She looked at me and shrugged. One of the security guys came between us and nudged her toward the stairs.

The women all descended the long wooden staircase to the beach. Some of them seemed indifferent, and some seemed unhappy about leaving the party, but most of them appeared to be excited about what looked like a boat trip. Maybe Tasha thought she was going back to Russia.

The security guy motioned for me and Tess to get back to work.

Tess and I moved to the far end of the deck into a dark corner and watched as the women walked across the wide beach toward the water. The boat was about ten yards offshore, and as it got closer, I could see it had a blunt bow and a wide beam—the sort of watercraft that was more of a ship’s tender or utility boat than a sports boat.

Tamorov’s guests, including the dozen or so ladies who’d been left behind, were now lined up along the rail, chatting away, laughing, waving, and calling out to their friends on the beach, who waved back.

I glanced at where Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor had been standing and they were gone. Then I saw them coming out of the sliding glass doors of the house, dressed now in pants and polo shirts and carrying their overnight bags. Without so much as a good-bye to their host, they headed for the staircase. This was not good.

I looked back at the boat and saw it hit the beach. I expected someone to throw a line to or from the craft, but all of a sudden the boat started to climb the beach and I saw it was an amphibious craft. The wheels kicked up sand as the flat-bottomed craft got traction and drove onto the shore, then stopped. I saw, too, that there were no markings on the shiny white fiberglass hull—no name and no numbers—which was odd, if not illegal, and again I had the impression of a ship’s tender.

The security guys herded the women toward the boat and they began boarding via a short ladder that hung over the side. The second guy onboard was helping the tipsy ladies up and directing them to sit on the benches that ran along the sides and stern.

Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor were on the beach now, heading toward the amphibious craft. Within a few minutes they were onboard and the craft made a U-turn on the beach and returned to the water.

Tess said, “I think you just lost your Russian.”

CHAPTER TEN

Tess and I moved quickly to the kitchen and I went straight for the wall phone and dialed Steve’s number. On the second ring, a hairy hand reached over my shoulder and hit the cradle.

I glanced back at the big Russian and explained, “I need more mushrooms.”

“No call.”

Yob vas.

Okay, so Tess and I made busy in the kitchen for a minute, then I said to Dean, “We need to split.”

He nodded. “Carry those crates of dirty napkins to the truck.”

I grabbed a crate and so did Tess, and we headed for the service entrance.

The two security guys gave us a quick glance, then went back to their MTV show.

Outside in the garage, we ditched the linens and considered our next move. There was no way we were getting through the gates, so we had to jump the fence of the adjoining property.

We pulled off our caterer smocks, threw them in one of the trucks, and moved quickly out of the garage.

Tamorov’s house was separated from the next beach house by thick shrubs, behind which I could make out a high fence. I glanced down the driveway and saw the two security guys, about a hundred feet away, sitting in chairs under the post lights of the iron gates. The Dobermans were with them.

Tess said, “Go for it.”

I dashed across the gravel driveway and into the shrubbery with Tess right beside me. The Dobermans, who were smarter and more alert than their handlers, started barking.

I found my way through the landscaping and reached the wood-slat fence, which was about eight feet high, and Tess and I started climbing it just as the Dobermans got into the shrubbery. I wished I’d thought to bring five feet of kolbasa with me.

Anyway, we got over the fence, and the dogs were left sniffing our trail and letting out a few tentative barks.

The neighboring oceanfront mansion that Matt said he’d used for surveillance looked dark, but some security lighting, probably activated by motion sensors, came on and lit up the area.

I could hear the dogs barking again on the other side of the fence, and I also heard voices speaking Russian.

Tess informed me, “There’s a public beach access path to Gin Lane a few houses down.”

We ran toward the shore at high speed, angling away from Tamorov’s house, then scrambled over a dune and found ourselves on the beach. I looked out at the water, but I couldn’t see the running lights of the amphibious landing craft. I glanced back at Tamorov’s house, about a hundred yards away, and could make out people moving on his tonga-lit deck.

I didn’t see anyone following us, and no one was on the beach. We turned east, away from Tamorov’s house, and broke into a trot, as though we were just jogging the moonlit beach.

Tess said, “Past the next house is the beach access to Gin Lane.” She reminded me, “I know this area.”

She also knew a little about escape and evasion, as though she’d been trained—or maybe she picked it up being married to Grant.

We reached the access path, which took us between two mansions up to Gin Lane. I saw our vehicles still parked where we’d left them, closer to the Tamorov house, and we doubled back toward them.

Steve and Matt jumped out of the van with their guns drawn, then recognized us. “What’s happening?”

“Petrov took off in a boat.”

“Shit!”

Steve asked, “You being chased?”

“No. Give me your phone.”

He holstered his Glock and gave me his Nextel. I accessed his directory, looking for the number of Scott Kalish, a Suffolk County Police captain with the Marine Bureau who used to be one of my ATTF contacts out here. “You don’t have Scott Kalish.”

Matt said, “I’ve got him,” and speed-dialed Kalish’s number and handed me his phone.

Tess suggested, “You need to call the case agent or the duty agent.”

“No, I need to find that boat now.”

Scott Kalish answered, and I said, “Scott, this is John Corey.”

“Hey, John. What’s up?”

“I need some help.”

“We’re here to serve and protect.”

“Good. Look, I’m with the DSG now—”

“Who?”

“Diplomatic Surveillance Group.”

“No kidding?”

“I’m in Southampton, Gin Lane, following a Russian dip—”

“I’m home watching Law and Order reruns.”

“Great. And this dip just gave me the slip.”

“That sucks.”

“Right.” I gave Captain Kalish a short briefing of my long day, then said, “The amphibious craft was heading due south from Tamorov’s. White hull, no markings, two-man crew, maybe twenty-five feet, covered cockpit, open deck, inboard motor, making about ten knots.”

“He could be a couple miles from shore by now.”

“Right. So let’s get some of your Suffolk County Marine Bureau units and aviation on it now.”

“Okay… and who was onboard?”

“Colonel Vasily Petrov, SVR Legal Resident, and two of his guys, Pavel Fradkov and an unknown—”

“I got that. Did you say twelve young ladies in bikinis?”

I rolled my eyes. “Right.”

“Hey, I’m joining the search.”

“Scott—”

“All right, I’ll get on it. What’s the beef?”

“Just pick up the surveillance. The target has diplomatic immunity—”

“I know.” He asked, “Any crime committed or suspected?”

“Well… maybe drugs,” I lied. “Maybe a few of the girls are underage. Also the three Russians are past their twenty-five-mile radius without permission.” Also, Petrov gave me the finger, but this wasn’t a personal beef. Well… all surveillance becomes personal.