Radiant Angel

by Nelson DeMille

  “Do not move.”

  What the…?

  Mikhail informed me, “To be more truthful, I am not wounded. Also, I am a colleague of the late Colonel Petrov and the late Viktor Gorsky. Along for the cruise to see that all went well.”

  I stated the obvious: “It didn’t.”

  “I see that.” He continued, “Also I am here to eliminate all witnesses—including my colleagues.”

  “Done that.”

  “Thank you.” He, too, stated the obvious: “And now it is your turn.”

  Well, I was totally pissed that this guy snookered me. That doesn’t happen often, but once was all it took. I glanced at Tess, but she was still lying on her back in the receding water with Petrov still on top of her. Shit.

  To make sure Mikhail understood the situation, I told him, “In a few minutes, there won’t be any witnesses, including you, asshole.”

  He replied, “I have reduced the speed of the ship.” He held up what looked like a cell phone. “And I have given myself another ten minutes to leave the ship.” He nodded toward the amphibious craft. “But before I leave, I wish to know from you what you and the CIA know about Operation Zero, and how you discovered this.”

  I didn’t like being mistaken for a CIA guy, but I didn’t make an issue of it and asked, “What’s in it for me?”

  “A quick bullet to your head. The alternative is several bullets to your abdomen.” He assured me, “Very painful.”

  I already knew that from the last time I got shot in the gut, but I didn’t find either alternative very attractive or persuasive.

  Mikhail sensed this, and he continued along the dock to get into a position to fire without hitting the nuke behind me. “What do you know?”

  “I know you’re a dickhead and you’re going to die.” I glanced again at Tess, but she wasn’t moving.

  Mikhail now noticed that the trunk was open, and this disturbed him. “Turn around and close the lid.”

  So my options were reduced to two—go for my borrowed gun, or turn around and pull the detonator wires, which would either blow the nuke prematurely or kill it right before this asshole killed me.

  People are morbidly drawn to looking at dead bodies, and Mikhail made the mistake of glancing at Urmanov as he passed him, and I pulled Gorsky’s gun from my pocket at the same time as Mikhail looked back at me.

  I don’t know who would have gotten the first shot off, because all of a sudden I heard a deafening crash and the sound of tearing metal, and the ship rolled sharply to port. I was knocked off the boat and into the water and momentarily stunned, but I jumped to my feet, moved quickly to my left, and aimed my pistol at the dock above me.

  Mikhail suddenly appeared with his gun aimed at where he’d last seen me. I popped off three rounds, discovering that Gorsky’s pistol was silenced, at the same time that Mikhail discovered that my aim was good.

  I could hear water rushing into the ship, and The Hana was starting to list to starboard. Obviously we’d been rammed. The good news was that the nuke would be underwater. The bad news was that this ship was sinking fast.

  I ran to Tess, who was now trying to get out from under Petrov’s dead body.

  I pulled him off and helped her to her feet. She did not look good, but her head was clear and she said, “I saw an icebreaker…”

  “Right. Let’s go.”

  I lifted her onto the dock, then climbed up and got her to her feet. “I’m going to carry you to the swimming platform.” I reminded her, “Your float coat is there. Ready?”

  “John, the nuke…”

  I assured her, “The electronics will fizzle. Let’s go.”

  But she kept staring at the nuke. “It might take too long for the water…”

  I could hear the sea rushing in from about midship, but I didn’t see any water coming into the garage. So with the extra time that Mikhail had given us, I went back to Plan A and ran to the catwalk, shut off the garage pumps, then hit the switch marked SHELL DOOR.

  I heard a hydraulic sound, and watched as the door on the starboard side began to swing out, letting in the sea. A wall of water ran into the garage, making the ship list more to starboard, and I thought we were going to capsize. Was this a good idea? But the nuke was completely covered with water now, and if it was really like my cell phone, it was dead. If not, we were.

  The amphibious craft was rising with the water, and I called to Tess, who was limping toward me on the tilting dock. “Stay there!”

  I ran across the catwalk to the opposite dock, jumped into the amphibious craft, and released the two lines.

  I looked at the dashboard, which seemed simple enough, like a lot of sports boats I’d been on. I started the engines, pushed off from the dock, and turned the wheel hard. The amphibious craft came around in the tight space and I maneuvered it to the forward dock where Tess was kneeling. “Jump in!”

  She slid into the seat beside me as I headed for the open shell door.

  The water inside the garage had reached the level of the water outside, so we didn’t have to sail against the incoming sea. That was the good news. The bad news was that The Hana was listing so badly now that the top of the door opening was only about four feet from the water, and the headroom to clear this ship was getting tighter as the ship continued to tilt. I gunned the engines and said, “Duck!”

  As we shot through the open door, the windshield of the amphibious craft clipped the top of the opening and ripped it off, sending the windshield flying over our heads.

  When I looked up, we were out in the bay where the dawn was breaking.

  I put some distance between us and The Hana, in case the nuke was still alive, then I looked back at the big yacht, which was almost on its side, a few degrees from slipping under.

  Off in the distance I spotted the icebreaker, heading out toward The Narrows, mission accomplished.

  I didn’t see any other ships around, but an NYPD helicopter hovered overhead and his loudspeaker blared, “Stay where you are!”

  I cut the engines and we both stood. Tess put her arm around me and we waved, trying to look friendly.

  Tess turned toward the rising sun. “Long day.”

  “I hope you learned something.”

  I took off my shirt and tied it tightly around her thigh as we watched The Hana disappear under the water, taking its secrets with it. At least until it was raised. Then it remained to be seen what secrets were made public. I know how these things work.

  I looked at the Manhattan skyline, about half a mile away, still standing, but still in the center of a lot of people’s crosshairs.

  The Twin Memorial Beams, which go on at dusk on September 11 and off at dawn, went off. Until next year.

  Tess put both arms around me and we looked at each other, then kissed for the video camera in the chopper. I guess I could explain that later.

  She lay down on the bench seat and I knelt beside her. “You okay?”

  “I need a drink.”

  She probably needed a pint of blood, but I said, “We have a date.”

  I heard engines approaching and looked up to see a Coast Guard cutter and an NYPD Harbor craft heading toward us.

  So, situation corrected. Surveillance target in known location. End of tour.

  Holy shit.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  So the FBI put me on paid administrative leave, which they sometimes do during an ongoing investigation into a serious case or incident. This has the dual benefit to them of getting rid of me while still keeping me under their control. As a contract agent, I could have just resigned, but they were going to terminate my employment anyway, so why bother?

  Kate finally made it home, oblivious to my bad day on the job. Normally I’d share some of this with her, but this was sensitive compartmented information that she had no need to know. She did, however, have some unclassified information for me that she could share; she had been offered a reassignment to FBI Headquarters in Washington. Or did she ask for the reassignment
? I don’t know and I didn’t ask.

  The following day, after I visited Tess in the hospital, I told Kate that I had been placed on leave, pending, I told her, an investigation of me losing an important target. Kate seemed concerned, maybe because this brought up the question of me going with her to Washington. But as we both knew, my non-job was still in New York, so officially I had to stay here. I could, however, put in a request to spend my free time—which is every day—in D.C. But Kate and I agreed that a little separation would be good for both of us while we were going through career transitions.

  And did I mention that her boss, Tom Walsh, was also being reassigned to Washington? My detective instincts told me this was not a coincidence.

  Regarding the events under investigation, there was a complete news blackout on that, except for the cover story that a yacht of Saudi Arabian registry had suffered a serious collision with another boat in New York Harbor and had gone down with loss of life. Salvage operations were underway. All of this is true, confirming once again that the best lies are lies of omission, and about ninety-nine percent of what happened has been omitted.

  Geopolitics is not my strong point, but I understand why the government is not calling this a thwarted nuclear attack, perpetrated by the Russians. I mean, American-Russian relations are shitty enough without accusing them of nuclear terrorism, which wouldn’t improve things much, and might restart the Cold War. I’m sure Washington is going to get its pound of flesh from the Russkies, somewhere, somehow, but in the meantime we’re still focused on Abdul, which is an easy sell to the public, and Ivan still looks like a potential ally. At least that’s my take on this. But who knows what the hell is going on in Moscow and Washington?

  Well… I think I know what’s going on in Washington. Kate is fucking Tom Walsh. That’s what’s going on. But I could be wrong.

  And what’s going on in New York? Well, as it turns out, Tess, like most State Department people, lives in Washington, but she, too, is on paid leave—medical, in her case—so she has some time on her hands and State doesn’t care where she spends it, though they care who she spends it with. Therefore, we’re not supposed to have any contact, but we see each other whenever she’s in New York, which is most weekends. Screw the Feds. What are they going to do? Fire us? We know too much. On second thought, maybe we know too much. But that’s another subject.

  As for Georgi Tamorov, the State Department has pulled his U.S. visa, forever, and he’ll never see his Southampton mansion or his Tribeca townhouse again. I don’t know if he cares, but I do know that if he steps foot in Russia again his next address will be an SVR prison. He’s a man without a country. Maybe he can buy one.

  Scott Kalish, as I predicted, got no ink, except for a confidentiality statement that he had to sign in triplicate. Same with Pete Conte and Nikola Andersson. I owe them all a dinner. Maybe Dean Hampton can cater it at my place. I’ve had an official-looking award made up for Dean at Sir Speedy and I need to present it to him.

  As for Steve and Matt, I took care of that with Howard Fensterman, who got wind of what almost happened and understood that I had tried to warn him to get out of town. So he owed me a big favor, and he saw to it that Steve and Matt got new five-year contracts with the Diplomatic Surveillance Group with promotions to team leader. Hopefully my boys learned from the master—me—how not to do that job. I’m not supposed to have contact with Steve and Matt either, but we’ve gone for beers at McFadden’s on Second Avenue a few times. I don’t know if that constitutes contact. I’ll check.

  And then there’s Buck Harris, who has once again thankfully disappeared from my life. I did, however, get a verbal message from him through a third party—Tess—and she said he said, “We continue to appreciate your silence and we trust it will continue.” He also let me know, “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  My reply, through the same third party, was, “We’re even. Let’s keep it that way.”

  But Tess likes the devious old coot, and she wants us all to be friends. Right. I have to remember to tell Paul Brenner to remove Buck from his hit list. I’ll get to that soon.

  Meanwhile, since Tess and I are not allowed to discuss the incident that we were involved in together—even with each other—we talk about things like my past and my future. As for my past, Tess would prefer if I didn’t call Beth Penrose again. Ever. As for my future, Ms. Faraday has invited me to dinner at her parents’ palatial estate in Lattingtown. Can’t wait to get checked out and talk about my future.

  So, what do I want to do with the rest of my life? I’m not sure, but I know someone will make me an offer. That’s usually part of the shut-up deal. I see myself as a contract agent again, working for the Feds in dangerous countries, risking my ass for crap money, like I did in Yemen. Can’t be any worse than the quiet end job I had.

  Tess thinks I have a death wish, but I don’t; I do, however, enjoy a little excitement. I mean, the only thing worse than someone shooting at you is no one bothering to shoot at you.

  Sometimes I walk past the Russian U.N. Mission, which is in my neighborhood, and I think back to that Sunday morning of September 11. If Kate hadn’t been in Washington, I probably wouldn’t have worked that day. And if I hadn’t worked that day… Would another DSG guy have followed Colonel Petrov into Georgi Tamorov’s party? Hopefully yes, but would that have led to the same outcome in New York Harbor? We’ll never know any of that, but what I do know is that it was a damn close thing.

  I think, too, about Vasily Petrov, and I wonder what motivated him to commit mass murder and attempt an act of unspeakable evil. I’m sure he never saw himself as evil; he saw himself as a patriot, doing a good and noble thing for his country. We have guys like that, too. And they say I’m crazy?

  I thought, too, about Mikhail, the assassin of the assassins. I’ll bet Petrov and Gorsky would have been really surprised when Mikhail popped up and announced that he was going to whack them. Good job, boys. Now here’s your reward. The SVR has a tough H.R. office.

  I mean, Petrov and Gorsky risked their butts for their country, probably for the same crap pay I get, and what do they get in return? A bullet to shut them up.

  Well, Tess and I saved Mikhail the trouble, and we also saved Petrov and Gorsky from a final disillusionment. Assuming they had illusions to begin with. There’s a lesson here for me, too. But I think I already learned that lesson.

  On a happier note, I took Tess to Rossiya one night, a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach, where the late Colonel Petrov’s girlfriend, Svetlana, is a chanteuse. Tess didn’t want to go, having just had an unpleasant experience with some Russians, and she said all the guys there looked like Petrov and Gorsky. But you can’t fight your demons unless you go looking for them, and after a few vodkas she got into the right head and we ate Russian food and danced all night and we heard Svetlana sing. She has good lungs. Later we took a stroll on the boardwalk and watched the sun come up.

  Do I miss Kate? Yes, I do. But I’d rather try to figure out how to defuse a weapon of mass destruction than try to figure out how this marriage reached critical mass and blew.

  Meanwhile, life goes on. And every day is new. And one day, if I live long enough, I’ll come to a quiet end. And that’s okay if I can look back and say, “I did good.”

  THE END

  Acknowledgments

  As with all of my novels, I’ve taken advantage of the patience and good nature of friends and acquaintances to assist me with facts, technical details, and inside information that a novelist needs but can’t find in books or on the Internet.

  And as always, here is my disclaimer: any errors of fact regarding the procedures or professions represented in this novel are either a result of my misunderstanding of the information given to me, or a result of my decision to take literary license and dramatic liberties. Also, in some cases I have been asked to alter classified information given to me in confidence.

  First among these friends who have helped is Kenny Hieb, a.k.a. John Corey.
Kenny, like Corey, is a retired NYPD detective, formerly with the Joint Terrorism Task Force, and currently with another Federal organization that needs to go unnamed. Thanks, Kenny, for your assistance and, more importantly, for your work in keeping us safe.

  Next, I’d like to thank Pete Conte, Suffolk County (NY) Police Officer, Marine Bureau. Pete has been very generous with his time and very giving of his vast knowledge of police work on the high seas. In exchange for all this, I have given Pete a cameo role in this book. And again, whatever errors I’ve made in this regard are mine alone.

  Also on the high seas, many thanks to my friend Bruce Knecht, yachtsman and author of Hooked, The Proving Ground, and Grand Ambition, for steering me in the right direction on my voyage of super yacht discovery. If I hadn’t read Bruce’s wonderful Grand Ambition, I could not have created The Hana, which is central to this story.

  Thanks, too, to John Kennedy, Deputy Police Commissioner, Nassau County (NY) Police Department (Retired). John’s a member of the New York State Bar, and patron (with me) of many local bars. John has helped me with all my John Corey novels and he brings to this task a unique combination of skills and knowledge as a police officer and an attorney. If I make up too much stuff, John revokes my literary license.

  And, now on to my publishing team. Many thanks go to my editor and friend, Jamie Raab, president and publisher of Grand Central Publishing. Jamie somehow finds time to run a company and edit my manuscripts, and she wears both hats with style and confidence.

  Thanks also to my longtime friend Harvey-Jane Kowal, a.k.a. HJ, who has once again come out of retirement from Hachette Book Group to work on this, her thirteenth DeMille book. This comes under the category of “Glutton for Punishment.” HJ knows her grammar, punctuation, spelling, and fact-checking, and she makes me look good on the printed page.

  Forgetting to thank your agent at the back of the book is like forgetting to thank your defense lawyer as you walk out of the courtroom a free man. Imperfect analogy aside, I want to thank my team at ICM Partners, Jennifer Joel and Sloan Harris, not only for their hard work, but also for their smart work. Authors with good agents suffer fewer suicidal and homicidal urges.