Nelson Demille - Radiant Angel

Matt smiled. “They’re classified.”

Tess was rolling her eyes and probably hoping that FBI agents were more refined than ex-cops. Unfortunately, they are. She’ll miss us.

Well, this was going to be a long day. One of the first things you learn with surveillance work is piss when you can. There was a tall clump of bulrushes on the side of the road and the boys watered them. Tess was okay for now.

There was no sign of our deli delivery, but a few more cars turned into the Tamorov estate and Steve took pictures. Then a box van turned onto Gin Lane from Old Town Road and came toward us. Behind the van were two more vans. I could see the word CATERING on the side of one van, and I asked Tess, “How many sandwiches did you order?”

She didn’t acknowledge my quick wit.

I stepped into the road and held up my hand. The vans stopped, and on the side of the lead van I saw HAMPTON CATERING.

I went to the driver’s door and held up my creds. The window lowered and I asked the guy behind the wheel, “Where you going?”

He pointed. “The Tides.”

God was either smiling on me, or He was setting me up for a monumental disaster, which He sometimes does. With my help.

I asked the guy, “You need a bartender?”

“No...”

“Sure you do. What’s your name?”

“Dean. Dean Hampton. Same as the town.”

“That’s interesting. Okay, Dean—”

Tess approached and asked me, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to work for Dean.”

“Are you crazy?”

I already answered that question during my FBI interview. I asked Dean, who was wearing a white smock, “You got an extra shirt or something?”

“Uh... yeah. A few in the last truck. But—”

Matt and Steve joined us, and I said to them and to Tess, “You talk to this gentleman and get him squared away.” I unhooked my pancake holster, knowing the Russian security guys checked for guns, and I gave my gun and extra magazines to Steve. I also gave Matt my creds and my wallet in case the security guys asked me for ID.

Matt and Steve didn’t seem to think that me helping Dean cater Tamorov’s party was a good idea, but I explained, “I don’t want to lose the target.”

Matt pointed out, “We know where he is, John. This is as far as we need to go until he goes mobile again.”

“He could be going mobile out the back door.”

Steve volunteered, “I’ll go in with you.”

“They just saw you up close,” I reminded him.

Tess reminded me, “They saw you flipping them off.”

“They’d only recognize my middle finger.”

Tess suggested, “You need to clear this with the case agent.”

“To ask permission is to invite rejection.” I added, “Objections noted. Debate closed.”

Matt also volunteered to go in with me, but I said to my team, “You’re the posse. I’ll text or call in, say, an hour. But if you don’t hear from me in two hours, come get me.”

Matt and Steve exchanged glances, and Matt asked me, “Should we call the local PD for backup?”

“Only if you feel you can’t handle it. Okay, let’s not make the caterers late.” I headed toward the last van, and Tess came up beside me.

“I’m going in with you.”

“That’s not what I just told you to do.”

She held my arm and said, “This could be dangerous. They could recognize you. But they don’t know me, and they don’t know we’re together. You need someone to watch your back.”

I replied patiently, “This is not dangerous. If I’m recognized, they will just ask me to leave and Petrov will file a complaint with the State Department. They will not shoot me and feed me to the sharks.”

“But if they do, I’d like to see that.”

Funny. But also annoying. On the other hand, as I said, there was more to Tess Faraday than a DSG trainee and FBI wannabe. And maybe the best way to find out why she wanted to work with me and where she got the balls to go in undercover was to take it to the next level. “Okay. Get rid of your creds.”

She went back to Steve and gave him her creds, then reached behind her back and pulled out a pancake holster, which she handed to him.

She caught up to me and I inquired, “Where the hell did you get that?”

“I told you I had a gun permit.”

That’s not exactly what she said.

Tess and I walked toward the last of the three catering vans and I asked her, “Who are you working for?”

“Hampton Catering.”

I let that go and opened the double doors of the last box van. Sitting on the floor among piles of catering equipment were eight ladies, all wearing white smocks. “Buenos días,” I said as Tess and I climbed in and closed the doors.

There was a pile of linens in the corner and Tess found two uniform shirts, which we put on over our polo shirts.

The van started to move and we sat on the floor with the possibly undocumented aliens who, if they knew English, would probably have nothing to say to the Russian security guys about the two roadside pickups. I asked Tess, “You got a green card?”

The van turned left and we bumped over the cobblestone entrance to Tamorov’s driveway, then I heard the crunch of gravel. The van stopped and the doors opened.

One of the Russian security guards motioned everyone out, and we all piled out onto the gravel drive. The other two vans were stopped ahead of us, and the catering staff was standing in the long driveway while two security guards wanded them down.

Tess said softly, “They’re taking cell phones.”

And sure enough, the security goons were taking everyone’s cell phones. Maybe I should have anticipated that. But would that have changed my decision to go undercover? No. But I wouldn’t have let my trainee go in with me.

I counted eight security guys, including the two we’d seen at the gate, plus two black Dobermans.

I took my Nextel out of my pocket and code-locked it so no one could access my texts or directory. Tess did the same, and I moved away from her so it wouldn’t appear we were together. Though, to be realistic, not too many of the other fifteen or so catering staff looked quite as tall and pink as we did.

The guys with the wands reached the last van and ran the wands over everyone, finding coins, keys, religious medals, and one pocketknife, but no Glock 9mm automatics.

We all put our cell phones in a basket, and a Russian guy assured us, “You get when you leave.”

One of the security goons who was at the gate earlier was eyeballing me, then he looked at Tess as though she were a gumdrop in a bowl of chili.

The guy came over to me and said, “Wallet.”

“No wallet.”

Without even asking, he patted me down. Asshole.

He looked at Tess again, then at me, as though he’d seen me — or my middle finger — before.

Dean, who’d been briefed by Steve and Matt, saw what was happening and came over to us. He said to the Russian, “We have to get moving.” He tapped his watch. “We’re late.”

The Russian hesitated, then motioned us back in the van.

I made a mental note to put Dean in for the good citizen award.

As everyone was getting back into the vans, I looked at the Tamorov mansion at the end of the long landscaped driveway. It was a three-story contemporary, stark white with huge tinted windows for privacy. Georgi Tamorov did all right for himself. I mean, we’re talking about forty or fifty million bucks for oceanfront on Gin Lane in Southampton, and maybe a million bucks a year in property taxes, which the town loved without loving the source. Money may not buy you respectability, but it will buy you respect.

Tess and I got back into the van, the doors closed, and we started moving.

I glanced at Tess, who seemed a bit anxious.