Nelson Demille: Radiant Angel

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.”

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.