Radiant Angel

“His girlfriend?”

She ignored my wit and answered her own question. “Your group. The DSG.”

I kind of understood all this oblique baloney—Petrov was a person of interest to the CIA and to State Department Intelligence and they were sharing the case to give the CIA legal cover in the U.S. And my group, the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, would be a convenient and well-placed ally. But rather than ask us for help, the CIA or SDI penetrated the Diplomatic Surveillance Group with one of their people. And, voilà! Tess Faraday was my trainee. I asked her, “So are you CIA or SDI?”

“Does it matter who I’m working for?”

“Why am I asking?”

“It’s better for both of us if you didn’t know. In case you are asked later.”

“Right.” I asked another question. “What do you need from me?”

“Well, as it turns out, you set the wheels in motion to find Petrov, and Captain Kalish, who has lots of resources, is working well with you.”

“So I’m the front guy.”

“You’re the go-to guy.” She stopped the Blazer on a lonely stretch of road and glanced at the dashboard clock. “And you’re very bright.”

I ignored that and asked her, “What is it that Petrov is suspected of?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, as you probably know, he’s an evil James Bond with a license to kill.”

“I know that.”

“Good.” So, as it turns out, my instincts were correct; I had stumbled onto something big. Something that the CIA and State Department Intelligence were on to, and might or might not be sharing with the FBI. Also, my instincts about Tess Faraday were correct; she wasn’t who she said she was. She was, in fact, a plant—sort of like a parasite that attached itself to the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. Well, that might be a little harsh. Also, I was relieved that she wasn’t with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility. The CIA, I could handle. And, finally, I was a little pissed off.

I don’t know why I cared, but I asked her, “Tell me about your legend.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I’m not actually a lawyer, but it fit the requirement for me to be an FBI aspirant.” She confided, “I was a little concerned about that. You’re married to a lawyer, and professions are hard to fake.”

“Not if you’re a lawyer. They fake it every day.”

She smiled and continued, “What’s true is that I’m from Lattingtown, and my family did actually summer in the Hamptons.”

“More importantly, are you a Mets fan?”

“Let’s go Mets.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“I think you were on to me.”

To burst her bubble, and because I was pissed, I said, “You need to work on your acting.”

“It’s not my strong point.”

“No, it’s not. And I have a target to find, and I’m not making any progress here. So—”

My Nextel—Matt’s Nextel—vibrated and I looked at the text, hoping it was from Kalish. But all it said was: I’m here.

Assuming this obscure message was for Mrs. Faraday, I showed it to her.

She nodded and said, “Good.” Then she said to me, “Also, if you’re wondering, Grant doesn’t actually exist. But if he did, he’d be the jealous type and I’d have to take calls from him all day and run to the ladies’ room to talk to him in private.”

I was relieved to hear that her bladder was okay. I advised her, “I don’t like being jerked around, Ms. Faraday—if that’s your name.”

“It’s my real name.” She added, “I enjoyed our conversations.”

“At some point I will need to see identification. Including your pistol license. Or I will confiscate your gun. And place you under arrest.”

“My ID is with the man we’re about to meet.”

“It better be.” I informed her, “At this point, I need to call my case agent.” I began dialing. “To cover my ass and report my conversation with you.”

She put her hand over mine. “That’s taken care of. You’re covered. But you can call Matt and Steve, and Captain Kalish if you’d like.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“John… this is sort of out of your hands now. And out of the FBI’s hands. But we’d like you to work with us and maintain contact with your team and your guy Kalish.”

“Who is us?”

“You’re about to find out.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“This is your job.”

“You just said it wasn’t.”

“We’re sharing the job.”

And, I, John Corey, was a loose ca

She stayed silent for a few seconds, then replied, “We didn’t think he was up to anything in particular tonight. Then, as we both noticed, Petrov, Fradkov, and the guy you call Igor—Gorsky—got really strange at Tamorov’s. Then they take off in a landing craft, so we go from routine surveillance to… well, maybe something interesting. Or maybe nothing.” She added, “That’s why you follow guys like that.”

Right. I follow them to see who they meet, who they know, and how they spend their time outside their home and office, and now and then something interesting comes up. And I report it, with photos included, and that’s where my job ends and an FBI agent picks it up. Tonight, however, it seemed like I could rewrite my job description. If I wanted to.

I texted Steve: Anything new?

He replied: All quiet.

I texted Kalish: Any luck?

He replied: You’ll be the first.

How could a sea-and-air search not find a twenty-five-foot amphibious landing craft that started from a known point at a known time? Maybe the craft was already onboard a ship and covered with a tarp. Or it had come ashore somewhere along a lonely beach. More importantly, what was the purpose of Petrov leaving Tamorov’s party in a landing craft? Everything—boats, babes, and booze—pointed to a pleasure cruise, maybe ending on a small bay island, or a party ship. And maybe that’s all there was to it.

Tess said, “Just for the record, and to make you a little less angry, I did ask that I be assigned to you rather than any of the dozens of other team leaders who watch the Russians. And now I’ll tell you why. Because you’re very good at what you do. And I really enjoy working with you.”

I didn’t reply.

She put the Blazer in gear and we continued down the narrow road.

I asked her, “Did I say I wanted to work with you?”

“Just meet this guy, and listen. Then make your decision.” She added, “Time to come in from the pasture.”

Well, be careful what you wish for. We continued on the bumpy reservation road to a powwow.

She was peering into the darkness, then the headlights picked out two stone pillars and an iron gate, which was open. She turned between the pillars and the headlights illuminated a row of gravestones.

“This is the place,” Tess said. She glanced at the Blazer’s compass, then showing good tradecraft she turned the vehicle around toward the exit. She shut off the engine, leaving us in dark silence.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Because Ms. Faraday is a pro, she hit the kill switch for the interior lights before opening her door.

Because Detective Corey is also a pro, I said, “Give me the keys and your gun.”

She handed me the keys, then hesitated and drew her gun from her holster and handed it to me, butt first.

She carried a.40 caliber Glock, standard government issue. I pocketed her gun and said, “My last piece of gun advice, since you asked, is never go into a situation with an armed person you don’t trust.”

“Sorry you feel that way.”

“Let’s go. Leave your door open.”

Tess got out of the Blazer, leaving her door open in case one of us—specifically me—needed to make a quick getaway. “You lead.”