“Well,” I informed them, “he’s going to be more pissed, because I’m not going to 26 Fed.”

“You gotta go,” Steve said.

Matt added, “We all have to go. Now.”

Tess surprised them by saying, “John is not going to 26 Fed, and neither are you.”

They looked at her, then at each other. Steve asked, “What the hell is going on here?”

I replied, “You don’t need to know and you don’t want to know.”

Matt asked, “Where you going?”

“Can’t say.”

“We’ll go with you.”

I reminded my team, “You’re done here. E.O.T. End of tour. Go get a drink.” I suggested, “Sammy’s in Southampton. Have one for me.” I let them know, “Good job tonight.” I shook hands with both men and assured them, “You’re covered.” I added, “Do not go back to Manhattan. That is an order.”

Tess and I went into the service corridor to the kitchen where two uniformed officers were securing the scene and sampling the unserved desserts. We showed our creds and headed toward the service entrance.

There were four household employees in the kitchen, including the fat housekeeper, who saw me and shouted, “Yob vas!”

That’s the thanks I get for slicing a hundred feet of kolbasa.

Tess suggested, “We can stop at Hampton Catering for our phones.”

“The less commo we have the better.”

“I’ve never heard that one before.”

She never worked an unauthorized case with me before.

We walked through the storage room and into the garage.

Tess asked, “Do you think your wife has been trying to call you?”

“I don’t know.”

I inspected the damage to the Blazer. The front end was a little banged up, but the headlights were okay. The Jag was going to cost Tamorov big bucks. But that was the least of his problems.

Tess asked, “Is she staying in D.C. tonight?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you should call her.”

I’d thought about that—many times—and I said, “I can’t do what we are telling other people not to do.”

“This is your wife.”

I did tell Scott Kalish to call his daughter in Manhattan, but Tess didn’t know I’d had a weak moment.

Tess suggested, “Just tell her she needs to stay in Washington tonight. And tomorrow.”

“I’m assuming the Feds will halt air traffic into New York at some point.”

“Okay, but she could be at the airport now, ready to board.”

I looked at Tess and reminded her, “There are a million people in the blast zone.”

“We just told Steve and Matt not to go to Manhattan without telling them why. You can do the same for your wife.”

This was none of her business, but I said, for the record, “Special Agent Mayfield is a stickler for rules and procedures and she wouldn’t want special treatment.”

Tess and I looked at each other. Finally, she said, “You have to live with that decision.”

“And you don’t.” I moved to the driver’s door. “And you don’t need to come with me.”

She didn’t reply and went around to the passenger’s door and got in.

I got behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed out over the broken garage door panels, and off we went down the driveway, now lined with police vehicles.

Two uniformed officers were at the gate and we showed our creds and logged out, then exited the oceanfront estate of Georgi Tamorov, whom I envied when I got here. Goes to show you.

I remembered a line that I’d read when I was a kid—a line about the nuclear war we all thought was coming. The survivors will envy the dead.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The United States Coast Guard Station is about six miles west of Tamorov’s house, but the Shinnecock Inlet separates the beach road, so we had to go around the bay, and Tess navigated the foggy roads. What would I do without her? I’d use my GPS.

Tess seemed to be having second thoughts. She asked, “Are you sure we should be doing this?”

“What else would you like to do tonight?”

“Maybe our job is to stay with the police at Tamorov’s, then work the case at police headquarters.”

“Actually, I have no job.” I suggested, “We can keep going and be at 26 Fed in two hours, as per orders.”

She didn’t reply.

“Or I can leave you at the Coast Guard Station.”

“I’m with you.”

I called Kalish, he answered, and I said, “Ms. Faraday is with me on speaker.” I asked him, “Did you find the yacht, Scott?”

“I haven’t, but I have some info for you about The Hana.”

“Great.”

I heard some paper shuffling and Kalish said, “Here’s the scoop—The Hana is indeed registered to a Saudi prince named Ali Faisel, and is here in New York. The ship got cleared at Ambrose yesterday, around noon. It had arrived from Istanbul with a refueling stop in the Azores.” He continued, “The Hana, with the prince onboard, picked up a harbor pilot, then docked at Pier 11 and was inspected by Immigration and Customs Enforcement, who found no problems or issues, and everyone onboard who had passports and a valid visa was cleared to disembark. Six crewmembers and five passengers, including the prince, left the ship, and everyone returned by three A.M. according to ICE.”

“I hope they partied like there was no tomorrow.”

“Not funny. Okay, then this morning, around nine A.M., The Hana’s skipper, a Brit named Jack Wells, asked for a harbor pilot and for permission to leave the pier and go on an overnight cruise, within U.S. territorial waters, expecting to return about eight Monday morning.”

The facts were starting to match the theories. I glanced at Tess, who was paying close attention. I said to Kalish, “Have the Feds check out the names on The Hana’s manifest.”

“Already being done, no red flags so far.” He continued, “This prince has some sort of U.N. diplomatic status, plus, of course, he’s a member of the Saudi royal family, so he’s VIP.”

“Where did you get this info on Ali?”

“A reliable source.” He confessed, “The Internet.”

“What’s the Internet say about The Hana?”

“Not much, but I did get some info from a luxury yacht website.” He read, “Built in Ancona, Italy, by CRN Shipyard, The Hana is two hundred and twenty feet, with a forty-foot beam, and weighs in at six hundred and thirty tons, powered by two twenty-one-hundred-horsepower engines, and has a cruise speed of twenty-one knots and a max speed of twenty-five knots. It can sleep a crew of about twenty, plus four officers, and will accommodate ten to twelve overnight guests.”

I guess the twelve hookers sleep with the twelve overnight guests—or they’re all sleeping with the fishes.

He continued, “Here’s the interesting part—it has a float-in garage space below deck for two twenty-five-foot tender craft.”

“Does it say anything about an amphibious craft?”

“No, just the max length of the tender craft.”

“Well, the length is right.” I recalled something Kalish had said earlier and asked, “Does this yacht have a submersible craft?”

“I don’t see that on this website. But some of these yachts are built in semi-secrecy, and some are retrofitted later.”

“Okay. Well, this sounds like what we’re looking for.”

“Where did you get the name of the yacht?”

“From Tamorov. But I can’t directly connect this yacht with Petrov, though it looks like a no-brainer.”

“Right. And the yacht seems to fit the profile we discussed—friendly nation, good creds, previously cleared at Ambrose and cleared by ICE at the pier, out for a cruise, and holds up to two twenty-five-foot tenders.” He asked me, “What more evidence do you need?”

“None. I need the yacht.”

“I don’t understand why Petrov and his pals didn’t just meet The Hana at its pier this morning before it set out on its cruise.”