Free Radiant Angel by Nelson DeMille

underage. Also the three Russians are past their twenty-five-mile radius without permission.” Also, Petrov gave me the finger, but this wasn’t a personal beef. Well… all surveillance becomes personal.
    “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