Radiant Angel (John Corey Book 7)

by Nelson DeMille

  Tess came up to me and said, “They’re laying out another buffet, so I’m going to the kitchen.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you coming?”

  “I’m still on surveillance.”

  “Take a break, John. You’ll get eyestrain and go blind.”

  “Right. We need more tonga torches.”

  Naked Tasha was kneeling on a guy’s shoulders, her arms outstretched, waiting for a beach ball pass. The pass came, wide, she reached for it and fell into the water, and everyone laughed. I wondered how much of this I should put in my surveillance log. That reminded me that I had to call Tasha tomorrow.

  “John? Are you coming?”

  “You go ahead.”

  She turned toward the house, but I said, “Hold on.”

  “What?”

  I tilted my head toward the ocean and she followed my gaze.

  Coming toward us were the running lights of a watercraft, maybe a hundred yards from shore, and as the craft got closer I could hear its motor. I also noticed that one of Tamorov’s security guys was on the beach, holding a flashing green light.

  I looked toward Petrov and saw in the flickering lamp light that he was standing, along with Fradkov and Igor. Tamorov, too, was standing, and he was now barking orders in Russian to his security guys. Dmitry, Petrov’s driver, stayed in the pool, as though he’d been pre-instructed to stay put.

  Tess asked, “What’s happening?”

  “Don’t know. But Petrov does.”

  The security guys were quickly rounding up some of the Russian ladies, who were slipping back into their bikinis and cover-ups, grabbing their bags, and assembling near the steps that led down to the beach.

  The boat got closer and I could see by the light of the rising half-moon that it was maybe twenty-five feet, with an open deck and a man steering from the covered cockpit, and another man sitting beside him.

  Tess observed, “It’s heading right to the shore.”

  “Seems so.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Don’t know.”

  I didn’t sense any danger, and it was obvious that the boat was expected. Nevertheless, it was times like this when a boy missed his gun. I said to Tess, “Go back to the kitchen. See if you can get a call off to Matt. We need aviation and harbor units.”

  She hesitated, then said, “Let me see what’s going on so I know what to say.”

  I didn’t want to argue with her, and in any case I doubted she’d be able to use the phone.

  The security guys on the deck began motioning to the dozen or so women, including Tasha, to descend the stairs.

  I moved nonchalantly toward the women, collecting empty glasses on my way. Tess followed.

  Tasha was about to go down the stairs and I got close to her and asked softly, “Where are you going?”

  She looked at me and shrugged. One of the security guys came between us and nudged her toward the stairs.

  The women all descended the long wooden staircase to the beach. Some of them seemed indifferent, and some seemed unhappy about leaving the party, but most of them appeared to be excited about what looked like a boat trip. Maybe Tasha thought she was going back to Russia.

  The security guy motioned for me and Tess to get back to work.

  Tess and I moved to the far end of the deck into a dark corner and watched as the women walked across the wide beach toward the water. The boat was about ten yards offshore, and as it got closer, I could see it had a blunt bow and a wide beam—the sort of watercraft that was more of a ship’s tender or utility boat than a sports boat.

  Tamorov’s guests, including the dozen or so ladies who’d been left behind, were now lined up along the rail, chatting away, laughing, waving, and calling out to their friends on the beach, who waved back.

  I glanced at where Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor had been standing and they were gone. Then I saw them coming out of the sliding glass doors of the house, dressed now in pants and polo shirts and carrying their overnight bags. Without so much as a good-bye to their host, they headed for the staircase. This was not good.

  I looked back at the boat and saw it hit the beach. I expected someone to throw a line to or from the craft, but all of a sudden the boat started to climb the beach and I saw it was an amphibious craft. The wheels kicked up sand as the flat-bottomed craft got traction and drove onto the shore, then stopped. I saw, too, that there were no markings on the shiny white fiberglass hull—no name and no numbers—which was odd, if not illegal, and again I had the impression of a ship’s tender.

  The security guys herded the women toward the boat and they began boarding via a short ladder that hung over the side. The second guy onboard was helping the tipsy ladies up and directing them to sit on the benches that ran along the sides and stern.

  Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor were on the beach now, heading toward the amphibious craft. Within a few minutes they were onboard and the craft made a U-turn on the beach and returned to the water.

  Tess said, “I think you just lost your Russian.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tess and I moved quickly to the kitchen and I went straight for the wall phone and dialed Steve’s number. On the second ring, a hairy hand reached over my shoulder and hit the cradle.

  I glanced back at the big Russian and explained, “I need more mushrooms.”

  “No call.”

  Yob vas.

  Okay, so Tess and I made busy in the kitchen for a minute, then I said to Dean, “We need to split.”

  He nodded. “Carry those crates of dirty napkins to the truck.”

  I grabbed a crate and so did Tess, and we headed for the service entrance.

  The two security guys gave us a quick glance, then went back to their MTV show.

  Outside in the garage, we ditched the linens and considered our next move. There was no way we were getting through the gates, so we had to jump the fence of the adjoining property.

  We pulled off our caterer smocks, threw them in one of the trucks, and moved quickly out of the garage.

  Tamorov’s house was separated from the next beach house by thick shrubs, behind which I could make out a high fence. I glanced down the driveway and saw the two security guys, about a hundred feet away, sitting in chairs under the post lights of the iron gates. The Dobermans were with them.

  Tess said, “Go for it.”

  I dashed across the gravel driveway and into the shrubbery with Tess right beside me. The Dobermans, who were smarter and more alert than their handlers, started barking.

  I found my way through the landscaping and reached the wood-slat fence, which was about eight feet high, and Tess and I started climbing it just as the Dobermans got into the shrubbery. I wished I’d thought to bring five feet of kolbasa with me.

  Anyway, we got over the fence, and the dogs were left sniffing our trail and letting out a few tentative barks.

  The neighboring oceanfront mansion that Matt said he’d used for surveillance looked dark, but some security lighting, probably activated by motion sensors, came on and lit up the area.

  I could hear the dogs barking again on the other side of the fence, and I also heard voices speaking Russian.

  Tess informed me, “There’s a public beach access path to Gin Lane a few houses down.”

  We ran toward the shore at high speed, angling away from Tamorov’s house, then scrambled over a dune and found ourselves on the beach. I looked out at the water, but I couldn’t see the running lights of the amphibious landing craft. I glanced back at Tamorov’s house, about a hundred yards away, and could make out people moving on his tonga-lit deck.

  I didn’t see anyone following us, and no one was on the beach. We turned east, away from Tamorov’s house, and broke into a trot, as though we were just jogging the moonlit beach.

  Tess said, “Past the next house is the beach access to Gin Lane.” She reminded me, “I know this area.”

  She also knew a little about escape and evasion, as though she’d been trained�
�or maybe she picked it up being married to Grant.

  We reached the access path, which took us between two mansions up to Gin Lane. I saw our vehicles still parked where we’d left them, closer to the Tamorov house, and we doubled back toward them.

  Steve and Matt jumped out of the van with their guns drawn, then recognized us. “What’s happening?”

  “Petrov took off in a boat.”

  “Shit!”

  Steve asked, “You being chased?”

  “No. Give me your phone.”

  He holstered his Glock and gave me his Nextel. I accessed his directory, looking for the number of Scott Kalish, a Suffolk County Police captain with the Marine Bureau who used to be one of my ATTF contacts out here. “You don’t have Scott Kalish.”

  Matt said, “I’ve got him,” and speed-dialed Kalish’s number and handed me his phone.

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

  “No, I need to find that boat now.”

  Scott Kalish answered, and I said, “Scott, this is John Corey.”

  “Hey, John. What’s up?”

  “I need some help.”

  “We’re here to serve and protect.”

  “Good. Look, I’m with the DSG now—”

  “Who?”

  “Diplomatic Surveillance Group.”

  “No kidding?”

  “I’m in Southampton, Gin Lane, following a Russian dip—”

  “I’m home watching Law and Order reruns.”

  “Great. And this dip just gave me the slip.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Right.” I gave Captain Kalish a short briefing of my long day, then said, “The amphibious craft was heading due south from Tamorov’s. White hull, no markings, two-man crew, maybe twenty-five feet, covered cockpit, open deck, inboard motor, making about ten knots.”

  “He could be a couple miles from shore by now.”

  “Right. So let’s get some of your Suffolk County Marine Bureau units and aviation on it now.”

  “Okay… and who was onboard?”

  “Colonel Vasily Petrov, SVR Legal Resident, and two of his guys, Pavel Fradkov and an unknown—”

  “I got that. Did you say twelve young ladies in bikinis?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right.”

  “Hey, I’m joining the search.”

  “Scott—”

  “All right, I’ll get on it. What’s the beef?”

  “Just pick up the surveillance. The target has diplomatic immunity—”

  “I know.” He asked, “Any crime committed or suspected?”

  “Well… maybe drugs,” I lied. “Maybe a few of the girls are underage. Also the three Russians are past their twenty-five-mile radius without permission.” Also, Petrov gave me the finger, but this wasn’t a personal beef. Well… all surveillance becomes personal.

  “So we just locate and follow.”

  “Right. No bust.”

  “Okay. I’ll also call the harbor constables in the area.”

  “Good, but I don’t think that craft is going to make port, Scott. I think it’s on its way to a big ship.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I didn’t see him turn to run along the shore when he left.”

  “Sometimes a boat goes out to get away from the surf and sandbars.”

  “Right, but—”

  “From what you’ve told me, John, it sounds like these Russkies are going from one party to another party.” He reminded me, “Twelve babes onboard.”

  “Right. But the party could be on a ship.”

  “Could be,” he conceded. “Lots of high rollers out here go outside the three-mile limit. Gambling, drugs, prostitutes. Hijinks on the high seas.”

  “Right. So let’s locate that craft—”

  “But it’s an amphibious craft, so he could make land anywhere he can climb ashore.”

  “I know, Scott, that’s why it’s called an amphibious craft. But I think—”

  “I sense some urgency in your voice, John. What’s the problem?”

  “I just lost the fucking guy I was supposed to be following.”

  “Right. It happens.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Okay… so there’s no national security issue.”

  That was the thing that Scott Kalish, an Anti-Terrorist Task Force liaison guy, would want to know for sure. I didn’t want to blow any more smoke up his butt, so I answered, somewhat truthfully, “I have no direct knowledge of that. But Petrov is SVR.”

  “You said. Okay, I’ll give this a high priority and say maybe the SVR guy is up to something and we need to mobilize all resources. But basically, what I’m hearing is that I’m just helping you out of a tight spot.”

  “Right. I owe you.”

  “I’ve already made a note of it.” He asked me, “What happens when you lose your target?”

  “Professionally, not too much. Personally, I go into a deep depression.”

  Kalish laughed, then assured me, “If this amphibious craft comes to shore anywhere around here—a marina, a yacht club, a private dock, or even up on the beach like a D-Day landing—we’ll find him.”

  “I know you will. But I’m really thinking the craft is going to rendezvous with a ship at sea.” I explained, logically, “If Petrov was going to a party on land, he’d have taken his car and driver. He doesn’t need a landing craft, Scott.”

  “He needs the landing craft to deliver the twelve babes. Or the party’s on an island.”

  “Think ship.”

  “That would have to be a very big ship to take a twenty-five-foot craft aboard.”

  “Then look for a big ship.”

  “Or maybe this craft was just ferrying these people out to a small ship.”

  “Then look for a small ship.”

  “Okay. Are you going to ask your people to call the Coast Guard?”

  “Let’s keep it in the family.”

  “Right. What the bosses don’t know, they don’t know.” He assured me, “We can handle it for you.”

  “Good.” I gave him Matt and Steve’s Nextel numbers, explaining why I didn’t have my phone, and told him, “I’ll have Matt’s phone.”

  Scott suggested, “Go back to Tamorov’s place and squeeze some nuts.” He offered, “I can send a few detectives with you based on your suspicion of illegal activity.”

  I’d thought about that, but I doubted if Georgi Tamorov knew where Petrov was going. SVR guys, like the CIA, do not give out information—only disinformation. And neither would Dmitry know where his boss was heading. But they might know something. I said to Kalish, “I’ll get back to you on that.”

  “All right. And thanks for your confidence in the Suffolk County Police Department, and for fucking up my Sunday night.”

  “Anytime.”

  “And John…?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t wait too long to call your boss. That’s how we get in more trouble than we’re in.”

  I didn’t reply and we signed off. Thanks for the tip, Scott.

  Well, this was not the first time I engaged in multi-tasking—covering my ass while covering the problem. But this could be the last time. A quiet end, indeed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tess Faraday seemed not happy that I’d called the cops before I called 26 Fed. Steve and Matt seemed okay with that, and they trusted me to do the right thing—which was to cover all our asses.

  More importantly, I got the wheels moving, and no one could find fault with that. The Diplomatic Surveillance Group has access to FBI resources, but those resources weren’t immediately available out here on the east end of Long Island. And in any case the wheels of the Feds moved slowly—and sometimes in the wrong direction. Captain Scott Kalish, like all local cops, could get things moving, and he knew his beat. In fact, that was the purpose of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force: to form alliances and liaisons between the Feds and the local law enforcement agencies—synergy, they called it—to com
bat domestic terrorism. True, Vasily Petrov wasn’t a terrorist and I wasn’t with the ATTF anymore, but Petrov was an asshole, and today he had become my hemorrhoid.

  Steve said to me, “You made the right move to go undercover, boss. But before too long, we need to call this in.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Matt pointed out, “If John hadn’t gone in there, we’d all be sitting here waiting for the black Mercedes to come out of Tamorov’s driveway.” He added, “So we have that going for us, and maybe the Suffolk PD will spot the boat, then we just pick up the surveillance where we left off.”

  I was also a little pissed off at myself for not covering this with an air or sea surveillance craft. But as I said, the Russians did not get the full treatment the way the Islamic guys did. Scott Kalish, too, didn’t get all worked up about the Russians the way he would have about an Islamic intelligence agent going off in a boat. This was a perception problem; the Russians did not murder three thousand people on 9/11. And these three Russians had a dozen babes with them, which looked more like Russian hijinks than a security issue. And probably that’s all it was—a party.

  I advised everyone, “I’ll give it an hour.” Cops understand how to adjust the timelines so it doesn’t appear that anyone failed to make a timely report. I mean, sometimes you need a little time to cover your butt and get your stories straight. Also, to call the case agent now would start a pissing match between the Feds and the local police—a turf war, which always led to chaos and confusion, and never to synergy. I was working for the Feds, but I was still Detective John Corey.

  I looked at Tess, who was not a cop, and who wanted to be a Fed. She could be a problem.

  But she’s bright and savvy and she understood all of this, so she said, “I have no idea what the protocol is, and I wasn’t in the room when you three were talking.”

  Good enough.

  I asked Steve, “You hear from the office?”

  “Just a text asking me why you didn’t reply to the CA’s last text. I said you were catching some Zs. Also we got an ID on Igor. He’s Viktor Gorsky, an SVR agent.”

  “No surprise.”

  “Right. He just got here, like, two weeks ago, and he works in Petrov’s office.”