Radiant Angel

I asked, “Did the deli delivery ever get here?”

“Yeah, but we ate your sandwiches,” Matt admitted.

I suggested, “When the catering trucks come out of Tamorov’s, about midnight, talk to Dean and tell him he did a good job, but if he breathes one f-ing word of this to anyone, he’s toast. And get his personals.”

“Right, and maybe some leftovers.”

I continued, “If the Mercedes comes out, call Suffolk PD and have it pulled over for some violation, then call me. Same if any other vehicle leaves Tamorov’s.”

Steve asked, “You going someplace?”

“I need gas.” I said to Tess, “You can stay here, or you can come with me.”

“I’m yours.”

“Okay.” I told Matt, “I’ll keep your phone.”

Tess and I retrieved our creds, my wallet, her bag, and our guns and ammo, and we got in the Chevy Blazer with her at the wheel. I suggested to her, “Tell me about your gun.”

She started the Blazer. “I’m licensed.”

“By whom?”

“We can discuss this later.”

She moved slowly up Gin Lane, past the Tamorov house. The two security guys, now back in their chairs, gave us a look and the Dobermans barked.

I dialed Tasha’s number, but the call went right into voice mail—English and Russian. I didn’t leave a message and hung up. I got Kalish back on the phone and said, “I have a cell phone number onboard the target craft.”

“That makes life easier.”

I gave him Tasha’s number and Kalish said, “I’ll get the location triangulated, but I gotta tell you it’s not that easy if they’re still on water.” He asked, “Whose phone is that?”

“Tasha.” I explained my professional interest in Tasha, and also advised Kalish that all the ladies’ phones might have been confiscated and maybe had their batteries removed. But to be more optimistic, I said, “Petrov has no idea that two DSG agents saw him take off in a boat, and he has no idea that I have the cell phone number of one of the ladies onboard. So even if he confiscated the phones, he might not bother to remove the batteries.”

“We’ll give it a try. Meanwhile, I’ve got boats and aviation rolling.”

“Thanks.” We signed off.

Tess said, “If Petrov didn’t remove the batteries, he needs to go back to spy school.”

“I’ve had suspects who’ve done stupider things.”

“Were they Russian intelligence agents?”

I asked her, “Did you learn your tradecraft on Wall Street?”

“I watch spy movies.”

On the subject of cell phones, mine and hers were in a basket waiting for us to reclaim them from Tamorov’s security guys. When we didn’t—or long before that—they’d realize two catering staff skipped out. But what would they make of that? And would the security guys mention it to Tamorov? Not if they wanted to keep their jobs. That’s how the Russkies think and act. Us, too, sometimes.

As for the phones themselves, they were code-locked and useless, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw them for sale in Brighton Beach.

On that subject, no matter how this played out tonight, I’d have to let 26 Fed know how we’d lost our government Nextels. More paperwork. But more importantly, people couldn’t get hold of us, which was not necessarily a bad thing.

I asked Tess, “You want to call your husband?”

“Later.”

She drove back to Montauk Highway and pulled into a local no-name two-pump gas station with the highest gas prices in North America. I got out and gassed up on my government credit card. I suggested to Tess that this would be a good time to use the restroom, but she suggested we go to a nearby diner.

She headed west on Montauk Highway and pulled into the parking lot of the Southampton Diner, a twenty-four-hour place that I’d been to, and a place where Tess said she’d had many sunrise breakfasts after an all-night party. Nothing like coffee and bacon fat to sober you up.

We went inside the upscale diner, which was mostly empty on this Sunday night in September. I checked my watch—9:21 P.M. I was deep into overtime with no end in sight.

We got a quiet booth in the corner, but before Tess sat, she said, “I need to use the restroom.”

“I’ll get you a coffee.”

“I need to borrow your phone.”

“I have to make some calls. Use the pay phone.”

“I want to text Grant.”

I handed her Matt’s phone and she headed for the restrooms.

Well, by now I’m thinking that Tess Faraday is working a second job. Let’s see… she carries a gun, she knows the ropes too well, and she disappears a lot to use the restroom. If she was with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility, I’d be answering some questions at 26 Fed about how I handled this surveillance.

But I’d been around FBI people for a lot of years now, and Tess Faraday did not strike me as one of the Fabulously Boring Individuals, as the cops called the FBI. She had a different demeanor—a sort of panache—plus she didn’t use any mind-numbing FBI jargon.

The waitress came with two menus and I ordered two coffees.

I finished mine and still no sign of Tess, who was either having bladder problems or husband problems. Or neither.

The Southampton Diner had a liquor license, thank God, and I ordered my next coffee with a shot of medicinal brandy. I think you can drink on overtime.

I calculated Kalish’s chances of finding that amphibious craft, or finding the ship it rendezvoused with, or the place where the craft had come ashore. The chances were good that the craft would be found, and that Petrov would also be found. But if not, Petrov and his two goons would probably show up back at Tamorov’s for a morning car ride back to the city. I mean, his car and driver were at Tamorov’s, so why was I overthinking this? The simplest explanation for what you see is the explanation.

And yet… I kept thinking of Petrov, Fradkov, and the newly IDed Viktor Gorsky, an SVR agent, sitting on Tamorov’s deck, not seeming to be in a party mood.

Or I was imagining things—hoping I had stumbled onto something big.

If Kate was here, that’s what she’d say. But she’d also listen and evaluate the evidence and play devil’s advocate. I thought about calling her, but she’d just tell me to call 26 Fed immediately and ask forgiveness for not calling earlier. She had an FBI head, and now a supervisor’s head. Plus, she didn’t want to hear anything from me that she might be asked about by her boss, Tom Walsh, who was a certified asshole.

Tess returned and I inquired, “How’s the home front?”

“Okay.”

“Who else did you call?”

“I said I was texting.”

“Right. Who else did you text?”

“I canceled my morning pedicure.” She picked up her menu. “I’m hungry.”

“When do I find out who you’re working for?”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m hungry for an answer.”

She looked up from her menu and we made eye contact. She said to me, “He told me you were very bright.”

“Who told you?”

“An old friend of yours.”

“I asked you a direct question, counselor. Who are you working for?”

“You actually asked me when you’d find out. The answer is tonight.”

“When tonight?”

“Shortly.” She assured me, “You have time for a burger.”

“That’s the good news.”

“That’s the only good news.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

We both ordered burgers and fries and I told the waitress, “Two Buds.”

Tess reminded me, “We’re on duty.”

“We’re on overtime.”

The waitress brought two bottles of Budweiser and Tess asked her, “How’d the Mets do today?”

“Won both.”

Tess held out her bottle and tapped mine. “Told you.”

She looked around the diner, then leaned toward me and said, “Regarding what you said to Captain Kalish, don’t be so sure that Petrov didn’t know who we were.”