Jerry Hay Smith mopped his face with a handkerchief. When he had composed himself, he said, as if they had been discussing pop music in Mombasa, “What has Oleg’s murder got to do with us?”
Grafton’s face wore a savage look when he said, “Qasim intends to kill you, too, Mr. Smith. And Winchester and Cairnes. So far, his batting average is a thousand. I called you here to see if we could find a way to keep you three out of Qasim’s reach — and alive — for a few more days.”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door. Winchester opened it, admitting the cook and the butler carrying trays. They served coffee and an egg souffle, then left.
As the four men ate, Hunt Winchester said to Grafton, “I notice that Jean Petrou wasn’t on your list.”
“The list is not complete,” Grafton said softly, thinking of Eide and Radwan. “I doubt if we’ll ever learn all the names of Qasim’s victims.”
“What I want to know,” Jerry Hay Smith tossed in, “is how a request Huntington Winchester made to his friend the president got him — and us — up to our eyeballs in the middle of a fucked-up CIA operation. And how we wound up funding the goddamn thing.”
Grafton took another forkful of souffle and swallowed it before he said, “You’re just lucky, I guess.”
“Tell us about Abu Qasim,” Cairnes urged. “Everything you know.”
It was early afternoon when I arrived back at the safe house. My shoulder was throbbing, and I was in a black, foul mood. I had my hand on my pistol, which was in my right-hand coat pocket, when I got out of the car. Fortunately the morning fog had dissipated, the air had warmed nicely, and I could see that there were no armed men lurking behind the nearby shrubbery.
I knocked on the door. Seconds later Kerry Pocock opened it. She had her hand down beside her leg. I glanced down and saw she was holding a large, wicked-looking automatic.
“Hello, Tommy. Do come in.”
I did so, and she shut the door and threw the bolt.
Marisa and Isolde were dressed and sitting in chairs. Everything they owned was in their purses.
Marisa’s brown eyes swept over my messy coat, then went to my face. The coat had some blood on it — mine, unfortunately — and a few seriously dirty spots.
“What happened to you, Mr. Carmellini?” Isolde asked. She leaned forward, looking at me intently.
“I met a man in a park,” I said evasively. I was unwilling to say more. They could see that, I guess, and left it there.
“They’re ready to go,” Kerry said in her take-charge way. She should have been a grade-school teacher instead of wasting her talents in MI-5. “They were hoping you might detour for a small shopping expedition on the way to the airport.”
I glanced at my watch. We had five hours until the plane was due to leave. “Why don’t you come with us and bring your shooter? You can escort the ladies to your favorite shops while I wait outside. I don’t want either of them going to any shop they’ve ever visited before.”
“When I am in London, I always shop at Harrington and Jones,” Isolde Petrou announced. “We’ll go there.”
Pocock looked at me for a decision. Getting the senior Petrou to do what I wanted her to do was going to be a challenge, but I didn’t think this was the time and place to draw a line in the dirt. With women, one has to carefully pick his battles. I tried to smile gracefully and nodded my okay.
“Perfect,” said the indomitable Pocock to the mesdames. “Ladies, let us depart.”
Later that morning Jake Grafton answered the door to the Winchester estate. He recognized the men on the stoop: Harry Longworth, Ramon Martinez, Will Tschudi, and Nick Metaxas. They were Americans, except for Metaxas, who was a British adventurer. All four were lean men with short haircuts and heavily tanned skins. Longworth was in his early forties, the other three in their thirties. “Come in, gentlemen.”
When they were inside with the door closed, Grafton shook each of their hands. He held on to Longworth’s as he said, “Sorry about Gat, Harry. We’re going to miss him.”
Harry Longworth just nodded. He looked glum, but there wasn’t anything more to say.
Grafton led the four into the study, just off the main room, and sat them down. “I think it possible that Abu Qasim or people working for him may try to kill the people in this house. It could happen any time— today or two weeks from now. I want to trap and kill them.”
He went on, briefing them thoroughly and telling them what he wanted. It took half an hour. When he finished, he said, “Any questions?”
Harry Longworth shook his head from side to side.
Whenever he received an assignment, Ramon Martinez tried to come up with a point the briefer missed. This morning he couldn’t think of a thing.
“You’ve covered it, sir,” Will Tschudi said. Metaxas nodded.
“You’ve got my cell number. Talk to me. I don’t want any surprises, none at all.”
He meant that he didn’t want them to surprise him. They seemed to understand perfectly.
“Let me introduce you to the principals.”
He led them into the main room. Sitting around the fireplace in the library area were Winchester, Cairnes and Smith. “Gentlemen, these are the men who are going to keep you alive.”
He pronounced everyone’s name as the four former soldiers got a good look at the three men seated in the chairs. Facing those three, he said, “If you see these men, ignore them. Do not speak to them or acknowledge their presence in any way. Do you understand?”
“Who are these guys, Grafton?” Jerry Hay Smith said belligerently.
“They are shooters, Mr. Smith. Snake-eaters, snipers, commandos, clandestine soldiers, whatever you want to call them. They’ve been working for you.”
“I feel like a worm on a hook,” Smith complained.
“That’s an excellent analogy,” Grafton muttered. He nodded to the former soldiers, and they filed out of the room.
“I assume they have some weapons,” Cairne:; said.
“That’s a safe assumption,” Grafton said, glancing at his watch. He addressed Winchester. “I have to go to Washington for a few days. I’m leaving you in good hands. You managed to talk to all of your domestic staff?”
“Yes.”
“My people will be here this afternoon to replace them. Mr. Longworth will admit them. If you have any questions, Winchester, call me.”
“I want to know how long this state of affairs — we three as prisoners— is going to go on,” Winchester said in a no-nonsense tone. “This is a ridiculous situation, the three of us huddling here like fugitives in the United States of America, guarded by gunmen while foreign assassins are stalking us to commit murder.”
“If they are,” Smith said sourly. He was a sour man.
Grafton’s gaze went from face to face. “I’m asking you to cooperate with us for a few days. If you’re tired of living and want to take your chances, go home. I’ll send flowers to your funeral.”
That seemed to stifle them. For a moment, anyway. Grafton shook his head and walked out of the room.
“We are prisoners,” Smith said to his companions.
“Now you know how the president feels,” Cairnes shot back.
“Grafton talks to you like you’re a boot recruit,” Smith said to Winchester, who got out of his chair and went to the window, where he stood looking out. Smith continued, “Personally I find it galling to take orders from some civil servant weenie without the backbone or wit to make it in the real world.”
“He should have scribbled himself rich and famous, like you did, eh?”
“Don’t patronize me, little man,” Smith roared at Winchester’s back. “I won’t take crap from you just because you know how to run a few fucking factories.”
“Oh, shut up, Jerry,” Simon Cairnes said disgustedly.
Winchester ignored them both and headed for his private office.
We wound up in first-class seats on our trip westward across the Atlantic. The Company put us i
n business class, but Isolde threw a ladylike duck fit when she heard that, so I upgraded us, using my credit card. If the Company bean-counters took offense when I turned in my expense account, I decided, I’d send a bill to Isolde. She would probably frame it and hang it on a wall.
I had an aisle seat with Marisa on my left and Isolde in a window seat on the other side of the plane. On the aisle beside Isolde, and across from me, was a college-age youngster who was fashionably disheveled, with tattered jeans, an earring and sproutings of facial hair and pimples. I decided he was harmless and ignored him. He must have decided I, too, was harmless, and old as dirt, so he ignored me — donned his iPod earphones and tuned out.
I felt sort of naked sitting there unarmed beside two women with targets on their backs. I had given Marisa’s Walther and my Springfield to Mrs. Pocock to hold until I returned to the sceptered isle, someday. A pistol in your pocket won’t make you bulletproof, but in our uncertain age it can be a comfort, a metal pacifier, if you will, or a crucifix for the ungodly.
My shoulder was aching, so I rubbed the bandage and helped myself to another two Tylenol, which I swallowed without water. Marisa watched without comment.
We had been airborne about an hour and were flying above a cloud deck when she said, barely loud enough to hear, “What happened this morning?”
So I told her, whispering. I saw the kid across the aisle glance my way. He couldn’t hear a word with those earphones on, but must have assumed Marisa and I were lovers.
When I finished a recitation of events, she had no comment. I had a few, but I didn’t voice them. Really, someone who supposedly knew what he was doing whanging away with a silenced.22-caliber pistol at that range? I hadn’t seen him carrying a rifle, and the police search didn’t turn up one. So it had indeed been a pistol, a weapon designed for point-blank murder.
He was lucky he hit me. Well, hit me twice.
I wondered why he shot me in the first place. He didn’t have a chance in a hundred of killing me.
He certainly didn’t panic. That was out. A diversion? From what?
I decided that a diversion was the likeliest possibility. The man who had killed Eide Masmoudi might have been leaving in another direction.
So I had botched that assignment, too. I seemed to be having a long dry spell at the plate.
“You’re lucky you aren’t dead,” I muttered to Marisa.
“Sometimes I wonder,” she responded.
“Who are you, really?”
“Just a woman. That’s all I know about myself. I am a person with an unknown past and an unknown future.”
“That pretty much describes most of us,” I observed.
After she picked at the complimentary meal and drank a glass of champagne, Marisa settled back with a pillow under her head and went to sleep. The flight attendant saw her and brought a blanket, which I arranged over her.
Isolde sat staring out her window at endless clouds and sky. After a while she removed several reports of some kind from her large purse and immersed herself in them. Once in a while she made a note in a margin. She must have grabbed those when we skedaddled from the chateau.
She was a tough old bird. Still, son Jean, friends Zetsche, Tcherny-chenko and Gnadinger dead, with the fearless, feckless Tommy Carmellini standing guard … Standing up for your principles was turning out to be damned expensive. I wondered if she thought signing on with Huntington Winchester was worth the cost.
I read the newspaper I had bought in the airport, then leafed through the in-flight magazine, which was full of info on cool vacation places I’ll never have the time and money to visit. Nothing in there on the sewers of Cairo, where I’d spent some time this past summer. After a while my eyelids got heavy. I reclined the seat and drifted off.
“Two more dead?”
“Yes. Oleg Tchernychenko and his two bodyguards were killed when his limo blew up on a motorway. Rolf Gnadinger was stabbed with an icicle, apparently. The maid found him dead on the front stoop of his house outside Zurich.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Sal Molina, shaking his head sadly. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. They were sitting in his cubbyhole office at the White House. “Any more news?”
Grafton told him about Sheikh al-Taji, Eide Masmoudi and Radwan Ali. “The British police found Ali an hour or so ago. He and his two roommates had been tortured to death. Their landlord found them in their London flat. Blood everywhere.”
“Al-Taji’s death was in the morning briefing. What will the autopsy show?”
“That he died of heart failure. These things happen.”
“Why did they murder the roommates?”
“Guilt by association, I guess,” Jake Grafton said forlornly. “Needless to say, the Islamic militants are claiming that the sheikh was assassinated by agents of the CIA.”
“You’ve fucked this up, Jake.”
“That’s an accurate description, I suppose.”
Molina picked up a pen and bounced it off the desk. “Guess we had better go see the man.”
“Before we do, let me see the president’s schedule for the next several weeks.”
Molina dug the document out of a locked drawer, then sat silently while Jake perused it. When Jake handed it back, he said, “I don’t like what you’re thinking.”
“Let’s go see him.”
Molina put the schedule away, then led the way to the Oval Office. Two senators were with the president, so they had to wait. Ten minutes later the senators left and, after murmuring something to the receptionist, who would hold the calls and keep any scheduled visitors waiting until they came out, Molina led Grafton in. The private secretary was there, and Molina waved him out. He closed the door behind him.
Both men took seats on chairs facing the president, who was seated at his desk. The president listened in silence as Jake summarized events in Europe and the U.K. over the last several days. He didn’t interrupt or comment, merely listened. He was used to listening to bad news, Jake thought, and no wonder — he heard a lot of it.
When Jake finished speaking, the president sat in silence digesting it. “So where do we go from here?” he asked.
“I’ll resign, if you like,” Grafton said. “Wilkins wants me out, and you’ve got to admit, he’s got good reasons.”
The president waved that away. “I don’t remember you promising results. As I recall, you told Sal you thought it was worth the risks to get a shot at Abu Qasim. Still feel that way?”
Grafton searched the president’s face, then Molina’s. His gaze returned to the president. “Qasim wants a big strike. He needs a big strike. He wanted your head last fall in Paris, and I think he still does. If he can also get Winchester and his pals, fine. But they are small fish and you’re the whale.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things, but never that,” the president said with a grimace.
“What is Qasim going to do next?” Molina asked.
“That’s just it — we don’t know,” Grafton explained. “So far he has been looking for an opening, going after Winchester’s pals one by one as the opportunity presented itself. He isn’t doing it to intimidate or terrorize us; he’s doing it to keep his organization intact and his holy warriors motivated by showing them that he — and they — can successfully fight back. And that is precisely the reason Winchester and the others wanted in — to prove that they could fight back. Every group of people since the dawn of time has looked for ways to successfully resist their enemies. That motivation is what makes us human.”
“Which gets us where?”
“Abu Qasim will take any opening that presents an opportunity to hurt us at minimum risk to himself. Our challenge is to trap him.”
“Are we talking one terrorist or two? Or ten or twenty?” the president asked with a frown. “How many?”
“I don’t know. But believe me, one good one is more of a threat than a hundred mediocre ones.”
Molina and the president had run out of questions.
&nb
sp; 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.
The Assassin tc-3 Page 26
