agency he was completely qualified for. I snarled at him, “Admiral Grafton in?”
“He’s up in the ambassador’s office getting chewed out.”
“About what?”
“Couple of guys he killed in the subway last night.”
That took the juice out of me. “Oh,” I managed, and dug in my wallet for my pass. After Gator prayed over it, I tossed my cell phone into the basket and went in to find Sarah.
She was working on a computer in the bowels of the SCIF. Of course, the screen was arranged so that anyone coming into her cubicle couldn’t see it — security, you know. I dropped into the chair.
“The admiral told me about Elizabeth Conner,” she said, glancing at me.
I didn’t know what to say. “It must have happened while we were eating dinner, or maybe a little before,” I muttered.
“You look as if it hit you hard.”
That comment surprised me. In my profession you can’t let your emotions show. Man, I was slipping. Getting old, I guess. And real tired of this… this…
Sarah picked up a sheet of paper from the desk and handed it to me to read.
After two sentences my heart almost stopped.
Henri Rodet has passed to the CIA information from his undercover agent in Al Qaeda, which has been planning a major attempt on the lives of the G-8 leaders in Paris. The agent reports that Osama Bin Laden feels that even if the attempt is only partially successful, the mere fact the organization is strong enough to launch such an attack will have major political implications in the G-8 nations and the Islamic world.
I tried to whistle and nothing came out. “Wow,” I said. “I guess the admiral’s got it in spades, huh!”
“Ah, there you are!” Grafton’s voice, behind me in the doorway. I still had the page in my hand, so he said, “What do you think of my effort?”
“So the wizards at the NSA decrypted the stuff on Rodet’s telephone, eh? Jeez, when you were talking to me last night you didn’t say—
“Oh, that’s all bullshit. I wrote it yesterday evening, and Washington posted it on your private Intelink for Jean-Paul Arnaud to find.” Grafton waved a hand distractedly. “The NSA code breakers are still working on Rodet’s telephone, but we’ve run out of time. That’s what I think Arnaud thinks might be on that hard drive.”
“So you’re trying a finesse?”
“Call it whatever you like.”
I’d seen Grafton in action before. He wasn’t sweating or breathing hard yet. “What do you think is on that hard drive?” I asked.
He stepped into the cubicle. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet Qasim hasn’t sent Rodet anything of significance since he gave him the Veghel stuff.”
“But that’s crazy,” I protested. “Why was Rodet trying to protect the device if there’s nothing on it?”
“He’s trying to protect Qasim, not the hard drive of that pocket computer. There’s a large difference.”
“You’re implying Qasim gave Rodet the Veghel stuff to win his trust—“
“—Or win it back.”
“Sacrificing the Veghel conspirators? To checkmate the king?”
“To kill the kings, perhaps,” Grafton said, nodding. “It’s possible.” He looked at his watch. “My wife and your pal Willie are due to relieve Cliff Icahn in the listening van at Rodet’s country estate in about an hour. Why don’t you go pick them up and drive them out there. Stay with them. I’ll have my cell phone in my pocket — I want to know what you hear and if anyone comes by there.”
A little ride in the country! I stood up and shook down my trousers as I glanced again at Grafton’s composition. “If you got this figured right, after Arnaud reads this, he and his pals will zip right on over to have a piece of Rodet.”
“I’m sorta hoping they will,” Grafton said, and grinned. He pulled something that looked like a plastic water pistol from his pocket and handed it to me. “Better take this along.”
As I examined the device, Grafton explained how it worked.
“How noisy is this thing?”
“About as loud as a pistol shot.”
“Got any knives in the building?”
Grafton nodded. “Keep that,” he said, and disappeared through the door.
I dropped back into the chair. “When we get out of this, if we do,” I said to Sarah, “Grafton’s going to let me resign from the agency. Why don’t you talk to him about getting out of your job?”
She eyed me with interest. “That a proposal?”
“Aah, actually … no. Just a suggestion.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.”
We sat in silence, not looking at each other. I played with the ray gun, looking it over. “This thing really work?” I asked Sarah.
“Last night in the subway he injured one man and killed two others with it, or one like it,” she said dryly.
“Sounds like a recommendation,” I agreed.
Grafton returned several minutes later. “Goldberg said you can use this. It’s from his personal collection.” He produced a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife, complete with wrist scabbard, an artifact if ever there was one. I only knew what it was because I’d seen one in the Imperial War Museum. “Guy in MI-6 gave it to him,” Grafton added. “His grandfather used it in World War II.”
“I would have guessed World War I,” I said, and rolled up my left sleeve. As I was strapping it on my forearm I asked, “What about the ten grand Arnaud owes us? Sarah and I were going by this morning to collect.”
“He’ll probably be too busy today to pay off. Let’s hope so, anyway.”
“Darn,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I had plans for some of that money.”
I wasn’t quite finished. “If you’ve got this hairball all figured out,” I said to Grafton, “who shot Rich Thurlow and Al Salazar and strangled Elizabeth Conner? I’d like to know who the players are.”
Sarah opened her mouth to say something, but Grafton silenced her with a glance. “Not yet,” he said.
“By chance, do you have any Snickers bars in that desk?” I asked Sarah. She shook her head. I looked at Grafton. “So what do we do if Arnaud shows up?”
“Call me. Pink Maillard and I will be close by with a couple of his men. We can be there in five minutes.”
“The cavalry! So we’re the bait for the lion, huh? Callie know that?”
Grafton snorted. “Know it? Hell, this was her idea. I didn’t have the guts to say no.” He pinned me with those gray eyes and said softly, “Be careful, okay?”
“Sure, Admiral.”
That’s what you always say to Jake Grafton. Sure. He’s that kind of guy.
After Carmellini left, Grafton dropped into the chair beside Sarah’s desk. “This older man I’ve been seeing — I think Tommy took his picture. Did the agency match it up with anything in the database?” “No,” Sarah said, and stroked the keys. The photo appeared.
Grafton got out of the chair and moved so he could see the screen. “That’s him, all right. He was in the subway last night with four young toughs.” The admiral examined the photo, then backed away and squinted at it. “What would he look like if he were younger?”
“I can manipulate that image and pass it back to Langley,” Sarah said. She attacked the keyboard. “Oh, by the way,” she said as she typed, “I can’t find any record of Marisa Petrou in Europe before she was ten years old.” She looked at Grafton. “Suggestive, don’t you think?”
“It raises questions,” he admitted.
I picked up Willie Varner at his hotel. I called ahead and got him on his cell, so he was waiting in front of the joint when I pulled up.
“Hey, man,” he said as he pulled the door shut.
“Hey.”
“Nice car. I thought yours blew up.”
“Yeah. Must’ve had a short in it or something. This is an embassy heap.”
“Well, I want to tell you, it’s been fun working with Mrs. Grafton. She’s quite a lady. Got better personal habits than you do and doesn’t cuss as much.”
