“Right.” One way or the other. I had another thought—another theory that I’d been kicking around in my mind—and I shared it with Kalish. “Look, tomorrow is September twelfth. So maybe this attack is supposed to look like an Islamic terrorist repeat of 9/11.”

“Okay…”

“Follow my reasoning. Today, September eleventh, we have a heightened security alert, making an attack more difficult. Also, it’s a Sunday and there are a lot fewer people in Manhattan to kill.”

“Right.”

“Islamic extremists are into symbolism, anniversary dates. Right? So the nuke could be set to detonate at eight forty-six A.M.—the same time, if not the same day, as the first plane hit on 9/11. Or maybe nine oh-three A.M. when the second plane hit—when there will be hundreds of thousands of people making their Monday commute into Manhattan. So maybe we have some time.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Meanwhile, I’d like to join the search. Can you get a high-speed unit to meet me at the Shinnecock Coast Guard Station?”

“I have a twenty-seven-foot SAFE boat that can make fifty knots.”

“Call him in.”

“I’ll let you know when he’s a half hour out. But call me after you speak to Tamorov.”

“Will do.”

He asked me, “How the hell did this happen?”

“Nothing has happened yet. And we’re going to make sure it doesn’t.”

“I’ve got a daughter in Manhattan.”

I thought of Kate, who would be flying back from Washington late tonight—or hopefully tomorrow. I also thought of the millions of people who lived and worked in the potential blast zone, and the millions more who would be affected by the radiation and fallout. The real question was, How could anyone do this?

“John?”

I remembered when the first plane hit the North Tower, and I thought, Thank God it’s only this, and they don’t have a nuke. And my second thought was, Not this time. And if my reasoning was correct—that this was a Russian attack, made to look like an attack from an Islamic country—then everyone would have no problem believing that Abdul finally did the unthinkable.

I said to Scott Kalish, “Call your daughter.”

I hung up and walked into the living room where Tess was keeping Tamorov company. This asshole was my last play before I got on a boat and went out to find a ship that might be carrying a nuclear weapon guarded by a couple of trained killers.

Nobody asked me to do that, and nobody would expect me to do it. In fact, I got put out to pasture because I wasn’t a team player. And because I bent the rules until they broke. So why was I doing all this again? All I really needed to do according to my dead-end job description was text 26 Fed: Target has left last known location, whereabouts unknown, call Suffolk County Marine Bureau for more. And, by the way, get your asses out of that building.

That’s what I should do, then go on a 10-63—a meal break—and have a beer at Sammy’s Seaside Grill and hope things turn out okay. But that’s not what I was going to do. And why not? Well, because Colonel Vasily Petrov was my responsibility today and I lost him. And in my NYPD head, I’d like to call in a 10-91—“Condition Corrected.”

Also, to be totally honest, I wouldn’t mind showing those assholes at 26 Fed—including Tom Walsh—who I was. Kate, too. Right?

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

I threw my shoes, socks, and my holstered Glock on the coffee table and sat in a comfortable leather chair, facing Georgi Tamorov. We looked at each other.

He was about mid-forties, fairly trim compared to his porky friends, and he had a thin face with dark narrow eyes. He was not handsome, but women found the bulge in his back pocket irresistible. He was still wearing shorts and his silly Hawaiian shirt, but he’d lost his sandals somewhere. He may have been drunk earlier, but the events of the last half hour seemed to have sobered him up.

I asked Tess, “This guy have a cell phone?”

“Not when I frisked him.”

I looked at Tamorov. “You throw it in the pool?”

He didn’t reply.

I asked Tess, “Cat got his tongue?”

“He wants to call his lawyer.”

I looked at Tamorov. “You can’t call your lawyer if you don’t have a phone.” I asked, “Where is it?”

No reply.

I tried a compliment. “Great party. Love your caterers.”

At this point, the suspect usually says something like, “I knew all along that you were a cop,” which they say because they’re feeling stupid about getting conned. I recently had the same feeling. But Tamorov didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t determine if he or Petrov had any suspicions about the two caterers who were now sitting with him. In the end, though, it didn’t change Colonel Petrov’s plans, though it did change mine.

I got down to business and informed him, “As you may have guessed, this is a raid. A joint operation by the FBI and the county police, code-named Revenge of the Caterers.”

He didn’t respond to that, but asked me in good English, “Do you have a search warrant?”

“No, but I have a caterer’s license.”

He wasn’t amused and said to me, “I must see your credentials and your search warrant.”

I tapped my Glock on the coffee table. “See?”

He kept his eyes fixed on me.

I informed Mr. Tamorov, “Not only do I not need a warrant, but you have no right to remain silent.”

“I wish to call my attorney.”

“He’ll tell you what I’m telling you, Georgi. You’re in a lot of trouble—but you can get out of it if you cooperate.”

He didn’t reply.

I’d established that he was married with children, and with men of substance and standing you go right for the family jewels. So I told him, “I understand that your wife is in your townhouse in Tribeca. So I’m going to call her and tell her you’ve been arrested for engaging the services of two dozen prostitutka, and you got a blow job in the pool where she swims.” I added, “Then you’ll really need to call your lawyer.”

His impassive face showed a little concern. Even oligarchs are afraid of their wives. Right?

“However,” I continued, “I can make all this go away.”

Our eyes met, and he tried to get a measure of me. To help him with that, I said, “You have to decide who you’re most afraid of—me, Vasily Petrov, or your wife.”

“I am afraid of no one.”

“Come on, Georgi. You’re afraid of your wife.”

“Americans are afraid of their wives.”

He could be on to something. More importantly, I got him talking.

I also informed him, to put him on the defensive, “Every gun here better be licensed. And every foreign national better have a valid visa.”

“I have no knowledge of that.”

“I hope you have knowledge of everything in your house when we search it.”

“I need to see your search warrant.”

“When I find it, I’m going to roll it up, put a coat of oil on it, and shove it up your ass.”

He had no response to that.

I pulled on my socks and shoes, but left the Glock on the coffee table. There was a crystal cigarette box and ashtray on the table, and a silver table lighter. I said to him, “Smoke if you want.”

He looked at the cigarettes, and I’m sure he needed one, but his experience in his homeland told him not to go anywhere near the gun.

“Go ahead,” I urged. “Reach for the cigarettes.”

He sat back on the couch and stopped trying to stare me down, and he looked off into space.

I let him know, “You can answer my questions here, or you can answer them at 26 Federal Plaza in Manhattan.”

He must have had a law degree or something, because he said, “Prostitution is not a Federal crime.”

“Right. But assaulting a Federal officer is. That’s me.”

“I have not assaulted you.”