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lowered her window and said, “Smell that ocean.”
    “Why?”
    South Main was lined with Southampton’s iconic hedgerows, behind which were broad lawns that led to old, multimillion-dollar mansions.
    Tess pointed. “The Raleighs lived there. Friends of my parents.”
    “They owned the slum I grew up in. Nice people.”
    “This brings back a lot of memories.”
    “Glad for that.”
    “There were no Russians here when I was growing up.”
    “The world has changed.”
    “Where do these oligarchs get all that money?”
    “When you find out, let me know.”
    “My father worked hard for his money. He didn’t steal it.”
    “The Russian oligarchs didn’t steal money. They stole the country.”
    “Disgusting.”
    “The Shinnecocks would agree with that.”
    We were approaching Gin Lane, which ran along the Atlantic.
    Tess asked, “Why do they want to live here?”
    “Russia sucks.”
    “Never been. How about you?”
    “Nope. Been to Brighton Beach, though.”
    The Mercedes took a left on Gin Lane and we followed. There didn’t seem to be any other vehicles on the oceanfront road.
    As I said, following Ivan is more fun than following Abdul. The Russians partied hard and they usually had some good-looking babes with them. Not that that’s relevant to the job. But if you’ve ever sat outside a mosque for three hours waiting for Abdul… you get my point.
    On the right side of Gin Lane, the ocean side, lay huge waterfront mansions behind hedges and high walls. On the left were equally impressive mansions that became beachfront property when a hurricane blew in.
    I’d followed Petrov here once, back in June, so I knew that Tamorov’s place was at the east end of Gin Lane. I knew, too, that Tamorov threw some wild parties. Petrov and his pals had overnight bags, so I could conclude that I’d be sleeping in the minivan tonight. I hoped Ms. Faraday didn’t snore.
    I called Matt and Steve. “Target will turn into an oceanfront estate called The Tides. We will not.”
    “Copy.”
    I said to Tess, “Bumper lock this guy and when he turns, stop.”
    She nodded and sat on the Mercedes’ tail.
    The big double gates of Tamorov’s estate were coming up, marked by a brass sign saying THE TIDES . The Mercedes slowed, then without signaling it turned into the gates, which were already opening electronically, meaning the Russians had called ahead to announce their arrival and let the security guys know they were being followed.
    Tess stopped opposite the entrance, and I saw two big guysbehind the gates, dressed in black like Batman, and they tried to eye us through our tinted windows. They didn’t have visible weapons, but I was certain they were carrying.
    The Mercedes stopped just inside the gates, and an arm extended from the right rear window where Petrov was sitting. He flipped us the bird.
    Tess said, “That was rude.”
    I lowered my tinted window just enough to get my arm out and returned the salute, adding, “Yob vas!” meaning, Fuck you.
    “What did you say?”
    “I wished them a nice day.” I instructed, “Continue fifty yards and make a U-turn.”
    We continued past the estate, then Tess did a U-turn on the narrow sandy lane and stopped, facing the Tamorov estate down the road.
    Matt and Steve did the same, and we all got out of our vehicles for a stretch.
    A nice breeze came off the ocean and the sky was light blue, spotted with small puffy clouds. Gulls circled over the water looking for lunch, and the sun was slightly west of high noon. My stomach growled.
    Matt Conlon, also a former NYPD homicide detective, said, “I can’t believe that scumbag gave us the finger.”
    Steve Lansky, formerly with the NYPD Counterintelligence Unit, said, “They’re pissing me off.”
    I looked down the road and saw that Tamorov’s two security guys had walked into the road and were looking at us.
    Steve retrieved his Nikon with the zoom lens and focused on them. “They look Russian.” He explained, “One