purchases in a bag.
Callie was out on the beach with Mikhail Goncharov when we returned to Grafton’s beach house. I wandered upstairs and took a good look out each of the upstairs windows. Were the Russians pulling Royston’s strings? I knew a little about him, Grafton knew a little, and we talked about what we knew on the way home.
Dell Royston was one of the president’s political loyalists who had been with him all the way. He was a Washington lawyer who had only practiced for a few years when he hitched his wagon to the future president’s — his new law partner’s — rising star. He campaigned, directed door-to-door canvassing efforts, shook hands, raised money, did it all on the president’s first run for statewide office, as the state’s attorney general. He had been there on the unsuccessful first run for governor, and the successful second one. The Senate had followed, then the first run for the presidential nomination — which had failed — and the second run, which won the nomination and the presidency.
There were people who supposedly knew about these things who said Royston was the real political brains in the administration. Others said the president would never have won the White House without him. Who knew the truth of that? In any event, the president didn’t seem inclined to change horses at this date, which was why Royston had resigned as chief of staff and was now heading the reelection committee.
Neither Grafton nor I had ever been in the same room with the man, much less met him. To me he was merely a figure on the evening news or a black-and-white photo in the newspaper. Looking out the windows of Grafton’s house, I tried to recall his image. Balding, with chiseled features and no extra fat.
Personally I didn’t think the Russians were pulling Royston’s strings. His loyalties were on the public record for all to see.
So, was it the president? Did he order the trigger pulled on all those people at the safe house, on Willie Varner and Sal Pulzelli?
We were going to find out. One way or the other.
I remembered how casually Grafton asked the question, “What do you want to do about Royston?” Royston might know politics and politicians, but he had never met a warrior like Jake Grafton. I would bet my bottom dollar on that. I was equally willing to wager that he was going to meet the admiral before he got a whole lot older.
From the upstairs guest bedroom I saw Callie and Goncharov coming across the dune on the boardwalk. Callie had her sweater pulled around her, with strands of her hair adrift in the breeze.
She was a fine figure of a woman, every bit as tough as Grafton. I wondered if I would ever meet a woman like that.
Well, to tell the truth, I did once. A Russian named Anna. If I ever got the chance, that was the woman I wanted for a wife. If.
When Callie and Goncharov neared the house, I went downstairs to open the door for them.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I got a great night’s sleep that Sunday night and awoke at dawn feeling much better. Didn’t think about the mess I was in for almost ten minutes.
I thought about slipping out for a run along the beach, then thought how easy it would be for some asshole to shoot me as I jogged along, got mad at myself and went anyway.
Grafton went out for a paper, and Callie and I made it last, passing the sections back and forth. I even spent twenty minutes with the classified ads. Maybe this summer I ought to sell the Mercedes and get another ride. It was pleasant thinking about the prospect.
Goncharov wandered the house, sat for hours on the porch, occasionally flipped though magazines. He looked haggard, haunted. He wasn’t sleeping much, that I knew. Callie took him for a waik along the beach. She spent most of Monday evening chatting with him in Russian, but she did most of the talking.
We still had Basil Jarrett’s SUV parked in front of the Grafton bungalow, and that had to change. Driving it didn’t seem like a red-hot idea either. Sarah had told Jake Grafton that the vehicle was listed on the national crime computer as stolen, with an armed and dangerous driver. Presumably that was me. At least I was appreciated.
About ten that night I borrowed Grafton’s car, which was not yet on the crime computer, and sallied forth. Four hours later I was cruising by Kelly Erlanger’s place in suburban Washington. My old Mercedes coupe was still in her driveway. There didn’t seem to be anyone watching the house, although the car was also in the crime computer as stolen. I would have bet my last dollar that there was a radio beacon in the car so it could be tracked.
It would have to sit there until this mess was resolved or I signed it over to criminal defense lawyers as partial payment on a fee.
Thirty minutes later I stopped by a huge apartment building in Silver Spring. Sitting in the parking lot, I called Sarah Houston at her office in the NSA. She was there tonight and answered on the first ring.
“It’s me,” I said.
“You going to kill somebody, Carmellini?”
“Don’t say things like that over the telephone.”
“They are questioning everyone about you, trying to establish a link between you and the Russians, although they don’t come right out and say it.”
“Subtle guys.”
“I had to admit I know you. Really took me down a notch professionally, I can tell you. I told them you like caviar.”
“If I go down the slide, I’ll know who to thank. I’m going to call him now.”
“Okay.”
I closed the phone, which I had borrowed from Grafton, and dialed the number.
A sleepy baritone answered. “You had better not be a telephone solicitor,” he growled.
“I’m selling male sexual enhancers. We’re counting on you for a big order. Sorry about the pun.”
There was a moment of silence, then he said, “That you, Tommy?”
“No names.”
“You asshole, it’s… it’s damn near three o’fucking clock in the morning. Couldn’t this have waited until daylight?”
“This is the only time I could sign out of the sewer where I’m hiding.”
“No shit. What do you want, anyway?”
“Is that any way to talk to your boss?”
“What do you want, asshole?”
“I want to talk to you. I’m in front of your building. Buzz me in.
Silence. “And to think I could be getting a good night’s sleep in a hole in Afghanistan right this very minute.” He hung up. I’ll admit, Joe Billy Dunn had a rough personality. The system sent me a holy warrior from Delta Force that I was supposed to transform into a cool, collected, accomplished burglar.
The door clicked, and I entered the lobby. I stood there with the cell phone in my hand, waiting. If Joe Billy Dunn called the cops or CIA security, Sarah would immediately call me. I checked my watch. A long minute passed, then another.
Maybe Dunn couldn’t find the telephone number. Then again, how hard is it to dial 911?
After three minutes I called Sarah.
“Nothing,” she said, Okay.” I walked over to the elevator and pushed the up button.
Standing outside Dunn’s door, I patted the Grafton’s Colt for reassurance. I didn’t want to shoot him for any reason under the sun. I needed his help. On the other hand, if he had a gun in his hand when he opened the door, this might get a little dicey.
Of course he did. A Beretta 9 mm. He stood back, waved me in.
“You packing?” he asked when I was in the center of the room with my hands up.
“Yeah.” So much for the Mexican standoff.
“Drop it on the floor, real slow.”
I did as he asked.
