Radiant Angel (4 page)

“He thinks about the battlefield.”

I suggested, “Pay attention to the target.”

“Yes, sir.”

W
e 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. Kenny Hieb, who was my assistant team leader, also informed me that no one at 26 Fed was able to ID Igor from the PD surveillance tape, but they were working on it. The FBI never sleeps, but things move a little slower on weekends and holidays.

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 Kenny to request an additional team to make sure the Mission was covered.

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 inner light will guide you.”

“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.

On that subject, Mrs. Faraday decided to confess, “I have actually asked to work with you.” She inquired, “Do you want to know why?”

“No.”

“You do. So I’ll tell you.”

I waited for her to tell me, but she said, “But not today. I just wanted to fess up and make sure you don’t mind.”

I wondered who the hell she was talking to, and why Howard Fensterman, the FBI supervisor running the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, would even consider her request. That didn’t compute. In fact, there were a few things about Tess Faraday that were not computing. For all I knew, she was with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility—sort of like the NYPD’s Internal Affairs
Bureau—and she was writing me up. But that’s a little paranoid. More likely, she or her family had some connections at 26 Fed, or she had good persuasive powers with whoever was running the DSG trainee program. Also, I could imagine some tongues wagging when pretty Tess Faraday asked if she could work with Detective Corey again. Like I don’t have enough problems at home or at 26 Fed.

“John?
Do
you mind?”

“The pleasure is all mine.”

The Manorville exit to the Hamptons was coming up and the Expressway was about to end. The Mercedes signaled and took the exit.

Tess followed, and Matt and Steve fell in behind us.

The Mercedes turned south on Captain Daniel Roe Highway and we followed. Traffic was light, so the three vehicles, all in a neat row, looked like a caravan of friends heading to the beach.

Tess commented, “We’ve been tailing these guys for over an hour and they don’t seem to care.”

“They like being followed. Makes them feel important.”

“They’re fucking up my day.”

I was surprised at the unexpected obscenity. I pointed out, “This gives us quality training time together.”

She stayed silent a moment, then said, “Grant expects me to meet him at JFK tomorrow morning.”

“Worry about it in the morning.”

“I’ll text him when we see what’s happening here.”

“Watch what you say.” I reminded her, “Whatever happens here stays here.”

“Okay.” She seemed less worried and said, “I like that. I can’t say where I am because it’s top secret.”

“Saves a lot of marriages.”

She laughed.

We continued for a few miles, then turned east onto Sunrise Highway, which would take us to Southampton.

Tess asked, “You think Petrov is going to this Russian guy’s house?”

“He’s done it before.”

“Who is this guy?”

“I told you. A zillionaire oligarch. Georgi Tamorov. Owns half the planet.”

“What is their connection?”

“Don’t know, and don’t have a need to know.”

“But I’ll bet you’d like to know.”

“Please don’t try to get into my head. My last two psychiatrists committed suicide.”

She laughed again.

Clearly Tess Faraday enjoyed my company. And clearly there was more to her than a pretty face.

T
he Mercedes continued east on Sunrise Highway, then suddenly made a sharp right onto a small side road. Tess hit her brakes and made the turn, as did Matt and Steve.

We stayed close to the target vehicle as it continued south toward the ocean.

Tess informed me, “My parents had a summer house in East Hampton.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“I know every back road in the Hamptons.”

“Where’s the ambush?”

She ignored that and continued, “If they’re going to Tamorov’s, they’ll turn left on Montauk Highway toward the oceanfront mansions.”

And sure enough, they turned left on Montauk Highway, which was a curving, two-lane Colonial-era road, somewhat picturesque, and slow with local traffic.

The Shinnecock Indian Reservation came up on our right, sitting on a billion dollars’ worth of prime waterfront real estate, a perfect setting for a future gambling casino. In lieu of a casino, the Shinnecocks had a trading post on the side of the road. Matt Nexteled, “What kind of Indians are these? Dot or feather?”

“Feather.”

“Oh… I was in the mood for curry.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

Tess asked me, “Where is Tamorov’s house?”

“Martini Lane.”

“Gin Lane.”

“Right.”

“Okay, so he’s going to make a right, probably on South Main.”

“Don’t anticipate. Just follow.”

“You’re lucky I’m with you.” She mocked, “Martini Lane. Is that where Gin Lane crosses Vermouth Road?”

“Drive.” I hate a wiseass. Unless it’s me.

“And for your information, gin is Old English for a common grazing area.”

“Everybody knows that,” I assured her.

“What’s the name of Tamorov’s house?”

“Tamorov’s house.”

“The houses have names.”

“Right. The Tides.”

“I know it.”

“Been there?”

“No.”

“You might get your chance today.”

She didn’t reply.

We continued, and Montauk Highway narrowed as it entered the shop-lined village of Southampton. An historical marker said
JOBS LANE, 1664
, which let everyone know they were in a three-hundred-percent markup zone.

Tess told me, “I had my first grown-up date in the Driver’s Seat—” She pointed to a pub up the road. “Right there.”

“How’d that work out?”

“I couldn’t get a drink. I was too young.”

“Did they let you use the bathroom?”

“Not funny. Now I have to go. Can I pull over?”

“Sure.” Maybe she’s pregnant.

She double-parked and hit the flashers, then scooted out of the Blazer and hurried toward the pub.

I blinged Matt and Steve, who were behind me. “Quick P-stop. Stay with the target.”

“Copy.”

The minivan went around me and continued on Jobs Lane, behind the Mercedes.

My Nextel blinged and Matt said, “Target turning right on South Main.”

“Copy.” Well, that removed any doubt that Petrov was going to Tamorov’s house. But why? Probably a party. This was going to be a long day.

Tess reappeared, hopped in the driver’s seat, and asked, “Where’d they go?”

“Right on South Main.”

“Told you.” She put the Blazer in gear and continued on Jobs Lane.

“Did you call Grant?”

“Quick text.”

I didn’t pursue that, and she turned right toward the ocean and we caught up with the minivan. “Go around.”

She passed Matt and Steve and took up a position fifty feet behind the Mercedes.

Tess lowered her window and said, “Smell that ocean.”

“Why?”

South Main was lined with Southampton’s iconic hedgerows, behind which were broad lawns that led to old, multimillion-dollar mansions.

Tess pointed. “The Raleighs lived there. Friends of my parents.”

“They owned the slum I grew up in. Nice people.”

“This brings back a lot of memories.”

“Glad for that.”

“There were no Russians here when I was growing up.”

“The world has changed.”

“Where do these oligarchs get all that money?”

“When you find out, let me know.”

“My father worked hard for his money. He didn’t steal it.”

“The Russian oligarchs didn’t steal money. They stole the country.”

“Disgusting.”

“The Shinnecocks would agree with that.”

We were approaching Gin Lane, which ran along the Atlantic.

Tess asked, “Why do they want to live here?”

“Russia sucks.”

“Never been. How about you?”

“Nope. Been to Brighton Beach, though.”

The Mercedes took a left on Gin Lane and we followed. There didn’t seem to be any other vehicles on the oceanfront road.

As I said, following Ivan is more fun than following Abdul. The Russians partied hard and they usually had some good-looking babes with them. Not that that’s relevant to the job. But if you’ve ever sat outside a mosque for three hours waiting for Abdul… you get my point.

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 announce their arrival and let the security guys know they were being followed.

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.