called Sarah Houston, who, God willing, was still monitoring the hotel’s computer system.
“Hey,” I said when she answered. “You still on the job?”
“No, fool, I’m at Radio City getting in my seat to watch the Rockettes.”
That stunned me for a second, until I realized that was supposed to be a joke. Sarah has a rather sick sense of humor, which she trots out at the oddest times.
“Dorsey was just on the telephone. What can you tell me about that call?” “Very little.”
“Did it originate within the hotel?” “Yep.”
“Who made the call, damn it?”
“It came from Royston’s suite. As you know, I don’t have the capability to listen in. If a certain burglar had done a better job last week, we’d be able to monitor both sides of every telephone conversation made through the hotel’s switchboard.” “It’s hard to get competent help.” “Impossible, sometimes.”
“Thanks,” I said, and hung up. I used my cell phone to call Jake Grafton.
He listened to everything I had to say, then said, “We’ll be up there later tonight. I’ll bring Callie along to translate.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I mumbled something, I can’t remember what, and he said, “Someone set us up down here. The guards were called off, and the general who sent them here knows nothing about it. He’s checking now.” “You’d better clear the house,” I said.
Jake Grafton swatted my advice right back at me. “You have been a stationary target in that van for five days now,” he said. “I’d hate to come up there and find you dead.” ” Ahh… You don’t think—?”
“You know far too much. Tommy. So do I. So do Goncharov and Callie and Willie Varner.” “Where should I meet you?” “The hotel lobby at two or two-thirty.” I looked at my watch. Three hours from now. “Okay,” I said, and hung up. “Let’s go,” I said to Willie. “Go where?”
“Go get a drink. Take a leak. Go. Now. Come on.” “But who is going to listen to—?”
“No one.” I pushed him out of the seat and started him toward the door.
There was just enough moonlight for Callie to spot the two figures moving swiftly south along the beach, near the dune. They were apparently fit men in dark clothes that covered their arms and legs completely, trotting along carrying something in their hands.
She whispered to Goncharov, who moved even deeper into the shadow under the pilings that held up the abandoned house. Callie joined him there. Showing him by example, she lowered her face into her hands so her eyes wouldn’t reflect light. She also did not want the eyes of the hunters spotting the lightness of her face amid the darkness.
Head in her hands upon her knees, sitting in the darkness beside Goncharov, she waited.
Callie Grafton and the archivist were saved by the simple fact that the two men did not expect to find them here, so they weren’t looking. Their quarry, they thought, was still in the Graftons’ beach house, and the guards were gone. As a matter of fact, they had sat in a van parked along the highway to the south and watched the guards leave in a government bus.
Jake had just turned off his telephone so it wouldn’t ring when he saw the two black-clad figures come over the boardwalk. One took a position behind the porch of the rambling old house opposite Jake; the other dropped behind a car just in front of him. The man nearer Jake looked around quickly, scanned the houses and porches, then spoke into a small radio or cell phone.
It was a radio, Jake decided, because he heard the answering transmission end. Didn’t hear the words.
The man was no more than ten feet away from the admiral.
It was a small miracle the man hadn’t seen him. Perhaps he had seen Jake and, since he was not expecting to find a man there, had ignored the shape.
Whichever, if he turned his head ninety degrees to his right and took any look at all, he would see the admiral. This Jake knew. Needless to say, the MP-5 wasn’t pointed in the proper direction. If he tried to extract it from the bush and point it at the man near him, the man would probably be alerted by the movement. Alerted too soon.
Jake felt sweat begin to accumulate on his forehead.
Soon a young man came out onto the porch of the party house. Music and laughter poured out the screen door. Standing on the porch, he lit a cigarette. He was joined by a young woman in a snuggling mood. The young man tossed his butt toward the street. The couple leaned against the railing and wrapped their arms around each other.
The party made the man in front of Jake uneasy. He eyed the young lovers repeatedly, glanced at his watch, shifted his grip on his weapon. Apparently he had not anticipated witnesses at this hour.
Welcome to the beach, buddy, Jake said silently to himself.
A minute passed, then another. A second couple joined the first on the covered porch and settled into a recliner.
The man in front of Jake said something into his two-way radio. Even as he did a van rounded the corner onto the street and drove the thirty yards to Grafton’s house. It passed it, double-parked in front of the next one. Two men climbed out, the driver and one from the passenger door. The passenger went around the house while the driver walked up to Jake Grafton’s door and knocked. f
Another vehicle, a convertible, careened around the corner from the highway and came barreling down the street. Slid to a stop beside the van. The passenger leaned out, shouted at the man in front of Grafton’s door. “Hey, buddy, you can’t leave that thing parked there in the street.”
Jake heard the reply. “I’ll move it.”
The convertible spun its tires getting under way, then braked hard and threaded its way between two parked cars onto the lawn of the party house. Four people climbed out. “Hey, Vinnie! We’re here. Where’s the beer?”
The man standing on Grafton’s porch must have been frustrated. The party was unexpected. The witnesses might be a fatal problem. And he still wasn’t in Grafton’s house.
He turned back to the door, worked on the lock.
Jake tried to remember if he had used the key to lock the dead bolt or merely pulled the door shut until it latched.
No dead bolt, apparently. Thirty seconds after he attacked the lock, the man on the stoop opened the door. And disappeared inside.
There were at least eight people on the porch of the house across the street, drinking beer, laughing, talking loudly over the music. There was an elderly lady who lived on this side of the street who routinely called the police when parties got loud. Jake wondered if she was there tonight. If she was, this situation could get interesting.
The man in front of Jake picked that moment to move to a position where he could get a better view of the party. When his back was completely turned, Jake extracted the muzzle of the submachine gun from the bush and leveled it.
Freeze,” he said in a low, conversational tone, “or I am going to splatter you all over that car.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We locked up the van and strolled across the street to a bar on the corner. Inside were small tables along the window where we could watch sidewalk traffic and people coming and going from the Hilton. If I craned my head I could see the side of our parked van. There was a television truck of some kind in front of it, so the side was all I could see. Willie Varner ordered a beer and I ordered coffee.
When the waiter left, Willie said, “Okay, man, what’s going down?”
“Grafton says he’s got it.”
“Got what?”
“It, goddamnit.”
Willie nodded vigorously. “Fuckin’ it, man. He’s got it and I’ve been lookin’ for it all my life. That what you’re sayin’?”
“Yeah.”
“So why’d we bail out of the van?”
