Radiant Angel (John Corey Book 7)

  Tess and I tried to make ourselves useful, but neither of us knew our way around a kitchen and the fat lady yelled at me a few times. The Latina ladies, however, were kind and helpful. Nevertheless, Tess and I sort of stuck out, and I was afraid that our cover was going to be blown. In fact, the two Russian security guys kept eyeing us.

  Dean saw that we were clueless, so he made Tess and me his personal assistants, and showed us how to put garnish on the trays. Tess used the opportunity to pop a hard-boiled egg in her mouth. We exchanged glances and she smiled, though I could see she was still anxious about this unplanned undercover assignment.

  Within twenty minutes there were enough trays loaded so we could begin serving, and I whispered to Dean, “We’ll help serve.”

  He nodded and gave me a conspiratorial wink. Dean was probably CIA—Culinary Institute of America. And he was a patriot. Two good citizen awards for Dean Hampton.

  Tess and I and four catering ladies, carrying trays, followed the fat lady into a service corridor that led out to a sprawling rear deck overlooking the ocean.

  The party had already started, and everyone had a glass of champagne in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I looked around for Petrov, but I was distracted by about two dozen young women in bikinis and skimpy cover-ups. The ladies were mingling with paunchy middle-aged men who were dressed mostly in shorts and Hawaiian shirts. There seemed to be no wives present, though it was nice to see that the men had all brought their daughters or nieces. I noticed, too, that everyone was speaking Russian. We’re not in New York anymore.

  I counted about thirty men, and I also spotted three men in black who were not drinking. Tamorov had lots of security, which meant that he needed it.

  There was a tiki bar set up on the deck, and two bartenders who looked Russian were pouring champagne. In the middle of the hundred-foot-long deck was a swimming pool where a few of the ladies were dangling their toes. At the far end of the deck was a hot tub, but no one was in it yet.

  I didn’t see Petrov or Fradkov, or Dmitry the driver, or Igor the unidentified guy with them, and this gave me a little worry.

  Also, I didn’t see Georgi Tamorov, whom I would recognize from surveillance photos.

  All the servers put their trays on a table, and the Russian men converged like we’d thrown blood into shark-infested waters. We got out of there before we were eaten and returned to the kitchen.

  On the way, Tess whispered, “I don’t see Petrov or the others.”

  “Right.”

  We got more trays, brought them outside, and removed the now empty trays. After about four trips, the food was coming out faster than the porkers could eat it. The women, however, only nibbled.

  Meanwhile, Petrov, Fradkov, Tamorov, and Igor still hadn’t shown up, but I saw Dmitry, which was a good sign that his boss was still here. Dmitry was now dressed in shorts and sandals, and he was catching up on the champagne, so I assumed he wouldn’t be driving for a while.

  We were now doing passed hors d’oeuvres, and a few of the Russian guys were flirting with Tess in English, and I heard one guy ask her if she was an hors d’oeuvre or the main course, which was maybe a great line in Moscow.

  I, being the only male server, made it my responsibility to see that the young ladies were attended to. And being the only guy there who was taller than he was wide, I became popular with the female guests, who seemed interested in my zakuski. One of them put her champagne glass to my lips and insisted I drink. This didn’t happen much in the Mideast section of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. In fact, never.

  On my fifth or sixth trip from the kitchen to the deck I finally saw Petrov. He was sitting at a cocktail table with Fradkov and Igor, and Georgi Tamorov. They were all dressed in shorts and tropical shirts, but only Tamorov was drinking champagne. Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor were drinking what looked like water, though it could have been vodka. Or not. Always watch the guys who are not drinking. If they’re not Muslims or AA guys, they have a reason. I looked at Igor, who was staring off into space with his dark, deep-set eyes. He looked like a killer.

  I passed around some more zakuski, then went to the bar and said to the bartender, who spoke some English, “More vodka for those gentlemen.”

  He informed me, “No wood-ka. Voda,” and poured three glasses of Russian mineral water from a bottle.

  I didn’t want to get that close to Petrov, so I asked a server to deliver the drinks.

  Well, you can’t make too much of men at a party who don’t drink alcohol. Sometimes the guy just wants to be standing at the end of the night without worrying about getting Willie to rise to the occasion and do his duty.

  Back in the kitchen, Dean handed me another tray and asked, “How’s it going?”

  “Great.” I asked, “How long are you on?”

  “About midnight.” He informed me, “When the sun goes down, the party starts to get a little wild. Skinny-dipping and stuff.”

  “Do we all get naked?”

  Dean forced a smile, probably wondering what government agency I was with. I’d have shown my creds again, but I came in here clean. Regarding that, Tess and I had been here about two hours, and I knew I had to contact Matt and Steve or they’d be busting through the gates with the local police.

  The two kitchen security guys were sitting at a table, eating pickles and watching a Russian-language soccer match on a flat-screen TV.

  I asked Dean, “Can I use the phone?”

  “No.”

  “Can you use the phone? Like, what if you needed more pickled herring or something?”

  “I guess…”

  “I’ll give you a number to call. You’ll talk to Matt. Tell him about the cell phones and that J&T are okay, and we’ll keep Vaseline under the eye until the caterers leave.”

  Dean glanced at the security guys.

  “You understand that this is a matter of national security?”

  He nodded.

  I gave him Matt’s cell phone number and he repeated it.

  I took my tray out to the deck, where Tess was now the cocktail waitress, going around with a tray of champagne glasses.

  I informed her, “Dean says everyone gets naked later.”

  “What the hell did you get me into?”

  “You volunteered,” I reminded her.

  She moved off with her tray of bubbly.

  Indeed, this was a day of things not being what they seemed. Tess Faraday was not a serving girl, and maybe she wasn’t working with me because she liked me. And it was obvious that her frequent trips to the ladies’ room while on surveillance were also occasions to make a phone call—probably to her husband, but maybe to someone else. And Vasily Petrov was not a Human Rights delegate to the U.N., and maybe he wasn’t here for the party.

  At the end of every masquerade, the masks come off and you know who’s who. And when you know who’s who, you know what’s what.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Another hour or so passed, and the gentlemen were getting shitfaced and the ladies were knocking down the bubbly to make these guys more interesting.

  I took a break and stood at the rail, looking out at the ocean. A few motor craft and sailboats ran parallel to the shore, and jetliners cut across the blue sky. A biplane flew low, dragging a banner that read SUNDAY NIGHT SUNDOWNERS AT SAMMY’S SEASIDE GRILL. I’ll keep that in mind.

  I was aware that someone was standing to my left, and I glanced over to see a young lady in a cover-up, her elbows on the rail, gazing out to sea, holding a glass of champagne. Her skin was paper white and her long, straight black hair fell past her shoulders.

  She looked at me with big brown eyes, smiled, and pointed in the direction we were facing, toward the south. “Rooshia.”

  I corrected her geography and pointed east. “That way.”

  “Yes? So long away.”

  “Right. But Russia is here today.”

  She laughed. After a moment, she said, “I am Tasha.”

  “I’m John.” I translated,
“Ivan.”

  Again she laughed, but she looked a bit sad or wistful. I guess if I had to sleep with one of these guys, I’d feel a little blue myself.

  She held her glass toward me. “Champagne?”

  “I’m on duty.” I asked her, “How can I contact you after work?”

  She gave me her cell phone number.

  Before I could ask her if she was a Pisces, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Tess’ unsmiling face. She said curtly, “We need to return to the kitchen.”

  “I still have zakuski—”

  She handed me an empty tray. “Let’s go.”

  I bid Tasha, “Das vidanya,” and followed Tess. I explained to Mrs. Faraday, “I was getting her phone number because she’s a potential witness to interview tomorrow.”

  Tess seemed to buy part of that—though it was all true—but she said, “The security guys were looking at you.”

  “Don’t be as paranoid as the Russians.”

  Back in the kitchen I caught Dean’s eye and glanced toward the wall phone. He gave me a nod.

  Tess and I grabbed trays, and on the way out I told her, “Dean called Matt from the kitchen phone and relayed my situation report.”

  “I hope the phones aren’t monitored internally.”

  “Good paranoia.” I also informed her, “Petrov, Fradkov, and Igor are not drinking.”

  She seemed to understand that could have some significance and she nodded.

  I told her, “If Petrov is still here when the caterers leave, I’m going to duck into a closet or something and stay here.”

  “John, they counted everyone coming in and they will count everyone going out.”

  “True… but—”

  “We leave here together.”

  “Actually, you’ll do what I tell you—”

  “I don’t know how you survived this long.”

  “Balls and brains.” I reminded her, “I am a legend.”

  “Don’t push it.”

  We came out on the deck and Tess walked away from me and held out a tray of eggs à la Russe to a Russe, who popped one in his mouth and popped another into Tess’ mouth. I hoped she was having fun.

  I worked the poolside where a few of the ladies, including Tasha, were now lying in chaises, chatting in Russian with one another, probably about what a great party this would be if they didn’t have to fuck all the guests.

  I offered Tasha my hot kolbasa, but she declined, then pantomimed holding a phone to her ear and mouthed, “Call me.” The other ladies giggled.

  One of the security guys caught all this, and he fixed me with a stare.

  The feeding frenzy seemed to have subsided for now, and a few bloated gentlemen floated in the pool on inflatable rafts. A half dozen men and women went down to the beach and cavorted in the surf. One guy was lying motionless on a chaise in the sand, and a seagull checked him out to see if he was possibly dead and edible.

  I suppose you could say that the Russians had a big appetite for life, or you could say they were dissolute and decadent, which was the opposite side of the same ruble. In either case, they were becoming more confident in themselves and their country. Rarely has an empire fallen so quickly, then experienced such an equally fast resurgence. They should be happy with that, and happier that we didn’t kick them when they were down. But it seemed to me that Putin and his goons were still pissed off that we knocked them down in the first place. So we weren’t going to be buddies soon.

  Meanwhile, the diplomatic and security apparatus in Washington was obsessed with Islamic terrorists and distracted enough not to notice all of this. Or if they did, it wasn’t a priority. The Russians, however, were making it a priority to fuck America. When I saw people like Petrov, and when I compared them to the Islamists I spent years following and investigating, I had no doubt who was the most dangerous.

  The afternoon slipped into early evening, and the sun was dropping into the western sky. I noted that the bartenders were serving mostly hard stuff now, but Petrov was content with nursing his mineral water, as were Fradkov and Igor. Georgi Tamorov, however, was knocking down a few shots of iced vodka, as was Dmitry, who must have known he wasn’t driving back to the city tonight.

  It was possible, I conceded, that Petrov and his companions were actually just here for the party. That made more sense than anything else I might suspect or imagine. Or, if there was something else going on, it would go down later, behind closed doors, and I’d never know about it. Especially since they were all speaking Russian. And whatever they were up to, it would most probably have nothing to do with American national security; it would have to do with money, or with Georgi Tamorov asking Vasily Petrov for a favor, which was usually the deal when a rich oligarch sucked up to someone like Colonel Petrov of the SVR. Tamorov probably wanted one of his competitors to meet with an unfortunate accident. A million Swiss francs should get the job done.

  According to the intel on Georgi Tamorov, he was spending more time in New York and London, and he was tied to the economic interests of the West. Money protects its money, and people like Colonel Petrov made people like Georgi Tamorov nervous. And yet they were here together, and not for the first time. Why?

  I used to watch Mafia guys when I was on the Organized Crime Task Force, and it was sometimes hard to figure out who was selling and who was buying. So the other possibility here was that Georgi Tamorov was not looking to buy something from Colonel Petrov—it was Petrov who was selling something to Tamorov. Like his life. Like, Georgi Tamorov would be a lot safer if Colonel Petrov was watching his back. Or maybe Petrov was sent here by the Kremlin to whack Tamorov, who had somehow pissed them off.

  The possibilities of why the billionaire oligarch and the SVR assassin were palling around were endless. But as I said, thinking about this was not in my limited job description.

  I looked again at Vasily Petrov in the fading light. He did not look like a man who’d come for the party. And if he’d made his deal with Tamorov, he should be leaving. But he wasn’t. It seemed instead that he was waiting for something, or someone.

  My instincts told me that I had made the right move to stick close to this guy.

  Petrov caught my eye and held up his glass.

  I went to the bar and got him another mineral water and he stared at me as I handed it to him on a tray.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Johnny Depp.”

  He kept looking at me, then turned away and said something to Igor in Russian.

  Igor nodded and stared at me.

  As a former homicide cop, I know a killer when I see one, and I just saw one.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was twilight time, and the household staff lit tonga torches and hurricane lamps, illuminating the sprawling deck in flickering light. The sound system crackled, and Bobby Darin started singing, Somewhere beyond the sea… Setting the mood for love and romance.

  The ladies’ tops had come off in the hot tub, and a few of the Russian gentlemen had gone au naturel in the swimming pool. Thank God my wife was not here to see this. Or Grant for that matter, who would not approve of his wife passing drinks to naked men in the swimming pool. One oaf, floating on a raft with his periscope up, tried to grab Tess’ arm as she handed him a drink, but she was too nimble for him.

  The Latina serving ladies seemed indifferent to the bare butts in the pool and the bobbing boobs in the hot tub; and they went about their business, even as the Russian gentlemen tried to entice the younger of the señoritas into the pool. I mean, there were two dozen Russian ladies who’d been hired for this, but men always want what they can’t buy. On that subject, a few of the men had gone into the house accompanied by a young lady, who presumably had been pre-paid by the host to provide services.

  Tess and I were at the bar, getting drink orders, and she whispered to me, “This is getting a little uncomfortable.”

  “No job is perfect.” I suggested, “Think of it as a Wall Street Christmas party.”

/>   “I’m going to stay in the kitchen.”

  “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  She hesitated, then said, “I’ll stay with you.”

  I hadn’t seen any sign of drugs and I smelled no pot, and the girls all seemed to be of age, so I assumed that Georgi Tamorov knew not to compromise his U.N. guests. Thus, even if I was on the vice squad, I’d have to conclude that nothing really illegal was going on here—especially if the ladies were doing it for love.

  It would be good, though, if we could compromise Petrov and get him booted out of the country, which would make our unpaid labor worthwhile. Meanwhile, I have to serve drinks to topless ladies.

  The speakers were now blaring, Jeremiah was a bullfrog, and I felt like dancing. In fact, a few corpulent gentlemen were gyrating on the deck with a few of the ladies, who seemed intent on drinking these guys handsome. The bad light helped.

  Our drink orders were ready, and as Tess and I moved off with our trays, five ladies, led by Tasha, lined up at the edge of the pool, took off their tops, then slid off their bottoms and dived into the pool in unison, which got a round of applause.

  Tess said, “This is too much. John? John?”

  “Huh? Oh… I can’t watch. I need better light.”

  She made a sound of disgust and walked away from me.

  Anyway, the music switched to Russian nightclub music, like Pitbull, the drinking and dancing continued, and more people got naked in the pool or the hot tub. Tasha and a few of the other ladies were now sitting on the hairy shoulders of the guys in the pool, playing some sort of game with a beach ball. I couldn’t figure out the rules, but it looked like everyone was a winner.

  Tamorov was still knocking down frozen vodka and smoking up a storm, but Petrov and his two companions just sat there, making perfunctory conversation, barely noticing the naked ladies. Clearly they had more important things on their minds. In fact, I noticed that Fradkov seemed almost nervous, though Igor appeared calm and alert, like a pit bull waiting for a command. Petrov glanced at his watch, then checked his cell phone for a text.