End of conversation.
So Grafton was betting the farm on Willie and me. I silently cursed him for a damn fool, then went back to the den and sacked out on the couch for a nap. It took a while, but I finally drifted off. Got to dreaming about killers setting off bombs against the door and rushing into the room with guns blazing. Started thrashing. Woke up suddenly covered with sweat.
In addition to Amy Carol Grafton, there were two other guests for dinner, a journalist named Jack Yocke and a lady friend he brought along. I had read Yocke’s stuff for years in the Post and recognized the name. He was a tall, gangly guy, articulate and full of opinions. Apparently Grafton and Yocke had known each other for years. When Grafton introduced us, he pronounced Yocke’s name as Yock-key: I had seen it in print a hundred times but never heard it pronounced before.
“We talked about having dinner together, what? Three months ago?”
“Four, I think,” Grafton said apologetically. “Hard to fit you in between golf and bowling.”
“You retired guys,” Yocke said wryly, glancing at me. I could see that he knew Grafton was about as retired as I was.
“After the murder of Jean Petrou,” Yocke said as he scrutinized Grafton’s face, “I am amazed that the French authorities allowed them to leave the country.”
Grafton shrugged.
“I suppose you don’t want their presence in the States to make the papers?”
“Publish if you wish, but don’t use my name. And don’t question them.”
At the dinner table Yocke entertained us with unprintable inside dope on the goings-on among the politicos around town. I pretended I cared.
Yocke’s girlfriend or significant other, as the case might have been, seemed nice enough. Her name was Anna-Lynn Something — I didn’t pay much attention to her last name. If she had any idea of the tensions swirling around the table, she ignored them. She seemed happy and laughed with Callie and Amy and told political jokes.
Marisa and Isolde were more subdued, yet they held up their end of the conversation. Me? I didn’t have much to say. I was a bit overwhelmed at the guard-duty assignment and pretty steamed at Grafton.
At one point I asked him, “Do you own this place or rent it?”
“We own it,” he said.
So anyone with a computer and access to the Internet could get his address from the public records. Terrific!
Marisa, who was seated on my left, put her hand atop mine for a moment and smiled at me.
Amy Carol was a schoolteacher, fourth grade this year, in her late twenties. She was dating a stockbroker who lived and worked in Baltimore. The Graftons, I gathered, had high hopes that this guy was The One. Callie asked Amy about her beau and subtly pumped her for information, which Amy supplied in little dribs and drabs, just enough to be polite. Parents!
After dinner, while we were lingering over the dessert Anna-Lynn had brought and some coffee, Grafton asked Yocke if he could have a word with him in the den. They left for a tete-a-tete.
Marisa smiled at me again, and I smiled right back. What the hey, a guy can only die once. The coffee was excellent — life was beginning to look a little better.
In the den with the door closed, Jake Grafton said, “I have a story for you.”
“Oh, happy day!” Jack Yocke shot back. He found a chair and dropped into it.
“But there are ground rules,” Grafton continued smoothly. “You have to agree to all of them or I won’t give you the story.”
Jack Yocke stared at the admiral across the desk. “There’s a quote about a gift horse that comes to mind.”
“Here are the rules. First, you can’t print the story unless and until I give you the green light. Second, you can’t quote me. Third, you have to write and print the story as I give it to you — no changing or editing or speculating.”
“Uh-huh. How much of the story will be true?”
A smile crossed Grafton’s face. “Some of it, anyway.”
“I’ve heard, simply a rumor, you understand, that you work for the CIA in a covert capacity.”
The smile stayed on Grafton’s face. His gray eyes, Yocke noted, weren’t smiling.
“I’ll look like a fool,” Yocke continued, “if the real story comes out and it looks as if I’ve been had.”
“Your story will be the real story,” Grafton replied. “No one will call you a liar.”
“Can I quote you as an unidentified source?”
“You can attribute the story to unidentified sources. Plural. No quotes.”
“Are there real people named in your story?”
“Yes.”
“May I interview them?”
“Only after you print the story I give you. They’ll substantiate every word of the printed story.”
“Well,” said Yocke, after thinking it over, “I can agree to this: I’ll listen to your tale, making no commitment to publish. I will talk this matter over with my editor. If and when you tell me I can publish, the editor and I will decide then if we’ll run it.”
“Subject to the other provisos?”
Yes.
“Don’t tell him my name.”
“I won t.”
“I can live with that.”
Jack Yocke took a notebook from an inside jacket pocket and placed it on the desk in front of him. He removed a cheap ballpoint from a shirt pocket, clicked it, checked that the point was out, then looked at the admiral, who began to talk.
When Grafton finished twenty minutes later, Yocke went over the names again to ensure he had them spelled correctly. He asked questions to clarify a few points, then reluctantly closed the book.
“So your houseguests are involved?”
“Yes.”
“May I question them now?”
“No. We went over that.”
Yocke stowed his book and pen and leaned back in his chair. He rocked it back on its two rear legs and sighed. “This story is nothing but speculative fiction. By your own admission, the climax is uncertain and may never happen.”
“Ah, but if it does…”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Then this conversation never took place. You tear up your notes and we get on with life.”
Jack Yocke pursed his lips as he digested that remark. “You know, I’ve been a reporter in this town for eighteen years, come March. I’ve been lied to a million times, tooled around, stonewalled, cursed, cajoled, flattered, threatened, insulted, demeaned, beaten up and made a fool of. At least a dozen people have tried to bribe me. I’ve even had a gun waved in my face. But, I must admit, this takes the cake. This is a first.”
“Your memoirs are going to be a great read.”
“Got anything else to add to your tale?”
“No.”
“Let’s rejoin the party. I could do with a cup of coffee.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Abu Qasim flew into New York’s JFK Airport just like the tens of thousands of passengers who arrive from all over the world every day.
