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hedgerows and the mansions of the rich and powerful.
    Steve, who like me is not cut out for passive surveillance, decided he wanted to go piss off the Russian security guys. I don’t encourage confrontation, but I do like it. “If you shoot anyone, you do the paperwork.”
    Steve walked down the road, and the security guys retreated behind the gates and closed them.
    I texted the case agent: Target vehicle entered Tamorov house Southampton. Any units available for relief?
    It takes awhile to get a response when the case agent or anyoneat 26 Fed has to answer a question or make a decision, especially on weekends and holidays, so I pocketed my cell phone.
    Steve was at the gates now and he was being provocative by snapping photos through the iron bars.
    Probably the security guys were yelling at him, though I couldn’t see or hear them at this distance, but I could hear dogs barking.
    As I said, this is a non-discreet surveillance, so some interaction is inevitable—or necessary—like the time I double-parked next to a Russian dip car and wouldn’t let him out until my backup arrived. But Steve was pushing the protocol a bit.
    Discreet surveillance and undercover work, on the other hand, requires a lot more skill and stealth, but it can produce interesting results. One of the reasons the DSG switches targets is so our faces aren’t known to the same guys, so we can go discreet or undercover if the target hasn’t seen us before. In the case of Colonel Petrov, I’ve followed him before, but I’m fairly certain he’s never seen me up close. On the other hand, the SVR may have taken a picture of me with a zoom lens. So maybe we all had pictures of each other taking pictures of each other. There must be a better way of making a living.
    Steve was finished annoying the dogs and the Russians, and he walked back to the vehicles and said, “There are about a dozen cars parked inside.” He deduced, “It’s party time.”
    Matt informed us, “I used the house next door in July for a surveillance. Nice people. Don’t care for their Russian neighbors.” He let us know, “The Russkies partied all night. Lots of babes. Topless.”
    Steve got interested. “You never showed me those photos.”
    Matt smiled. “They’re classified.”
    Tess was rolling her eyes and probably hoping that FBI agents were more refined than ex-cops. Unfortunately, they are. She’ll miss us.
    Well, this was going to be a long day. One of the first things you learn with surveillance work is piss when you can. There was a tall clump of bulrushes on the side of the road and the boys watered them. Tess was okay for now.
    There was no sign of our deli delivery, but a few more cars turned into the Tamorov estate and Steve took pictures. Then a box vanturned onto Gin Lane from Old Town Road and came toward us. Behind the van were two more vans. I could see the word CATERING on the side of one van, and I asked Tess, “How many sandwiches did you order?”
    She didn’t acknowledge my quick wit.
    I stepped into the road and held up my hand. The vans stopped, and on the side of the lead van I saw HAMPTON CATERING .
    I went to the driver’s door and held up my creds. The window lowered and I asked the guy behind the wheel, “Where you going?”
    He pointed. “The Tides.”
    God was either smiling on me, or He was setting me up for a monumental disaster, which He sometimes does. With my help.
    I asked the guy, “You need a bartender?”
    “No…”
    “Sure you do. What’s your name?”
    “Dean. Dean Hampton. Same as the town.”
    “That’s interesting. Okay, Dean—”
    Tess approached and asked me, “What are you doing?”
    “I’m going to work for Dean.”
    “Are you crazy?”
    I already answered that question during my FBI interview. I asked Dean, who was wearing a white smock, “You got an extra shirt or something?”
    “Uh… yeah. A few in the last truck. But—”
    Matt and Steve joined us, and I said to them and to Tess, “You talk