Текст книги "Radiant Angel"

Автор книги: Nelson Demille

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tess took a right onto a small road and continued past a sign that said SHINNECOCK NATION—NO TRESPASSING.

I pointed out, “You’re in Indian territory.”

“We’re meeting here. For a powwow.”

“Okay.” The FBI, as I indicated, could be a bit dull, but these people—and I don’t mean the Indians—were into drama and stagecraft.

The road was narrow, bumpy, and dark, and Tess slowed down. She said to me, apropos of nothing and something, “The charter of the Central Intelligence Agency expressly forbids the Agency from operating on American soil. Therefore, as you know, when the CIA has a person of interest who lands on American soil, they have to share the case with the FBI. The FBI, on the other hand, can legally operate in foreign countries.” She reminded me, “You, for instance, and your wife were posted to Yemen.”

I didn’t recall telling her that. But I did recall Yemen. And I knew why she mentioned it. And now I thought I knew who this old friend was. So I slipped my Glock out of my pancake holster and stuck it in my pocket.

She continued, “And then we have State Department Intelligence, which confines its activities to diplomatic spying, including so-called diplomats who are actually spies, such as Vasily Petrov.”

I inquired, “Is there a point to this monologue?”

She went on, “The CIA, as with any similar organization, is reluctant to share or turn over important information or important suspects to another agency.”

“Reluctant might be an understatement.”

“So,” she continued, “the CIA has to find ways to operate freely and legally on American soil.” She informed me, “Sometimes, if the suspect is a foreign diplomat, they will work with State Department Intelligence, and most times they will work with the FBI.” She reminded me, “The Anti-Terrorist Task Force, for instance, has several CIA officers attached to the task force.” She prompted, “I believe you knew one or two of them.”

“Right.” My wife actually killed one of them. And probably slept with that asshole, Ted Nash, before she and I were married. But it wasn’t a crime of passion; it was self-defense. Or so it was ruled. But the CIA thought otherwise and they have long memories, as I found out in Yemen. And maybe as I was about to find out here.

Ms. Faraday continued, “In this case, the person of interest, Colonel Vasily Petrov, is a diplomat. And who is it that is watching Vasily Petrov the most closely?”

“His girlfriend?”

She ignored my wit and answered her own question. “Your group. The DSG.”

I kind of understood all this oblique baloney—Petrov was a person of interest to the CIA and to State Department Intelligence and they were sharing the case to give the CIA legal cover in the U.S. And my group, the Diplomatic Surveillance Group, would be a convenient and well-placed ally. But rather than ask us for help, the CIA or SDI penetrated the Diplomatic Surveillance Group with one of their people. And, voilà! Tess Faraday was my trainee. I asked her, “So are you CIA or SDI?”

“Does it matter who I’m working for?”

“Why am I asking?”

“It’s better for both of us if you didn’t know. In case you are asked later.”

“Right.” I asked another question. “What do you need from me?”

“Well, as it turns out, you set the wheels in motion to find Petrov, and Captain Kalish, who has lots of resources, is working well with you.”

“So I’m the front guy.”

“You’re the go-to guy.” She stopped the Blazer on a lonely stretch of road and glanced at the dashboard clock. “And you’re very bright.”

I ignored that and asked her, “What is it that Petrov is suspected of?”

“What do you think?”

“Well, as you probably know, he’s an evil James Bond with a license to kill.”

“I know that.”

“Good.” So, as it turns out, my instincts were correct; I had stumbled onto something big. Something that the CIA and State Department Intelligence were on to, and might or might not be sharing with the FBI. Also, my instincts about Tess Faraday were correct; she wasn’t who she said she was. She was, in fact, a plant—sort of like a parasite that attached itself to the Diplomatic Surveillance Group. Well, that might be a little harsh. Also, I was relieved that she wasn’t with the FBI Office of Professional Responsibility. The CIA, I could handle. And, finally, I was a little pissed off.

I don’t know why I cared, but I asked her, “Tell me about your legend.”

She didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I’m not actually a lawyer, but it fit the requirement for me to be an FBI aspirant.” She confided, “I was a little concerned about that. You’re married to a lawyer, and professions are hard to fake.”

“Not if you’re a lawyer. They fake it every day.”

She smiled and continued, “What’s true is that I’m from Lattingtown, and my family did actually summer in the Hamptons.”

“More importantly, are you a Mets fan?”

“Let’s go Mets.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“I think you were on to me.”

To burst her bubble, and because I was pissed, I said, “You need to work on your acting.”

“It’s not my strong point.”

“No, it’s not. And I have a target to find, and I’m not making any progress here. So—”

My Nextel—Matt’s Nextel—vibrated and I looked at the text, hoping it was from Kalish. But all it said was: I’m here.

Assuming this obscure message was for Mrs. Faraday, I showed it to her.

She nodded and said, “Good.” Then she said to me, “Also, if you’re wondering, Grant doesn’t actually exist. But if he did, he’d be the jealous type and I’d have to take calls from him all day and run to the ladies’ room to talk to him in private.”

I was relieved to hear that her bladder was okay. I advised her, “I don’t like being jerked around, Ms. Faraday—if that’s your name.”

“It’s my real name.” She added, “I enjoyed our conversations.”

“At some point I will need to see identification. Including your pistol license. Or I will confiscate your gun. And place you under arrest.”

“My ID is with the man we’re about to meet.”

“It better be.” I informed her, “At this point, I need to call my case agent.” I began dialing. “To cover my ass and report my conversation with you.”

She put her hand over mine. “That’s taken care of. You’re covered. But you can call Matt and Steve, and Captain Kalish if you’d like.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“John… this is sort of out of your hands now. And out of the FBI’s hands. But we’d like you to work with us and maintain contact with your team and your guy Kalish.”

“Who is us?”

“You’re about to find out.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“This is your job.”

“You just said it wasn’t.”

“We’re sharing the job.”

And, I, John Corey, was a loose cannon who needed to be kept close. “Let me ask you this—do you have reason to believe that Vasily Petrov is on some sort of mission tonight?”

She stayed silent for a few seconds, then replied, “We didn’t think he was up to anything in particular tonight. Then, as we both noticed, Petrov, Fradkov, and the guy you call Igor—Gorsky—got really strange at Tamorov’s. Then they take off in a landing craft, so we go from routine surveillance to… well, maybe something interesting. Or maybe nothing.” She added, “That’s why you follow guys like that.”

Right. I follow them to see who they meet, who they know, and how they spend their time outside their home and office, and now and then something interesting comes up. And I report it, with photos included, and that’s where my job ends and an FBI agent picks it up. Tonight, however, it seemed like I could rewrite my job description. If I wanted to.

I texted Steve: Anything new?

He replied: All quiet.

I texted Kalish: Any luck?

He replied: You’ll be the first.

How could a sea-and-air search not find a twenty-five-foot amphibious landing craft that started from a known point at a known time? Maybe the craft was already onboard a ship and covered with a tarp. Or it had come ashore somewhere along a lonely beach. More importantly, what was the purpose of Petrov leaving Tamorov’s party in a landing craft? Everything—boats, babes, and booze—pointed to a pleasure cruise, maybe ending on a small bay island, or a party ship. And maybe that’s all there was to it.

Tess said, “Just for the record, and to make you a little less angry, I did ask that I be assigned to you rather than any of the dozens of other team leaders who watch the Russians. And now I’ll tell you why. Because you’re very good at what you do. And I really enjoy working with you.”

I didn’t reply.

She put the Blazer in gear and we continued down the narrow road.

I asked her, “Did I say I wanted to work with you?”

“Just meet this guy, and listen. Then make your decision.” She added, “Time to come in from the pasture.”

Well, be careful what you wish for. We continued on the bumpy reservation road to a powwow.

She was peering into the darkness, then the headlights picked out two stone pillars and an iron gate, which was open. She turned between the pillars and the headlights illuminated a row of gravestones.

“This is the place,” Tess said. She glanced at the Blazer’s compass, then showing good tradecraft she turned the vehicle around toward the exit. She shut off the engine, leaving us in dark silence.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Because Ms. Faraday is a pro, she hit the kill switch for the interior lights before opening her door.

Because Detective Corey is also a pro, I said, “Give me the keys and your gun.”

She handed me the keys, then hesitated and drew her gun from her holster and handed it to me, butt first.

She carried a.40 caliber Glock, standard government issue. I pocketed her gun and said, “My last piece of gun advice, since you asked, is never go into a situation with an armed person you don’t trust.”

“Sorry you feel that way.”

“Let’s go. Leave your door open.”

Tess got out of the Blazer, leaving her door open in case one of us—specifically me—needed to make a quick getaway. “You lead.”

She moved onto a path between the gravestones, paved with broken seashells that crunched beneath our feet. I took my Glock out of my pocket and followed, keeping five feet between us.

The graveyard was dimly lit by the half-moon overhead, and tall trees cast moon shadows across the graves and paths. A sea breeze rustled the branches, creating the appearance of movement on the ground.

When someone tells you they want you to meet someone, you get the mental image of one person waiting for you to show up. In fact, however, there could be several people waiting for you. And this was not the first time my curiosity got the better of my usually good judgment.

Tess said, in a soft voice, “Straight ahead is Shinnecock Bay. That’s where we stop.”

We continued on the path. The gravestones were not big enough to conceal anyone, but the tree trunks were wide. Ahead, I could see the moonlight sparkling on the bay.

The ground sloped down toward the water and I closed the distance between us.

Tess glanced back at me and saw I was holding my gun at my side. “Relax, John.”

“Keep moving.”

She continued toward the bay and we came to the end of the gravestones, about twenty yards from the shore. She stopped, facing the moonlit bay. “It’s so beautiful here.”

I glanced to my left and right, and behind me, then I looked out at the bay. On the opposite shore, about three miles away, was the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station and the Ponquogue Bridge that connected the mainland of Long Island to the barrier island, along which I could see large waterfront homes.

It occurred to me that Petrov’s amphibious craft had hundreds of miles of shoreline where it could make land—beaches, inlets, coves, creeks, and marshland.

But losing Petrov might be the least of my problems tonight.

Tess turned around and faced me, glancing again at the gun in my hand. “You understand that if this is a trap, that’s not going to do you any good.”

“Wanna bet?”

“And I hope you also understand that… well, that I’ve grown honestly fond of you.”

I had no reply.

“Just to set the record straight, I’m not married. And to be honest, I’m sorry you are.”

Well, hey, if I were going to cheat on my wife, it would certainly be in a graveyard with a woman who lied to me for months. And to make it more enticing, I just disarmed her and we were waiting for a mystery man to show up. I wish I’d brought my handcuffs.

The good news, if there was any, was that Ms. Faraday’s personal interest in me could not possibly be a prelude to an ambush. Though perhaps she wanted me to drop my guard.

“John?”

“You’ll understand that there may be some trust issues here.”

“I understand. So let’s revisit this later when we get all this behind us.”

“Well… I’m happily married.”

“Now who’s lying?”

That sort of pissed me off, but she had a point—though I didn’t know where she got it.

My cell phone vibrated and I looked at the text: I’m behind you. Don’t shoot.

I turned, and coming up the path was a man dressed in tan slacks and a dark blazer. As he got closer I could hear his footsteps on the seashells, then I could see his face, and it was none other than Buckminster Harris of State Department Intelligence, who I’d last seen in Yemen, right before he left me to be killed by a gang of Al Qaeda cutthroats.

So now one of us could take care of some unfinished business.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I’m unarmed,” declared Buck Harris as he held out his hands where I could see them.

“I’m not.”

He stepped closer to me and inquired, “Will you shake hands with me?”

“Why don’t I just kick you in the balls?”

“I sense some anger, John.”

Tess interjected, “Whatever issues you both think you need to settle will have to wait.” She reminded me, “The mission comes first.”

I didn’t know I was on a mission. I was on a fucked-up surveillance. But I guess Tess and Buck were on a mission.

I stared at Buck Harris in the moonlight. He still looked good for a man in his seventies, though he was pale compared to the last time I saw him with his Yemen tan.

Buckminster Harris was an old Cold Warrior, a leftover from the days when all we had to worry about was nuclear annihilation. He was, I had to admit, a charming gentleman when he wasn’t plotting to get me killed.

He said to me, on that subject, “You may have misinterpreted what happened in Yemen.”

“Hey, I never thought of that.” I said, partly for Tess’ benefit, “So even though it looked to me like you and your CIA buddy were trying to get me, Kate, and Brenner whacked, we got it all wrong. Please accept my apology.”

“You haven’t lost any of your sardonic wit.”

“And my aim is still good.”

Tess said, “I think you two need to speak alone.” She looked at me. “Just listen and decide.” She turned and walked toward the bay.

So Buck and I were alone. Maybe. I asked him, “Anyone with you?”

“No.”

“If you lie, you die.”

“You have my word.”

“Me too.” I nodded toward Tess. “Who is she?”

“She’s not CIA if that’s your concern.” He tapped his side pocket. “I can show you her credentials.”

“Nice and easy, Buck.”

He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a cred case.

“Toss it.”

He pitched it to me and I glanced at the open case in the dim light. I could make out her photo and name, Tess Faraday, and also the State Department seal. This meant nothing, of course—spooks carry whatever creds they need, and Buck understood I wasn’t fond of the CIA, or vice versa. In fact, the Agency considered me—and Kate—unfinished business.

I put Tess’ creds in my pocket and said to Buck, “Turn around, hands against that tree, legs spread.”

He complied without complaint and I frisked him. In this business, when you declare you’re unarmed, you better be unarmed, or the conversation is over. “Turn around.”

He turned around, reclaimed his dignity, and took in his surroundings. “This is an appropriate place for a powwow. We will smoke the peace pipe and bury the tomahawk.”

“I’d like to bury it in your fucking head.”

“You’re not getting into the spirit of this place, John.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“Because you need to hear what I have to say about Colonel Petrov.”

“You have three minutes.”

He sat on the ground with his back against the tree. He looked like a tired old warrior who’d been called back to duty because the old enemy had suddenly reappeared.

He invited me to sit, like we were going to smoke a peace pipe or something, but I declined.

I glanced at the bay, where Tess had rolled up her pants and waded into the water up to her knees. These people—and I mean the entire sixteen separate agencies of the U.S. intelligence community—were a little weird. I stuck my gun in my belt and said, “Talk.”

Buck began, “Tess has been briefing me on a regular basis, and when she called me from the pub in Southampton I decided it was worth my time to come out here from the city. Then when she called me from the diner, I was glad I did.”

“Me too.”

“You need to put Yemen behind you.”

“I’m about to.”

He looked at me and said, “John… you understand that I was just following orders… orders that I didn’t necessarily agree with, or feel good about.”

“If you’re looking for sympathy, you’ll find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.”

Buck’s “just following orders” crap didn’t work, so he tried out his charm. “I congratulate you on your bold decision to go undercover into Tamorov’s party.” He let me know, “What you saw changed everything tonight.” Buck saw I wasn’t charmed and he changed the subject. “How is Kate?”

“You’re wasting your three minutes.”

He ignored me and said, “I was happy to hear she got a promotion. But I was puzzled by your… taking a position with lesser responsibilities.”

“Buck, fuck you.”

He continued, “You’re a remarkable man, John, but I don’t think they appreciated you on the Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”

Buck was fluent in Russian, so I tried that. “Yob vas.”

He smiled, then went on, “Your supervisor, Tom Walsh, was undermining you. Which is strange, since he is so fond of Kate.”

“Are you trying to get me to shoot you?”

“I’m just making an observation.” He also let me know, “Tess has become perhaps overly fond of you.” He confided, “We almost took her off the case.”

“I already did that, and I also took her gun. That’s how much I believe her bullshit and your bullshit.”

“Even within a masquerade, some things are real.”

I strongly advised him, “Get to Vasily Petrov.”

“All right. Colonel Vasily Petrov is the son of Vladimir Petrov, a KGB general who once headed SMERSH.”

“I know that.”

“Then you also know that Junior is in a similar line of work.”

“I thought he was a U.N. delegate for human rights.”

“Well, he is, but he doesn’t know much about that.” He thought a moment, then said, “Tess tells me that Petrov and his two companions were acting a bit odd at Tamorov’s party.”

“Right.”

He smiled. “When a Russian isn’t drinking at a party, something is not right.” He thought again, then said, “And then Petrov, Fradkov, and Gorsky got into an amphibious craft and sailed off.”

“Correct.”

“I understand you’ve gotten the county police to mount a sea-and-air search for that amphibious craft.”

“Also correct.”

“What do you think their chances are of finding that craft, or discovering where Petrov was taken?”

“Chances were good two hours ago. Not so good now.”

He thought about that, then replied, “It is my understanding that your only interest in this is to find the surveillance target you lost.”

“Right.”

“But I think I know you, John. And I believe you’ve thought about Vasily Petrov and why he may be in America.”

I didn’t reply.

“Colonel Petrov,” he went on, “has as little knowledge of espionage as he does of human rights. He is a killer.”

“We all know that, Buck.”

“And Viktor Gorsky is also a killer.”

“And Fradkov?”

“That’s another matter. I will return to Pavel Fradkov later. But for now, I’d like you to continue your efforts with this Captain Kalish to locate our missing Russians.”

My next stop was probably Tamorov’s house, so I asked, “What is the relationship between Petrov and Georgi Tamorov?”

“Good question. And the answer is, we don’t know. But if I had to guess, I’d say it is as it seems—a relationship of mutual convenience. Tamorov wants the friendship of a powerful SVR colonel, and Colonel Petrov enjoys the hospitality of a rich oligarch.”

“Petrov wasn’t enjoying himself tonight. He didn’t even get laid.”

Buck forced a smile. “But he did take a dozen young ladies with him. So it appears that Petrov was using Tamorov’s beach house tonight as a place where he was to meet this amphibious craft, which was presumably taking him and his friends to another party.”

And maybe, I thought, Petrov collected some tools of his and Gorsky’s trade at Tamorov’s house that they couldn’t carry in their car. But that supposed Petrov was up to something. I mean, did he take off out the back door in a boat to give his DSG followers the slip because he was up to something? Or did he take off in a boat because he had another party to go to? That was the question.

Buck closed his eyes and I thought the old guy had nodded off, but he said, “I tried to convince my colleagues that the Russian threat was not being taken seriously. The intelligence establishment and the military and diplomatic community are funneling vast resources into the war on Islamic terrorism because of 9/11. And they are ignoring the awakening bear.”

I’d expect that from Buck, whose glory days were behind him. But I agreed with him that the Cold War was back and no one was paying attention.

Meanwhile, he wasn’t giving me the promised briefing, so I asked, “Is Petrov going to whack someone tonight?”

“I’ll get to that later.” He changed the subject and said, “I’ve also had the Coast Guard alerted, and they’ve agreed to send some boats and a helicopter to conduct a search. But as I discovered, their resources are limited compared to what the police have at their disposal.”

I nodded. Even in this age of counterterrorism and drug smuggling, the United States Coast Guard was being scaled back. The Suffolk County Police Marine Bureau, on the other hand, had about twenty watercraft of various sizes and capabilities and four helicopters for search, rescue, and law enforcement. Plus there were local harbor constables who also had watercraft that could be deployed at sea. Bottom line here, Scott Kalish had more air and sea resources at his disposal than the U.S. Coast Guard. Which was why I called him.

Buck said, “Tess told me that Petrov and his friends carried three overnight bags onboard the amphibious craft.”

“Correct.”

“Nothing larger? Like a suitcase?”

Before I could ask why he asked, I heard footsteps and saw Tess coming toward us.

She looked at me, then at Buck sitting under the tree.

Buck said to her, “I believe we’re almost finished here.” He smiled. “John has decided not to kill me.”

“Today,” I explained.

Tess looked at me. “Do you understand how important this is?”

“Not really.”

She looked at Buck, who said, “I haven’t yet gotten to Pavel Fradkov.”

“Then,” I suggested, “let’s get to Pavel Fradkov.”

Buck stood, looked at me, and said, “I understand that all your surveillance vehicles are equipped with portable radiation detectors.”

That is not what I wanted to hear.

He continued, “And Ms. Faraday tells me she heard no beeping, even when you were very close to Petrov’s vehicle. So I suppose it’s already on the ship that Petrov rendezvoused with.”

“What is on what ship?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Indeed I did.

There is little that spooks me, but atomic bombs are at the top of my very short list. I cleared my throat and said, “I assume you mean a nuke.”

“Correct.” He added, “Probably a suitcase nuke.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because Vasily Petrov is a psychotic mass murderer. And he, like his father, and like his megalomaniacal president, yearns for the glory days of the Soviet Empire. And all that stands in his and his president’s way is us.”

Buck saw I wasn’t buying all of this, so he tempered his concerns a bit and said, “We’re not sure this is what’s happening tonight, but if you put it all together, then what you saw today at Tamorov’s party doesn’t make sense except in that context.”

I thought back to all that had happened since Petrov went mobile, and I couldn’t come to any conclusion that involved a nuke. I said to Buck, “There’s a piece missing. Fradkov.”

“Correct. Pavel Fradkov, whose real name is Arkady Urmanov, is a nuclear physicist.” Buck informed me, “He once worked on the Soviet nuclear weapons miniaturization program. Suitcase nukes.”

Holy shit.

“Miniaturized nukes,” Buck informed me, “are temperamental and need periodic… well, tune-ups.” He continued, “The fear that they could get into the hands of terrorists is real. But no one knows if they’d actually detonate if they hadn’t been regularly maintained over the thirty years since most of them were made.” He concluded, “To be sure of that, and to properly arm the device, it’s good to have a knowledgeable nuclear weapons scientist on hand.”

Tess added, “Especially one who hasn’t had a drink all night.”

The evidence, as we say in criminal investigations, was mounting—and pointing in one direction.

I said to Buck, “I assume Petrov and his pals rendezvoused with a Russian ship.”

“I would assume so. And on that ship could be a nuclear device.” He informed me, “If it’s a suitcase nuke, it could be the biggest model, about the size of a steamer trunk, which would yield about ten kilotons of atomic energy.” He further informed me, “For comparison, the Hiroshima bomb was estimated to be between twelve and sixteen kilotons.”

I glanced at Tess, wondering when she knew all this.

Buck said, “We should also assume that this ship that Petrov and his friends rendezvoused with is heading for New York City.”

I didn’t reply, but that was a good assumption.

Buck continued, “The ship will enter the harbor, and at some point, before or after docking, the nuclear device will detonate and the fireball will completely destroy everything within a quarter-mile radius and incinerate structures within a half mile of ground zero.” He added, “And then there is shock wave damage, radioactive fallout, loss of communication and services, and mass panic.” He further added, “Over half a million initial deaths, followed by at least another half million more in the aftermath.”

Again, I didn’t reply.

He continued, “Assuming the target is Wall Street, the entire southern end of Manhattan Island will be gone, including the financial and government district—along with your offices at 26 Federal Plaza, and also the World Trade Center construction site. Also gone will be port facilities, bridges, tunnels, and subways and the entire historic district, all of which will be a nuclear wasteland for years. Not to mention the Statue of Liberty and collateral damage to the Brooklyn and New Jersey port facilities.” He added, “This would be a crippling financial and psychological blow to America, from which it will take decades to recover.”

“I get it.” I informed him, “It’s very difficult—actually impossible—to get a ship that’s emitting radiation past the harbor forts that aim radiation detectors at passing ships.” I further informed him, “Also, the NYPD Harbor Unit patrol boats have radiation detectors, as do the Coast Guard cutters.” I also told him, “And if the Russians tried to get a suitcase nuke off the ship and into the city, they wouldn’t get it past Customs, who also have radiation detectors on the piers.”

“I’m sure the Russians have a plan.”

Indeed they must. But it occurred to me that a Russian ship, such as a cargo ship or a luxury liner, would be subject to extra scrutiny at Ambrose Buoy, the security checkpoint, before it approached New York Harbor. It also occurred to me that the Russians wouldn’t want to be caught with a suitcase nuke aboard one of their ships. And if the nuke did go off, it could be determined that the Russian ship was ground zero, and that could start a nuclear war. So some of this wasn’t computing.

Also, why did Petrov, Gorsky, and the nuke guy, Urmanov, have to take an amphibious craft out to rendezvous with this Russian ship that had a nuke onboard? They could have boarded the ship in Russia. So maybe Buck got this wrong, and Petrov was now having a vodka on a party boat with Tasha on his lap. And that’s what I’d conclude—if it wasn’t for Urmanov.

Buck broke into my thoughts and said, “We don’t know if Petrov and his friends have a plan to escape the detonation, or if this is a suicide mission.” He added, “I think a man like Petrov would like to see the result of his work, so he may have a plan to get clear of the explosion, along with his two companions. But for the young ladies and everyone else aboard whatever ship they rendezvoused with, this is a suicide mission, though I’m sure they don’t know that.”

And never will, I thought; they will become one with the universe at the moment of the Big Bang. More importantly, I hoped this wasn’t a suicide mission for Petrov, because suicide missions, like 9/11, were more likely to succeed than missions where the perpetrators need an escape plan. Lots to think about. Especially the things that weren’t computing.

Buck may have thought that I needed more evidence. But he didn’t have any, so he told me a story.

“Not far from here,” he began, “is a place called Nassau Point.” He asked, “Have you heard of it?”

“Been there.”

“So was Albert Einstein, who spent the summer of 1939 there in a rented cottage.”

“He deserved a break.”

Buck continued, “In July of that year, Einstein received a visit from two well-known physicists, Eugene Wigner and Leó Szilárd, who convinced Einstein that he needed to write a letter to President Roosevelt alerting the president to the threat of the German atomic bomb program.”

I’d actually read the famous Nassau Point Letter, so I knew where this was going, but Buck likes to tell stories, so I let him continue.

“In that letter, Einstein says something that… well, is a warning from the past to us in the future.” Buck looked at me and said, “Einstein wrote to Roosevelt, ‘A single bomb of this type, carried by boat and exploded in a port, might very well destroy the whole port together with some of the surrounding territory.’ ” Buck stayed silent a moment, then said, “I believe that day has arrived.”