Radiant Angel

by Nelson DeMille

“That sounds like a scary Human Rights office.”

  “And according to the intel he worked with Petrov in Chechnya.”

  I nodded, recalling what Colonel Petrov was reported to have done in Chechnya. When bad actors get together, bad things happen.

  Steve also informed me and Tess, “The CA will get a relief team out here at first light if we’re still here waiting for Petrov to come out of Tamorov’s house.”

  “Okay. And I assume you didn’t mention that I was moonlighting with Hampton Catering.”

  “It didn’t come up.”

  I nodded. My undercover mission, like most rule-bending, showed either poor judgment or good initiative. To be determined. But all’s well that ends well. Or it doesn’t.

  I asked, “Did the deli delivery ever get here?”

  “Yeah, but we ate your sandwiches,” Matt admitted.

  I suggested, “When the catering trucks come out of Tamorov’s, about midnight, talk to Dean and tell him he did a good job, but if he breathes one f-ing word of this to anyone, he’s toast. And get his personals.”

  “Right, and maybe some leftovers.”

  I continued, “If the Mercedes comes out, call Suffolk PD and have it pulled over for some violation, then call me. Same if any other vehicle leaves Tamorov’s.”

  Steve asked, “You going someplace?”

  “I need gas.” I said to Tess, “You can stay here, or you can come with me.”

  “I’m yours.”

  “Okay.” I told Matt, “I’ll keep your phone.”

  Tess and I retrieved our creds, my wallet, her bag, and our guns and ammo, and we got in the Chevy Blazer with her at the wheel. I suggested to her, “Tell me about your gun.”

  She started the Blazer. “I’m licensed.”

  “By whom?”

  “We can discuss this later.”

  She moved slowly up Gin Lane, past the Tamorov house. The two security guys, now back in their chairs, gave us a look and the Dobermans barked.

  I dialed Tasha’s number, but the call went right into voice mail—English and Russian. I didn’t leave a message and hung up. I got Kalish back on the phone and said, “I have a cell phone number onboard the target craft.”

  “That makes life easier.”

  I gave him Tasha’s number and Kalish said, “I’ll get the location triangulated, but I gotta tell you it’s not that easy if they’re still on water.” He asked, “Whose phone is that?”

  “Tasha.” I explained my professional interest in Tasha, and also advised Kalish that all the ladies’ phones might have been confiscated and maybe had their batteries removed. But to be more optimistic, I said, “Petrov has no idea that two DSG agents saw him take off in a boat, and he has no idea that I have the cell phone number of one of the ladies onboard. So even if he confiscated the phones, he might not bother to remove the batteries.”

  “We’ll give it a try. Meanwhile, I’ve got boats and aviation rolling.”

  “Thanks.” We signed off.

  Tess said, “If Petrov didn’t remove the batteries, he needs to go back to spy school.”

  “I’ve had suspects who’ve done stupider things.”

  “Were they Russian intelligence agents?”

  I asked her, “Did you learn your tradecraft on Wall Street?”

  “I watch spy movies.”

  On the subject of cell phones, mine and hers were in a basket waiting for us to reclaim them from Tamorov’s security guys. When we didn’t—or long before that—they’d realize two catering staff skipped out. But what would they make of that? And would the security guys mention it to Tamorov? Not if they wanted to keep their jobs. That’s how the Russkies think and act. Us, too, sometimes.

  As for the phones themselves, they were code-locked and useless, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw them for sale in Brighton Beach.

  On that subject, no matter how this played out tonight, I’d have to let 26 Fed know how we’d lost our government Nextels. More paperwork. But more importantly, people couldn’t get hold of us, which was not necessarily a bad thing.

  I asked Tess, “You want to call your husband?”

  “Later.”

  She drove back to Montauk Highway and pulled into a local no-name two-pump gas station with the highest gas prices in North America. I got out and gassed up on my government credit card. I suggested to Tess that this would be a good time to use the restroom, but she suggested we go to a nearby diner.

  She headed west on Montauk Highway and pulled into the parking lot of the Southampton Diner, a twenty-four-hour place that I’d been to, and a place where Tess said she’d had many sunrise breakfasts after an all-night party. Nothing like coffee and bacon fat to sober you up.

  We went inside the upscale diner, which was mostly empty on this Sunday night in September. I checked my watch—9:21 P.M. I was deep into overtime with no end in sight.

  We got a quiet booth in the corner, but before Tess sat, she said, “I need to use the restroom.”

  “I’ll get you a coffee.”

  “I need to borrow your phone.”

  “I have to make some calls. Use the pay phone.”

  “I want to text Grant.”

  I handed her Matt’s phone and she headed for the restrooms.

  Well, by now I’m thinking that Tess Faraday is working a second job. Let’s see… she carries a gun, she knows the ropes too well, and she disappears a lot to use the restroom. If she was with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility, I’d be answering some questions at 26 Fed about how I handled this surveillance.

  But I’d been around FBI people for a lot of years now, and Tess Faraday did not strike me as one of the Fabulously Boring Individuals, as the cops called the FBI. She had a different demeanor—a sort of panache—plus she didn’t use any mind-numbing FBI jargon.

  The waitress came with two menus and I ordered two coffees.

  I finished mine and still no sign of Tess, who was either having bladder problems or husband problems. Or neither.

  The Southampton Diner had a liquor license, thank God, and I ordered my next coffee with a shot of medicinal brandy. I think you can drink on overtime.

  I calculated Kalish’s chances of finding that amphibious craft, or finding the ship it rendezvoused with, or the place where the craft had come ashore. The chances were good that the craft would be found, and that Petrov would also be found. But if not, Petrov and his two goons would probably show up back at Tamorov’s for a morning car ride back to the city. I mean, his car and driver were at Tamorov’s, so why was I overthinking this? The simplest explanation for what you see is the explanation.

  And yet… I kept thinking of Petrov, Fradkov, and the newly IDed Viktor Gorsky, an SVR agent, sitting on Tamorov’s deck, not seeming to be in a party mood.

  Or I was imagining things—hoping I had stumbled onto something big.

  If Kate was here, that’s what she’d say. But she’d also listen and evaluate the evidence and play devil’s advocate. I thought about calling her, but she’d just tell me to call 26 Fed immediately and ask forgiveness for not calling earlier. She had an FBI head, and now a supervisor’s head. Plus, she didn’t want to hear anything from me that she might be asked about by her boss, Tom Walsh, who was a certified asshole.

  Tess returned and I inquired, “How’s the home front?”

  “Okay.”

  “Who else did you call?”

  “I said I was texting.”

  “Right. Who else did you text?”

  “I canceled my morning pedicure.” She picked up her menu. “I’m hungry.”

  “When do I find out who you’re working for?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m hungry for an answer.”

  She looked up from her menu and we made eye contact. She said to me, “He told me you were very bright.”

  “Who told you?”

  “An old friend of yours.”

  “I asked you a direct question, counselor. Who are you working
for?”

  “You actually asked me when you’d find out. The answer is tonight.”

  “When tonight?”

  “Shortly.” She assured me, “You have time for a burger.”

  “That’s the good news.”

  “That’s the only good news.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

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

  Tess reminded me, “We’re on duty.”

  “We’re on overtime.”

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

  “Won both.”

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

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

  I didn’t reply.

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

  “They would take it as a personal interest.”

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

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

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

  “You watch too many spy movies.”

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

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

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

  “Right. Bring your own babes.”

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

  “Right.”

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

  “Correct. But we did, and we are.”

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

  “That’s why he’s here, Tess.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “They weren’t Russians.”

  “All bad guys are the same.”

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

  “But you do agree they are the enemy?”

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

  “It’s understood.”

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

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

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

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

  “That’s why they hired me.”

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

  “Is that you talking or the beer?”

  “That’s me talking to the beer.”

  I smiled.

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

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

  “You went above and beyond on this one.”

  “Catering is a bitch,” I agreed.

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

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

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

  “Show me how it’s done.”

  I texted Steve: Anything to report?

  A few seconds later, he replied: Negative.

  I then texted Kalish: Anything?

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

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

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

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

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

  “I’d like to be five pounds thinner.”

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

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

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

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

  “You know it is.”

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

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

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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

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

  “We’re meeting here. For a powwow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Reluctant might be an understatement.”

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

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

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

  “His girlfriend?”

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

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

  “Does it matter who I’m working for?”

  “Why am I asking?”

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

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

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

  “So I’m the front guy.”

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

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

  “What do you think?”

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