The Assassin (32 page)

“Go get Marisa and Isolde and bring them to the States. Have the people there make travel arrangements. Catch the first possible flight.”

“Okay.”

“Keep me advised.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Tommy.”

“Hated to see him like that. I never even spoke to him, but he seemed like a hell of a guy.”

“He was.”

“I threw a few slugs at the shooter, on the off-chance. I don’t think any of them connected.”

“Get some more bullets.”

“Yes, sir,” Carmellini said, and the connection broke.

Jake Grafton put the telephone back in his pocket and looked at the three men seated in the chairs around him. He tried to smile; it came out a grimace.

“So,” he said. “Where were we?”

” ‘Get some more bullets.’ Want to tell us what that was all about?” Jerry Hay Smith asked. He wore what was left of his hair in a Trump combover.

“One of my men shot at a man and missed,” Jake Grafton said. “He’ll get another chance.”

Simon Cairnes and Jerry Hay Smith stirred uneasily. They had been summoned last night to come to Winchester’s house immediately. It was now—Grafton glanced at his watch—ten after five in the morning.

“I agreed to contribute money to help Winchester,” Cairnes said, “and I’ve done that. I’ve given Hunt every penny he asked for, almost a million dollars total. I’d like to know where the money has gone and what you’ve managed to accomplish.”

“My men—your employees—have assassinated six prominent terrorists.”

“That’s just a number. Gimme some names.”

Jake Grafton recited them.

“What I want to know—what we all want to know—is this: Is Islamic terrorism less of a threat today than it was three months ago? Have we made any difference at all?”

“That,” Grafton acknowledged, “is precisely the right question. And the answer is unknowable.”

Simon Cairnes stirred uneasily. His gaze swept around to Winchester and Smith. “You two want to say anything?”

Smith piped up. “Last night you called and invited—no, demanded!— that I come immediately to Winchester’s house. So here I am. Tell me whatever it is you think could not wait for business hours.”

“Do you have a cassette recorder in your pocket?” Grafton asked pleasantly. “Or are you using a cell phone with an open line?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” Jerry Hay Smith said, with a bit of belligerence creeping into his voice.

“You do if you ever expect to have that recording admitted as evidence in a court of law. Now I’m asking you again, are you making a record of this conversation?”

Smith glowered. “Yes,” he muttered.

“What court do you think we’re likely to wind up in?”

“I think someone might sue me for libel, and I want a recording to protect myself.”

“What do you think of that, Mr. Cairnes? Are you aware that Mr. Smith is writing a book about you, Mr. Winchester, and the other people in this venture? He’s up to sixty-seven thousand words, by the way.”

Simon Cairnes’ face was a mask of cold fury as he stared at Jerry Hay Smith, who was staring at Grafton. “How did you learn that number?” the journalist demanded of the admiral through clenched teeth.

Before Grafton had time to answer, Huntington Winchester roared, “For Christ’s sake, Jerry,” and leaped from his chair. He squared himself in front of Smith with his fists clenched. “Writing a book wasn’t even mentioned when you told me you wanted to help rid the world of these Islamic fascists. You’ve put ten thousand dollars into this venture, and Cairnes and I and the others have contributed almost four million. So what is this? A shakedown? Blackmail? Either we buy your goddamn screed for a price you set or you’ll publish and ruin us—is that your game?”

“Hunt,” Smith said, trying to keep his voice under control, “I’m a journalist. That’s what I do. I made you no promises about keeping your venture, or my participation in it, a secret. When this has played out I’ll decide—“

He got no further because Hunt Winchester reached down with both hands, jerked him erect, then planted a straight right on his chin. Smith missed the chair and sprawled on the floor, half stunned.

“By God, that felt good!” Winchester exclaimed.

He reached for Smith again as Cairnes said, “Hit the bastard one for me.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Grafton said. He clapped his hands once. Winchester froze with Smith half off the floor.

“You can beat the crap out of Mr. Smith any old time,” Grafton continued, “but right now why don’t you gentlemen sit here like reasonable adults and listen to what I have to say?”

Winchester dropped Smith back onto the floor and began feeling his pockets. Smith tried to push him away, and Winchester slapped him. He felt some more, then reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small digital recorder. He walked away from Smith, looking it over, then tossed it into the flames in the fireplace.

“I’ll sue you for assault, Winchester. These men are witnesses.”

“Didn’t see a goddamn thing,” Cairnes rumbled.

Smith climbed back into his chair while Winchester stood in front of the fire staring at him.

When Smith was safely back in his chair, he wiped his face on his sleeve, felt his jaw, then said to the admiral, “I want to know who the hell you really are.”

“The name is Jake Grafton.”

“Who the fuck do you really work for, Mr. Grafton?”

“I told you when we first met, Mr. Smith: the Central Intelligence Agency. I might point out that I am a covert employee. As you probably know, revealing that fact to anyone not authorized to know it is a federal felony, punishable by imprisonment.”

“Got that, Smith?” Cairnes snarled at the journalist, who was still probing the tender place on his jaw.

“I got it.”

“Publish and be damned, you little bastard,” Cairnes roared. He grabbed his cane like a baseball bat. “I won’t pay you a fucking nickel. And I hope the feds send your sorry, traitorous ass to prison. Judas! Betraying your friends for money—“

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Grafton murmured. “You’re in this lifeboat together. Save the recriminations for the ten-year reunion. Right now you have a more pressing problem.”

“Oh?” That was Cairnes.

“The name of your problem is Abu Qasim, a smart, wily, vicious man who specializes in murder and mayhem in the name of Allah. He has killed, or ordered killed, Alexander Surkov, Wolfgang Zetsche, Rolf Gnadinger and Oleg Tchernychenko.”

Their faces fell. “Oleg?” Winchester gasped.

“Murdered with a car bomb yesterday in England.”

“Isolde Petrou?”

“She’s still alive and under armed guard.”

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.”