Radiant Angel (20 page)

The bartenders remained behind the bar, in the tradition of bartenders all over the world who see crazier things than this and just zone out.

A few lamps flickered on the tables, and the tonga torches spluttered. The fog got thicker, and steam rose off the pool filled with naked and half-naked people, like a scene out of The Inferno.

And somewhere out there on the ocean was a ship that held a radiant angel, Lucifer himself, the Angel of Light and of Darkness, sailing in the night toward eight million souls.

The Beatles were singing,
We all live in a yellow submarine…
I stripped down to my shorts and got into the hot tub with Dmitry.

L
imo drivers overhear things, so I asked Dmitry, “Where did Colonel Petrov go?”

“Speak no English.”

“I have two questions for you, Dmitry—who is happening and where is Petrov?”

He shook his head.

Well, I’m not a big fan of enhanced interrogation, but if time is short, and there are lives at stake, you gotta do what you gotta do. So I got his neck in an armlock and forced him under. He thrashed like a wounded walrus, and when I let him up he seemed ready to have a conversation. I started with a softball question. “When do you expect Colonel Petrov back here?”

He drew a deep wheezy breath, then replied, “He say tomorrow.”

Actually, there might be no tomorrow. But Dmitry didn’t know that, though he knew other things that I needed to know.

“Has he called you since he left?”

He shook his head.

“Did you call him?”

“He say no call. No text. Phone is off.”

Meaning Petrov’s phone had no battery and was therefore not transmitting its location. Well, if true, that was not conclusive proof that Colonel Petrov was up to no good. The SVR guys sometimes pulled their batteries, plus they changed cell phones regularly.

I asked Dmitry again, “Where did Petrov go?”

Dmitry hesitated, then, remembering his breathless experience, he replied, “He say… party.”

“Where is the party?”

“He say… how you say…? East Hampton.”

East Hampton?
Well, that blew a lot of theories. Like the theory that Petrov rendezvoused with a Russian ship carrying a nuclear device onboard, headed for Manhattan. I might as well go home.

But if that amphibious craft carrying three Russians and twelve party girls had docked or run ashore in East Hampton, Scott Kalish would have found it by now.

“Please… I tell you—”

“Shut up.” To test Dmitry’s truthfulness, I asked him, “Who were the two men with him?”

He hesitated again, then replied, “Pavel Fradkov,” using Arkady Urmanov’s alias. “Viktor Gorsky.”

“Have you ever driven them before?”

“No.”

“What are their jobs?”

“I do not know.” He reminded me, “I am only driver.”

“What were they talking about in the car?”

“I… not listen.”

I pushed his face a few inches from the water and held it there. I knew that Dmitry was racking his brain for something that would save him from another near-death experience, and I hoped he came up with something.

Finally he said, “I hear… one word…”

“Repeat the word, please.”

He stayed quiet a moment, then said, “Yakut. How you say this?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Yakut. The big boat for rich.”

“You mean… a yacht?”

“Yes. Yakut. Fradkov speak this in car. Colonel say not to speak this. So now I tell you.”

I asked Dmitry, “Is that where Petrov’s boat went? To a yacht?”

“I think.”

“Was this yacht going to East Hampton?”

“Please, I do not know.”

“A Russian yakut?”

“I do not know.”

“What is the name of this yakut?”

“I hear only yakut.”

Okay, so if Dmitry was to be believed, the amphibious craft took Petrov and his companions to a yacht. And maybe the yacht was going to East Hampton. So why would anyone think there was anything sinister about that? Well, maybe because of the passengers—an SVR colonel with a license to kill, an SVR assassin, and a nuclear weapons scientist. The most innocent people in that amphibious craft were the prostitutes.

I asked Dmitry, “What is Petrov’s cell phone number?”

He hesitated, out of fear or loyalty, but then he recited the number.

“And Fradkov and Gorsky’s numbers.”

“I do not know. If I know, I tell.”

Sounded reasonable. Well, if I had more time I would have spent it with Dmitry to see if he could remember anything else about his passengers’ conversation during the long car ride. But my time as a loose cannon was probably running out, and I needed to speak to Georgi Tamorov before the Feds got their act together and showed up. And quite frankly, if I spent any more time in the hot tub with Dmitry, my colleagues would start to wonder about me.

I released my hold on Dmitry, but before we parted, I said, “Your friends in the pool will tell Colonel Petrov that you spoke to the FBI. But we can protect you if you continue your voluntary cooperation. The choice is yours. Siberia or Brighton Beach.”

He nodded.

I climbed out of the hot tub and Beth walked over to me as I squeezed water out of my tighty-whities. I informed her, “This gentleman, Dmitry, works for the Russian U.N. Mission as a driver. He is a potential government witness, so he needs to be kept incommunicado, away from his compatriots.”

She glanced at Dmitry still standing in the tub and said to me, “This must be important for you to engage in that kind of interrogation.”

“Dmitry’s not complaining.” I added, “It’s important.”

I knew she wanted to tell me, “You look good in wet underwear,” but she controlled herself and motioned for Dmitry to come out of the hot tub.

Meanwhile, I pulled on my pants and polo shirt and gathered my shoes and socks and my holstered Glock.

To further compromise Dmitry in front of his compatriots, I pointed him toward the bar and said, “Go get yourself a drink.”

He didn’t need to be told twice and he scooted off.

Detective Penrose reminded me, “You’re in my jurisdiction. Follow the rules and the law.”

“I always do. Meanwhile, I need your assistance.”

“What’s this about?”

“This is sensitive compartmented information.”

She reminded me, “You used to confide in me.”

“I also used to call you Beth.”

She looked at me. “Please call me Beth.”

“Well… all right, Beth.” I confided in her, “There may be a nuclear device on a ship headed for Manhattan.”

She took that in, then glanced around, as though trying to fit this party into a nuke on a ship. Finally, she said, “The Russians?”

“They’re not all about fun.”

“I’m not understanding…”

“Call Scott Kalish. But first get some uniforms here, and a prisoner bus. I want everyone brought in for questioning—but not about nukes. The beef is prostitution and consorting with prostitutes. Also we got guys with guns, probably unlicensed.”

She nodded, but said nothing, still thinking about the nuke.

I continued, “Also, do visa checks, immigration status, and so forth, and look for drugs, and seize all the cell phones. And ask the young ladies here if they’ve heard from their friends who took off in the amphibious craft. And see if you can find my and Tess’ Nextels that were taken by the security guys. Also see if Dmitry remembers any more about where Petrov went.”

She informed me, “This is going to be a legal mess—and an international incident.”

“That should be the least of our problems tonight.”

She nodded, then said, “I need to call the FBI.”

“You should first determine if there’s a Federal beef here.” I advised her, “They don’t like to be called on Sunday.”

“How much time do you need to play Lone Ranger?”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“Okay. And thanks for your help.”

As I headed toward the house, I heard her call out, “See me before you leave.”

I acknowledged with a quick wave as I slid open the glass door.

And now for Georgi Tamorov. But first, a call to Scott Kalish with a possible lead. Colonel Petrov and his pals had sailed off to rendezvous with a yacht. A
yakut
. But why? Party? I hope so.

G
eorgi 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.”