“So we just locate and follow.”

“Right. No bust.”

“Okay. I’ll also call the harbor constables in the area.”

“Good, but I don’t think that craft is going to make port, Scott. I think it’s on its way to a big ship.”

“How do you know?”

“I didn’t see him turn to run along the shore when he left.”

“Sometimes a boat goes out to get away from the surf and sandbars.”

“Right, but—”

“From what you’ve told me, John, it sounds like these Russkies are going from one party to another party.” He reminded me, “Twelve babes onboard.”

“Right. But the party could be on a ship.”

“Could be,” he conceded. “Lots of high rollers out here go outside the three-mile limit. Gambling, drugs, prostitutes. Hijinks on the high seas.”

“Right. So let’s locate that craft—”

“But it’s an amphibious craft, so he could make land anywhere he can climb ashore.”

“I know, Scott, that’s why it’s called an amphibious craft. But I think—”

“I sense some urgency in your voice, John. What’s the problem?”

“I just lost the fucking guy I was supposed to be following.”

“Right. It happens.”

“Not to me.”

“Okay… so there’s no national security issue.”

That was the thing that Scott Kalish, an Anti-Terrorist Task Force liaison guy, would want to know for sure. I didn’t want to blow any more smoke up his butt, so I answered, somewhat truthfully, “I have no direct knowledge of that. But Petrov is SVR.”

“You said. Okay, I’ll give this a high priority and say maybe the SVR guy is up to something and we need to mobilize all resources. But basically, what I’m hearing is that I’m just helping you out of a tight spot.”

“Right. I owe you.”

“I’ve already made a note of it.” He asked me, “What happens when you lose your target?”

“Professionally, not too much. Personally, I go into a deep depression.”

Kalish laughed, then assured me, “If this amphibious craft comes to shore anywhere around here—a marina, a yacht club, a private dock, or even up on the beach like a D-Day landing—we’ll find him.”

“I know you will. But I’m really thinking the craft is going to rendezvous with a ship at sea.” I explained, logically, “If Petrov was going to a party on land, he’d have taken his car and driver. He doesn’t need a landing craft, Scott.”

“He needs the landing craft to deliver the twelve babes. Or the party’s on an island.”

“Think ship.”

“That would have to be a very big ship to take a twenty-five-foot craft aboard.”

“Then look for a big ship.”

“Or maybe this craft was just ferrying these people out to a small ship.”

“Then look for a small ship.”

“Okay. Are you going to ask your people to call the Coast Guard?”

“Let’s keep it in the family.”

“Right. What the bosses don’t know, they don’t know.” He assured me, “We can handle it for you.”

“Good.” I gave him Matt and Steve’s Nextel numbers, explaining why I didn’t have my phone, and told him, “I’ll have Matt’s phone.”

Scott suggested, “Go back to Tamorov’s place and squeeze some nuts.” He offered, “I can send a few detectives with you based on your suspicion of illegal activity.”

I’d thought about that, but I doubted if Georgi Tamorov knew where Petrov was going. SVR guys, like the CIA, do not give out information—only disinformation. And neither would Dmitry know where his boss was heading. But they might know something. I said to Kalish, “I’ll get back to you on that.”

“All right. And thanks for your confidence in the Suffolk County Police Department, and for fucking up my Sunday night.”

“Anytime.”

“And John…?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t wait too long to call your boss. That’s how we get in more trouble than we’re in.”

I didn’t reply and we signed off. Thanks for the tip, Scott.

Well, this was not the first time I engaged in multi-tasking—covering my ass while covering the problem. But this could be the last time. A quiet end, indeed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tess Faraday seemed not happy that I’d called the cops before I called 26 Fed. Steve and Matt seemed okay with that, and they trusted me to do the right thing—which was to cover all our asses.

More importantly, I got the wheels moving, and no one could find fault with that. The Diplomatic Surveillance Group has access to FBI resources, but those resources weren’t immediately available out here on the east end of Long Island. And in any case the wheels of the Feds moved slowly—and sometimes in the wrong direction. Captain Scott Kalish, like all local cops, could get things moving, and he knew his beat. In fact, that was the purpose of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force: to form alliances and liaisons between the Feds and the local law enforcement agencies—synergy, they called it—to combat domestic terrorism. True, Vasily Petrov wasn’t a terrorist and I wasn’t with the ATTF anymore, but Petrov was an asshole, and today he had become my hemorrhoid.

Steve said to me, “You made the right move to go undercover, boss. But before too long, we need to call this in.”

I didn’t reply.

Matt pointed out, “If John hadn’t gone in there, we’d all be sitting here waiting for the black Mercedes to come out of Tamorov’s driveway.” He added, “So we have that going for us, and maybe the Suffolk PD will spot the boat, then we just pick up the surveillance where we left off.”

I was also a little pissed off at myself for not covering this with an air or sea surveillance craft. But as I said, the Russians did not get the full treatment the way the Islamic guys did. Scott Kalish, too, didn’t get all worked up about the Russians the way he would have about an Islamic intelligence agent going off in a boat. This was a perception problem; the Russians did not murder three thousand people on 9/11. And these three Russians had a dozen babes with them, which looked more like Russian hijinks than a security issue. And probably that’s all it was—a party.

I advised everyone, “I’ll give it an hour.” Cops understand how to adjust the timelines so it doesn’t appear that anyone failed to make a timely report. I mean, sometimes you need a little time to cover your butt and get your stories straight. Also, to call the case agent now would start a pissing match between the Feds and the local police—a turf war, which always led to chaos and confusion, and never to synergy. I was working for the Feds, but I was still Detective John Corey.

I looked at Tess, who was not a cop, and who wanted to be a Fed. She could be a problem.

But she’s bright and savvy and she understood all of this, so she said, “I have no idea what the protocol is, and I wasn’t in the room when you three were talking.”

Good enough.

I asked Steve, “You hear from the office?”

“Just a text asking me why you didn’t reply to the CA’s last text. I said you were catching some Zs. Also we got an ID on Igor. He’s Viktor Gorsky, an SVR agent.”

“No surprise.”

“Right. He just got here, like, two weeks ago, and he works in Petrov’s office.”

“That sounds like a scary Human Rights office.”

“And according to the intel he worked with Petrov in Chechnya.”

I nodded, recalling what Colonel Petrov was reported to have done in Chechnya. When bad actors get together, bad things happen.

Steve also informed me and Tess, “The CA will get a relief team out here at first light if we’re still here waiting for Petrov to come out of Tamorov’s house.”

“Okay. And I assume you didn’t mention that I was moonlighting with Hampton Catering.”

“It didn’t come up.”

I nodded. My undercover mission, like most rule-bending, showed either poor judgment or good initiative. To be determined. But all’s well that ends well. Or it doesn’t.