Petrov went to his window and stared down into the street. He hadnt liked New York City when hed first arrived four months before. It was too hot and there were too many Africans, Asians, Arabs, and Jews in this city. But now, in September, the weather had cooled. As for the chernokozhii the blackassesthey didnt seem to bother him as much.
What still bothered him, however, was being followed every minute of every day. The American security services knew who he was, of course, and they gave him little opportunity to do his job outside of his office. Well, they could follow him all they wanted. On Sunday he would lose them and they would not even know they had lost him. And then he could do his job. Operation Zero.
He was officially assigned to the United Nations for two years, and he could have tolerated that. But in fact, his posting was coming to an end on Monday. As was the City of New York.
PART II
CHAPTER TWO
If I wanted to see assholes all day, I would have become a proctologist. Instead, I watch assholes for my country.
I was parked in a black Chevy Blazer down the street from the Russian Federation Mission to the United Nations on East 67th Street in Manhattan, waiting for an asshole named Vasily Petrov to appear. Petrov is a colonel in the Russian Foreign Intelligence Servicethe SVR in Russianwhich is the equivalent to our CIA, and the successor to the Soviet KGB. Vasilywho we have affectionately code-named Vaseline, because hes slipperyhas diplomatic status as Deputy Representative to the United Nations for Human Rights Issues, which is a joke because his real job is SVR Legal Resident in New Yorkthe equivalent of a CIA Station Chief. I have had Colonel Petrov under the eye on previous occasions, and though Ive never met him hes reported to be a very dangerous man, and thus an asshole.
Im John Corey, by the way, former NYPD homicide detective, now working for the Federal government as a contract agent. My NYPD career was cut short by three bullets which left me seventy-five percent disabled (twenty-five percent per bullet?) for retirement pay purposes. In fact, theres nothing wrong with me physically, though the mental health exam for this job was a bit of a challenge.
Anyway, sitting next to me behind the wheel was a young lady whom Id worked with before, Tess Faraday. Tess was maybe early thirties, auburn hair, tall, trim, and attractive. Also in the SUV, looking over my shoulder, was my wife, Kate Mayfield, who was actually in Washington, but I could feel her presence. If you know what I mean.
Tess asked me, Do I have time to go to the john, John? She thought that was funny.
You have a bladder problem?
I shouldnt have had that coffee.
You had two. Guys on surveillance pee in the container and throw it out the window. I said, Okay, but be quick.
She exited the vehicle and double-timed it to a Starbucks around the corner on Third Avenue.
Meanwhile, Vasily Petrov could come out of the Mission at any time, get into his chauffeur-driven Mercedes S550, and off he goes.
But Ive got three other mobile units, plus four agents on legs, so Vasily is covered while I, the team leader, am sitting here while Ms. Faraday is sitting on the potty.
And what do we think Colonel Petrov is up to? We have no idea. But hes up to something . Thats why hes here. And thats why Im here.
In fact, Petrov arrived only about four months ago, and its the recent arrivals who are sometimes sent on the field with a new game play, and these guys need more watching than the SVR agents whove been stationed here awhile and who are engaged in routine espionage. Watch the new guys.
The Russian U.N. Mission occupies a thirteen-story brick building with a wrought-iron fence in front of it, conveniently located across the street from the 19th Precinct, whose surveillance
cameras keep an eye on the Russians 24/7. The Russians dont like being watched by the NYPD, but they know theyre also protected from pissed-off demonstrators and people whod like to plant a bomb outside their front door. FYI, I live five blocks north of here on East 72nd, so I dont have far to walk when I get off duty at four. I could almost taste the Buds in my fridge.
So I sat there, waiting for Vasily Petrov and Tess Faraday. It was a nice day in early September, one of those beautiful dry and sunny days you get after the dog days of August. It was a Sunday, a little after 10 A.M., so the streets and sidewalks of New York were relatively quiet. I volunteered for Sunday duty because Mrs. Corey (my wife, not my mother) was in Washington for a weekend conference, returning tonight or tomorrow morning, and Id rather be working than trying to find something to do solo on a Sunday.
Also, today was September 11, a day when I usually go to at least one memorial service with Kate, but this year it seemed more appropriate for me to mark the day by doing what I do.
There is a heightened alert every September 11 since 2001, but this year we hadnt picked up any specific intel that Abdul was up to something. And it being a Sunday, there werent enough residents or commuters in the city for Abdul to murder. September 11, however, is September 11, and there were a lot of security people working today to make sure that this was just another quiet Sunday.