Radiant Angel (John Corey Book 7)

by Nelson DeMille

  “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 theo
ries. 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.