Radiant Angel

by Nelson DeMille

  “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: Target has left last known location, whereabouts unknown, call Suffolk County Marine Bureau for more. 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 sil
ver 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.”