Liars & Thieves: A Novel

by Stephen Coonts

  Ah, me. The things you learn in a misspent life.

  I locked up the government van and walked toward Varner’s, thinking again what a crummy neighborhood it was. I passed a wino nipping from a bottle on a stoop and a kid on the corner waiting for a customer who needed a fix before I turned in at Varner’s building. The light in the stairwell was still out. Terrific !

  I clumped up the stairs, consciously making noise. The role of honest citizen doesn’t come naturally to me.

  As I was raising my hand to knock on the door, I heard a noise in the darkness behind me. Someone was on the stairs. “Freeze,” the voice said conversationally. “I’ve got a gun. Don’t turn around.”

  I stood there like the Statue of Liberty with one hand in the air.

  “You got a name?”

  “Carmellini.”

  “He’s probably asleep. The door is unlocked.”

  “Thanks.” I lowered my hand, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.

  “That you, Tommy?”

  “Yeah, Willie.” He was propped up in his easy chair with a blanket over him.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “You met those guys outside?”

  “Great guys. Couple of brothers. Retired from Special Forces. One of them is always nearby.”

  I turned on the light by Willie’s chair and looked him over. He was heavily bandaged.

  “So how you doing?”

  “Making it, thanks to you. That son of a bitch sliced me up pretty good. They take out some of the stitches on Thursday.”

  “You going to be okay?”

  “Some nerve damage here and there, the doc said. Hell, I’m so sore you couldn’t prove it by me.”

  “Sorry this happened, Willie.”

  “Those brothers outside—they told me you stumbled into something that should have got you killed.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “You crawl though enough sewers, you’re gonna meet rats,” Willie said. “You gotta get outta the fuckin’ sewers, Tommy.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “I bet.”

  I pulled a stool over to his chair.

  “Before you get comfortable,” he said, “fix me a drink. You, too, if you want one.”

  I poured him a bourbon on the rocks and brought it over. He didn’t have any trouble getting it down.

  “I need a favor,” I said. “Got a government van I need painted quick by someone who will do a first-class job and won’t talk. Need some new plates for it, too, something not too hot. Know anyone who can help?”

  Willie the Wire scowled and took another swig of whiskey. “You ain’t quitting?”

  “No.”

  He grunted, drank some more whiskey, and gave me a name and an address.

  The sky was turning light when I left. I unlocked the van and drove off to find some breakfast.

  Tuesday morning in Washington. July. Already it was steamy hot and the traffic was terrible, as usual, even though the worst of rush hour was over.

  Joe Billy Dunn was waiting for me in a McDonald’s parking lot. Cursing under my breath, I looked the area over carefully before I drove in. There was a police cruiser in the parking lot … and through the windows I could see the two uniformed cops standing in line for Egg McMuffins or whatever. I drove through the parking lot and Joe Billy followed me.

  I found the shop Willie Varner had recommended in the warehouse district of Washington, near the railroad tracks north of New York Avenue. Fortunately Willie had called ahead or they wouldn’t have given me the time of day. The place had one entrance off the street, which opened into a large area filled with vehicles of all types in various stages of disassembly. I parked inside. A bald-headed fat black man in the filthy small office beside the entrance eyed me without enthusiasm through the fly-specked window.

  “Hey, I’m Carmellini. Willie Varner sent me.”

  He removed a soggy stogie from his mouth, then said, “How is Willie these days?”

  “Just got out of the hospital. Some dudes carved on him.”

  “Did he ever get over that stroke he had … what was it, five years ago?”

  “He never had a stroke.”

  “Were you in the joint with him?”

  “Nope. He and I are partners in a lock shop.”

  Apparently I passed the smell test, because he pried himself out of his chair and waddled out the door to look at the van. I got out of his way, stood back while he checked it over.

  “What color you want it?”

  “White, with commercial letters on both sides—Century Security. And a telephone number, 212 area code.”

  “Okay.”

  “Need a new VIN number on the dashboard and a set of commercial New York plates, not too warm.”

  He turned to face me, worked the cigar around in his mouth while he considered. His eyes narrowed. “Little blood on your shirt.”

  “I cut myself shaving.”

  He could see that was a lie, but he dropped it. “Plates will cost you another grand,” he said.

  “What’s the total gonna be?”

  “Three thousand.”

  “I think Willie and I got maybe twenty-five hundred in our account. I’ll give you two grand. The rest we need to keep Willie eating until he can get back to work.”

  He took the butt out of his mouth and spit on the concrete. “The Wire says you’re good people.”

  “He and I have been in business together since he got out of the joint. He’s my best friend.”

  “That’s what he said about you.”

  I shrugged.

  “Okay, two grand. Cash. Pick your ride up two nights from now.”

  “Thanks.” I held out my hand and we shook, then I handed him the key.

  Joe Billy was waiting for me behind the wheel of Grafton’s car. “What are they going to do to the van?” he asked as we drove away.

  “Paint it. Put new plates on.”

  “Who do you have to know to get garage service like that?”

  “The owner of a chop shop.”

  “Guess you have some real friends.”

  “A friend of mine does, anyway.”

  “I didn’t like it when you stuck that pistol in my face. Don’t do that again.”

  “I had to see if you knew that shooter was going to be downstairs and didn’t have the time for a long discussion.”

  “And you decided I didn’t know.” That wasn’t a question but a statement.

  “That’s about it.”

  “What if you thought I knew?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’d have killed me, wouldn’t you?”

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” I hadn’t told him about the incident in the elevator, but he had seen the blood.

  He drove along, not saying anything, glancing at me a time or two. After a while he said, “Yeah, I guess you would.” If he wanted to think that, it was fine by me.

  He headed back toward his place. He had called in sick to the agency today, so he wasn’t in a hurry. Me? I was tired and sleepy and had too much to think about, none of it pleasant. I began asking him questions about himself, just to make conversation.

  “What did you do in the army, anyway?”

  “Whatever it took to get the coon. I was in Delta Force.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Trooped around in Afghanistan a while with a couple guys, sitting on mountain passes, popping off al-Qaeda warriors sneaking in or out of Pakistan. Used .50-caliber sniper rifles mainly; people think they’re only good to a thousand yards or so, but if you know what you’re doing, you can score hits at twice that. Then did some time in northern Iraq when that went down. Worked with an agency covert team sniping, some sabotage, that sort of thing, making life uncomfortable for Saddam’s boys. The agency guys sorta talked me into joining up with them, so I applied for a transfer. Decided I wasn’t cut out to push paper in an office somewhere. Now look at me, stuck working for you at Langley. Can’t seem to
get on one of the teams.”

  “Something will open up. Always does.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll be in a federal prison someplace.”

  “Well, you won’t be dead.”

  “People are trying hard to stick you in one of those wooden planters. Might get splattered just being around you.”

  “No one lives forever.”

  “The good thing about Delta Force was you knew who the bad guys were. This seems a lot more iffy.”

  “Anybody shoots at you, shoot back.”

  “You didn’t tell me shit, Carmellini. There’s a bunch of killers chasing you and this Russian defector, and you don’t know why.”

  “That’s the truth of it.”

  “The agency always like this?”

  “Hell, no. We normally do this crap only on weekends. This has been going on all week.”

  “So who is this admiral?”

  I told him a little about Jake Grafton. Not a lot, but enough to explain that Grafton wasn’t just another retired ship driver hanging out at the golf club in a logoed shirt sipping suds.

  “So what does he think?”

  “I dunno for certain. Looks to me like he’s going to follow the trail anywhere it leads. Being around Grafton is always interesting.”

  “This little gig certainly is.” Joe Billy glanced at me and grinned.

  I was beyond tired. After I crossed the Bay Bridge, fatigue hit me like a hammer. Suddenly I was having trouble staying awake. I sang out loud, chewed on my lip when I couldn’t think of anything to sing.

  When I began to have trouble seeing, I knew I was in real trouble. At the eastern edge of one little village was an abandoned produce stand. I pulled off there, drove around back so the car would be out of sight, and killed the engine.

  I must have gone to sleep instantly.

  It was midafternoon when I finally awakened. I crawled out of the car and answered nature’s call against a tree. Stood there swaying, still tired, looking around, trying to get all the synapses firing again.

  The sun was out and there was a bit of a breeze.

  Try as I might, I couldn’t get the sight of that guy I left on the top floor of Dunn’s building out of my mind.

  Yeah, he came to kill me. Would have, too, in just a few more seconds if I had stood there flat-footed waiting for it. I knew that, but still … I felt dirty. Exhausted, burned out. I was living my life with the dregs of humanity, wasting the days.

  If you must deal with sewer rats you must guard against becoming one. That’s what Willie Varner was trying to say. He was telling me not to become a rat.

  That said, I’ll tell you here and now that there were a couple people I’d like to kill.

  One was Dell Royston.

  I doubted if Royston was the true villain of this piece. He had spent his life as somebody’s dog. Probably still was.

  Unfortunately I knew who owned him.

  I got back in the car, fired it up, and headed for the beach.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I awoke on Jake Grafton’s couch during the night, with the wind sighing around the eaves of the beach house. I could also hear the occasional car or truck passing on Route 1, which was only a block west. When the wind was from the east you heard surf; from the west, traffic. Looked at my watch. Almost 2:00 A.M. I tossed and turned a while, then gave up and went outside to sit on the stoop.

  The evening news, which I had watched on television before crashing on the couch, spent half the show’s airtime on the upcoming political convention at the Javits Convention Center in New York. The drama was over who would be the president’s choice for VP. The president would run the convention, of course, through the head of his reelection campaign, Dell Royston, who would be dug in like a spider in a hole at the New York Hilton.

  Sitting on the stoop, I tried to remember what I had seen in my two or three visits to the Hilton, certainly not New York’s newest or flashiest, yet according to rumor one of the largest hotels east of Las Vegas. I had been in the lobby just last year—I think I went in to give the jewelry store a once-over—and could remember the high ceiling and plush carpets. The decor was modern, or rather, modern opulent. The architect must have been given his orders: Make it “with it” and “worth it.” He had done his darndest.

  I closed my eyes and enjoyed the wind playing with my hair.

  I must have dropped off to sleep, because the next thing I saw was Jake Grafton passing under a streetlight, walking toward me from the beach. He came up to the stoop, stopped and looked me over, then said, “Got room for another bottom on that thing?”

  “Sure, Admiral.” I patted the boards beside me. “Park your fanny.”

  I glanced at my watch when he turned his back to sit. 2:36 A.M.

  “You staying up late or getting an early start?” I asked.

  “Goncharov went out for a walk. I followed along just to see that he didn’t get lost. He’s right behind me now.”

  Even as he spoke, I saw the Russian stroll into the light of the streetlamp. He walked toward us in no particular hurry, nodded when he saw us, and climbed the stairs. I gave him room. He went inside and we heard his tread on the stair.

  “He’s having it rough,” the admiral said. “I heard him pacing the floor, then finally he went out.”

  “Think he’ll ever be able to remember anything?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” he said. After a bit he added, “Then again, maybe not. His memories won’t be good.”

  The image of Sal Pulzelli came to mind. “I know how he feels,” I muttered.

  Changing the subject, I asked, “How many guys are out there tonight?”

  “Two. They are on twelve-hour shifts. Twelve on, twenty-four off.”

  “Aren’t they getting tired of doing nothing?”

  “Hell and high water couldn’t pry them off this house. Sarah Houston said that Royston hired a guy. He uses a false name and she isn’t certain, but she thinks he’s Stu Vine. I passed that to them.”

  I whistled softly. Stu Vine! This was getting serious. I had never met the man and hoped I never would, but he was reputed to be the best killer on the planet. The CIA used him occasionally to go after agency defectors. Rumor had it that Vine was a sniper by trade, although he had been known to use a pistol, knife, and poison on occasion. Apparently he wasn’t prejudiced.

  “I thought he was dead,” I said softly, so softly that Grafton almost missed the comment. I was slightly ashamed the words came out so muted. It was almost as if I were afraid that Stu Vine would hear me.

  “Anybody could use that name,” Grafton said dismissively. “Sarah could be wrong. That would be the first time in several years, but it’s bound to happen someday.”

  “Didn’t Vine get caught by the Iraqis a few years ago?”

  “I’ve heard that,” Grafton said, and waved dismissively. “Vine or anyone else—doesn’t matter. They’re human. Just use your head, take commonsense precautions.” Apparently he thought that advice was all I needed. I hoped to Christ he was right.

  He rose, said, “Good night!” and passed through the door. I heard him climbing the stairs to bed.

  The nightmares began whenever Mikhail Goncharov dropped off to sleep. The scenes of horror and anxiety that ran through his mind were becoming more severe. Blood, bullets, betrayal, the smiling faces of venal men … He couldn’t sleep for more than a few minutes before he began thrashing and awoke sweating and trembling. He climbed from the bed and sat in the stuffed chair that faced the window.

  The walk on the beach hadn’t helped. He was sure it wasn’t this beach that he saw in his memory, the beach he and the woman had walked … so many times. The woman, he had loved her. But who was she?

  “Who am I?” He asked the question aloud. Callie Grafton had told him his name, but it meant nothing. “Who am I?”

  I was getting jumpy. After the week I’d had, perhaps it was inevitable. As I made coffee I listened to the television news on the small set the Graftons had on th
e kitchen counter. According to “sources,” the president was going to choose a woman to run as VP for his second term. That wasn’t exactly a scoop. The pundits had been speculating that he might for six months; the announcer was tossing around names when Jake Grafton came downstairs.

  He mumbled something polite, then got a coffee cup from the cupboard and poured a dash of milk in it while he waited for the coffee to drip through.

  “Have you figured out where you want to go from here?” he asked me.

  “Yeah. Any country in the world that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S. I’m thinking of leaving this afternoon, maybe go through Europe so I can have the once-in-a-lifetime thrill of watching Dorsey O’Shea and her boyfriend yacht by the French Riviera. Maybe she’ll wave at me.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So do I.”

  When we were both sipping coffee he said, “Why don’t you drive up to New York today and check out the New York Hilton? Make sure you’ll have what you need and enough help and backup.”

  “Okay.”

  We tried out our new cell phones—called each other—and that was about it. I kept waiting for Grafton to give me some insight, but if he had some he wasn’t sharing.

  When I had showered and shaved and gotten myself togged out in clean clothes, I came back downstairs for a last cup of coffee. Callie and Goncharov were seated at the kitchen table nattering in Russian. I exchanged remarks with Callie—boy, what a nice lady she is—nodded at Goncharov, who actually noticed me and nodded back, then marched for the door.

  I’d like to have a woman sorta like Mrs. Grafton in my life. Cool lady, classy, smart, understanding, loyal, tough, kind, considerate …

  A woman like Anna Modin. As I drove toward Lewes and the ferry that would take me to Cape May, I thought about Anna, wondered where she was, what she was doing. I met her last year when she came to the United States to deliver a message for a Russian spymaster. The message consisted of computer disks that showed how terrorism was being financed through Cairo and who was putting up the money, but that’s beside the point. Grafton put me to work as Anna’s bodyguard. Best job I ever had.