Radiant Angel

The two kitchen security guys were sitting at a table, eating pickles and watching a Russian-language soccer match on a flat-screen TV.

I asked Dean, “Can I use the phone?”

“No.”

“Can you use the phone? Like, what if you needed more pickled herring or something?”

“I guess…”

“I’ll give you a number to call. You’ll talk to Matt. Tell him about the cell phones and that J&T are okay, and we’ll keep Vaseline under the eye until the caterers leave.”

Dean glanced at the security guys.

“You understand that this is a matter of national security?”

He nodded.

I gave him Matt’s cell phone number and he repeated it.

I took my tray out to the deck, where Tess was now the cocktail waitress, going around with a tray of champagne glasses.

I informed her, “Dean says everyone gets naked later.”

“What the hell did you get me into?”

“You volunteered,” I reminded her.

She moved off with her tray of bubbly.

Indeed, this was a day of things not being what they seemed. Tess Faraday was not a serving girl, and maybe she wasn’t working with me because she liked me. And it was obvious that her frequent trips to the ladies’ room while on surveillance were also occasions to make a phone call—probably to her husband, but maybe to someone else. And Vasily Petrov was not a Human Rights delegate to the U.N., and maybe he wasn’t here for the party.

At the end of every masquerade, the masks come off and you know who’s who. And when you know who’s who, you know what’s what.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Another hour or so passed, and the gentlemen were getting shitfaced and the ladies were knocking down the bubbly to make these guys more interesting.

I took a break and stood at the rail, looking out at the ocean. A few motor craft and sailboats ran parallel to the shore, and jetliners cut across the blue sky. A biplane flew low, dragging a ba

I was aware that someone was standing to my left, and I glanced over to see a young lady in a cover-up, her elbows on the rail, gazing out to sea, holding a glass of champagne. Her skin was paper white and her long, straight black hair fell past her shoulders.

She looked at me with big brown eyes, smiled, and pointed in the direction we were facing, toward the south. “Rooshia.”

I corrected her geography and pointed east. “That way.”

“Yes? So long away.”

“Right. But Russia is here today.”

She laughed. After a moment, she said, “I am Tasha.”

“I’m John.” I translated, “Ivan.”

Again she laughed, but she looked a bit sad or wistful. I guess if I had to sleep with one of these guys, I’d feel a little blue myself.

She held her glass toward me. “Champagne?”

“I’m on duty.” I asked her, “How can I contact you after work?”

She gave me her cell phone number.

Before I could ask her if she was a Pisces, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Tess’ unsmiling face. She said curtly, “We need to return to the kitchen.”

“I still have zakuski—”

She handed me an empty tray. “Let’s go.”

I bid Tasha, “Das vidanya,” and followed Tess. I explained to Mrs. Faraday, “I was getting her phone number because she’s a potential witness to interview tomorrow.”

Tess seemed to buy part of that—though it was all true—but she said, “The security guys were looking at you.”

“Don’t be as paranoid as the Russians.”

Back in the kitchen I caught Dean’s eye and glanced toward the wall phone. He gave me a nod.

Tess and I grabbed trays, and on the way out I told her, “Dean called Matt from the kitchen phone and relayed my situation report.”

“I hope the phones aren’t monitored internally.”

“Good paranoia.” I also informed her, “Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor are not drinking.”

She seemed to understand that could have some significance and she nodded.

I told her, “If Petrov is still here when the caterers leave, I’m going to duck into a closet or something and stay here.”

“John, they counted everyone coming in and they will count everyone going out.”

“True… but—”

“We leave here together.”

“Actually, you’ll do what I tell you—”

“I don’t know how you survived this long.”

“Balls and brains.” I reminded her, “I am a legend.”

“Don’t push it.”

We came out on the deck and Tess walked away from me and held out a tray of eggs à la Russe to a Russe, who popped one in his mouth and popped another into Tess’ mouth. I hoped she was having fun.

I worked the poolside where a few of the ladies, including Tasha, were now lying in chaises, chatting in Russian with one another, probably about what a great party this would be if they didn’t have to fuck all the guests.

I offered Tasha my hot kolbasa, but she declined, then pantomimed holding a phone to her ear and mouthed, “Call me.” The other ladies giggled.

One of the security guys caught all this, and he fixed me with a stare.

The feeding frenzy seemed to have subsided for now, and a few bloated gentlemen floated in the pool on inflatable rafts. A half dozen men and women went down to the beach and cavorted in the surf. One guy was lying motionless on a chaise in the sand, and a seagull checked him out to see if he was possibly dead and edible.

I suppose you could say that the Russians had a big appetite for life, or you could say they were dissolute and decadent, which was the opposite side of the same ruble. In either case, they were becoming more confident in themselves and their country. Rarely has an empire fallen so quickly, then experienced such an equally fast resurgence. They should be happy with that, and happier that we didn’t kick them when they were down. But it seemed to me that Putin and his goons were still pissed off that we knocked them down in the first place. So we weren’t going to be buddies soon.

Meanwhile, the diplomatic and security apparatus in Washington was obsessed with Islamic terrorists and distracted enough not to notice all of this. Or if they did, it wasn’t a priority. The Russians, however, were making it a priority to fuck America. When I saw people like Petrov, and when I compared them to the Islamists I spent years following and investigating, I had no doubt who was the most dangerous.

The afternoon slipped into early evening, and the sun was dropping into the western sky. I noted that the bartenders were serving mostly hard stuff now, but Petrov was content with nursing his mineral water, as were Fradkov and Igor. Georgi Tamorov, however, was knocking down a few shots of iced vodka, as was Dmitry, who must have known he wasn’t driving back to the city tonight.

It was possible, I conceded, that Petrov and his companions were actually just here for the party. That made more sense than anything else I might suspect or imagine. Or, if there was something else going on, it would go down later, behind closed doors, and I’d never know about it. Especially since they were all speaking Russian. And whatever they were up to, it would most probably have nothing to do with American national security; it would have to do with money, or with Georgi Tamorov asking Vasily Petrov for a favor, which was usually the deal when a rich oligarch sucked up to someone like Colonel Petrov of the SVR. Tamorov probably wanted one of his competitors to meet with an unfortunate accident. A million Swiss francs should get the job done.

According to the intel on Georgi Tamorov, he was spending more time in New York and London, and he was tied to the economic interests of the West. Money protects its money, and people like Colonel Petrov made people like Georgi Tamorov nervous. And yet they were here together, and not for the first time. Why?