He turned and looked at me. “What do you want here?”

“I want you.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“That’s for me to decide.”

Tess was beside me now and I said to her, “Frisk him and take him inside. I’ll be along shortly.”

I found Dmitry where I’d left him and motioned for him to follow me. He stood unsteadily and I escorted him to the hot tub and pushed him in.

I looked across the sprawling deck. Everything seemed to be under control. The pool was full of Russians, including all the cuffed security guys, and standing at poolside were Steve, Phil Florio, and my old friend Detective Beth Penrose, who was either regretting our breakup or happy she wasn’t dating a psycho.

The bartenders remained behind the bar, in the tradition of bartenders all over the world who see crazier things than this and just zone out.

A few lamps flickered on the tables, and the tonga torches spluttered. The fog got thicker, and steam rose off the pool filled with naked and half-naked people, like a scene out of The Inferno.

And somewhere out there on the ocean was a ship that held a radiant angel, Lucifer himself, the Angel of Light and of Darkness, sailing in the night toward eight million souls.

The Beatles were singing, We all live in a yellow submarine… I stripped down to my shorts and got into the hot tub with Dmitry.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Limo drivers overhear things, so I asked Dmitry, “Where did Colonel Petrov go?”

“Speak no English.”

“I have two questions for you, Dmitry—who is happening and where is Petrov?”

He shook his head.

Well, I’m not a big fan of enhanced interrogation, but if time is short, and there are lives at stake, you gotta do what you gotta do. So I got his neck in an armlock and forced him under. He thrashed like a wounded walrus, and when I let him up he seemed ready to have a conversation. I started with a softball question. “When do you expect Colonel Petrov back here?”

He drew a deep wheezy breath, then replied, “He say tomorrow.”

Actually, there might be no tomorrow. But Dmitry didn’t know that, though he knew other things that I needed to know.

“Has he called you since he left?”

He shook his head.

“Did you call him?”

“He say no call. No text. Phone is off.”

Meaning Petrov’s phone had no battery and was therefore not transmitting its location. Well, if true, that was not conclusive proof that Colonel Petrov was up to no good. The SVR guys sometimes pulled their batteries, plus they changed cell phones regularly.

I asked Dmitry again, “Where did Petrov go?”

Dmitry hesitated, then, remembering his breathless experience, he replied, “He say… party.”

“Where is the party?”

“He say… how you say…? East Hampton.”

East Hampton? Well, that blew a lot of theories. Like the theory that Petrov rendezvoused with a Russian ship carrying a nuclear device onboard, headed for Manhattan. I might as well go home.

But if that amphibious craft carrying three Russians and twelve party girls had docked or run ashore in East Hampton, Scott Kalish would have found it by now.

“Please… I tell you—”

“Shut up.” To test Dmitry’s truthfulness, I asked him, “Who were the two men with him?”

He hesitated again, then replied, “Pavel Fradkov,” using Arkady Urmanov’s alias. “Viktor Gorsky.”

“Have you ever driven them before?”

“No.”

“What are their jobs?”

“I do not know.” He reminded me, “I am only driver.”

“What were they talking about in the car?”

“I… not listen.”

I pushed his face a few inches from the water and held it there. I knew that Dmitry was racking his brain for something that would save him from another near-death experience, and I hoped he came up with something.

Finally he said, “I hear… one word…”

“Repeat the word, please.”

He stayed quiet a moment, then said, “Yakut. How you say this?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Yakut. The big boat for rich.”

“You mean… a yacht?”

“Yes. Yakut. Fradkov speak this in car. Colonel say not to speak this. So now I tell you.”

I asked Dmitry, “Is that where Petrov’s boat went? To a yacht?”

“I think.”

“Was this yacht going to East Hampton?”

“Please, I do not know.”

“A Russian yakut?”

“I do not know.”

“What is the name of this yakut?”

“I hear only yakut.”

Okay, so if Dmitry was to be believed, the amphibious craft took Petrov and his companions to a yacht. And maybe the yacht was going to East Hampton. So why would anyone think there was anything sinister about that? Well, maybe because of the passengers—an SVR colonel with a license to kill, an SVR assassin, and a nuclear weapons scientist. The most innocent people in that amphibious craft were the prostitutes.

I asked Dmitry, “What is Petrov’s cell phone number?”

He hesitated, out of fear or loyalty, but then he recited the number.

“And Fradkov and Gorsky’s numbers.”

“I do not know. If I know, I tell.”

Sounded reasonable. Well, if I had more time I would have spent it with Dmitry to see if he could remember anything else about his passengers’ conversation during the long car ride. But my time as a loose cannon was probably running out, and I needed to speak to Georgi Tamorov before the Feds got their act together and showed up. And quite frankly, if I spent any more time in the hot tub with Dmitry, my colleagues would start to wonder about me.

I released my hold on Dmitry, but before we parted, I said, “Your friends in the pool will tell Colonel Petrov that you spoke to the FBI. But we can protect you if you continue your voluntary cooperation. The choice is yours. Siberia or Brighton Beach.”

He nodded.

I climbed out of the hot tub and Beth walked over to me as I squeezed water out of my tighty-whities. I informed her, “This gentleman, Dmitry, works for the Russian U.N. Mission as a driver. He is a potential government witness, so he needs to be kept incommunicado, away from his compatriots.”

She glanced at Dmitry still standing in the tub and said to me, “This must be important for you to engage in that kind of interrogation.”

“Dmitry’s not complaining.” I added, “It’s important.”

I knew she wanted to tell me, “You look good in wet underwear,” but she controlled herself and motioned for Dmitry to come out of the hot tub.

Meanwhile, I pulled on my pants and polo shirt and gathered my shoes and socks and my holstered Glock.

To further compromise Dmitry in front of his compatriots, I pointed him toward the bar and said, “Go get yourself a drink.”

He didn’t need to be told twice and he scooted off.

Detective Penrose reminded me, “You’re in my jurisdiction. Follow the rules and the law.”

“I always do. Meanwhile, I need your assistance.”

“What’s this about?”

“This is sensitive compartmented information.”

She reminded me, “You used to confide in me.”

“I also used to call you Beth.”

She looked at me. “Please call me Beth.”

“Well… all right, Beth.” I confided in her, “There may be a nuclear device on a ship headed for Manhattan.”

She took that in, then glanced around, as though trying to fit this party into a nuke on a ship. Finally, she said, “The Russians?”

“They’re not all about fun.”

“I’m not understanding…”

“Call Scott Kalish. But first get some uniforms here, and a prisoner bus. I want everyone brought in for questioning—but not about nukes. The beef is prostitution and consorting with prostitutes. Also we got guys with guns, probably unlicensed.”

She nodded, but said nothing, still thinking about the nuke.