Radiant Angel

CHAPTER FOUR

We crossed into Suffolk County, still heading east toward the end of Long Island, following the Mercedes with Dmitry at the wheel, Igor riding shotgun, and Petrov and Fradkov in the back seat.

Possibly this was a wild-goose chase to draw half the team away from the Russian U.N. Mission. Our Bureau car radios and our hand-helds didn’t work out here, but our Nextel radio feature did, so I blinged the other half of my surveillance team who were still on 67th Street, but they had nothing unusual to report. Ke

I let my team know we were in Suffolk County, following the target, and would not be returning to their location for a while, if at all. I also advised Ke

We were now beyond comfortable commuting distance to Manhattan and the suburbs began to thin out. I looked at the fuel gauge and saw we could make it all the way to Montauk Point if we had to. I assumed the Mercedes could do the same, so there’d be no gas station stops unless Ms. Faraday had to pee again.

We were now about fifty road miles from Manhattan, and I let Tess know, “There’s a Russian oligarch, Georgi Tamorov, who has a big oceanfront house in Southampton. Petrov has been Tamorov’s guest a few times.”

“Do we still get relieved at four?”

“We can ask. But it’s Sunday and I think we’re it.”

“What if they stay overnight?”

“We take turns sleeping in the minivan.” I asked her, “Haven’t you been doing this awhile?”

“I never did an overnight.” She informed me, “Grant is flying in tomorrow morning.”

I reminded her, “We are protecting the homeland. Sometimes the hours are not convenient.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Are you sure you want this job?”

“I am.”

“And what does Grant want?”

“That’s none of your business. But since you asked, he’s not happy about this.”

“I’m disappointed in him.”

She thought a moment, then said, “I’m sure it’s easier if both spouses are in the same business.”

I didn’t reply.

A few miles later, she asked me, “Am I making a mistake? I mean about wanting to be an FBI agent?”

“Look inside. Your i

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s correct.”

We traveled in silence awhile, then Tess informed me, “I’ve applied for a gun permit.”

“Holy shit.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry. That just slipped out.”

“Be serious, John. I need to know if I have what it takes to carry and use a gun.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Have you ever used your gun?”

“Now and then.”

“Did you ever… you know, shoot anyone?”

“What do you hear?”

“I heard you were shot three times.”

“All on the same day.”

“Did you get them?”

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about this?”

“Not at this moment.”

“Okay.” She asked me, “Do you have any tips? I mean for when I go to Quantico and take the Pistol Qualification Course.”

“You’ll do fine on the Q Course. But here’s a tip for when you’re going to a real gunfight. Borrow money from the agents with you. It gives them an added incentive to protect you.”

She laughed.

“Remember,” I continued helpfully, “anything worth shooting is worth shooting twice. Ammo is cheap. And if your shooting stance is good, you’re probably not moving fast enough.”

Tess nodded, then glanced at me.

I went on, “When approaching a suspect, watch their hands. Hands kill. In God we trust. Everyone else, keep your hands where I can see them. Be polite. Be professional. But have a plan to kill everyone you meet.”

Tess again glanced at me, probably wondering how anyone so clever got plugged three times. I wonder about that myself. Shit happens.

I concluded, “Use a gun that works every time. As George Washington said, ‘All skill is in vain when an angel pisses in the flintlock of your musket.’ ”

We continued in silence. Finally, Tess said, “Thank you.”

So it’s come to this. Giving tips and assurance to a dilettante who’s rebelling against her background and her husband. How are the mighty fallen.

We were entering an area called the Pine Barrens, an empty stretch along the Expressway, and traffic was light here.

Tess asked me, “Why aren’t we calling this in?”

“We have nothing to report.”

“We’re a hundred miles from where we started, John.”

“Eighty.”

“The case agent should know that.”

“The phone works both ways.”

She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Maybe we should get some backup moving.”

“We’re not having any problems or issues.”

“Maybe they’re leading us into a trap.”

“I never thought of that.”

“I know it sounds crazy, but—”

“It’s beyond crazy.”

“All right… but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I won’t say that.”

“Do you have an extra gun?”

“If I did, you’re not getting it.”

“You’ll be begging me to take it if this is a trap.”

“Change the subject.”

To be fair to Ms. Faraday and her paranoia, Vasily Petrov was a killer, but he wouldn’t risk carrying a gun. If he did, and we decided to have the local police pull his car over on some pretext, he’d be booted out of the country tomorrow, and that’s not what Colonel Petrov wanted. Or what the CIA wanted. The State Department should have rejected his diplomatic credentials and barred his entry into the U.S. But I’m sure the CIA wanted to see what Petrov was up to. I get this. But that’s like opening your door to a killer to see what he wants.

Tess suggested, “Maybe we should call for aviation.”

“Negative.”

“Why are you being stubborn?”

I informed her, “We are being tracked at 26 Fed through our GPS, so anyone there who wants to know where we are can know. We are on a routine surveillance in broad daylight, following one diplomatic vehicle that is probably on its way to their compatriot’s beach house. There are no ambushes ahead, and we do not need a spotter craft or a Black Hawk gunship overhead.” I suggested, “Just drive.”

“Yes, sir.” She added, “I hope we get ambushed.”

Me, too, if it shuts her up.

If Ms. Faraday thought that I was not in the best of moods, she was right. And if I thought about why, I’d conclude that I might be having some marital difficulties. Nothing major at the moment, except that we seemed to have little to say to each other.

When Kate and I worked together, we fought a lot about the job, but they were good fights and ironically it brought us closer together. Especially when my unorthodox methods led to the successful conclusion of a big case.

Now, however, I had no big cases and never would with this job. Meanwhile, Kate’s career arc was rising, and I’m following assholes all day. I don’t even carry handcuffs anymore. I’m not even sure I have arrest powers. On the plus side, my NYPD rank follows me for life and I’m still Detective John Corey. Small consolation.

Big egos deflate quickly, and mine even half-deflated is twice as big as anyone else’s. But I needed to do something—like get another job commensurate with my skills and experience, and my bloodhound instincts. And my big ego. Maybe something in foreign intelligence. I pictured myself calling Kate from, say, Iran. “I’ll just be another few weeks here, sweetheart. Gotta check out a secret nuclear facility and kidnap an atomic physicist. Don’t forget to pick up my dry cleaning. Ciao.”

The male ego is a wondrous thing.