Текст книги "Radiant Angel"

Автор книги: Nelson Demille

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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Georgi Tamorov was sitting on a white couch in his spacious contemporary-style living room, looking very pissed off, and Tess was sitting opposite him, legs crossed, staring at him. It appeared that Mr. Tamorov was being uncooperative. I hoped he would talk to me. In fact, I knew he would.

The air-conditioning was set to simulate a Russian winter, and the transition from the hot tub was a shock. Fortunately, I spotted a warming station—a bar—in an alcove off the living room, where I threw my shoes and my Glock and helped myself to Mr. Tamorov’s French cognac. I picked up the phone on the bar and dialed Vasily Petrov’s cell phone, hoping if Petrov saw the Caller ID from Tamorov’s phone, he’d answer. But there was a short recorded message in Russian and the phone went dead.

I gave Tasha’s phone another try, but I got the same message as last time. I pictured guys all over New York waiting for Tasha’s callback. They might be waiting a long time.

I used my cell phone to dial Scott Kalish. He answered and I said, “I’m at Tamorov’s with your two detectives, interviewing witnesses.”

“Anything good?”

“You first.” I took a swig of cognac. Hypothermia is dangerous.

“Okay, I’ve got the Nassau County Marine Bureau out looking, and I’ve got the rest of my units deployed, as per your request, and I’m in contact with the Coast Guard, and I’ve alerted NYPD Harbor.”

“Good.” He sounded a bit tired and strained, so I said, “You’re doing a great job.” I asked, “Have you met Buck Harris yet?”

“Yeah. He dropped in.” He let me know, “Looks like he escaped from an assisted living facility.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. Like, this is really important. He forgot to mention the nuke thing, so I brought it up and he didn’t deny it, but then he said we never had this conversation.”

I guess that was Buck’s way of being straight with the local police. The FBI has the same problem. The CIA has no problem; they speak to no one, except to lie. As for State Department Intelligence… well, they got off to a bad start with me.

Kalish continued, “I also got a conference call from Washington, from people who didn’t fully ID themselves. They wanted me to know that I was doing an important job and that I was serving my country, and that they were a hundred percent behind me.”

“Wonderful.”

“Yeah, but meanwhile, they’re not telling me squat about a nuke, and I didn’t bring it up, but somebody said there could be terrorists onboard the target vessel. I guess that’s the cover story. So I should take any and all action, using all available resources to locate and intercept the target vessel.”

Sounded like they were taking this very seriously in Washington. I took another swig of the cognac. “What else did they say?”

“Well, unfortunately there are no naval vessels in the immediate area, but the Coast Guard will take the lead in a boarding if they’re close by. Otherwise, it’s my show—if they give me the go-ahead. Also, Washington has notified Customs and Border and also Coast Guard headquarters in New York City, and I told them I’d given the NYPD Harbor Unit a heads-up.” He added, “So we have the Atlantic Ocean covered between here and New York Harbor.”

“Good. And I might have something for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, I spoke to Petrov’s driver, a guy named Dmitry, who says that his boss and his friends went to a party in East Hampton.”

“I’m positive that amphibious craft would have been spotted by now if it went ashore anywhere.” He also let me know, “Actually, I just heard from our commo people—they just IDed a hit on Tasha’s phone. Maybe twenty minutes after you saw the amphibious craft leaving the beach. The signal came from six miles out, almost due south of Tamorov’s, then it went dead.”

“I told you they went out to sea.”

“Good guess. Now we know they went six miles out. But that’s all we know.”

“Well, I have something else for you.” I told Kalish about Dmitry overhearing one of his passengers saying something about going to a yakut—yacht.

“All right… so are we looking for a yacht?”

“If we believe Dmitry. And if there was nothing lost in the translation. And this yacht must be big enough to hold a twenty-five-foot amphibious craft, twelve hookers, three Russian guys, maybe other passengers, and the ship’s crew.”

Kalish suggested, “That sounds more like a party than a nuclear attack.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to look like, Scott.” I urged him, “Think nuke, not nookie.”

“Okay.” He asked me, “Is your witness reliable and truthful?”

“He appeared to be giving truthful answers.” I confessed, “I held his head underwater.”

“I should do that with my supervisors.”

“Me too. So if we believe this twenty-five-foot amphibious craft was taken aboard a yacht, not only is this a big yacht, it may not be a sailing ship. It’s probably an ocean-going motorized vessel. Correct?”

“Probably.” He asked, “Whose yacht is this?”

“Not mine. Yours?” I asked him, “How big would a yacht have to be to take a twenty-five-foot craft onboard?”

“Maybe… at least a hundred and fifty feet. Maybe closer to two hundred.”

“Good. Easy to spot with the amphibious craft on deck.”

Kalish stayed silent a moment, then informed me, “People who own a yacht that big, especially one of those newer, half-billion-dollar super yachts, usually have what’s called a tender garage below deck.”

“That sucks.”

“Also, FYI, some of these super yachts even have submersibles—a small submarine—for exploring. Even cars and helicopters. So that’s something to think about.”

“Right.”

“Okay, I think I’m getting a picture of this ship. I’ll put the word out to the search units. Maybe they’ve already spotted something like this.”

“That would be good.” I asked, “How fast is this two-hundred-foot yacht?”

“Maybe… twenty, twenty-five knots.” He added, “Depends on a lot of factors.”

“So where is it now?”

“John, I don’t know its speed, or what route it’s taking. I don’t know if it’s lain at anchor for a few hours. Also, I have to check winds, currents, and tides.”

“Assuming the best conditions, how close is it to New York Harbor?”

He did some quick math and replied, “If it started at Southampton, maybe a half hour after you saw the amphibious craft heading out to sea, and if this ship—this yacht—took the direct ocean route at twenty knots, it could be approaching New York City now.”

Shit.

“Or, since we’re apparently now looking for a private yacht, you should also know that private vessels are allowed to sail through the Long Island Sound and down the East River or the Hudson as a route to New York Harbor. The good news is that would add hours to its sail time to New York—the bad news is that it more than doubles our search area.”

“Right… well, then we have to get the Sound covered.”

“I guess we do. So I’ll call my counterparts in Connecticut and also notify the Coast Guard in New Haven.” He asked, “How did I become the admiral?”

“Enjoy the moment. The Feds will soon throw you overboard. Meanwhile, you have intel they don’t have. A two-hundred-foot motorized yacht.”

“I will share that information with all agencies.”

“Don’t mention my name. That came from your conversation with Detective Penrose, who is going to call you. I’ve told her about Radiant Angel, so you can tell her everything you know.”

“Understood.” He added, “I hear that you know her.”

“We worked a case together.” I continued, “I’m assuming this yacht is Russian registry, so see if you can find out if a Russian yacht has requested a berth in New York Harbor.”

“I can ask. But if this yacht and its crew and passengers are up to no good, they’re not advertising their intentions.”

“But get ahead of the Feds and check it out.”

“Will do.” He also informed me, “There’s another possibility that we consider when we run these security scenarios in training sessions.”

“Is this bad news?”

“Well… not good news.” He told me, “This yacht could have already docked in New York Harbor, like yesterday or this morning, and if so it would have been cleared at Ambrose, then cleared by ICE at the pier. Then the captain can ask to go out on a short pleasure cruise.” He continued, “If that were the case, when the yacht returns to New York Harbor he can skip the checkpoint at Ambrose and proceed directly to his assigned pier. And sometimes the ship’s captain decides not to pick up a harbor pilot.”

“Sounds like a security lapse.”

Kalish explained, “It’s sort of a courtesy for pleasure craft so the ship doesn’t have to wait hours at Ambrose with all the cargo ships or wait for a pilot. Especially if it’s a pleasure craft from a friendly nation.”

I wasn’t sure Russia was a friendly nation, which gave me another thought, though it was stuck somewhere in the back of my mind.

Kalish continued, “Also, if the ship is just out for a short cruise, sometimes it isn’t re-boarded by ICE when it returns to the pier.”

“What if the ship picked up something at sea? Like drugs, or maybe a small suitcase nuke?”

“Well, they still have to go through Immigration and Customs if they leave the ship.”

I thought about all that and said, “I don’t think they intend to take the nuke ashore. In fact, they may not even dock. They could blow the nuke in the harbor.”

“Right… if there is a nuke.”

“Think worst case.” I asked, not altogether rhetorically, “How the hell could this happen?”

“Well, seaport security is not like airport security. Everyone involved with seaport security has to evaluate every situation and decide what level of security is appropriate for each ship, and for the ship’s passengers and crew.” He further added, “We have what we call trusted cargo carriers, and trusted pleasure craft flying the flag of friendly nations, and so forth. Otherwise, the boat traffic into New York Harbor would be backed up to Europe and South America.”

“Okay… I understand that.” And I also understood why the Russians would choose this method to deliver a nuke. I said to Kalish, “But in this case, if we’re looking for a radiation source—”

“Then it doesn’t matter if the ship is flying the flag of the Pope. If the detectors light up, all hell breaks loose.”

“Right.” I asked Kalish, “Do you think a ship can shield its radioactive signature?”

“The Feds tell me no.”

“Good answer.” But we both knew otherwise.

Kalish said, “I’ll check with the Coast Guard to see if they’ve got an inbound private yacht in the AIS system.” He assured me, “There are a lot fewer super yachts than cargo ships or tankers coming into New York, so if you’re right about a yacht, this narrows it down. Also, I’ll check with ICE to see if maybe a yacht put into New York Harbor, then went out on a cruise.”

“Right.” Well, I was feeling a bit more confident that someone would find that yacht. Assuming Dmitry was telling me the truth. But maybe Dmitry had been more interested in air than asylum. That’s the problem with enhanced interrogation.

But if Dmitry was telling me the truth, then the search was getting focused. The bigger picture, however, was still blurry. It didn’t make sense for Petrov to board a Russian yacht with a nuke onboard, because if he got stopped at sea and a Russian-made miniature nuke was found, Petrov and his government would have a lot of explaining to do. And if the nuke detonated in New York Harbor, there would be Russian fingerprints all over the explosion, and we’d be looking at World War III.

This made no sense when I’d first heard about a nuke from Buck, and it still made no sense. So I tried to put myself in Colonel Petrov’s head, and in the head of his SVR and Kremlin bosses, and I said to Kalish, “I’m thinking that this yacht is not Russian. As you suggested, it could be from a friendly country that would be extended some courtesies regarding security.”

“I don’t think friendly countries carry nukes into New York Harbor.”

“They probably don’t know they have a nuke onboard, Scott.”

“Right… lots of contraband is smuggled aboard trusted ship carriers—usually hidden in crates of provisions.” He added, “Or this yacht could rendezvous at sea with a Russian ship… and Petrov would tell his host that they’re taking aboard a hundred kilos of caviar or something, compliments of the Russian government.” He informed me, “Drug smugglers do stuff like that.”

There were a lot of possible scenarios, including Petrov and his killer Gorsky hijacking the yacht, then taking the nuke aboard, along with a Russian sea captain. I mean, piracy was not out of the question for a man like Petrov and his organization.

I said, “Look, Scott, we might be wrong about some of this, but what we know for sure is what I saw—Colonel Petrov, along with an SVR assassin named Gorsky and a nuclear weapons scientist named Urmanov and twelve ladies, took off in an amphibious craft out to sea. And now I just found out about a yacht.”

“And this is the first I’m hearing about a nuclear weapons scientist.”

“Now you know why I’m worried.”

“And now I’m worried.”

“And when you find the yacht, we’ll know if it’s a party ship or a nuclear weapon delivery system.”

He didn’t reply.

I told Kalish, “I’m about to interview Georgi Tamorov. If I get anything out of him, I’ll call you.”

“Hold his wallet underwater.”

I gave him Petrov’s cell phone number to try to locate the signal and said, “I’m sure it’s as dead as Tasha’s, but try.”

“Will do.”

“Okay, talk to you—”

“One more thing… look, if my guys find this ship or this yacht, and we attempt to board, and if there’s a nuke onboard, what stops somebody from getting desperate and lighting the fuse?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Say they don’t want to commit suicide.”

“I can’t say that.”

“Say something.”

“Okay. I don’t want that ship sailing into New York Harbor with a nuclear bomb onboard and the timer ticking.”

There was silence on the phone, then Scott said, “I need to let my people know what this is about.”

“If you do that, it will go viral and cause mass panic.”

He didn’t reply.

“We need to find that yacht while it’s still at sea.”

“Okay… If it’s still in my area of operation, I will find it. If it’s someplace else, someone will find it.”

“Right.” One way or the other. I had another thought—another theory that I’d been kicking around in my mind—and I shared it with Kalish. “Look, tomorrow is September twelfth. So maybe this attack is supposed to look like an Islamic terrorist repeat of 9/11.”

“Okay…”

“Follow my reasoning. Today, September eleventh, we have a heightened security alert, making an attack more difficult. Also, it’s a Sunday and there are a lot fewer people in Manhattan to kill.”

“Right.”

“Islamic extremists are into symbolism, anniversary dates. Right? So the nuke could be set to detonate at eight forty-six A.M.—the same time, if not the same day, as the first plane hit on 9/11. Or maybe nine oh-three A.M. when the second plane hit—when there will be hundreds of thousands of people making their Monday commute into Manhattan. So maybe we have some time.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Meanwhile, I’d like to join the search. Can you get a high-speed unit to meet me at the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station?”

“I have a twenty-seven-foot SAFE boat that can make fifty knots.”

“Call him in.”

“I’ll let you know when he’s a half hour out. But call me after you speak to Tamorov.”

“Will do.”

He asked me, “How the hell did this happen?”

“Nothing has happened yet. And we’re going to make sure it doesn’t.”

“I’ve got a daughter in Manhattan.”

I thought of Kate, who would be flying back from Washington late tonight—or hopefully tomorrow. I also thought of the millions of people who lived and worked in the potential blast zone, and the millions more who would be affected by the radiation and fallout. The real question was, How could anyone do this?

“John?”

I remembered when the first plane hit the North Tower, and I thought, Thank God it’s only this, and they don’t have a nuke. And my second thought was, Not this time. And if my reasoning was correct—that this was a Russian attack, made to look like an attack from an Islamic country—then everyone would have no problem believing that Abdul finally did the unthinkable.

I said to Scott Kalish, “Call your daughter.”

I hung up and walked into the living room where Tess was keeping Tamorov company. This asshole was my last play before I got on a boat and went out to find a ship that might be carrying a nuclear weapon guarded by a couple of trained killers.

Nobody asked me to do that, and nobody would expect me to do it. In fact, I got put out to pasture because I wasn’t a team player. And because I bent the rules until they broke. So why was I doing all this again? All I really needed to do according to my dead-end job description was text 26 Fed: Target has left last known location, whereabouts unknown, call Suffolk County Marine Bureau for more. And, by the way, get your asses out of that building.

That’s what I should do, then go on a 10-63—a meal break—and have a beer at Sammy’s Seaside Grill and hope things turn out okay. But that’s not what I was going to do. And why not? Well, because Colonel Vasily Petrov was my responsibility today and I lost him. And in my NYPD head, I’d like to call in a 10-91—“Condition Corrected.”

Also, to be totally honest, I wouldn’t mind showing those assholes at 26 Fed—including Tom Walsh—who I was. Kate, too. Right?

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I threw my shoes, socks, and my holstered Glock on the coffee table and sat in a comfortable leather chair, facing Georgi Tamorov. We looked at each other.

He was about mid-forties, fairly trim compared to his porky friends, and he had a thin face with dark narrow eyes. He was not handsome, but women found the bulge in his back pocket irresistible. He was still wearing shorts and his silly Hawaiian shirt, but he’d lost his sandals somewhere. He may have been drunk earlier, but the events of the last half hour seemed to have sobered him up.

I asked Tess, “This guy have a cell phone?”

“Not when I frisked him.”

I looked at Tamorov. “You throw it in the pool?”

He didn’t reply.

I asked Tess, “Cat got his tongue?”

“He wants to call his lawyer.”

I looked at Tamorov. “You can’t call your lawyer if you don’t have a phone.” I asked, “Where is it?”

No reply.

I tried a compliment. “Great party. Love your caterers.”

At this point, the suspect usually says something like, “I knew all along that you were a cop,” which they say because they’re feeling stupid about getting conned. I recently had the same feeling. But Tamorov didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t determine if he or Petrov had any suspicions about the two caterers who were now sitting with him. In the end, though, it didn’t change Colonel Petrov’s plans, though it did change mine.

I got down to business and informed him, “As you may have guessed, this is a raid. A joint operation by the FBI and the county police, code-named Revenge of the Caterers.”

He didn’t respond to that, but asked me in good English, “Do you have a search warrant?”

“No, but I have a caterer’s license.”

He wasn’t amused and said to me, “I must see your credentials and your search warrant.”

I tapped my Glock on the coffee table. “See?”

He kept his eyes fixed on me.

I informed Mr. Tamorov, “Not only do I not need a warrant, but you have no right to remain silent.”

“I wish to call my attorney.”

“He’ll tell you what I’m telling you, Georgi. You’re in a lot of trouble—but you can get out of it if you cooperate.”

He didn’t reply.

I’d established that he was married with children, and with men of substance and standing you go right for the family jewels. So I told him, “I understand that your wife is in your townhouse in Tribeca. So I’m going to call her and tell her you’ve been arrested for engaging the services of two dozen prostitutka, and you got a blow job in the pool where she swims.” I added, “Then you’ll really need to call your lawyer.”

His impassive face showed a little concern. Even oligarchs are afraid of their wives. Right?

“However,” I continued, “I can make all this go away.”

Our eyes met, and he tried to get a measure of me. To help him with that, I said, “You have to decide who you’re most afraid of—me, Vasily Petrov, or your wife.”

“I am afraid of no one.”

“Come on, Georgi. You’re afraid of your wife.”

“Americans are afraid of their wives.”

He could be on to something. More importantly, I got him talking.

I also informed him, to put him on the defensive, “Every gun here better be licensed. And every foreign national better have a valid visa.”

“I have no knowledge of that.”

“I hope you have knowledge of everything in your house when we search it.”

“I need to see your search warrant.”

“When I find it, I’m going to roll it up, put a coat of oil on it, and shove it up your ass.”

He had no response to that.

I pulled on my socks and shoes, but left the Glock on the coffee table. There was a crystal cigarette box and ashtray on the table, and a silver table lighter. I said to him, “Smoke if you want.”

He looked at the cigarettes, and I’m sure he needed one, but his experience in his homeland told him not to go anywhere near the gun.

“Go ahead,” I urged. “Reach for the cigarettes.”

He sat back on the couch and stopped trying to stare me down, and he looked off into space.

I let him know, “You can answer my questions here, or you can answer them at 26 Federal Plaza in Manhattan.”

He must have had a law degree or something, because he said, “Prostitution is not a Federal crime.”

“Right. But assaulting a Federal officer is. That’s me.”

“I have not assaulted you.”

“You tried to bite my toes.”

He seemed confused, but then he understood that I was crazy and he was fucked. But he was a smart guy so he called my bluff and said, “If you allow me to call my attorney, I will accompany you to your headquarters.” He added, “I have done nothing wrong.”

Well, I didn’t have time to go to 26 Fed, and I certainly didn’t want to be there when the building disappeared in a nuclear firestorm. But apparently that was not a concern for Georgi Tamorov. I could deduce, therefore, that Mr. Tamorov had no idea what his three U.N. guests were up to tonight. Or I could conclude that Colonel Petrov and his pals were not up to anything. But I think I was past that point. I was believing the unbelievable, and thinking the unthinkable.

I said to him, “You understand this is about Colonel Petrov.”

He understood that, though he’d hoped it was about prostitutes, unlicensed guns, and expired visas. He seemed a bit uneasy now, so this was the time to reveal the true nature of the suspect and of the crimes under investigation.

I said, “As I’m sure you know, Vasily Petrov is not actually a Human Rights delegate to the United Nations. He is an SVR colonel, and a killer.”

No response.

I continued, “We have information that he is in this country to do harm, which is why we followed him from the Russian Mission to here.” Actually, we follow everyone, but that was none of his business. I asked Tamorov, “Why was Petrov here?”

He realized that he needed to answer at least the easy questions and he replied, “For the party.”

“Why did you invite him?”

“I… he is an acquaintance.”

“How do you know him?”

“He was introduced to me… at a United Nations reception.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Maybe your wife will remember.”

“By our U.N. ambassador.”

“Did your ambassador mention that Vasily Petrov was an SVR assassin?”

“Of course not—”

“Or that his father, Vladimir, was a KGB general, and the head of SMERSH?”

“I did not know that.”

“So I know more than you do?”

“It is no business of mine who this man is. That is your business.”

“Do you understand the legal concept of guilt by association?”

No reply.

“You could be looking at twenty years in jail.”

“I know nothing about this man.”

“Bullshit. He’s your friend.”

“We are acquaintances.” He added, “We are compatriots.”

“No, you are co-conspirators in a criminal conspiracy to do harm to the United States.”

“No.”

“Maybe thirty years.” He was on the run now, and I pressed on. “We’ll seize all your assets in America and around the world. Your wife will be shopping at Kmart, and your kids will be waiting on tables in the Russian Tea Room.”

He knew this was part bluff, but he didn’t know which part.

He insisted, “I know nothing about this man.” He also reminded me, “Colonel Petrov is a United Nations delegate vetted by your country—”

“And I’m Santa Claus.” I said to Tess, “Get a car and we’ll take Mr. Tamorov to 26 Fed.”

She glanced at me, knowing we weren’t going to 26 Fed, and we’d already seen that Mr. Tamorov didn’t wet his pants when I told him I was taking him to Lower Manhattan. So Tess understood she was supposed to say something clever, and she said to me, “I think we can resolve this here if Mr. Tamorov cooperates.”

“He’s an asshole.” I told her, “Cuff him.”

She actually didn’t have any cuffs, so she said, “Let me talk to him.”

I glanced at my watch and said, “Five minutes.”

Tess leaned forward and pushed the cigarettes and lighter toward Tamorov, who hesitated, glanced at me, then took a cigarette and lit up.

Tess assured him, “If you are cooperative, and if we can determine by your answers that you have no knowledge of Colonel Petrov’s illegal activities in America, then you are free to remain here, at liberty, subject to further interviews with your lawyer present.”

Not bad for an intelligence officer.

She asked him, “Do you understand?”

He nodded.

She got down to business and asked, “Who were the two men who arrived here with Colonel Petrov?”

Tamorov guessed correctly that we must know the answer to this, and that in any case he should know who his guests were, so he was quick to reply. “They are Petrov’s U.N. colleagues. One is Viktor Gorsky and the other is Pavel Fradkov.”

Also known as Dr. Arkady Urmanov, a suitcase nuke guy. But I was fairly sure Tamorov didn’t know this. And if I’d told him that his three compatriots had sailed off to obliterate his Manhattan real estate along with Mrs. Tamorov, he’d be shocked. You can reveal some stuff to a witness or even a suspect, but you don’t give them sensitive information, so Tess didn’t mention nuking New York.

Tess asked him, “Where did that amphibious craft come from?”

“I do not know.”

“You know it came from a ship. And that it was going back to the ship. And you knew the amphibious craft was coming. I saw that you knew.”

He looked at both of us, and I was sure he was pissed off at Colonel Petrov, the pro, for not getting on to us and getting rid of us.

“Mister Tamorov?”

“Petrov told me that he had a party to go to.”

“Whose party?”

“He did not say. But he mentioned East Hampton.”

I said to Tamorov, “We’ve already checked this out. There has been no sighting of an amphibious craft filled with Russian hookers anywhere on the east end of Long Island.” I assured him, “Someone would have noticed.”

Tamorov shrugged. “I am telling you what he told me.”

I said to him, “We know that Petrov sailed out to a ship at sea.” I suggested, “Tell me about that.”

“I have no knowledge of that.”

“Did he tell you when he intended to return here?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Can you call him?”

“I do not have his cell phone number.”

“When we find your cell phone, we’ll see if that’s true.”

No reply.

“Okay, so you invited him to your party, provided him with a dozen prostitutes to take with him to another party, and you don’t have his cell phone number. Is that right?”

Tamorov thought about this, then replied, “Petrov is a man of few words and he shares very little.”

“You need better friends.”

“He is not my friend.”

I nodded to Tess and she continued, “I know that Colonel Petrov is fond of alcoholic beverages. But tonight, neither I nor this gentleman nor anyone served him a drink.” She asked, “Why is that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well then, I’ll tell you—because he and Gorsky and Fradkov wanted to remain sober because they are on a mission tonight. A mission to inflict harm to my country.”

Tamorov looked a little uncomfortable, and he replied, “I assumed they were… saving themselves for the other party. Yes. In fact, Gorsky said that.”

I interjected, “Bullshit.”

Tamorov was in a tough position, wanting to be cooperative enough to get us out of his house, and at the same time not saying anything that Colonel Vasily Petrov of the SVR would disapprove of if and when they met again. Tamorov was not protecting Petrov; he was protecting his own life. And that was the problem. Petrov kills.

I said, “Look, Georgi, you and I both know who Petrov is and I’m really sensitive to your concerns. But I want to assure you that I will take care of Colonel Petrov.”

He looked at me and asked, “And will you also take care of the entire SVR?”

He had a valid point there, but I couldn’t help saying, “When you dance with the devil, Georgi, you’re going to get burned.”

He got what I was saying and replied, “One cannot always refuse the invitation of the devil.”

Right. Especially if you have relatives and oil wells in hell.

I told him what he already knew. “Colonel Petrov is not good for business.”

He gave me a half nod.

Tess returned to the topic and asked, “What was in the luggage they took with them?”

“How would I know?”

I was positive that Petrov and his pals did not have guns with them in the car, so if they needed guns they picked them up here. And Tess knew that, too, so she asked, “Is it possible that one of your guests—or one of your security men—gave something to Petrov and the men with him?”

“How would I know this?”

He was annoying me, so I picked up the heavy silver lighter and shattered the ashtray, startling Mr. Tamorov and even Tess. I shouted, “Stop the bullshit! We know Petrov picked up guns here! And you know it!”

Tamorov didn’t reply and just looked at the mess I’d made.

“You,” I informed him, “are what we call a useful idiot. Understand?”

He understood. Better than being a co-conspirator.

“Maybe an accessory to a crime.”

“No.”

“You’re also an asshole.”

That was not an indictable offense, so he didn’t argue with that.

“Last chance to come clean. Tell me about the ship.”

He insisted, “I do not know of any ship.”

I leaned across the table and looked him in the eye. “Yakut?”

He seemed confused by the word in his own language and replied, “I don’t understand.”