I continued, “Also, do visa checks, immigration status, and so forth, and look for drugs, and seize all the cell phones. And ask the young ladies here if they’ve heard from their friends who took off in the amphibious craft. And see if you can find my and Tess’ Nextels that were taken by the security guys. Also see if Dmitry remembers any more about where Petrov went.”

She informed me, “This is going to be a legal mess—and an international incident.”

“That should be the least of our problems tonight.”

She nodded, then said, “I need to call the FBI.”

“You should first determine if there’s a Federal beef here.” I advised her, “They don’t like to be called on Sunday.”

“How much time do you need to play Lone Ranger?”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“Okay. And thanks for your help.”

As I headed toward the house, I heard her call out, “See me before you leave.”

I acknowledged with a quick wave as I slid open the glass door.

And now for Georgi Tamorov. But first, a call to Scott Kalish with a possible lead. Colonel Petrov and his pals had sailed off to rendezvous with a yacht. A yakut. But why? Party? I hope so.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Georgi Tamorov was sitting on a white couch in his spacious contemporary-style living room, looking very pissed off, and Tess was sitting opposite him, legs crossed, staring at him. It appeared that Mr. Tamorov was being uncooperative. I hoped he would talk to me. In fact, I knew he would.

The air-conditioning was set to simulate a Russian winter, and the transition from the hot tub was a shock. Fortunately, I spotted a warming station—a bar—in an alcove off the living room, where I threw my shoes and my Glock and helped myself to Mr. Tamorov’s French cognac. I picked up the phone on the bar and dialed Vasily Petrov’s cell phone, hoping if Petrov saw the Caller ID from Tamorov’s phone, he’d answer. But there was a short recorded message in Russian and the phone went dead.

I gave Tasha’s phone another try, but I got the same message as last time. I pictured guys all over New York waiting for Tasha’s callback. They might be waiting a long time.

I used my cell phone to dial Scott Kalish. He answered and I said, “I’m at Tamorov’s with your two detectives, interviewing witnesses.”

“Anything good?”

“You first.” I took a swig of cognac. Hypothermia is dangerous.

“Okay, I’ve got the Nassau County Marine Bureau out looking, and I’ve got the rest of my units deployed, as per your request, and I’m in contact with the Coast Guard, and I’ve alerted NYPD Harbor.”

“Good.” He sounded a bit tired and strained, so I said, “You’re doing a great job.” I asked, “Have you met Buck Harris yet?”

“Yeah. He dropped in.” He let me know, “Looks like he escaped from an assisted living facility.”

“What did he say?”

“Not much. Like, this is really important. He forgot to mention the nuke thing, so I brought it up and he didn’t deny it, but then he said we never had this conversation.”

I guess that was Buck’s way of being straight with the local police. The FBI has the same problem. The CIA has no problem; they speak to no one, except to lie. As for State Department Intelligence… well, they got off to a bad start with me.

Kalish continued, “I also got a conference call from Washington, from people who didn’t fully ID themselves. They wanted me to know that I was doing an important job and that I was serving my country, and that they were a hundred percent behind me.”

“Wonderful.”

“Yeah, but meanwhile, they’re not telling me squat about a nuke, and I didn’t bring it up, but somebody said there could be terrorists onboard the target vessel. I guess that’s the cover story. So I should take any and all action, using all available resources to locate and intercept the target vessel.”

Sounded like they were taking this very seriously in Washington. I took another swig of the cognac. “What else did they say?”

“Well, unfortunately there are no naval vessels in the immediate area, but the Coast Guard will take the lead in a boarding if they’re close by. Otherwise, it’s my show—if they give me the go-ahead. Also, Washington has notified Customs and Border and also Coast Guard headquarters in New York City, and I told them I’d given the NYPD Harbor Unit a heads-up.” He added, “So we have the Atlantic Ocean covered between here and New York Harbor.”

“Good. And I might have something for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, I spoke to Petrov’s driver, a guy named Dmitry, who says that his boss and his friends went to a party in East Hampton.”

“I’m positive that amphibious craft would have been spotted by now if it went ashore anywhere.” He also let me know, “Actually, I just heard from our commo people—they just IDed a hit on Tasha’s phone. Maybe twenty minutes after you saw the amphibious craft leaving the beach. The signal came from six miles out, almost due south of Tamorov’s, then it went dead.”

“I told you they went out to sea.”

“Good guess. Now we know they went six miles out. But that’s all we know.”

“Well, I have something else for you.” I told Kalish about Dmitry overhearing one of his passengers saying something about going to a yakut—yacht.

“All right… so are we looking for a yacht?”

“If we believe Dmitry. And if there was nothing lost in the translation. And this yacht must be big enough to hold a twenty-five-foot amphibious craft, twelve hookers, three Russian guys, maybe other passengers, and the ship’s crew.”

Kalish suggested, “That sounds more like a party than a nuclear attack.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to look like, Scott.” I urged him, “Think nuke, not nookie.”

“Okay.” He asked me, “Is your witness reliable and truthful?”

“He appeared to be giving truthful answers.” I confessed, “I held his head underwater.”

“I should do that with my supervisors.”

“Me too. So if we believe this twenty-five-foot amphibious craft was taken aboard a yacht, not only is this a big yacht, it may not be a sailing ship. It’s probably an ocean-going motorized vessel. Correct?”

“Probably.” He asked, “Whose yacht is this?”

“Not mine. Yours?” I asked him, “How big would a yacht have to be to take a twenty-five-foot craft onboard?”

“Maybe… at least a hundred and fifty feet. Maybe closer to two hundred.”

“Good. Easy to spot with the amphibious craft on deck.”

Kalish stayed silent a moment, then informed me, “People who own a yacht that big, especially one of those newer, half-billion-dollar super yachts, usually have what’s called a tender garage below deck.”

“That sucks.”

“Also, FYI, some of these super yachts even have submersibles—a small submarine—for exploring. Even cars and helicopters. So that’s something to think about.”

“Right.”

“Okay, I think I’m getting a picture of this ship. I’ll put the word out to the search units. Maybe they’ve already spotted something like this.”

“That would be good.” I asked, “How fast is this two-hundred-foot yacht?”

“Maybe… twenty, twenty-five knots.” He added, “Depends on a lot of factors.”

“So where is it now?”

“John, I don’t know its speed, or what route it’s taking. I don’t know if it’s lain at anchor for a few hours. Also, I have to check winds, currents, and tides.”

“Assuming the best conditions, how close is it to New York Harbor?”

He did some quick math and replied, “If it started at Southampton, maybe a half hour after you saw the amphibious craft heading out to sea, and if this ship—this yacht—took the direct ocean route at twenty knots, it could be approaching New York City now.”