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.

Well, we’d have a good laugh about this when we got out of here. Even Kate, who likes to follow the rules, would give me credit for good initiative. Maybe. More importantly, the job and the day were getting interesting. I can make any job interesting. Or stressful.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The three catering vans backed into a five-car garage that held a Jaguar and Bentley. The garage was connected to the service entrance, and everyone got out and started unloading food and equipment. I hefted a crate of tomatoes on my shoulder and walked through a pantry storage room into an industrial-sized kitchen.

There were a few household staff in the kitchen, mostly Hispanic but also a few Russians, including two security guys from the driveway who were watching everyone.

Tess, carrying a load of table linens, didn’t look like she did this often, but she’d probably seen the family caterers arrive enough times so she didn’t seem too out of place.

After everything was unloaded, we all got to work, slicing and dicing, firing up the stoves, and all that. Tess was in charge of cucumbers and I washed lettuce. I never knew it had to be washed.

A big Russian lady, who seemed to be the household cook, supervised the making of zakuski—Russian hors d’oeuvres, which unfortunately didn’t include pigs-in-a-blanket. What kind of party is this? I was starving, so when the fat lady wasn’t looking I scooped up about two hundred dollars’ worth of beluga caviar with my fingers and shoved it in my mouth.

Tess and I tried to make ourselves useful, but neither of us knew our way around a kitchen and the fat lady yelled at me a few times. The Latina ladies, however, were kind and helpful. Nevertheless, Tess and I sort of stuck out, and I was afraid that our cover was going to be blown. In fact, the two Russian security guys kept eyeing us.

Dean saw that we were clueless, so he made Tess and me his personal assistants, and showed us how to put garnish on the trays. Tess used the opportunity to pop a hard-boiled egg in her mouth. We exchanged glances and she smiled, though I could see she was still anxious about this unplanned undercover assignment.

Within twenty minutes there were enough trays loaded so we could begin serving, and I whispered to Dean, “We’ll help serve.”

He nodded and gave me a conspiratorial wink. Dean was probably CIA—Culinary Institute of America. And he was a patriot. Two good citizen awards for Dean Hampton.

Tess and I and four catering ladies, carrying trays, followed the fat lady into a service corridor that led out to a sprawling rear deck overlooking the ocean.

The party had already started, and everyone had a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I looked around for Petrov, but I was distracted by about two dozen young women in bikinis and skimpy cover-ups. The ladies were mingling with paunchy middle-aged men who were dressed mostly in shorts and Hawaiian shirts. There seemed to be no wives present, though it was nice to see that the men had all brought their daughters or nieces. I noticed, too, that everyone was speaking Russian. We’re not in New York anymore.

I counted about thirty men, and I also spotted three men in black who were not drinking. Tamorov had lots of security, which meant that he needed it.

There was a tiki bar set up on the deck, and two bartenders who looked Russian were pouring champagne. In the middle of the hundred-foot-long deck was a swimming pool where a few of the ladies were dangling their toes. At the far end of the deck was a hot tub, but no one was in it yet.

I didn’t see Petrov or Fradkov, or Dmitry the driver, or Igor the unidentified guy with them, and this gave me a little worry.

Also, I didn’t see Georgi Tamorov, whom I would recognize from surveillance photos.

All the servers put their trays on a table, and the Russian men converged like we’d thrown blood into shark-infested waters. We got out of there before we were eaten and returned to the kitchen.

On the way, Tess whispered, “I don’t see Petrov or the others.”

“Right.”

We got more trays, brought them outside, and removed the now empty trays. After about four trips, the food was coming out faster than the porkers could eat it. The women, however, only nibbled.

Meanwhile, Petrov, Fradkov, Tamorov, and Igor still hadn’t shown up, but I saw Dmitry, which was a good sign that his boss was still here. Dmitry was now dressed in shorts and sandals, and he was catching up on the champagne, so I assumed he wouldn’t be driving for a while.

We were now doing passed hors d’oeuvres, and a few of the Russian guys were flirting with Tess in English, and I heard one guy ask her if she was an hors d’oeuvre or the main course, which was maybe a great line in Moscow.

I, being the only male server, made it my responsibility to see that the young ladies were attended to. And being the only guy there who was taller than he was wide, I became popular with the female guests, who seemed interested in my zakuski. One of them put her champagne glass to my lips and insisted I drink. This didn’t happen much in the Mideast section of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. In fact, never.

On my fifth or sixth trip from the kitchen to the deck I finally saw Petrov. He was sitting at a cocktail table with Fradkov and Igor, and Georgi Tamorov. They were all dressed in shorts and tropical shirts, but only Tamorov was drinking champagne. Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor were drinking what looked like water, though it could have been vodka. Or not. Always watch the guys who are not drinking. If they’re not Muslims or AA guys, they have a reason. I looked at Igor, who was staring off into space with his dark, deep-set eyes. He looked like a killer.

I passed around some more zakuski, then went to the bar and said to the bartender, who spoke some English, “More vodka for those gentlemen.”

He informed me, “No wood-ka. Voda,” and poured three glasses of Russian mineral water from a bottle.

I didn’t want to get that close to Petrov, so I asked a server to deliver the drinks.

Well, you can’t make too much of men at a party who don’t drink alcohol. Sometimes the guy just wants to be standing at the end of the night without worrying about getting Willie to rise to the occasion and do his duty.

Back in the kitchen, Dean handed me another tray and asked, “How’s it going?”

“Great.” I asked, “How long are you on?”

“About midnight.” He informed me, “When the sun goes down, the party starts to get a little wild. Skinny-dipping and stuff.”

“Do we all get naked?”

Dean forced a smile, probably wondering what government agency I was with. I’d have shown my creds again, but I came in here clean. Regarding that, Tess and I had been here about two hours, and I knew I had to contact Matt and Steve or they’d be busting through the gates with the local police.