Radiant Angel (John Corey Book 7)

by Nelson DeMille

  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 26 Fed.

  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 bu
llshit.

  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.