Vasily, being who he is, also has a girlfriend in town, a Russian lady named Svetlana who sings at a few of the Russian nightclubs in Brighton Beach. I caught a glimpse of her once and she looks like she has good lungs.

I did a radio check with my team and everyone was awake.

A soft breeze fluttered the white, blue, and red Russian flag in front of the Mission. I remember when the Soviet Hammer and Sickle flew there. I kind of miss the Cold War. But I think it’s back.

My team today consists of four leg agents and four vehicles—my Chevy Blazer, a Ford Explorer, and two Dodge minivans. We usually have one agent in each vehicle, but today we had two. Why? Because the Russians are tricky, and sometimes they travel in groups and scatter like cockroaches, so recently we’ve been beefing up the surveillance teams. So today I had two DSG agents in the other three vehicles, all former NYPD. I had the only trainee, an FBI wannabe who probably thinks the DSG job sucks. Sometimes I think the same thing.

In the parlance of the FBI, the Diplomatic Surveillance Group is called a quiet end, which really means a dead end.

But I’m okay with this. No office, no adult supervision, and no bullshit. Just follow that asshole.

A quiet end. But in this business, there is no such thing.

CHAPTER THREE

Diplomatic Surveillance Group agents are not typically assigned to only one group of foreign diplomats. I do, however, seem to pull a lot of Russian duty, maybe because the Russians have a very big diplomatic contingent in New York—about two hundred people, including their consulate building up on East 91st. And maybe that would explain why every time Tess Faraday was with me the target was the Russians. Or maybe that didn’t explain it. So to clear this up, I asked her, “Is it a coincidence that you’re working with me only when I’m following the Russians?”

“I think it’s the law of averages.” She explained, “The other big targets are the Islamic dips, and someone told me you’re not allowed to come within a hundred yards of a Muslim.”

I suppose that would explain it—law of averages. But I’ve also watched the Chinese, the Cubans, and the psychotic North Koreans, and Ms. Faraday hadn’t been with me on any of those occasions. But I didn’t pursue this and assured her, “I’m currently taking a class in Islamic cultural sensitivity.”

She laughed.

In fact, I was told that I needed to remember that most of my targets had diplomatic status, and thus diplomatic immunity, even if they were spies or potential terrorists. That didn’t mean they could blow up 26 Federal Plaza with impunity, but it did mean that I needed to be more judicious and less physical in my methods. I did punch an Iranian diplomat in the balls once in Atlantic City, but that was when I was with the ATTF, before the DSG and before I received the proper training in dealing with the diplomatic community. I’m much nicer now.

On a related subject, a lot of people in the intelligence community (and the general public) think of the U.N. as a house of spies, which to some extent it is. But I see it as job security. I mean, if the U.N. was moved someplace else, I wouldn’t have this wonderful job. Look at what happened to all the horseshit shovelers in New York when the automobile was invented. On the other hand, I could do without this job and without guys like Colonel Vasily Petrov in town.

On the subject of job security, I asked Tess, “Who’s talking about me?”

“Everyone.”

“All good, I hope.”

“You’re a legend.”

“Is that why you ask to work with me?”

“I never asked.” She chided me, “You have a big ego.”

Tess, I reminded myself, was not a kid trainee who just fell off the turnip truck. She was a Wall Street lawyer, probably went to good schools, and she seemed self-assured. She also seemed like a lady who was used to getting her way. I’m surprised we haven’t butted heads by now.

So we sat and waited for Colonel Petrov.

I find that the Russians are more of a challenge than the Islamic, Korean, or Cuban targets. The Russians are better trained at spotting surveillance, and as I mentioned, they know how to give you the slip, or send you off on a wild-goose chase.

I’ve discovered, too, that in some ways the Russians think like us, which the Islamic guys do not. And if they think like us, they can predict our moves, and we can predict theirs. This is what makes following the Russians interesting. Plus, they’re more likely than Abdul to wind up in a tittie bar.

“What are you thinking about?”

“This guy I know went into a sex shop and asked the proprietor for a blow-up sex doll.”

“Is this a joke?”

“So the proprietor asks, ‘You want a Christian doll, a Jewish doll, or a Muslim doll?’ And the guy says, ‘What difference does it make?’ And the proprietor says, ‘Well, the Muslim dolls blow themselves up.’ ”

Tess laughed, then said, “That’s terrible.” She suggested, “I think you were in the Mideast section too long.”

“Apparently.” But it wasn’t a bad gig, and I of course distinguished myself, though I started to lose my patience with the Muslim gentlemen I was investigating. Also, the political correctness of the ATTF and the FBI was a little hard to take, and maybe I crossed the line now and then.

And, if the truth be known, my presence on the 26th floor of 26 Federal Plaza was compromising my wife’s career. Also, some might say, her position saved my ass a few times.

What I like about the DSG is that I’m out of the office most of the time, and I’m my own man, meaning I’m authorized to make quick decisions, and no one is going to second-guess me as long as I do my job. It’s almost like being a cop again.

Tess said, “Petrov’s driver just got a phone call.”

I looked at the Mercedes down the block and saw the driver get out of the car and open the rear door. I recognized the driver, a guy named Dmitry who was competent but not too tricky behind the wheel.

Tess started the Blazer and I blinged a call-out to the team. “Game time.”

Each of the DSG vehicles is equipped with what is called the police package—flashing lights in the grille, sirens, tinted windows, and other bells and whistles. We all have D-1 Nikons with zoom lenses, Sony 8mm video cameras, directional listening devices, and other high-tech toys depending on the assignment, like a little gadget that detects radioactive substances in the area. I never want to hear that thing beeping.

The gate of the wrought-iron security cage in front of the Mission opened and out came Colonel Vasily Petrov, dressed casually in tan slacks, a red polo shirt, and sandals not made for running, which was good.

With Petrov were two similarly dressed gentlemen who were carrying large overnight bags. I recognized one of them as Pavel Fradkov, a middle-aged man who was a more recent arrival than Vasily Petrov. The other guy, a big dude with a black crew cut, was unknown, at least to me, but someone might ID him from the NYPD video surveillance tape that was monitored at 26 Fed. Dmitry and the unknown guy put the bags in the Mercedes’ trunk, and everyone got in the car, except Petrov, who looked up and down the block, nodding his head like he’d spotted the four surveillance vehicles and the four guys on leg. As I said, it’s non-discreet surveillance, and we’re not trying to look like lampposts or something.

Petrov got in the rear with Fradkov and off they went.

I radioed the team, “Vaseline on the move in Benz with dip plate CYR-0823. I’ll follow with Matt and Steve. Everyone else keep an eye on the store.”

Tess fell in behind the Mercedes, and the Dodge minivan fell in behind us with Matt Conlon behind the wheel and Steve Lansky riding shotgun. I Nexteled the team, “The guy with the green shirt is Pavel Fradkov. Anyone recognize the big guy?”