Radiant Angel

On the right side of Gin Lane, the ocean side, lay huge waterfront mansions behind hedges and high walls. On the left were equally impressive mansions that became beachfront property when a hurricane blew in.

I’d followed Petrov here once, back in June, so I knew that Tamorov’s place was at the east end of Gin Lane. I knew, too, that Tamorov threw some wild parties. Petrov and his pals had overnight bags, so I could conclude that I’d be sleeping in the minivan tonight. I hoped Ms. Faraday didn’t snore.

I called Matt and Steve. “Target will turn into an oceanfront estate called The Tides. We will not.”

“Copy.”

I said to Tess, “Bumper lock this guy and when he turns, stop.”

She nodded and sat on the Mercedes’ tail.

The big double gates of Tamorov’s estate were coming up, marked by a brass sign saying THE TIDES. The Mercedes slowed, then without signaling it turned into the gates, which were already opening electronically, meaning the Russians had called ahead to a

Tess stopped opposite the entrance, and I saw two big guys behind the gates, dressed in black like Batman, and they tried to eye us through our tinted windows. They didn’t have visible weapons, but I was certain they were carrying.

The Mercedes stopped just inside the gates, and an arm extended from the right rear window where Petrov was sitting. He flipped us the bird.

Tess said, “That was rude.”

I lowered my tinted window just enough to get my arm out and returned the salute, adding, “Yob vas!” meaning, Fuck you.

“What did you say?”

“I wished them a nice day.” I instructed, “Continue fifty yards and make a U-turn.”

We continued past the estate, then Tess did a U-turn on the narrow sandy lane and stopped, facing the Tamorov estate down the road.

Matt and Steve did the same, and we all got out of our vehicles for a stretch.

A nice breeze came off the ocean and the sky was light blue, spotted with small puffy clouds. Gulls circled over the water looking for lunch, and the sun was slightly west of high noon. My stomach growled.

Matt Conlon, also a former NYPD homicide detective, said, “I can’t believe that scumbag gave us the finger.”

Steve Lansky, formerly with the NYPD Counterintelligence Unit, said, “They’re pissing me off.”

I looked down the road and saw that Tamorov’s two security guys had walked into the road and were looking at us.

Steve retrieved his Nikon with the zoom lens and focused on them. “They look Russian.” He explained, “One looks like my old man.” He shot a few pictures of the security guys.

“All right,” I said, “my guess is that Petrov is here for the day, maybe the night.”

Tess seemed resigned to the possibility that we’d be on surveillance until dawn, though she did ask, “Can we call for a relief team?”

“I need the overtime.” I also informed her, “These guys sometimes play a shell game, so if another vehicle exits the estate then we need to get the locals to pull it over and see if Petrov is in it.” I reminded her, “Petrov is the target. Not the Mercedes and not the driver.”

“How about Igor and Fradkov?” asked Ms. Faraday. “What if they leave without Petrov?”

“Then you can take the minivan and follow them if you’d like.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“I thought you had a game to see and a husband to meet.”

“This is getting interesting.”

I reminded everyone, “The Russians are a major power, and they’re not our official enemy, so we need to avoid causing an incident.” Meaning, no punching anyone in the balls. But a “Fuck you” is okay.

Tess suggested, “Why don’t you call a supervisor for instructions?”

“I make the decisions in the field based on my estimation of the situation.”

“Okay. Have you decided who goes for lunch?”

“No one. I’m going to shoot a few seagulls. You want one?”

She seemed tired of my wit and informed us, “I know a few delis in town that deliver.”

Best news I’ve had all day.

So we gave Tess our lunch orders and she got on her cell phone and found a deli in Southampton that would deliver to two vehicles parked on Gin Lane. She hung up and informed us, “Half an hour.”

I hoped lunch arrived before the Mercedes reappeared.

This job gave you a lot of agita, but also a lot of freedom, like a traveling salesman. If your numbers were good, no one in the home office asked what you did all day.

But if you screwed up, as a contract agent, you went right into free fall and there was no one there to catch you. No union, no civil service job-for-life. And that was okay with me.

Meanwhile, my target was behind closed gates, which doesn’t mean I lost him—but I couldn’t see him. This was a bit worrisome, but it happens, and eventually the guy has to reappear. All I need to do is see him reappear. If, however, the target slips out the back door, we’ve got a problem. And Petrov had about ten miles of beach to disappear on and a whole ocean for his back door.

I thought about requesting aviation or one of our watercraft that we use for this kind of surveillance. But that could be overkill. Petrov was a person of prime interest, but, unlike some of our Muslim targets, he didn’t warrant the whole nine yards. At least that was the thinking at 26 Fed and beyond.

And in this case, things were probably just as they appeared, meaning Colonel Petrov was a houseguest of Georgi Tamorov, and maybe they were having a party and Petrov was looking forward to seeing boobies in the hot tub and having a few vodkas. No big deal.

All we had to do was make sure we didn’t miss him when he left. Eventually, he’d head back to the city. Another day in the life of Vasily Petrov and John Corey.

Unless today was different.

CHAPTER SIX

We stood on the quiet road, our backs to the minivan, drinking bottled water and getting some rays. Most of the summer mansions were empty after Labor Day, but the caretakers or occupants are understandably paranoid, and if anyone saw us they might call the cops. Or we might call the cops. We’d worked with the local and State Police on a few occasions relating to the Tamorov house and other matters of national security, and in fact a few of these local and State Police perso

The world had changed and shrunk, and no place was beyond the reach of the bad guys, and bad things could happen anywhere. Even here, among the hedgerows and the mansions of the rich and powerful.

Steve, who like me is not cut out for passive surveillance, decided he wanted to go piss off the Russian security guys. I don’t encourage confrontation, but I do like it. “If you shoot anyone, you do the paperwork.”

Steve walked down the road, and the security guys retreated behind the gates and closed them.

I texted the case agent: Target vehicle entered Tamorov house Southampton. Any units available for relief?

It takes awhile to get a response when the case agent or anyone at 26 Fed has to answer a question or make a decision, especially on weekends and holidays, so I pocketed my cell phone.

Steve was at the gates now and he was being provocative by snapping photos through the iron bars.

Probably the security guys were yelling at him, though I couldn’t see or hear them at this distance, but I could hear dogs barking.

As I said, this is a non-discreet surveillance, so some interaction is inevitable—or necessary—like the time I double-parked next to a Russian dip car and wouldn’t let him out until my backup arrived. But Steve was pushing the protocol a bit.