you are each ready, willing and able to fund a small private army to hunt these terrorists, wherever on earth they may be… and kill them.”
Silence followed that remark. He looked from face to face. As he did so he called the roll, beginning with Huntington Winchester.
“Yes. I am on board,” Winchester said.
Each of the others murmured assent.
Satisfied, Grafton discussed the malignancy of the people who directed and funded terrorism. “Terrorism is cold-blooded murder of the innocent,” he said. He went on, not mincing words: “These people were dangerous, and they might come hunting those who were hunting them. Not to mention the fact that prominent, wealthy businessmen and women were prime kidnapping and terror targets in their own right.
My attention wandered to Jerry Hay Smith. Big writer … it seemed like he should be taking notes. Maybe he was.
I also watched Isolde Petrou while Grafton was talking, and wondered about her. Last year her daughter-in- law, Marisa, was up to her gorgeous eyeballs in Abu Qasim’s scheme to assassinate the leaders of the G-8 nations. Which side of the street was Isolde really on?
Grafton also talked about security, the need to keep secret the fact that the records were being mined by restricting its circulation to those in their employ with a need to know — and those people were very few.
“Who will you get to mine the records?” the Swiss banker asked.
“I can find some competent tech-savvy people for the job. If I couldn’t, I’d be the wrong man for this job.”
“How do you know they’ll keep the secrets?”
“I only hire people I trust. You see, the world you are entering runs on trust, on faith in your fellow man. In the end, that is the only value that really counts.”
“Of course, if terrorists who dealt with your institution are arrested or killed,” Jerry Hay Smith pointed out, half turning so he could see Gnadinger’s face, “they or their friends will know who they dealt with.”
Isolde Petrou fixed a cold stare on the journalist. “If we are afraid to search for and apprehend these people, we are already defeated.”
“Well put,” Winchester said, nodding.
“Heck, every bank in this country has systems in place to identify money laundering,” Simon Cairnes said roughly. “It’s required by law. Our systems will just get improved. I don’t see what the big deal is. A bank is just a big corporate box.”
Grafton talked about a few specifics, such as how each person there would be told who to hire, and how the undercover data-mining experts would actually proceed. Then he opened the floor for questions.
“You know who we are, but we don’t know you,” Simon Cairnes pointed out. “Tell us about yourself.”
“My name is Jake Grafton. I retired as a two-star admiral from the Navy.”
“Weren’t you involved in that revolution in Hong Kong a few years back?” I was.
“And the turmoil in Cuba after Castro died?”
“Yes.”
“And didn’t you testify before Congress about the loss of USS America a couple of years ago?”
“You’ve done your homework, I see.”
“Will you tell us the results you achieve?” Jerry Hay Smith demanded. “In other words, what will we get for our money?”
“Blood,” said Jake Grafton.
No one spoke. Or coughed. Or breathed.
Jake Grafton broke the silence.
“It is my hope that with the information we get from your companies, and with the valor and skills of the men and women I will recruit to help us, we will achieve significant results. How significant remains to be seen. But I will tell you this — we are hunting the most virulent vermin alive today, and when they find out they are being hunted, they will strike back. I want you to think about that. Perhaps you already have. If you want out, don’t want to help us search your records, don’t want to contribute money to Winchester’s enterprise, now is the moment to withdraw. Once we begin, it will be too late. Let there be no mistake, none whatsoever: You are putting your lives, your families’ lives, your businesses and your employees at risk.”
None of his listeners twitched. They sat like graven statues. I wondered if any would chicken out.
Isolde Petrou spoke first. “So our choice is to actively take a stand and lead the fight, or to hide in the crowd and share its fate.”
Grafton nodded. I thought I could see a trace of a smile on his face.
“Well put again,” Huntington Winchester told her. He stood and looked at the others. “Civilization has treated us well. We have built institutions that provide employment for tens of thousands of people, allowing them to support and educate their families. We enable other people and other businesses to do the same. And we have earned enormous fortunes. The real question is, Are we going to allow these fanatics, these xenophobes, these religious zealots, these madmen to destroy civilization and drag us back into the seventh century, or are we going to fight back? Are we going to take a stand?” Winchester faced Jake Grafton. “Admiral, I am with you, even if you and I stand alone.”
“You’ re not alone,” Oleg Tchernychenko said. There was iron in his voice. The others murmured their assent.
“I suggest we all have a glass of wine and a snack,” Winchester said, trying to lighten the moment. He went off toward the kitchen to summon the staff.
Later I heard him say softly to Grafton, “It went well, I think. They’ll all cooperate.”
While Grafton mixed and mingled with the zillionaires over caviar and wine, I zeroed in on Mr. Smith. As fate would have it, I managed to spill a glass of good chardonnay on Mr. Smith’s atrocious sports coat.
“Oh, my heavens,” I said. I got busy trying to clean him up with a couple of the waiter’s napkins.
“Take your hands off me,” he said loudly, trying to push me away.
“I’m so sorry, but that stuff will ruin your coat if we don’t get it off,” I said. I held him and dabbed and swabbed vigorously.
“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded as he searched my face.
“Security.”
“Well, stay away from me.” He pushed me with both hands.
“You bet.” I gave the napkins back to the waiter.
The other folks were watching, so I beat a judicious retreat.
Later, when we were in the rental car on the way to the airport, I gave Jake Grafton the little digital recorder I had snagged from Jerry Hay’s pocket and told him where I got it.
“I didn’t know you could pick pockets,” he remarked.
“One of my many talents,” I replied humbly.
Grafton glanced at the recorder, then tossed it over his shoulder onto the back seat.
“You know,” I said conversationally, “if the activities of this little group become public, it’s going to be bad. Really bad. A private war, with the unofficial aid and encouragement of the president and the agency — it’ll be a first-class firestorm.”
Grafton merely grunted.
“How did this operation get approved?” Proposed covert ops had to go before layers and layers of lawyers and committees. This is the new CIA we’re talking about, one that the worthies in Congress don’t think could spy a bomb on the Capitol steps.
“Well,” he said with raised eyebrows, “I don’t think it was approved. I’m sort of doing what the White House ordered me to do, and if it goes bad, heads will roll, mine, Sal Molina’s, Bill Wilkins’…”
“The president’s,” I suggested.
Grafton eyed me. “I sorta think so,” he said softly.
I searched for something to say and couldn’t dredge up a thing.
“Of course,” Grafton mused, “I don’t think the big dog and Molina thought they were putting their dicks on the chopping block when they sent me to talk to Mr. Winchester. They thought they could send me to keep him happy, let him spend some money and think he and his friends were doing some good, and, who knows, maybe it would.
