Radiant Angel (John Corey Book 7)

by Nelson DeMille

  Conte nodded, and so did Andersson.

  I briefed them on the highlights of what we knew, though the background wasn’t as important to them as the words “suitcase nuke,” “New York Harbor,” and “8:46 A.M.” Or “9:03 A.M.” Or earlier, if Petrov was spooked.

  Conte and Andersson listened, then Andersson asked, “Are you sure about this?”

  Tess replied, “Not sure, but… almost sure.”

  Conte said, “Holy shit.” He stared through the windshield. “Holy shit.”

  Neither Tess nor I said anything, and we let them process all this.

  Finally, Nikola Andersson turned in her seat and asked Tess and me, “Why do you want to go there?”

  I replied, “I don’t actually want to go there. But I need to be there.” I explained, “This guy Petrov is my responsibility tonight.”

  Tess added, “And my organization is partly responsible for letting these people into the country.”

  Conte pointed out, “The Suffolk County Police Marine Bureau didn’t let them in.” He looked at his partner, and Andersson said, “If you’re just looking for a one-way ride, I think we can do that.” She asked Conte, “Okay?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Okay.”

  I felt obligated to remind them, “We could be sailing into a mushroom cloud.”

  Conte replied, “Understood.” He added, “We won’t hang around after we transfer you to another unit.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Before he even called Kalish, Pete Conte began to come around.

  Well, I thought, be careful what you wish for, especially if you have a death wish. Actually, I didn’t, but I do have an ego problem, and I was pissed at being marginalized by those pompous asses at 26 Fed. Screw them and their quiet end. Also, of course, I was doing my duty and protecting my country. It’s not all about me. Well, maybe it is.

  I looked at Tess, who was looking at me. I said to her, “I should have let you know what I wanted to do.”

  “Believe me, I figured that out long before I got on this boat.”

  Am I that obvious? While I was thinking about that, Conte called Kalish on his cell phone and reported, “Heading west.”

  “Copy.” Kalish asked, “Anything further?”

  “Negative.”

  “Godspeed.”

  So that was it.

  We headed west toward New York City, making fifty knots, and the SAFE boat practically flew over the water.

  The fog was thinning, and I spotted two other Suffolk County Marine Bureau vessels and one helicopter as we continued toward New York Harbor.

  The radar showed other craft in the vicinity, including the long line of commercial shipping on the Fairway heading to Ambrose Buoy. I noticed that the blips on the radar were not moving, so apparently shipping had been halted.

  I got a text on my cell phone and read Kate’s message: Conference went overtime, then we all went to late dinner. I’m beat, phone off, going to bed. Speak tomorrow. Love, K.

  Okay, so she was still in D.C., which was good. And I’d be able to speak to her in the morning. Maybe.

  I did recall, however, that my message to her said it was important that she call me. And she didn’t seem curious about why I was using someone else’s cell phone. I guess she was really tired.

  Marital ignorance is bliss, but willful ignorance is just stupid. Detectives want to know things, but unfortunately I wasn’t having much luck today locating either my surveillance target or my wife. In fact, this was turning out to be one of those days where I couldn’t find my ass with both hands.

  Tess asked me, “Who was that?”

  “My wife.” I added, “She’s staying in D.C. tonight.”

  “Good.” She said, “I should call Buck. To let him know where I am.”

  “If you let him know where you are, you won’t be here much longer, and neither will I.”

  Tess was catching on to the Corey way of doing things, and she nodded, then said, “If he wants to talk to me, he’ll call.”

  “Correct.” Same with my wife.

  I considered sending Kate a return text, or calling her hotel room, but I had more pressing issues than an AWOL wife. I’d settle this in the morning. If there was one.

  Conte set a course that brought us closer to the south shore of Long Island where the fog had dissipated and the ocean was calmer. We were maintaining fifty knots and Conte said we’d be at the Verrazano Bridge in less than ninety minutes.

  I stared out at the western horizon. I said to Conte, “If you see a flash of bright light—”

  “We turn around and go home.”

  “Correct.”

  Within half an hour we were in the operational area of the Nassau County Police Marine Bureau, and I could see their units on the radar running search patterns. I spotted the navigation beacon on the Jones Beach tower about three miles away, then the lights of the city of Long Beach stretching along the coast.

  We crossed an imaginary line and entered New York City’s borough of Queens, and in the distance across Jamaica Bay I could see aircraft taking off and landing at Kennedy Airport. I was surprised that Washington hadn’t halted inbound air traffic, as they had done on 9/11, but apparently the threat, in their minds, wasn’t as clear or imminent as it was in mine. There is always something lost in translation between the men and women in the field and those in the capital. In any case, I was glad that Kate wasn’t flying in tonight.

  Ten minutes later we were off the coast of Brooklyn and I spotted Brighton Beach, where I’d thought this surveillance was going to end this morning. I saw the lights of Coney Island and the landmark twenty-five-story-high parachute tower, where I used to scare the crap out of myself as a kid. A few minutes later we turned northwest into Gravesend Bay, and there in front of us was the illuminated Verrazano Bridge spanning The Narrows between Brooklyn and Staten Island—the entrance to New York Harbor.

  I could also see at least a dozen watercraft between us and the bridge, and Conte reduced his speed, then checked his radar screen and told us there were Coast Guard cutters and NYPD Harbor units all around us. Also, we could see and hear helicopters overhead.

  It was obvious that there were enough boats at the entrance to the harbor to accomplish the mission, and we all knew that our SAFE boat was not going to add much to the effort. But we also understood that there were times when just showing up was enough.

  Conte reduced his speed again and asked me, “You want to transfer to a unit here, or in the harbor?”

  “The harbor.”

  He looked at Andersson, then said, “Okay.”

  We passed under the mile-long Verrazano Bridge and entered Upper New York Bay. We were now in the blast zone.

  The fog was patchy in the bay and sat in clumps like gray islands. I didn’t see any other watercraft nearby, but helicopters circled overhead.

  Conte further reduced his speed to ten knots and Andersson divided her attention between the radar and the radios, monitoring the marine and police channels.

  I could make out the lighted skyline of Lower Manhattan, about three miles straight ahead. Well, I told Howard Fensterman I was on my way to Manhattan, and I kept my word.

  To the west was the shoreline of New Jersey, miles of commercial shipping piers and warehouses. To the east was the Brooklyn waterfront, more miles of warehouses and marine terminals where cargo ships sat at their docks.

  I looked around the bay at the far shorelines and the towering skyscrapers and the squat warehouses that made up the Port of New York. It took over three hundred years to build this. It would take about five seconds to destroy it.

  Through a break in the fog off our port bow I caught a glimpse of the illuminated Statue of Liberty, standing tall in the harbor. And in the distance, where the Twin Towers once stood, I could see the Twin Beams—two vertical columns of searchlights that were lit every September 11 since 2002 as a memorial and remembrance of the September 11 attacks. Tess, too, noticed them, and so did Conte and An
dersson, but no one commented.

  Conte reduced his speed to five knots, then looked at his radar screen and said, “There are not many units operating in the harbor. What they’re doing is relying on the helicopters, and they’re using the available watercraft to play goal-line defense at The Narrows.”

  “Right.” A good strategy if The Hana was still on the ocean. But if Petrov was already in the harbor, then he was already in the end zone, ready to spike the ball.

  Conte asked me, “You want me to raise an NYPD unit?” I didn’t reply and he asked, “Or hail a Coast Guard vessel?”

  “Why?”

  “Why? So you can transfer and I can get out of here.”

  “I thought you wanted to stay.”

  “Where did you get that idea?”

  “You’ve come this far.”

  Conte looked at Andersson, then said to her as though I wasn’t there, “Who is this guy?”

  I informed them, “I don’t think I’m welcome aboard any other vessel.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, then,” Conte suggested, “let me run you ashore while you’re telling me the story.”

  Tess interjected, “Let me make some calls to get permission to board a Coast Guard vessel.”

  I didn’t want to board a Coast Guard vessel, or any other vessel where I was persona non grata and would probably wind up in chains. I wanted to board The Hana, and I could do that only from this boat. I said to Conte and Andersson, “Let’s give it an hour here in the harbor. Then if we still haven’t located the target ship, Tess and I will transfer to another vessel.” I added, “One that’s sticking around.”

  Conte got that I’d challenged his manhood: show balls or chicken out?

  He looked at Andersson again, and she said, “I’m okay with waiting.”

  Conte said to me, “I’ll go you one better, Detective. We’ll stay here until you tell me you want to leave.”

  Well, boys will be boys—especially in front of girls. And the girls, too, seemed okay with looking death in the eye. I said, “You got a deal.”

  I looked at my watch. It was 2:35 A.M.

  The good news was that if the nuke blew before 8:46 A.M., we wouldn’t feel a thing. And I wouldn’t have to go to 26 Federal Plaza to get fired.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  We took up a position about half a mile southeast of Battery Park off the tip of Manhattan Island. About a half mile south of us was Governors Island, separated from Brooklyn by Buttermilk Channel. Farther up the East River I could see the Brooklyn Bridge and the Downtown Heliport where a chopper was taking off, and also Pier 11 where The Hana had docked Saturday morning before sailing out on its fateful Sunday cruise.

  If this was a football game, we would be playing safety near the goal line. Unfortunately, the nuclear football didn’t need to get into the end zone to score a touchdown.

  A half hour passed, mostly in silence except for radio traffic, which was minimal because of the Russians’ listening post at their residence in the Bronx. Most communication was being done by text, or e-mails on laptop computers, and occasionally by a direct cell phone call to an individual, though even that commo was not secure. My guess, however, was that Petrov’s mission was so secret that no one at the Russian listening post even knew about it, so they weren’t monitoring for a problem, nor was anyone at the Mission or the ’plex in communication with Petrov. Vasily was on his own, and I wondered if the assholes in Moscow who planned this could stop him.

  The protocol here would be a direct call from the president to Putin saying we know what you’re up to. But no one in Moscow was going to admit to a nuclear attack, nor would Moscow risk a traceable communication to Petrov to try to stop the show. At this point, the Russians needed to be certain that The Hana, the nuke, and Petrov did not fall into the hands of U.S. authorities. Meaning the nuke had to detonate. And Colonel Vasily Petrov had been chosen as the man to do this.

  The SAFE boat’s twin Mercs were idling, and now and then Conte would give them some throttle to keep the craft from drifting out with the tide. We couldn’t drop anchor because if we got an alert it would take too long to hoist it up.

  Conte suggested that we take up a position in Buttermilk Channel so that if the nuke blew in the harbor, we’d be protected by Governors Island from the direct blast. I said, “So instead of frying, we’ll have the air sucked out of our lungs. Sounds good.”

  We stayed where we were.

  Howard Fensterman texted me: Where are you?

  I texted him: I’m with your wife. Don’t come home.

  Tess saw the text, smiled, but then said on a related subject, “You should leave a message at the Sheraton telling your wife to call you first thing in the morning.”

  I didn’t recall telling Tess that Kate was at the Sheraton, but I did recall Buck mentioning it, though Tess had been out of earshot.

  “That’s what I would do,” Tess advised, “in case you don’t connect in the morning.”

  Meaning in case I’m reduced to nuclear ash in the next few minutes. Well, I wasn’t sure I should take marital advice from an unmarried woman who had concocted a whole jealous husband. I let her know, “This phone is almost dead.” I turned it off.

  It occurred to me that Tess Faraday, an intelligence officer, was trying to share with me some intel about Kate.

  In fact, Kate’s trips to D.C., probably with Tom Walsh, and her lack of communication at home and on the road, could be interpreted as suspicious. Plus, of course, my new job put me conveniently out of the office.

  I asked Tess, “You have anyone you need to send a message to?”

  “No.”

  I asked Conte and Andersson the same question and they said they’d already done that via e-mail.

  Well, to paraphrase D. H. Lawrence, we had built our ship of death and we were ready for our long journey to oblivion.

  Conte was reading a chain of e-mails on his laptop and he informed us that all commercial and private ships coming into the Port of New York had been halted, and scheduled outbound ships were encouraged to leave the harbor ASAP, though I didn’t see many of those on the water or on the radar. Cargo ships at their piers, waiting to load or unload, were not being ordered to leave, Conte explained, because that would be logistically complex, not to mention highly unusual.

  Apparently whoever was running this operation in Washington was trying to play it down the middle; stay calm and carry on, but be prepared to kiss your asses good-bye.

  I noticed, too, that in the great tradition of bureaucratic communication, none of these messages directly mentioned the nature of the problem—though you’d have to be an idiot not to understand that the threat was a weapon of mass destruction. To be fair, however, you don’t want to put that out in plain English for other people to see and hear.

  On that subject, I also knew from classified briefings and memos that there were two opposing schools of thought regarding alerting the populace that an attack from a WMD was imminent. One school of thought said an alert to evacuate a heavily populated area would cause pandemonium, and injuries and death, possibly in excess of the attack itself.

  Theory two said that it was morally indefensible to not alert the population.

  To take it a step further, if there was no alert, and the nuke blew, a lot of people in Washington would have a lot of explaining to do. And if there was an alert, leading to panic and chaos, and the nuke didn’t blow—or didn’t exist—there would be unnecessary deaths and injuries. Not to mention great embarrassment.

  Tough call.

  Well, I didn’t know which theory Washington was going with tonight, but if I had to guess I’d say they were still arguing over the word “imminent.”

  Conte showed us an e-mail that said: To reiterate previous instructions, U.S. Coast Guard craft will take the lead in any attempted boarding of target vessel.

  I didn’t think that was going to go over big with the NYPD Harbor units. B
ut when the Feds are on the case, as we all knew, everyone else stands back and applauds.

  Conte received a text and said to us, “All security craft will leave the harbor at zero eight-fifteen hours and proceed to Gravesend Bay. Or earlier if fuel is an issue.”

  I glanced at the fuel gauges and saw that indeed fuel could become an issue, and Andersson confirmed, “Even at idle, we’re not going to make it to eight-fifteen.”

  Was that good news or bad news? I mean, at what point do we haul ass out of here with enough fuel to make it out of the harbor? Also, apparently I wasn’t the only one who had figured out that you didn’t want to be here at 8:46 A.M.

  In truth, however, 8:46 A.M. had no meaning any longer. By now, of course, Petrov knew that we were on to his game, and I had no doubt that he would advance the clock. I had no idea where he and The Hana were hiding, but I was sure Petrov was going to detonate the nuke as soon as he felt we were closing in on him. By now, however, he had turned off all his electronics, including radar and radios, so he was basically deaf, dumb, and blind, and I pictured him aboard The Hana using only his eyes, ears, and instincts to determine when to make his move. Also, by now he must have understood that he was not going to survive this mission, so he, like us, was preparing himself for his final journey. And also, like us, he was not going to lose his nerve at the last minute; Colonel Vasily Petrov was about to sail into history.

  Conte looked at a new text message and informed us, “Due to a credible terrorist threat, all flights into Kennedy, Newark, and La Guardia have been diverted. Also, all public transportation into Manhattan has been suspended, and all bridges and tunnels will be closed.”

  So there would be no inbound rush hour this morning, and that would save a lot of lives if the worst happened. But there were still a million and a half people who lived in Manhattan and another few hundred thousand visitors and tourists, plus a few hundred thousand people who lived and worked along the shorelines of Brooklyn, New Jersey, and Staten Island, and apparently there was no plan to attempt an evacuation.