed through the Shinnecock Inlet and we were out into the North Atlantic.

Conte pushed the throttles forward and said, “Hold on.” The rear of the boat squatted and the bow stood almost straight up, then settled down to a forty-five-degree angle as the boat reached fifty knots, nearly sixty miles an hour.

Conte called back to me, “I have a search pattern we can run unless you’ve got something else in mind.”

Actually, I did. “Head due west.”

He cut to starboard and we began running along the shore, about twelve miles out.

The sea was getting choppy and the SAFE boat was bouncing and slapping the water.

“Hold on,” cautioned Officer Andersson.

To the south, I could see the lights of a long line of cargo ships and tankers in the shipping lane, heading west toward Ambrose Buoy, with a final destination of New York Harbor.

At fifty knots, the SAFE boat could be passing under the Verrazano Bridge and into the harbor in less than two hours. I checked my watch. It was half past midnight, and September 11 had come and gone without incident. This was the time when every law enforcement officer and citizen in New York usually let out a sigh of relief. But I wasn’t sure about September 12.