are, all that we have, all that we can do during our lifetimes.”
“And you, Mr. Winchester?” Grafton said. “I know about your son. Is revenge the goad that drives you?”
Winchester looked belligerent. “I want some of it, yes. But I agree with Simon — these bastards have got to be fought, and the longer we wait to fight, the worse it is going to be. Everything we do—“
Cairnes butted right in. “Hunt is a fallen-away Catholic. He doesnt give a damn about religion. They can put all the Bibles and hymnals and theology books in one big pile and burn them for all he cares.”
“You know that isn’t true, Simon,” Winchester protested heatedly. “Just because I don’t go to church anymore doesn’t mean that I am ready to dump on anyone else’s religious beliefs.”
The waiter entered the room with the lunches on a tray. After they all were served and the waiter had left, Cairnes looked at Grafton and rumbled, “Maybe you’d better tell us the real reason that you’re in this.”
“In my spare time I work for the government, as you know. That is a job I also know how to do.”
“Your bosses, they know about us?” Cairnes gestured vaguely at Winchester and himself.
“That’s really none of your business.”
“Maybe you’re with the CIA and maybe you’re not.”
“Think what you like.”
Cairnes stared at him from under shaggy brows. “I think you tell a lot of lies.”
“If I ever tell a lie, Mr. Cairnes, you’ll never catch me at it,” Grafton shot back.
“He came highly recommended,” Winchester said. “That’s good enough for me.”
“I’ll find out,” Cairnes vowed. “Before I’m through I’ll know more about you than your mother did.”
Jake Grafton got busy on his sandwich. When he finished, he told them he needed some money transferred and the names of two more data-miners he wanted them to hire.
That evening, when he got home to his flat in Rosslyn, Jake Grafton gave the cash he had received from Huntington Winchester to his wife. Tomorrow,” he said, “I want you to go to Navy Relief and give them this money as a donation. Every dollar. Get a signed receipt and don’t lose it.”
Callie Grafton looked at the stacks of bills, which were held together with rubber bands. “Selling drugs these days, are you?”
“It’s worse than that,” he said heavily. “This is the worse mess I’ve ever been in.”
“I doubt that.”
Jake Grafton made a noise, then started to say something. He changed his mind, went to the window and looked out. The lights of Washington were beginning to come on. Finally he wandered off toward the den.
“Jack Yocke returned your call,” she said loudly. “He’s in his office this evening.”
Callie began counting the hundred-dollar bills on the kitchen table. She had married her husband after the Vietnam War, when he was a Navy lieutenant flying A-6 Intruders. Since then she had watched him shoulder increasing responsibilities, and she had occasionally been a part of them. She trusted his judgment implicitly, and yet… all this money? What was he into this time? She was curious, but she would never ask. Jake would tell her what he could, when he could. Through the years she had learned to live with that. People come as packages, and she was wise enough to know that in Jake Grafton she had gotten a good, solid man.
In a few minutes her husband was back. She was still counting.
He watched for a moment. “The man who gave me that,” he said, “thinks money makes the world go around.”
“You didn’t have to take it,” she replied without looking up.
“Yes, I did. He did what he thought was right. Sometimes you have to let people do that.”
Ten minutes later Grafton called Jack Yocke, who was a columnist with the Washington Post. Jake had known him for years. At the start of their acquaintance, Yocke thought he was going to get information from Grafton, but finally gave up on that idea. These days the information only went one way — from him to Grafton.
After they had said their hellos, Grafton got around to the reason he called. “What do you know about Jerry Hay Smith?”
“He’s not with the Post.”
“Umm.”
“Won a Pulitzer fifteen years ago.”
“Sixteen,” Grafton said.
“I stand corrected. His column used to be syndicated in eighty-nine newspapers, if my memory serves me correctly. Only fifty-some carry him now.”
“Fifty-two.”
“What don’t you know that you want to know?” Yocke said sharply.
“What do you think of his ethics?”
“Well, he has some, I suppose. A few, anyway, that he keeps in a closet somewhere and dusts off occasionally.”
“Has he ever gotten in trouble over stories?”
“Depends on what you mean by trouble. He tries desperately to get stories that other people don’t have — that’s one way you can get ahead in this business. Incidentally, that’s what I try to do. I don’t read his column on a regular basis, so I don’t know what pies he has his fingers in, but yes, he’s had a reputation for years of crossing the line to get a scoop. A couple of times he’s been accused of playing fast and loose with the truth.”
“He had any big stories lately?”
“Not that I can recall. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. Thanks for your help.”
“By the way, what are you doing for amusement these days?”
“This and that. Why don’t you come over for dinner some evening?”
“Okay.”
“Callie will call you when the schedule fits.”
“I’ll bring a date.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
London was enjoying a wet, cold, miserable winter. The English find this sort of thing invigorating, or pretend to, anyway. I reminded myself that the concept of central heating came late to this little isle.
After a flight across the pond, which took all night and left me bleary-eyed and feeling hungover, I went directly to the CIA’s office in Kensington. There I met the two guys Grafton wanted me to work with, Speedo Harris, an MI-6 op, and Nguyen Diem, an FBI special agent.
Harris was clean-cut, modestly athletic and meticulously groomed. He looked like Central Casting’s version of a metrosexual. “Speedo?” I asked.
“School name, you know. It seems to have stuck. Bathing suit incident, of course.”
“I see. I turned to Diem, who was a darn big Vietnamese, almost y size. Goes to show what a high-protein diet will do. As we shook he said, “The Great Carmellini. I’ve heard about you.”
I found myself liking the guy. “Lots of wonderful things, I’ll bet.”
“Actually, no.”
“You got a cute nickname, too?”
“Per.”
“I would have never guessed.”
“Why’d they send you over here for this?” Diem asked.
“I’m tech support. Bugs and such.”
“The Company doesn’t put tech-support guys on ops.”
“Normally, no, but the boss, Admiral Grafton, knows me. I keep his BlackBerry humming.”
“And his cigarettes lit.”
I could see that Diem and I were going to be best buds. “Just keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“And you?” I asked Harris. “Ops with the Yanks?”
“Short straw.”
“Did you bring the file on the Petrou family chateau?”
“As you requested,” Harris replied. Grafton told me to start with Marisa, and since Marisa hung out a lot at
