Текст книги "Radiant Angel"

Автор книги: Nelson Demille

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CHAPTER THREE

Diplomatic Surveillance Group agents are not typically assigned to only one group of foreign diplomats. I do, however, seem to pull a lot of Russian duty, maybe because the Russians have a very big diplomatic contingent in New York—about two hundred people, including their consulate building up on East 91st. And maybe that would explain why every time Tess Faraday was with me the target was the Russians. Or maybe that didn’t explain it. So to clear this up, I asked her, “Is it a coincidence that you’re working with me only when I’m following the Russians?”

“I think it’s the law of averages.” She explained, “The other big targets are the Islamic dips, and someone told me you’re not allowed to come within a hundred yards of a Muslim.”

I suppose that would explain it—law of averages. But I’ve also watched the Chinese, the Cubans, and the psychotic North Koreans, and Ms. Faraday hadn’t been with me on any of those occasions. But I didn’t pursue this and assured her, “I’m currently taking a class in Islamic cultural sensitivity.”

She laughed.

In fact, I was told that I needed to remember that most of my targets had diplomatic status, and thus diplomatic immunity, even if they were spies or potential terrorists. That didn’t mean they could blow up 26 Federal Plaza with impunity, but it did mean that I needed to be more judicious and less physical in my methods. I did punch an Iranian diplomat in the balls once in Atlantic City, but that was when I was with the ATTF, before the DSG and before I received the proper training in dealing with the diplomatic community. I’m much nicer now.

On a related subject, a lot of people in the intelligence community (and the general public) think of the U.N. as a house of spies, which to some extent it is. But I see it as job security. I mean, if the U.N. was moved someplace else, I wouldn’t have this wonderful job. Look at what happened to all the horseshit shovelers in New York when the automobile was invented. On the other hand, I could do without this job and without guys like Colonel Vasily Petrov in town.

On the subject of job security, I asked Tess, “Who’s talking about me?”

“Everyone.”

“All good, I hope.”

“You’re a legend.”

“Is that why you ask to work with me?”

“I never asked.” She chided me, “You have a big ego.”

Tess, I reminded myself, was not a kid trainee who just fell off the turnip truck. She was a Wall Street lawyer, probably went to good schools, and she seemed self-assured. She also seemed like a lady who was used to getting her way. I’m surprised we haven’t butted heads by now.

So we sat and waited for Colonel Petrov.

I find that the Russians are more of a challenge than the Islamic, Korean, or Cuban targets. The Russians are better trained at spotting surveillance, and as I mentioned, they know how to give you the slip, or send you off on a wild-goose chase.

I’ve discovered, too, that in some ways the Russians think like us, which the Islamic guys do not. And if they think like us, they can predict our moves, and we can predict theirs. This is what makes following the Russians interesting. Plus, they’re more likely than Abdul to wind up in a tittie bar.

“What are you thinking about?”

“This guy I know went into a sex shop and asked the proprietor for a blow-up sex doll.”

“Is this a joke?”

“So the proprietor asks, ‘You want a Christian doll, a Jewish doll, or a Muslim doll?’ And the guy says, ‘What difference does it make?’ And the proprietor says, ‘Well, the Muslim dolls blow themselves up.’ ”

Tess laughed, then said, “That’s terrible.” She suggested, “I think you were in the Mideast section too long.”

“Apparently.” But it wasn’t a bad gig, and I of course distinguished myself, though I started to lose my patience with the Muslim gentlemen I was investigating. Also, the political correctness of the ATTF and the FBI was a little hard to take, and maybe I crossed the line now and then.

And, if the truth be known, my presence on the 26th floor of 26 Federal Plaza was compromising my wife’s career. Also, some might say, her position saved my ass a few times.

What I like about the DSG is that I’m out of the office most of the time, and I’m my own man, meaning I’m authorized to make quick decisions, and no one is going to second-guess me as long as I do my job. It’s almost like being a cop again.

Tess said, “Petrov’s driver just got a phone call.”

I looked at the Mercedes down the block and saw the driver get out of the car and open the rear door. I recognized the driver, a guy named Dmitry who was competent but not too tricky behind the wheel.

Tess started the Blazer and I blinged a call-out to the team. “Game time.”

Each of the DSG vehicles is equipped with what is called the police package—flashing lights in the grille, sirens, tinted windows, and other bells and whistles. We all have D-1 Nikons with zoom lenses, Sony 8mm video cameras, directional listening devices, and other high-tech toys depending on the assignment, like a little gadget that detects radioactive substances in the area. I never want to hear that thing beeping.

The gate of the wrought-iron security cage in front of the Mission opened and out came Colonel Vasily Petrov, dressed casually in tan slacks, a red polo shirt, and sandals not made for running, which was good.

With Petrov were two similarly dressed gentlemen who were carrying large overnight bags. I recognized one of them as Pavel Fradkov, a middle-aged man who was a more recent arrival than Vasily Petrov. The other guy, a big dude with a black crew cut, was unknown, at least to me, but someone might ID him from the NYPD video surveillance tape that was monitored at 26 Fed. Dmitry and the unknown guy put the bags in the Mercedes’ trunk, and everyone got in the car, except Petrov, who looked up and down the block, nodding his head like he’d spotted the four surveillance vehicles and the four guys on leg. As I said, it’s non-discreet surveillance, and we’re not trying to look like lampposts or something.

Petrov got in the rear with Fradkov and off they went.

I radioed the team, “Vaseline on the move in Benz with dip plate CYR-0823. I’ll follow with Matt and Steve. Everyone else keep an eye on the store.”

Tess fell in behind the Mercedes, and the Dodge minivan fell in behind us with Matt Conlon behind the wheel and Steve Lansky riding shotgun. I Nexteled the team, “The guy with the green shirt is Pavel Fradkov. Anyone recognize the big guy?”

No one did, so I said, “Unknown is hereafter called Igor until we ID him.”

Petrov’s vehicle turned south on Park Avenue.

Tess said, “Well, they’re not going back to the Bronx. Maybe they’re going to the Glass House,” meaning the U.N. building.

She was picking up the lingo. In another few weeks she’ll be swearing like a cop.

Park Avenue is one of the few two-way avenues in Manhattan, divided by a wide median, and thus the only avenue where you can make a legal U-turn. I said to Tess, “Watch for the U-turn.”

But Dmitry wasn’t doing any escape and evasion, and this looked like it was going to be a Sunday drive.

We took the elevated road around Grand Central Terminal and continued south, which ruled out the U.N. building. Traffic was light on a Sunday, and we made good time down to 34th Street, where the Mercedes turned left and continued on toward the entrance ramp to the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, meaning he was going to Queens, Brooklyn, or Long Island.

Tess pointed out, “They have bags. So maybe they’re going to JFK.”

“That would be nice.” Arrivederci, assholes.

The Mercedes entered the tunnel under the East River and we followed.

Tess asked, “Should we call this in?”

Phone calls mean conversation, and conversation means someone on the other end thinks they need to give you advice or patch you through to a supervisor. So as I usually do, I texted the case agent: Target mobile. 4 pers. Mercedes, dip plate CYR-0823. East in QMT. 2 surv. veh.

A minute later, the reply read: Copy.

Obviously, the case agent didn’t give a shit with a response like that, so all is good. I love this job.

We came out of the tunnel into the sunlight, and the Mercedes veered toward a cash-only booth so there would be no electronic E-ZPass record of their travel. Good tradecraft, except they’ve got two surveillance vehicles up their ass so what’s the point?

We used E-ZPass and slowed up until the Mercedes got through the slower toll booth and caught up with us.

And off we went, eastbound on the Long Island Expressway, destination unknown.

Tess asked, “Where else would Petrov be going with luggage?”

“His girlfriend’s apartment in Brighton Beach.”

“Why does he need the other guys?”

“Maybe they have a nightclub act.”

“You’re supposed to be teaching me.”

“I just did. Here’s another lesson. Keep the target in sight and don’t speculate. Lesson three—you’ll know where he’s going when he gets there. Four, if you lose him, you’ll be looking for a job tomorrow.”

“I won’t lose him.”

The Mercedes was in the far left lane, what we call lane one, going about 60 mph. I called Matt and Steve in the minivan and said, “Use lane three and watch for the target to swerve toward an exit.” I further briefed them, “He’s got a girlfriend in Brighton Beach.” Meaning, as we say in the business, he’s probably following his dick today, but I didn’t say that in mixed company.

We continued east through the borough of Queens. We passed the exit that would have taken us south to Brighton Beach in Brooklyn, which blew that theory, then the exit to La Guardia Airport, then the Kennedy Airport exit. We also passed the exit to Shea Stadium, so we weren’t going to be watching the doubleheader with the Russians today.

We crossed the city line into suburban Nassau County and continued east.

I didn’t know how much Tess knew about the Russians, so I informed her, “The Russian dips have a weekend house in Upper Brookville, not too far from your ancestral castle in Lattingtown.”

She ignored my sarcasm and replied, “Well, if that’s where they’re going, I know the territory.”

“And that’s as far as they’re allowed to go.” Upper Brookville is actually a few miles past the twenty-five-mile limit, but if they go directly there without deviation it’s okay.

The Diplomatic Surveillance Group also has a confidential off-site office near the Russian weekend house, so maybe we could hand this to them.

I informed Tess of this, and she said, “Great. I can make the game.” She asked me, “Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

No, I wasn’t sure. But I was saved from a bad decision when we passed the exit that would have taken us north to Upper Brookville.

Tess said, “Damn it.”

My Nextel blinged and Matt said, “Where the hell is this guy going?”

“I’ll bet if we follow him, we’ll find out.”

So we continued following the Russians, who were now past their allowable radius.

We actually weren’t authorized to bust them unless we were told by higher up to do that, so we always let them run, to see where they were going. They might try to use SDR—surveillance detection route, meaning escape and evasion—but their drivers weren’t as good as ours. It was when they were on foot in Manhattan or Brooklyn that they’d get tricky with subways and taxis, and sometimes give you the slip. On the open road, however, they were pretty pathetic. So they weren’t going to a secret meeting or something; they were off on a jaunt. Maybe the Hamptons.

Tess said, “Maybe you should call this in.”

“Later.”

She shrugged and continued to follow the Mercedes, keeping a distance of fifty yards, not letting more than one car come between us and the target. She was a good driver. Matt and Steve continued in the slow lane, but now and then they moved to the center lane to catch up.

The only good thing about following the Russians in New York was that they weren’t trying to kill people or blow things up, the way the Islamic radicals did. They were mostly into industrial spying, stealing technology, intercepting our diplomatic and intel commo, or trying to recruit people to do all that. Basic espionage as opposed to acts of terrorism. Still, they posed another kind of threat—long-term. An almost existential threat. So they needed close watching.

Colonel Vasily Petrov, however, had a different pedigree. According to the intel on this guy, his old man, Vladimir Petrov, is a former KGB general who was once head of SMERSH, the assassination arm of the old KGB, and, as they say, the apple does not fall far from the tree. Vasily himself has been implicated in rubbing out political foes of his esteemed president, Mr. Putin, and Vasily had also served in Chechnya where the CIA says he ran the mass execution program of Chechen civilians suspected of aiding the rebels. If true, this was a ruthless man, and a cold-blooded killer.

But I couldn’t imagine how Petrov’s occupational skills could be used here. Well, maybe I could. The Russians had a long history of sending agents out to the four corners of the world to find and kill dissidents and traitors who’d gotten out of Russia. That’s what SMERSH was about, and that could explain why Petrov was here. But even though the Russians had whacked dissidents all over the planet, including England, they hadn’t done that here, but if they did and got caught, the shit would really hit the fan.

On the other hand, the Russians were getting ballsy again, and Putin, formerly of the KGB, was beating his bare chest and growling a lot. You can change the name of the KGB to the SVR, but that didn’t change anything.

All of this, however, is not my problem or my job anymore. Let somebody else worry about what Petrov is up to. My job is to follow the target, record and report. I’m not a bloodhound anymore; I’m the second dog in a dogsled team. Follow that asshole.

And yet… well, Vasily Petrov has aroused my detective instincts. Unfortunately, whenever that happens, I usually get in trouble.

Tess asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

“A pastrami sandwich.”

She replied, “A warhorse put out to pasture doesn’t think about the pasture.”

I didn’t reply.

“He thinks about the battlefield.”

I suggested, “Pay attention to the target.”

“Yes, sir.”

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. 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.