aide, he listened to everything the British and FBI officers had to say before he asked questions. The murder of Alexander Surkov with polonium was still getting the bulk of the various police agencies’ investigative assets — for political reasons, if nothing else — and the revelations were aired on television and radio as fast as the agencies dribbled them out. Politicians postured and wrung their hands.
“The agencies are trying to find out everything they can about Marisa Petrou,” Per Diem said. “She was at the scene of three murders in what — twelve days? That’s bound to attract some notice. They are also interested in Tommy Carmellini. The Brits know he is a CIA officer, and they are asking questions. I suspect our good friend Harris may have put them on Carmellini’s trail.”
Speedo didn’t turn a hair. “I was asked about Carmellini and answered truthfully,” he told Jake Grafton, who nodded his approval. “Carmellini’s popularity with the French authorities is on the wane, however. The French officer I spoke to made some regrettable comments. Positively nasty, I dare say.”
“Tommy rubs them the wrong way,” Diem added, quite unnecessarily.
“The officer I spoke to at New Scotland Yard was less than complimentary about you, Admiral,” Harris continued. “He snarled something about you playing your cards very close to your vest. ‘All take and no give,’ he remarked.”
Grafton nodded. “Oleg Tchernychenko,” he said, changing the subject abruptly.
It was midafternoon when I rolled into old London town. I was so tired my eyes watered. I parked in front of the office and went inside to see the boss.
“Where have you been?” Jake Grafton barked.
“Fleeing the scene of a crime.”
I must have looked so bad that he took pity on me. His frown disappeared and he said, “Get a bath and change clothes. You and I are flying to Scotland this evening.”
“It’s January in Scotland,” I pointed out. “Have you any idea what the weather is up there?”
“Invigorating. Go! Hurry. There’s a plane waiting.”
By golly, there was, too. It was past teatime and the sun was long gone when we climbed aboard, but in minutes we were droning through the clag over England. Grafton sat beside me so we could talk, but I didn’t even try. I put my head back and went promptly to sleep.
When he woke me up — by shaking me — we were on the ground and taxiing.
Speedo Harris was behind the wheel of the car that was waiting for us. He muttered something pleasant to me, but I didn’t quite catch it and wasn’t in the mood to ask him to repeat it. I grunted and sat there watching as we rolled out of the suburbs and off into the wild Scottish night. The wind blew fiercely and the rain fell sideways, drumming on the car’s sheet metal. Every now and then the car shook from the impact of a gust of wind. I pulled my miserably thin coat tighter and wondered what this trip was all about.
“You got our man cornered in a hole up here?” I asked Grafton.
“Tell me about last night. Everything you can remember.”
I flicked my eyes over to Speedo, who could be relied upon to repeat every word to his MI-6 bosses. Grafton nodded, almost imperceptibly. So he was sharing. Make that: He was sharing what I knew.
So I went through it, minute by minute. I had enough wit left to omit any mention of threatening Marisa. If she got shot, stabbed or poisoned, I didn’t want Jake Grafton and MI-6 and every spook agency in the free world suspecting me. Who knows? I might even decide to shoot, stab or poison her myself before I got a whole lot older. A man has to keep his options open.
When I finished my narration, he asked, “Did she kill Zetsche?”
“I dunno. I’ve run through it a hundred times today, trying to decide. I don’t even know if she opened the servant’s door. Anyone in the house could have opened it. Anyone could have killed the juice. All I know for a fact that I could swear to is that she was standing in Zetsche’s bathroom with a gun in her hand — with him in bed with a knife in him, dead as old dog food — and she sandbagged me downstairs a few minutes later, when I was about ready to drill the villains. Villains plural.”
“Tommy,” Grafton said gently, “I hate to have to tell you this, but the man you shot was Isolde’s chauffeur.”
“Aaw …”
“He must have been following the assassin, chasing him, when you opened fire. It was a tragic, regrettable accident.”
I didn’t know what to say. Even if I had known, I doubt if I could have got it out. That moment had to be the lowest point in my life.
“Of course,” Grafton continued after a few moments, “he might have been the one who admitted the assassin to the house. He might have been in that stairwell to lock the door after he left when you opened fire.”
I stared at him. Finally I found my tongue. “Why in the world would he lock the door behind the killer? With four dead bodies cluttering up the place? They jimmied the jamb to make it look like a break-in; they even left the pry bar lying there so the police would be sure to find it. Locking the door behind the guy would show the world that there were two people involved.”
“I don’t know, Tommy. Maybe the chauffeur was playing solitaire in the dark and heard the killer leaving and chased him. Maybe he went downstairs to check on the power and the killer rushed by him.”
Maybe, perhaps, could be—
Infuriated, I spluttered, “What’s the answer? What is going on?”
“Damn if I know,” he said and shrugged.
Jake Grafton, spymaster. Yeah, dude, he’s got it all figured out. Right.
As I sat there contemplating strangling him, my eyes settled on the back of Speedo Harris’ perfectly barbered head. The thought occurred to me that Jake Grafton probably knew a lot more than he wanted MI-6 to know.
Yeah. That was it. He was mushrooming everyone, including me, keeping us in the dark and feeding us shit.
I scowled at him and he pretended not to notice. The jerk!
Did you ever meet someone with an irrepressible, volcanic personality that stunned you and left you gasping? I’ve met a few — Jake Grafton’s understated personality is like that on those rare occasions when he lets the tiger come out to play — but none measured up to Oleg Tchernychenko, whose inner fire overwhelmed and dazzled everyone within range.
We were in an old mansion on the windswept moors. It was as big as a medium-sized Holiday Inn but much better decorated. More comfortable, too. The big room that the guy at the door brought us to had a roaring fire going in a huge, blackened fireplace, but since Tchernychenko was holding forth in front of the fireplace, keeping us frozen with his eyes and voice and facial expressions, I didn’t get a chance to look around much until later. Whoever owned the joint — I doubted if this Russian did — was very much into World War I. Helmets and bayonets and uniforms were mounted high on the walls, along with other memorabilia from that period, such as silver cigarette cases engraved with the autographs of German aerial aces, old newspaper front pages, photos of the princes and belles of the age and the like. Everywhere there were books, hundreds of them, thousands.
As I said, though, for the first five minutes I didn’t see any of it. I was staring at Tchernychenko and his mane of graying hair. It seemed as if he were about to whip out a white baton and conduct the orchestra, but no. He did his conducting with voice and eyes and facial expressions and presence.
“Grafton!” the Russian boomed. “When I heard that name I told them to let you in — there couldn’t be two Jake Graftons sneaking about, now could there? Of course, the hour is late, but we arrive when we arrive, eh?”
I rolled my eyes at the boss, who didn’t even look my way. Fortunately Speedo was in the kitchen with the help, so tomorrow the boys and girls at MI-6 weren’t going to be puzzling over Tchernychenko’s remarks. At least I hoped Speedo was there. Then I wondered if Jake Grafton cared.
“Ah, yes, Grafton.” Tchernychenko didn’t have much of an accent — if anything, he sounded to me as if he were British, or had wasted much of his life hanging around them.
“MacGregor!” he roared. “MacGregor! Come take some orders and bring these gentlemen a drink.”
Since we were in Scotland, we drank the local stuff — neat, of course. Even adding water would have been sacrilege.
Grafton had trouble getting a word in edgewise, so he let Tchernychenko run on. He was ranting about the
