“You’re not me.”

“And you’re not me. And I don’t need you out on one of my units.” He asked me, “What is your purpose?”

“You’re breaking up.”

“Do you think you’re going to take part in a combat boarding?”

“Why not?”

“Are you trained to do that?”

“Why don’t you just find The Hana? And let me worry about what I’m going to do.”

He didn’t reply to that, but said, “You owe me dinner.”

“Ecco’s,” I said, naming a restaurant in the nuclear blast zone.

He knew the place and replied, “We hope.”

“Speak to you later. And thanks.”

“Anytime, except not next time.”

I hung up and Tess said, “He made a good point. About you not being authorized, or trained—”

“You’re staying at the Coast Guard Station.”

“I am not. If you go, I go.” She did ask, however, “What is your purpose? What is driving you?”

“I’m driving myself.” I turned the steering wheel. “See?”

She said, with some insight, “You don’t have to prove to your bosses—or to your wife—”

“You’re out of line.” I should have left her with Buck. I said, “For the record, you did not approve of my actions, and chose to stay at the Coast Guard Station.”

“You’re not getting all the glory, Mr. Corey.”

“There will be none, I assure you.”

She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “We will finish this together.”

I didn’t reply.

She changed the subject and asked, “What was that about Scott Kalish’s daughter?”

“She lives in Manhattan.”

“Sounds like you both discussed it and you said it was okay to tell her to get out.”

Ms. Faraday has a deductive mind. She should be a detective.

“You need to call your wife,” she reminded me.

“Later.”

She continued, “If, as you said, Petrov is spooked, he will advance the time, and there will be no later.”

“Or he could abort the mission.” I added, “There is a lot we don’t know, so don’t make assumptions. In fact, aside from the fact that we’re not sure we’re dealing with a nuclear threat, we don’t even know the target, if there is one.” I reminded her, “We only assume it’s the financial and government districts of Lower Manhattan.”

“What else would it be?”

“The East Coast of the United States is what we call a target-rich environment. For instance, there’s the nuclear submarine base in Groton, Connecticut, which the Russians would love to see vaporized.”

“But if you’re saying that it’s supposed to look like Islamic terrorists—9/11, Part Two—then the target is once again Lower Manhattan.” She suggested, “Don’t overthink this, Detective.”

“Right.”

I know never to underestimate the enemy, but I also know never to overestimate him. Somewhere in between was the sweet spot, the place where facts, clues, logic, instinct, and experience come together to form reality.

In any case, I had no other goose to chase tonight, so I either chased this one or I went for a drink. End of tour.

Tess said, “I need to call Buck.”

“He knows everything we know, and probably more. And if Buck wants you to know what he knows, he’ll call you.”

“Okay… but I need to tell him we’re going out with a search unit.”

“That’s the kind of call you make after the fact.”

She thought about that and concluded, “You have a problem with authority.”

“No problem.”

She said, again with some insight, “Your NYPD days are over. You need to adjust your thinking and your attitude or get out.”

I think that decision had already been made for me. But if I was going out, it would be in a blaze of… well, something.

As I drove through the fog, it occurred to me that The Hana could be in New York Harbor now, with its timer ticking down the last few minutes. Well, when we got on that SAFE boat, if I saw the western horizon light up it wouldn’t matter that I got it right if I got it right too late.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Ms. Faraday got us on the right road, and up ahead I could see the lights of the Coast Guard Station through the mist.

My Nextel—actually Matt’s Nextel—chimed and I looked at the message: Corey, call me ASAP—Fensterman. Apparently he’d learned I had Matt Conlon’s phone.

Tess asked, “Who texted?”

“Fensterman.”

She didn’t waste her breath telling me to call him.

FBI Supervisory Special Agent Howard Fensterman, as I recalled from when he was the legal attaché in Yemen, was big on rules and procedures, chain of command, and all that, so I would be hearing from him again, but he wouldn’t be hearing from me.

There was a twelve-foot chain-link fence around the Coast Guard Station and I pulled up to a call box at the gate and picked up the phone. “John Corey, FBI.”

The electric-powered gate rolled open, and the watchstander, a young woman in a blue uniform, stepped out of a nearby building as I pulled ahead and lowered my window.

I handed my and Tess’ creds to the young lady, whose nametag said, “Mullins,” and she asked me, “Sir, what is your business here?”

“We’re meeting a county police harbor unit.”

She handed our creds back, and having met Buck Harris awhile ago, she asked, “What is going on tonight?”

Tess replied, “Ship lost at sea.”

Seaman Mullins didn’t ask why State Department Intelligence or the FBI was interested in this, but she did glance at the portable radiation detector on the console, then said, “Okay… please proceed to the boathouse,” and gave us directions.

The old Shinnecock Coast Guard Station was picturesque, especially in the swirling mist, and we drove past a few white-shingled buildings toward a brick boathouse where an illuminated American flag hung limply from a tall pole.

I parked near the boathouse and we got out. Tess pocketed the PRD, though there would be one on the SAFE boat.

There were no Coast Guard vessels at the docks, and I assumed they were all deployed looking for The Hana. In fact, there didn’t seem to be anyone around, but at the end of the second finger dock was a Secure Around Flotation Equipped craft—a SAFE boat.

My Nextel rang and the Caller ID read 26 Fed.

It kept ringing and went into voice mail.

Again, Tess did not bug me about returning the call. She had come aboard the good ship Corey. I wish I could get my wife to do the same.

We walked to the boathouse and entered the cavernous, dimly lit interior.

A man and a woman wearing bulky blue-and-orange float coats were standing at a coffee bar on the far side of the room. On the back of their coats were the words, “Suffolk Police,” and slung over their shoulders were MP5 submachine guns. They turned as we approached, and I said, “John Corey, and this is Tess Faraday.”

The guy introduced himself as Sergeant Pete Conte and the woman was Police Officer Nikola Andersson. We all shook hands and Sergeant Conte said, “So we’re going yacht hunting.”

“Right. Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem.”

Conte was about late thirties, and his face was weather-beaten from long hours at sea. Nikola Andersson had a prettier face and looked too young to be a police officer, but maybe I’m getting older.

In any case, Marine Bureau duty, as I knew, was good duty until it wasn’t. Sunny summer days on the water were nice. Cold winter nights, looking for bad guys, weren’t so nice. No job is perfect.

Conte looked at his new crew and asked, “You have any experience or training boarding a hostile craft?”

I assured him, “I used to ride the Staten Island Ferry.”

He laughed, and Officer Andersson smiled.

Conte knew from Scott Kalish that I was former NYPD, so we were brothers and all was good. He wasn’t sure about Ms. Faraday, however, and he asked her, “Are you coming along?”