Molina and the president had run out of questions.
Grafton continued, addressing the president: “On Thursday of next week you are scheduled to appear at a political fund-raiser in New York. It’s probably been announced and been in the newspapers and on the Internet for weeks.”
The president nodded.
“You’re going to China this weekend for three days. That was probably also publicized.”
This time Molina nodded.
“The rest of your schedule for the next two weeks looks benign. No public events, just the usual preparation for the next session of Congress, budget talks and so forth. I think it’s possible that Abu Qasim may make a try during your New York visit. I’d like to help him out, with your permission, by including Winchester, Smith, Cairnes and Isolde Petrou as invited guests at the fund-raiser. The press secretary can put their names on the list and give it to the press. I suggest that Sal call Winchester and extend invitations.”
“I thought no one knew what Qasim looks like.”
“No one but his daughter, Marisa. Carmellini is sitting on her. She’ll be at the fund-raiser with Tommy and me.”
The president rubbed his chin. “Qasim was in Europe, you think?”
“Probably still is. He’ll be coming this way — you can bet the ranch on that.”
“Any chance Homeland Security or the FBI can pick up his trail?”
Grafton shrugged. “I’ve talked to the secretary of Homeland and the FBI director. I have another meeting with Homeland and my boss, Wilkins, scheduled for tomorrow. We can only hope.”
It went without saying that the Secret Service would pull out all the stops searching the hotel where the fund-raiser would be held. They would even use radar to look at the structure of the building.
“Are you going to be able to keep Winchester alive until then?”
“I’ll try.”
The president looked at Molina. “Sal?”
Molina shrugged. “This mess will probably go nuclear before then. If the press gets wind of this …” His voice trailed off as he scratched his forehead. He looked at Grafton. “Got any other ideas?”
“No.”
“Darn.” Molina said it softly, almost inaudibly.
The president came to life, sat up straight. “Do you trust Marisa Petrou?” he demanded of Jake.
“Within reason, I suppose. I’d give her a quarter for a parking meter.”
“You’re lying,” Molina said acidly. “You wouldn’t trust her with a wooden nickel.”
Jake Grafton didn’t respond.
The president smiled grimly. “Admiral, remind me to never, ever play poker with you. You’re going for the whole pot with nary a pair. You don’t even have an ace. You’ve got nothing but a lousy black queen.”
Grafton nodded.
“I can’t wait until the wolves in Congress get their fangs in this,” the president said. “It’s going to be one hell of a circus.” He shooed them both out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I awoke on the descent into Dulles. The sky was dark, full of clouds. Soon the glow of Washington’s lights lit the clouds from underneath; then, as we continued to descend, the sea of lights became visible from horizon to horizon. Marisa woke up and busied herself getting put together while I got glimpses out the window.
As the wheels squeaked on the runway, the flight attendant, a woman, came on the PA: “Let me be the first to welcome you to the United States.” As a cheer erupted from the tourist section, Marisa smiled at me.
A man from the Company met us when we came out of customs/ immigration and drove us straight to Jake Grafton’s condo in Rosslyn. While Isolde and Marisa were nibbling snacks in the kitchen with Callie Grafton, the admiral motioned me into his den. He sat and listened while I went through everything that had happened, in minute detail, since we had last seen each other.
When I finished my litany of stupidity and death, he didn’t say anything, so I added, “I’m sorry, Admiral.”
“You don’t owe anyone an apology, Tommy. Not me, the dead people or the gods. You did the best you could. That’s all any of us can do.”
“Well, we have them here in the States now. With all those gun-toters at Langley to help us, a mouse couldn’t get through to them.”
He took a deep breath and his eyebrows rose, then fell. “Unfortunately I can’t get all those gun-toters. I can’t get any of them. Wilkins and his deputies nixed that. They have zero confidence in me, and they say that if indeed we do have a squad of dedicated terrorists heading this way, the Company needs all its security personnel in place and on the job to prevent a terrorist event at Langley. Hard to argue with that.”
I was incredulous. “Can’t you get anybody?”
“I brought back some of the guys that have been hunting in the Middle East, the ones I could pull out without blowing their covers. The FBI has loaned me a couple of people, and I have you. If you can get your pal Willie Varner to help, we can add one more to the list. That’s about the crop.”
I felt nauseous. “Why don’t you get Sal Molina to tell Wilkins to cooperate or ship out?”
“If I did that, I’d be finished in the Company. It was Wilkins’ call and he made it. Period.”
“So we salute and soldier on.”
“Something like that.”
I lost it then.
Grafton waited until I ran down, then said, “The women are sleeping in the guest bedroom tonight. You’re on the couch. Tomorrow morning, go see Willie.”
He opened a drawer and took out a pistol, a 1911 Colt automatic in.45 ACP, which he passed across the desk. I popped the magazine out, then pulled back the slide and checked for brass. It was loaded, all right. I snapped the magazine back in and looked it over.
“It was my father’s,” the admiral said. “He carried it during World War II. I want it back.”
“He ever have to shoot anybody with it?” I asked as I tucked it into my belt.
“He once told me he did, then refused to answer questions about it.”
“Marisa said Qasim wants you dead, too.”
“By God, I hope so,” Grafton said fiercely. “I hope he attends to it personally instead of sending his mechanic’s assistant, Khadr.”
“He might also decide that Callie will do in a pinch. Or your daughter, Amy.”
Jake Grafton nodded once. His lips were compresse’d into a straight, thin line. “I’ve been thinking about that, too,” he murmured. “Come on, let’s do the tour.”
He led me into the hall and told me about his neighbors’ condos. There were actually four on each floor. The usual elevator shaft had two elevators, and beside it a stairwell. Anyone could get into the stairwell on any floor, but only the lobby and basement doors could be opened from the inside without an access code, the admiral told me. We were on the eighth floor. First we climbed the stairs to the top floor— actually the fourteenth floor, although it was marked ‘roof’—Grafton keyed his secret code into the keypad that unlocked the door, and we stepped out onto the roof.
The surrounding buildings were a couple of stories lower, so this one stuck up out of the skyline a little. The flat roof was surrounded by a chest-high rail. About half the area was covered by a wooden deck that stood up maybe six inches above the asphalt goo that made the roof waterproof. Vents and pipes stuck up everywhere, a metal forest. Three barbecue grills were chained to pipes so they wouldn’t blow away. Someone had put a few flowerpots up here, and now, in the dead of winter, the plant carcasses they contained looked forlorn. It didn’t take us long to see all there was to see.
We clumped down a flight, then rode the elevator to the lobby level, where we went out the main entrance. The lobby door was locked. People could key in their access code to unlock it or could buzz someone in the building;
