“Anybody shoots at you, shoot back.”
“You didn’t tell me shit, Carmellini. There’s a bunch of killers chasing you and this Russian defector, and you don’t know why.”
“That’s the truth of it.”
“The agency always like this?”
“Hell, no. We normally do this crap only on weekends. This has been going on all week.”
“So who is this admiral?”
I told him a little about Jake Grafton. Not a lot, but enough to explain that Grafton wasn’t just another retired ship driver hanging out at the golf club in a logoed shirt sipping suds.
“So what does he think?”
“I dunno for certain. Looks to me like he’s going to follow the trail anywhere it leads. Being around Grafton is always interesting.”
“This little gig certainly is.” Joe Billy glanced at me and grinned.
I was beyond tired. After I crossed the Bay Bridge, fatigue hit me like a hammer. Suddenly I was having trouble staying awake. I sang out loud, chewed on my lip when I couldn’t think of anything to sing.
When I began to have trouble seeing, I knew I was in real trouble. At the eastern edge of one little village was an abandoned produce stand. I pulled off there, drove around back so the car would be out of sight, and killed the engine.
I must have gone to sleep instantly.
It was midafternoon when I finally awakened. I crawled out of the car and answered nature’s call against a tree. Stood there swaying, still tired, looking around, trying to get all the synapses firing again.
The sun was out and there was a bit of a breeze.
Try as I might, I couldn’t get the sight of that guy I left on the top floor of Dunn’s building out of my mind.
Yeah, he came to kill me. Would have, too, in just a few more seconds if I had stood there flat-footed waiting for it. I knew that, but still … I felt dirty. Exhausted, burned out. I was living my life with the dregs of humanity, wasting the days.
If you must deal with sewer rats you must guard against becoming one. That’s what Willie Varner was trying to say. He was telling me not to become a rat.
That said, I’ll tell you here and now that there were a couple people I’d like to kill.
One was Dell Royston.
I doubted if Royston was the true villain of this piece. He had spent his life as somebody’s dog. Probably still was.
Unfortunately I knew who owned him.
I got back in the car, fired it up, and headed for the beach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I awoke on Jake Grafton’s couch during the night, with the wind sighing around the eaves of the beach house. I could also hear the occasional car or truck passing on Route 1, which was only a block west. When the wind was from the east you heard surf; from the west, traffic. Looked at my watch. Almost 2:00 A.M. I tossed and turned a while, then gave up and went outside to sit on the stoop.
The evening news, which I had watched on television before crashing on the couch, spent half the show’s airtime on the upcoming political convention at the Javits Convention Center in New York. The drama was over who would be the president’s choice for VP. The president would run the convention, of course, through the head of his reelection campaign, Dell Royston, who would be dug in like a spider in a hole at the New York Hilton.
Sitting on the stoop, I tried to remember what I had seen in my two or three visits to the Hilton, certainly not New York’s newest or nashiest, yet according to rumor one of the largest hotels east of Las Vegas. I had been in the lobby just last year — I think I went in to give the jewelry store a once-over — and could remember the high ceiling and plush carpets. The decor was modern, or rather, modern opulent. The architect must have been given his orders: Make it “with it” and “worth it.” He had done his darndest.
I closed my eyes and enjoyed the wind playing with my hair.
I must have dropped off to sleep, because the next thing I saw was Jake Grafton passing under a streetlight, walking toward me from the beach. He came up to the stoop, stopped and looked me over, then said, “Got room for another bottom on that thing?”
“Sure, Admiral.” I patted the boards beside me. “Park your fanny.”
I glanced at my watch when he turned his back to sit. 2:36 A.M.
“You staying up late or getting an early start?” I asked.
“Goncharov went out for a walk. I followed along just to see that he didn’t get lost. He’s right behind me now.”
Even as he spoke, I saw the Russian stroll into the light of the streetlamp. He walked toward us in no particular hurry, nodded when he saw us, and climbed the stairs. I gave him room. He went inside and we heard his tread on the stair.
“He’s having it rough,” the admiral said. “I heard him pacing the floor, then finally he went out.”
“Think he’ll ever be able to remember anything?” I asked.
“Maybe,” he said. After a bit he added, “Then again, maybe not. His memories won’t be good.”
The image of Sal Pulzelli came to mind. “I know how he feels,” I muttered.
Changing the subject, I asked, “How many guys are out there tonight?”
“Two. They are on twelve-hour shifts. Twelve on, twenty-four off.”
“Aren’t they getting tired of doing nothing?”
“Hell and high water couldn’t pry them off this house. Sarah Houston said that Royston hired a guy. He uses a false name and she isn’t certain, but she thinks he’s Stu Vine. I passed that to them.”
I whistled softly. Stu Vine! This was getting serious. I had never met the man and hoped I never would, but he was reputed to be the best killer on the planet. The CIA used him occasionally to go after agency defectors. Rumor had it that Vine was a sniper by trade, although he had been known to use a pistol, knife, and poison on occasion. Apparently he wasn’t prejudiced.
“I thought he was dead,” I said softly, so softly that Grafton almost missed the comment. I was slightly ashamed the words came out so muted. It was almost as if I were afraid that Stu Vine would hear me.
“Anybody could use that name,” Grafton said dismissively. “Sarah could be wrong. That would be the first time in several years, but it’s bound to happen someday.”
“Didn’t Vine get caught by the Iraqis a few years ago?”
“I’ve heard that,” Grafton said, and waved dismissively. “Vine or anyone else — doesn’t matter. They’re human. Just use your head, take commonsense precautions.” Apparently he thought that advice was all I needed. I hoped to Christ he was right.
He rose, said, “Good night!” and passed through the door. I heard him climbing the stairs to bed.
The nightmares began whenever Mikhail Goncharov dropped off to sleep. The scenes of horror and anxiety that ran through his mind were becoming more severe. Blood, bullets, betrayal, the Smiling faces of venal men … He couldn’t sleep for more than a few minutes before he began thrashing and awoke sweating and trembling. He climbed from the bed and sat in the stuffed chair that faced the window.
The walk on the beach hadn’t helped. He was sure it wasn’t this beach that he saw in his memory, the beach he and the woman had walked … so many times. The woman, he had loved her. But who was she?
“Who am I?” He asked the question aloud. Callie Grafton had told him his name, but it meant nothing. “Who am I?”
I was getting jumpy. After the week I’d had, perhaps it was inevitable. As I made coffee I listened to the television news on the small set the Graftons had on the kitchen counter. According to “sources,” the president was going to choose a woman to run as VP for his second term. That wasn’t exactly a scoop. The pundits had been speculating that he might for six months; the announcer was tossing around names when Jake Grafton came
