Nelson Demille: Radiant Angel

“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.

The Mercedes continued east on Sunrise Highway, then suddenly made a sharp right onto a small side road. Tess hit her brakes and made the turn, as did Matt and Steve.

We stayed close to the target vehicle as it continued south toward the ocean.

Tess informed me, “My parents had a summer house in East Hampton.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“I know every back road in the Hamptons.”

“Where’s the ambush?”

She ignored that and continued, “If they’re going to Tamorov’s, they’ll turn left on Montauk Highway toward the oceanfront mansions.”

And sure enough, they turned left on Montauk Highway, which was a curving, two-lane Colonial-era road, somewhat picturesque, and slow with local traffic.

The Shinnecock Indian Reservation came up on our right, sitting on a billion dollars’ worth of prime waterfront real estate, a perfect setting for a future gambling casino. In lieu of a casino, the Shinnecocks had a trading post on the side of the road. Matt Nexteled, “What kind of Indians are these? Dot or feather?”

“Feather.”

“Oh... I was in the mood for curry.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

Tess asked me, “Where is Tamorov’s house?”

“Martini Lane.”

“Gin Lane.”

“Right.”

“Okay, so he’s going to make a right, probably on South Main.”

“Don’t anticipate. Just follow.”

“You’re lucky I’m with you.” She mocked, “Martini Lane. Is that where Gin Lane crosses Vermouth Road?”

“Drive.” I hate a wiseass. Unless it’s me.

“And for your information, gin is Old English for a common grazing area.”

“Everybody knows that,” I assured her.

“What’s the name of Tamorov’s house?”

“Tamorov’s house.”

“The houses have names.”

“Right. The Tides.”

“I know it.”

“Been there?”

“No.”

“You might get your chance today.”

She didn’t reply.

We continued, and Montauk Highway narrowed as it entered the shop-lined village of Southampton. An historical marker said JOBS LANE, 1664, which let everyone know they were in a three-hundred-percent markup zone.

Tess told me, “I had my first grown-up date in the Driver’s Seat—” She pointed to a pub up the road. “Right there.”

“How’d that work out?”

“I couldn’t get a drink. I was too young.”

“Did they let you use the bathroom?”

“Not funny. Now I have to go. Can I pull over?”

“Sure.” Maybe she’s pregnant.

She double-parked and hit the flashers, then scooted out of the Blazer and hurried toward the pub.

I blinged Matt and Steve, who were behind me. “Quick P-stop. Stay with the target.”

“Copy.”

The minivan went around me and continued on Jobs Lane, behind the Mercedes.

My Nextel blinged and Matt said, “Target turning right on South Main.”

“Copy.” Well, that removed any doubt that Petrov was going to Tamorov’s house. But why? Probably a party. This was going to be a long day.

Tess reappeared, hopped in the driver’s seat, and asked, “Where’d they go?”

“Right on South Main.”

“Told you.” She put the Blazer in gear and continued on Jobs Lane.

“Did you call Grant?”

“Quick text.”

I didn’t pursue that, and she turned right toward the ocean and we caught up with the minivan. “Go around.”

She passed Matt and Steve and took up a position fifty feet behind the Mercedes.

Tess lowered her window and said, “Smell that ocean.”

“Why?”

South Main was lined with Southampton’s iconic hedgerows, behind which were broad lawns that led to old, multimillion-dollar mansions.

Tess pointed. “The Raleighs lived there. Friends of my parents.”

“They owned the slum I grew up in. Nice people.”

“This brings back a lot of memories.”

“Glad for that.”

“There were no Russians here when I was growing up.”

“The world has changed.”

“Where do these oligarchs get all that money?”

“When you find out, let me know.”

“My father worked hard for his money. He didn’t steal it.”

“The Russian oligarchs didn’t steal money. They stole the country.”

“Disgusting.”

“The Shinnecocks would agree with that.”

We were approaching Gin Lane, which ran along the Atlantic.

Tess asked, “Why do they want to live here?”

“Russia sucks.”

“Never been. How about you?”

“Nope. Been to Brighton Beach, though.”

The Mercedes took a left on Gin Lane and we followed. There didn’t seem to be any other vehicles on the oceanfront road.

As I said, following Ivan is more fun than following Abdul. The Russians partied hard and they usually had some good-looking babes with them. Not that that’s relevant to the job. But if you’ve ever sat outside a mosque for three hours waiting for Abdul... you get my point.

On the right side of Gin Lane, the ocean side, lay huge waterfront mansions behind hedges and high walls. On the left were equally impressive mansions that became beachfront property when a hurricane blew in.

I’d followed Petrov here once, back in June, so I knew that Tamorov’s place was at the east end of Gin Lane. I knew, too, that Tamorov threw some wild parties. Petrov and his pals had overnight bags, so I could conclude that I’d be sleeping in the minivan tonight. I hoped Ms. Faraday didn’t snore.

I called Matt and Steve. “Target will turn into an oceanfront estate called The Tides. We will not.”

“Copy.”

I said to Tess, “Bumper lock this guy and when he turns, stop.”

She nodded and sat on the Mercedes’ tail.

The big double gates of Tamorov’s estate were coming up, marked by a brass sign saying THE TIDES. The Mercedes slowed, then without signaling it turned into the gates, which were already opening electronically, meaning the Russians had called ahead to announce their arrival and let the security guys know they were being followed.