CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
When his cell phone vibrated, Jake Grafton removed it from his pocket and looked at the number. The call was from the agency office in London. He was sitting in the library of Huntington Winchester’s house in Connecticut. Winchester was there, as were Simon Cairnes and John Hay Smith. They watched him punch the button and say, “Yes.”
“Boss, Carmellini. They got Tom. He was dead when I got to the meet — two bullets in the brain. Have no idea where Jerry is. And the shooter got one into me. He also killed my cell phone. I’ve been to the hospital for a Band-Aid and am back here at the office.”
“How bad are you hurt?”
“Silenced twenty-two bullet. Went into my left shoulder a couple of inches. Missed my tiny little heart by a mile. They dug it out. I’ll be okay. Doc told me to take some aspirin and call him tomorrow.”
“Go get Marisa and Isolde and bring them to the States. Have the people there make travel arrangements. Catch the first possible flight.”
“Okay.”
“Keep me advised.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry, Tommy.”
“Hated to see him like that. I never even spoke to him, but he seemed like a hell of a guy.”
“He was.”
“I threw a few slugs at the shooter, on the off-chance. I don’t think any of them connected.”
“Get some more bullets.”
“Yes, sir,” Carmellini said, and the connection broke.
Jake Grafton put the telephone back in his pocket and looked at the three men seated in the chairs around him. He tried to smile; it came out a grimace.
“So,” he said. “Where were we?”
” ‘Get some more bullets.’ Want to tell us what that was all about?” Jerry Hay Smith asked. He wore what was left of his hair in a Trump combover.
“One of my men shot at a man and missed,” Jake Grafton said. “He’ll get another chance.”
Simon Cairnes and Jerry Hay Smith stirred uneasily. They had been summoned last night to come to Winchester’s house immediately. It was now — Grafton glanced at his watch — ten after five in the morning.
“I agreed to contribute money to help Winchester,” Cairnes said, “and I’ve done that. I’ve given Hunt every penny he asked for, almost a million dollars total. I’d like to know where the money has gone and what you’ve managed to accomplish.”
“My men — your employees — have assassinated six prominent terrorists.”
“That’s just a number. Gimme some names.”
Jake Grafton recited them.
“What I want to know — what we all want to know — is this: Is Islamic terrorism less of a threat today than it was three months ago? Have we made any difference at all?”
“That,” Grafton acknowledged, “is precisely the right question. And the answer is unknowable.”
Simon Cairnes stirred uneasily. His gaze swept around to Winchester and Smith. “You two want to say anything?”
Smith piped up. “Last night you called and invited — no, demanded! — that I come immediately to Winchester’s house. So here I am. Tell me whatever it is you think could not wait for business hours.”
“Do you have a cassette recorder in your pocket?” Grafton asked pleasantly. “Or are you using a cell phone with an open line?”
“I don’t have to answer that,” Jerry Hay Smith said, with a bit of belligerence creeping into his voice.
“You do if you ever expect to have that recording admitted as evidence in a court of law. Now I’m asking you again, are you making a record of this conversation?”
Smith glowered. “Yes,” he muttered.
“What court do you think we’re likely to wind up in?”
“I think someone might sue me for libel, and I want a recording to protect myself.”
“What do you think of that, Mr. Cairnes? Are you aware that Mr. Smith is writing a book about you, Mr. Winchester, and the other people in this venture? He’s up to sixty-seven thousand words, by the way.”
Simon Cairnes’ face was a mask of cold fury as he stared at Jerry Hay Smith, who was staring at Grafton. “How did you learn that number?” the journalist demanded of the admiral through clenched teeth.
Before Grafton had time to answer, Huntington Winchester roared, “For Christ’s sake, Jerry,” and leaped from his chair. He squared himself in front of Smith with his fists clenched. “Writing a book wasn’t even mentioned when you told me you wanted to help rid the world of these Islamic fascists. You’ve put ten thousand dollars into this venture, and Cairnes and I and the others have contributed almost four million. So what is this? A shakedown? Blackmail? Either we buy your goddamn screed for a price you set or you’ll publish and ruin us — is that your game?”
“Hunt,” Smith said, trying to keep his voice under control, “I’m a journalist. That’s what I do. I made you no promises about keeping your venture, or my participation in it, a secret. When this has played out I’ll decide—“
He got no further because Hunt Winchester reached down with both hands, jerked him erect, then planted a straight right on his chin. Smith missed the chair and sprawled on the floor, half stunned.
“By God, that felt good!” Winchester exclaimed.
He reached for Smith again as Cairnes said, “Hit the bastard one for me.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Grafton said. He clapped his hands once. Winchester froze with Smith half off the floor.
“You can beat the crap out of Mr. Smith any old time,” Grafton continued, “but right now why don’t you gentlemen sit here like reasonable adults and listen to what I have to say?”
Winchester dropped Smith back onto the floor and began feeling his pockets. Smith tried to push him away, and Winchester slapped him. He felt some more, then reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small digital recorder. He walked away from Smith, looking it over, then tossed it into the flames in the fireplace.
“I’ll sue you for assault, Winchester. These men are witnesses.”
“Didn’t see a goddamn thing,” Cairnes rumbled.
Smith climbed back into his chair while Winchester stood in front of the fire staring at him.
When Smith was safely back in his chair, he wiped his face on his sleeve, felt his jaw, then said to the admiral, “I want to know who the hell you really are.”
“The name is Jake Grafton.”
“Who the fuck do you really work for, Mr. Grafton?”
“I told you when we first met, Mr. Smith: the Central Intelligence Agency. I might point out that I am a covert employee. As you probably know, revealing that fact to anyone not authorized to know it is a federal felony, punishable by imprisonment.”
“Got that, Smith?” Cairnes snarled at the journalist, who was still probing the tender place on his jaw.
“I got it.”
“Publish and be damned, you little bastard,” Cairnes roared. He grabbed his cane like a baseball bat. “I won’t pay you a fucking nickel. And I hope the feds send your sorry, traitorous ass to prison. Judas! Betraying your friends for money—“
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Grafton murmured. “You’re in this lifeboat together. Save the recriminations for the ten-year reunion. Right now you have a more pressing problem.”
“Oh?” That was Cairnes.
“The name of your problem is Abu Qasim, a smart, wily, vicious man who specializes in murder and mayhem in the name of Allah. He has killed, or ordered killed, Alexander Surkov, Wolfgang Zetsche, Rolf Gnadinger and Oleg Tchernychenko.”
