Free Radiant Angel by Nelson DeMille Page B

like most rule-bending, showed either poor judgment or good initiative. To be determined. But all’s well that ends well. Or it doesn’t.
    I asked, “Did the deli delivery ever get here?”
    “Yeah, but we ate your sandwiches,” Matt admitted.
    I suggested, “When the catering trucks come out of Tamorov’s, about midnight, talk to Dean and tell him he did a good job, but if he breathes one f-ing word of this to anyone, he’s toast. And get his personals.”
    “Right, and maybe some leftovers.”
    I continued, “If the Mercedes comes out, call Suffolk PD and have it pulled over for some violation, then call me. Same if any other vehicle leaves Tamorov’s.”
    Steve asked, “You going someplace?”
    “I need gas.” I said to Tess, “You can stay here, or you can come with me.”
    “I’m yours.”
    “Okay.” I told Matt, “I’ll keep your phone.”
    Tess and I retrieved our creds, my wallet, her bag, and our guns and ammo, and we got in the Chevy Blazer with her at the wheel. I suggested to her, “Tell me about your gun.”
    She started the Blazer. “I’m licensed.”
    “By whom?”
    “We can discuss this later.”
    She moved slowly up Gin Lane, past the Tamorov house. The two security guys, now back in their chairs, gave us a look and the Dobermans barked.
    I dialed Tasha’s number, but the call went right into voice mail—English and Russian. I didn’t leave a message and hung up. I got Kalish back on the phone and said, “I have a cell phone number onboard the target craft.”
    “That makes life easier.”
    I gave him Tasha’s number and Kalish said, “I’ll get the location triangulated, but I gotta tell you it’s not that easy if they’re still on water.” He asked, “Whose phone is that?”
    “Tasha.” I explained my professional interest in Tasha, and also advised Kalish that all the ladies’ phones might have been confiscated and maybe had their batteries removed. But to be more optimistic, I said, “Petrov has no idea that two DSG agents saw him take off in a boat, and he has no idea that I have the cell phone number of one of the ladies onboard. So even if he confiscated the phones, he might not bother to remove the batteries.”
    “We’ll give it a try. Meanwhile, I’ve got boats and aviation rolling.”
    “Thanks.” We signed off.
    Tess said, “If Petrov didn’t remove the batteries, he needs to go back to spy school.”
    “I’ve had suspects who’ve done stupider things.”
    “Were they Russian intelligence agents?”
    I asked her, “Did you learn your tradecraft on Wall Street?”
    “I watch spy movies.”
    On the subject of cell phones, mine and hers were in a basket waiting for us to reclaim them from Tamorov’s security guys. When we didn’t—or long before that—they’d realize two catering staff skipped out. But what would they make of that? And would the security guys mention it to Tamorov? Not if they wanted to keep their jobs. That’s how the Russkies think and act. Us, too, sometimes.
    As for the phones themselves, they were code-locked and useless, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw them for sale in Brighton Beach.
    On that subject, no matter how this played out tonight, I’d have to let 26 Fed know how we’d lost our government Nextels. More paperwork. But more importantly, people couldn’t get hold of us, which was not necessarily a bad thing.
    I asked Tess, “You want to call your husband?”
    “Later.”
    She drove back to Montauk Highway and pulled into a local no-name two-pump gas station with the highest gas prices in North America. I got out and gassed up on my government credit card. I suggested to Tess that this would be a good time to use the restroom, but she suggested we go to a nearby diner.
    She headed west on Montauk Highway and pulled into the parking lot of the Southampton Diner, a twenty-four-hour place that I’d beento, and a place where Tess said she’d had many sunrise breakfasts after an all-night party. Nothing