Radiant Angel

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 gu

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 di

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.”