Radiant Angel (John Corey Book 7)

by Nelson DeMille

  “Last chance to come clean. Tell me about the ship.”

  He insisted, “I do not know of any ship.”

  I leaned across the table and looked him in the eye. “Yakut?”

  He seemed confused by the word in his own language and replied, “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t understand Russian?”

  “I understand the word, but—”

  “Do you own a yacht?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have friends who own yachts?”

  “No. Yes.”

  “Did you introduce Colonel Petrov to someone who has a yacht?”

  He hesitated a second, then replied, “I do not recall making such an introduction.”

  “You need to think about this, Georgi.”

  He did not respond.

  Tess asked him, “Was it Colonel Petrov who suggested that you have this party tonight?”

  Good question.

  Tamorov thought so, too, because a yes answer meant that all this was pre-planned, and that he, Tamorov, was complicit in something, even if he didn’t know what it was. So he replied, “No.”

  Tess pressed on, “So it was just coincidence that your party was on the same night that a yacht was passing by? A yacht that Petrov had been invited to?”

  “I do not know of any yacht.” He added, “As I told you, he said he was going to a party in East Hampton.”

  I pointed out, “These people at your party were your friends, from your world. Not Petrov’s. There were no other diplomatic people here. So why did you invite Petrov, Gorsky, and Fradkov?”

  “I… Petrov and I sometimes have business to discuss.”

  “Yours or his?”

  “He is a useful man for me to know. In Russia.”

  “Does he whack people for you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Look, Georgi, you’re in deep shit, and it’s up to your ears now.” I looked at him. “I want a yes or no answer. Did Petrov ask you to have this party tonight?”

  He understood that we both knew the answer to that, but he couldn’t bring himself to say yes, though he didn’t say no.

  Well, if I could reverse-engineer this evening, it seemed that it started with a non-Russian ship that Petrov needed to deliver a nuclear weapon to Manhattan Island. It was hard to figure out how all this came about and it was hard to know how much of this was Petrov’s bright idea, and how much was cooked up in Moscow. Probably Petrov had the idea, and Moscow had the suitcase nuke. All they needed were a few clueless idiots like Georgi Tamorov and a ship owner—who Tamorov probably knew—to pull it off, and to be sure there were no Russian connections to the nuclear explosion. Well, but there were—Petrov, Gorsky, and Urmanov—but only if American intelligence could connect those three Russians to a yacht that became ground zero in a nuclear explosion. And there was really no way to make that connection. Or so Colonel Petrov thought.

  The plan seemed a bit complex to me, but it also had a certain simplicity to it. If the goal was for Russia to nuke Manhattan and make it look like someone else had done it, like the North Koreans or the Chinese—or an Islamic group, if this was supposed to look like a replay of 9/11—then it was a good plan. Not nice, but good.

  I leaned toward Tamorov and said, “Look at me.”

  He looked at me and I asked, “What is the name of this yacht’s owner? What country is he from, and what is the name of his yacht?”

  “I do not know of any yacht.”

  “I know you do. And you know you do.”

  Georgi Tamorov took a deep breath, then said to me, “I mean no harm to your country.” He waved his hand around the big room. “I enjoy my time here.” He further informed me, “I am a Russian by birth, but I am a citizen of the world.”

  More likely a citizen of Switzerland for tax purposes. But I got his point, though that didn’t mean he couldn’t answer my question. “The name of the yacht. And the name and nationality of the yacht’s owner.”

  “I do not know… but I will think about what you are asking.”

  Right. Lots to think about. Like, what to get in return. It’s all about the deal. Not to mention who was most likely to ruin his life. Or end it.

  He had no idea how serious this was, nor did he know that the clock was ticking and his window to make a deal was closing.

  I said to him, “Information that comes too late is no information. Meaning you have nothing to trade.” I asked him, “Understand?”

  He nodded, but said nothing.

  While I was contemplating inviting Mr. Tamorov for a dip in the hot tub, my cell phone rang and it was Scott Kalish. I took the call and Kalish said, “I have that SAFE boat for you, about twenty minutes from the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station.”

  “Okay.”

  “And before you ask, still no sighting. Also, I’m asking about all yachts that are due in or have already docked in New York. And I checked with the East Hampton Police and the Bay Constables, and rechecked with my people, and everyone’s sure there is no amphibious craft full of hookers docked at a party anywhere.”

  “Right. Can’t talk now. I’ll call you later.”

  I hung up and said to Tamorov, “Here’s the deal, Georgi—if Vasily Petrov blows something up tonight, or kills someone, you are in a world of shit. So think hard about what we’ve asked you, and maybe what we didn’t ask you. And if you think of something, especially about a yacht, you tell a lady named Detective Penrose that you need to speak to me. Not your fucking lawyer. Understand?”

  He nodded.

  I picked up my Glock, and Tess and I stood. I instructed Tamorov, “Do not move. But before you’re taken into protective custody, you will write a check for twenty thousand dollars to Hampton Catering. Actually, make it twenty-five.”

  Money he understood, and he said, “Perhaps I can write a check to each of you for a million dollars.”

  “I’ll get back to you with my Swiss bank account number.”

  “I am serious.”

  “Good. I’ll add bribery to the charges.” I reminded him, “Think about who and what you’re most afraid of.” I looked him in the eye. “Time is running out.”

  I was about to leave, but then I decided that this was a situation that was desperate enough for me to break the rules and to share a great secret with this Russian. I moved close to him and said, “We have good reason to believe that onboard this yacht is a Soviet-made miniature nuclear weapon, heading for Manhattan.”

  Tamorov looked like I’d just hit him in the nuts.

  Tess said, “John—”

  I continued, “If this nuke detonates, you can say good-bye to your Manhattan real estate, your Wall Street investments, and also your wife, and your life.”

  He stared at me, trying I guess to see if I was lying, but he was smart enough to see that I wasn’t. And smart enough to know that his pal Colonel Vasily Petrov was capable of mass murder.

  I said, “The yacht.”

  He replied, in a barely audible voice, “I… made an introduction… but…”

  “You introduced Petrov to whom?”

  “To a Saudi prince. Ali Faisel.”

  Right. A Saudi prince. It all made sense now. Our sometimes friends the Saudis take the rap for the nuclear terrorist attack. Or Ali Faisel was complicit. Lots to think about and lots to figure out. And not much time to do either. “And the prince owns a yacht named…? What?”

  “The Hana.”

  “Spell it.”

  Tamorov was staring at the floor now, and he spelled the prince’s name and the name of the yacht, then said, “That is all I know.”

  I hope that’s all I need to know. I said to him, “If you pray, Georgi, say a prayer for Mrs. Tamorov and for a million other innocent people.”

  He nodded, and I thought I heard him say, “My God.”

  “As my mother used to say to me, pick your friends carefully.”

  Tess and I left Georgi Tamorov to contemplate the results of his bad choices.

/>   CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Out on the back deck, the Suffolk County PD had arrived. Phil Florio and Beth Penrose, as the first responding detectives, were in charge, and they were conversing with two uniformed sergeants.

  Detective Florio seemed anxious to get a team together to go upstairs and bust the Ivans and their ladies, but I told him he needed to go to the living room and sit on Tamorov and not let him communicate with anyone.

  Someone had found the audio controls and shut off the music, and I could hear the surf breaking on the shore. There was no sea breeze and the fog lay motionless over the ocean and the beach. The floodlights came on and reflected off the mist, adding more weirdness to an already surreal night.

  I texted Scott Kalish: You are looking for a yacht named The Hana. Owned by a Saudi prince, Ali Faisel. Will call you later.

  Tess asked me, “How did you know about a yacht?”

  “From Dmitry, the driver.”

  She nodded, and came to the same conclusion I did. “The nuke would not be on a Russian ship. But it could have come from one.”

  “Correct.”

  “And this Saudi prince will look like a nuclear terrorist. Or he actually is a terrorist.”

  “It almost doesn’t matter at this point. But we’ll know when we find The Hana.”

  “I hope it’s The Hana that we’re looking for.”

  “It is.”

  “And that we’re not too late.”

  I was fairly sure now that the attack was supposed to look like a jihadist follow-up to 9/11—or it actually was, if this Saudi prince was in cahoots with Petrov. I said to Tess, “I think we have until eight forty-six A.M. or nine oh-three A.M.”

  She looked at me, then nodded.

  “Unless Petrov is spooked and goes early.”

  She had no reply.

  Tess and I found Detective Penrose talking to a uniformed sergeant about how best to get a few dozen naked people out of the pool, dressed, cuffed, and into the waiting prisoner bus.

  I said to Beth, “The homeowner, Mr. Tamorov, is inside with Florio. I have told Tamorov about Radiant Angel and he needs to be kept in strict isolation. The only phone call he’s allowed to make is to you. Give him your card and instruct him to ask someone at the county lockup for permission to call you if he remembers anything further. Call me and I’ll get back to him.” I added, “And please be sure Mr. Tamorov writes a check to Hampton Catering. Twenty-five thousand.”

  “Does he get the police raid discount?”

  Funny. Even Tess laughed. I also asked Beth, “Has anyone found our cell phones?”

  “Unfortunately, the caterers grabbed the whole basket when you told them to leave.” She scolded me, “You are not supposed to let anyone leave the premises.”

  “They had a tough day.”

  “Me too. And I’m still here.”

  “Well, I’m leaving. But please send someone to get our phones, deliver the check, and remind Dean Hampton to keep quiet. National security.”

  She reminded me, “You and Ms. Faraday and your team have to log in your presence.”

  Sounded like my wife. Another stickler for rules. Even when the world was about to blow up. “We’ll be sure to log in and log out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just between us, I’m going out on a SAFE boat.”

  “I suppose that’s better than having to deal with all this.”

  “I always know when to run from a shit storm.”

  “You usually run into a worse one.”

  “That’s my M.O.”

  Ms. Faraday sensed a private moment coming, so she moved off to where Steve and Matt were speaking to another uniformed sergeant.

  Beth and I looked at each other, and I said, “It’s good to see you again.”

  She didn’t reply.

  She wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but in this business you often don’t. I said, “I married that woman.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “You?”

  “Looking for a rich Russian.”

  “You came to the right place.”

  Well, that seemed to cover it, so I got down to business and asked, “Have you spoken to Scott Kalish?”

  “I did.”

  “So you understand there are no rules tonight.” I added, “I want all these people kept under wraps until at least noon tomorrow. Make up some charges.”

  “The FBI will be all over this in an hour.”

  Not to mention the CIA if they were working with the State Department. I advised her, “If my name comes up, you don’t know where I went.”

  “All right. But can I mention that you appeared crazy as ever?”

  “That’s our secret.” I added, “I’m sure we’ll be in touch when you write your report.”

  “I’m sure the Feds will make you unavailable for the next ten years.”

  Longer, if the CIA whacked me. “Call me anytime.”

  “You don’t have a phone.”

  I smiled. “You’ll find it. Meanwhile, Tess and I are sharing Matt Conlon’s phone.” I gave her the number.

  She told me, “I have discovered that you are with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, and that your duties and responsibilities are very limited.”

  “My job is to keep the surveillance target in sight at all times, and to find him when I lose him. And that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Don’t get yourself killed doing it.”

  “Anything further?”

  “No. I’ll take care of this.” She gave me her card. “Call me later and let me know what’s happening.”

  “If you see an incandescent flash on the western horizon, you’ll know what’s happening.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Talk to you later.”

  We both hesitated, then hugged for a brief second. “Careful,” she said.

  I walked toward Steve, Matt, and Tess, who saw the public display of affection. They were speaking to a patrol sergeant, and I motioned to my team to join me.

  Steve informed me, “I just got a call from a supervisor, Special Agent Howard Fensterman. He says he knows you.”

  “We worked together in Yemen.”

  “He said you’ve exceeded your authority—”

  “How does he know that?”

  “Not from us. I told you, the last we texted was that you and the trainee were on a meal break.”

  “Okay.” So the word had reached 26 Federal Plaza, probably through Washington, that there was a situation in progress. And somehow my name came up, and my name at 26 Fed causes concern for some reason.

  Steve continued, “Fensterman said you are relieved of your duties and you are to report to him at 26 Fed with all due haste.”

  I didn’t think I wanted to be at 26 Fed tonight. And neither did Howard Fensterman, who obviously didn’t know he was in a nuclear blast zone. I mean, that’s compartmented information. To the max.

  Steve also told me, “Matt and I are also relieved. We’re all going to see Fensterman.”

  Matt asked, “Are we getting fired?”

  “Probably.”

  “Shit.”

  My boys looked at me as though I’d let them down and totally fucked up their second careers and their lives. I asked Steve, “And Tess?”

  “Fensterman didn’t mention her.”

  Right. Fensterman probably knew who she was. I glanced at Tess, and she understood that I wanted to let my team know what was going on, but she shook her head.

  I assured Matt and Steve, “Don’t worry about your jobs.”

  Matt said, “I don’t think you can fix this one, boss.”

  Steve added, “Fensterman was really pissed.”

  “Well,” I informed them, “he’s going to be more pissed, because I’m not going to 26 Fed.”

  “You gotta go,” Steve said.

  Matt added, “We all have to go. Now.”

  Tess surprised them by saying, “John is not going to 26 Fed, and neither are you.”


  They looked at her, then at each other. Steve asked, “What the hell is going on here?”

  I replied, “You don’t need to know and you don’t want to know.”

  Matt asked, “Where you going?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “We’ll go with you.”

  I reminded my team, “You’re done here. E.O.T. End of tour. Go get a drink.” I suggested, “Sammy’s in Southampton. Have one for me.” I let them know, “Good job tonight.” I shook hands with both men and assured them, “You’re covered.” I added, “Do not go back to Manhattan. That is an order.”

  Tess and I went into the service corridor to the kitchen where two uniformed officers were securing the scene and sampling the unserved desserts. We showed our creds and headed toward the service entrance.

  There were four household employees in the kitchen, including the fat housekeeper, who saw me and shouted, “Yob vas!”

  That’s the thanks I get for slicing a hundred feet of kolbasa.

  Tess suggested, “We can stop at Hampton Catering for our phones.”

  “The less commo we have the better.”

  “I’ve never heard that one before.”

  She never worked an unauthorized case with me before.

  We walked through the storage room and into the garage.

  Tess asked, “Do you think your wife has been trying to call you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I inspected the damage to the Blazer. The front end was a little banged up, but the headlights were okay. The Jag was going to cost Tamorov big bucks. But that was the least of his problems.

  Tess asked, “Is she staying in D.C. tonight?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Maybe you should call her.”

  I’d thought about that—many times—and I said, “I can’t do what we are telling other people not to do.”

  “This is your wife.”

  I did tell Scott Kalish to call his daughter in Manhattan, but Tess didn’t know I’d had a weak moment.

  Tess suggested, “Just tell her she needs to stay in Washington tonight. And tomorrow.”

  “I’m assuming the Feds will halt air traffic into New York at some point.”

  “Okay, but she could be at the airport now, ready to board.”

  I looked at Tess and reminded her, “There are a million people in the blast zone.”