The Assassin (36 page)

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.

If the FBI were waiting, he told himself, they would be in the terminal as he exited the jetway. They weren’t. He walked along as if he were being watched, because he might have been. He tried to show ordinary curiosity, not too much, not too little. After all, this was supposed to be his first visit to the country.

Qasim queued in an immigration line and casually glanced around, just to see if anyone was paying any attention to him. No one made eye contact with him. The clerk at the desk ahead ignored him.

All around were Americans returning from abroad, some with children, and people from every corner of the earth. Behind him some English visitors were plotting a shopping strike on Manhattan.

When his turn came, the clerk glanced at his immigration form—he was here on business, he said—and ran the passport he had purchased from Surkov through the scanner. The clerk, a woman, unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it in her mouth as she waited for the computer to decide if he was on a wanted list. Or if his passport was a fake.

Abu Qasim kept breathing regularly, trying to look bored. Then she stamped the passport and handed it back. “Have a nice visit,” she said perfunctorily and motioned to the next person in line.

His luggage was on the carousel. He retrieved it and joined the customs line. He had nothing to declare, he told the agent when he passed him the form. The agent pawed lightly through his stuff, then closed the top of the suitcase and scribbled something on the form. Abu Qasim was waved on.

On the other hand, he reflected, perhaps the FBI was trying a finesse. Perhaps he would be followed until he revealed members of his network, then arrested.

Perhaps.

He went outside and got in the line waiting for a taxi. Night had already arrived, and the temperature was in the low forties with a breeze. A light rain was falling. Traffic at the airport was unbelievably bad.

So many cars… so many infidels, white, black, brown and yellow, the women brazen and wearing suggestive clothes, talking loudly. He had been to New York many times before, but each visit was a shock to his nervous system. One woman jostled him and said, “Sorry, honey.”

Abu Qasim rode into Manhattan with a driver from Pakistan who ignored him. This was fine with Abu Qasim, who had no desire to reveal his knowledge of languages. This man might be in the pay of the FBI.

He gave the man a three-dollar tip when they arrived at Pennsylvania Station. Not too much, not too little, so the man would have difficulty remembering him if someone asked about him a few days from now.

At Pennsylvania Station Qasim bought a twenty-dollar subway pass at a machine, then went through the turnstile carrying his bag. He rode the subway north into the Bronx, got off and went into an alley.

When he came out, he was no longer wearing his suit and tie but was in jeans, a short coat and a cheap baseball cap with no logo. He left the suitcase in the Dumpster behind which he had changed. Someone would grab it, he hoped, and soon. If the authorities had placed a beacon in the bag, they could chase it wherever.

He reboarded the subway and rode it under the streets of Manhattan, Queens and Brooklyn until almost eleven that night. At one point he exited the station, then walked to the next station,’ where he got on another train that took him back into the heart of the city.

When he was absolutely satisfied that no one was following him, Qasim got off the subway in Brooklyn and walked a half mile through the rain to a row house. He checked the number, knocked on the door and was admitted. When the door closed behind him, the man there embraced him.

“Ah, you arrive! Allah be praised. Did anyone follow you?”

This question annoyed Qasim. Of course no one followed or he wouldn’t be here, but he kept his good humor and answered politely.

“You must be hungry,” his host said. “Let us pray, then eat.”

The host went by the name of Salah al-Irani in the movement; this was, of course, not his real name. During dinner they were joined by four young men from the host’s mosque, and the host, an Iranian, entertained them all with his taxi-driving adventures. He had been in the United States for four years and had saved enough money to have his son join him. Allah be praised.

Proud that his house should be graced by such an important man as Abu Qasim, al-Irani talked loudly about the importance of Arab nationalism, which had been impeded, he said, by Western influence. Jihad was the weapon whereby foreign influences would be defeated—and Israel destroyed—and a great Arab nation created, an Islamic nation, of course. After delivering himself of several impassioned statements in this regard, he then took pains to impress upon his guest the extent of his temporal prosperity, which derived from his vast competence at driving a taxi in this rich nation, the United States.

If Abu Qasim thought the conflict between his statements ironic, he gave no sign. He well knew that many Arabs thought agreement on lofty principals was real progress. And, after all, in this world a man must eat.

When dinner was over, the four young men from the mosque left after voicing their fealty to jihad, leaving al-Irani alone with Qasim.

“I have heard of the deaths of Abdul-Zarah Mohammed and the others.”

“Sheikh al-Taji in London. They killed him, too.”

“Inshallah.”

“No doubt, but the enemies of Allah are many and strong. I have come to seek vengeance against our enemies, who are here, in America.”

“What can we do to help?” Salah al-Irani asked softly.

After breakfast at Grafton’s condo, Jake motioned to Marisa, who followed him into the den. He closed the door and motioned to a seat.

He dragged a chair around to face her. “It’s time,” he said, “to level with me.”

Marisa’s expression didn’t change. “I have told you the truth.”

“What did Abu Qasim tell you to do?”

“He has told me nothing.”

“He made you a promise,” Grafton said, looking straight into her eyes.

She didn’t reply.

“Do you really think he’ll keep it?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“If you don’t tell me the truth—and all of it—you are actually helping him. Do you understand that?”

“I have told you all I know.” She met his gaze levelly.

“I hope so. If people die because you didn’t, you are the one who has to live with it.”

When she didn’t respond, he rose from the chair and went to the door. He held it open.

After Marisa walked out, he brought in Isolde Petrou.

“Madame, the time has come for you to tell me all you know … or suspect.”

“Mon amiral, you flatter me.”

“Oh, no. Marisa has talked to you. I think she knows more than she has told me.”

Madame Petrou sighed. “Marisa is a woman with deep wounds, as you know. I think she has told you more than she has told me. But whatever the case might be, I believe she has told you all she knows. Or all she wishes to admit she knows, even to herself.”

After Grafton had thought about that one, he said, “I would like for you and Marisa to accompany me to Winchester’s house in Connecticut. We’ll leave in an hour or so and stay there until Abu Qasim is caught or dead.”

The French lady cocked her head slightly to one side, as if sizing him up for the first time. “You have not impressed me with your competence, Admiral.”

“If you have any suggestions, please make them.” ‘

“This Carmellini—he is obviously in love with Marisa, and—“

“I doubt that,” Grafton said, interrupting.

“I know about these things, Admiral. I have eyes and I am French. He is not warrior enough.”

“And Qasim? Do you know him? Ever met him? Seen him?”

“I only know what Marisa has told me, as you do. And I have seen his victims. He is vicious, ruthless, and enjoys what he does.”

Grafton watched her facial expressions as she spoke.

“I think you are very clever, Admiral. Carmellini is brave and bold and tough, but not clever.”

Jake Grafton just nodded.

“Qasim is full of hate,” Isolde said. “You aren’t.”

Jake Grafton had had enough. As he rose from his chair he said, “I’m getting there.”

Willie Varner showed up about nine that morning. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the door—he looked as if he’d been sleeping in alleys for about ten years. He even smelled. “Oh, Lord,” I said.

“Paid a guy twenty bucks for these,” Willie told me. “He thought I was crazy.”

“I think so, too.”

I took him to the den so Grafton could admire his transformation. After he oohed and aahed, the admiral gave Willie a little radio. The mike went on his clothes—I had to get close to pin it on—and the earpiece went in his left ear. There were no wires. The electronics that made this thing work were in a little box that went in one of Willie’s pockets.

We both talked on the radios a bit, just testing them; then Grafton gave Willie some spare batteries, which he pocketed, shook his hand, and said, “Good luck—and thanks.”

Willie nodded and left. I locked the door behind him and went back to the den. Grafton had two pump shotguns lying on the couch, so I took one and loaded it with five shells containing No. 4 buckshot while he loaded the other.

“I’m counting on you,” he said.

“Bet they don’t even come,” I replied brightly.

He just glanced at me, then went off to see his wife. I sat down in one of the chairs with a shotgun on my lap.

Crazy. He was nuts and his wife was nuts and so was I. All three of us crazy as bedbugs.

After Grafton and the women left for Connecticut, I sat at the kitchen table with Callie pretending to look at the morning paper. Mostly it was SOS, the Same Old Stuff. Jack Yocke’s column was about the upcoming fund-raiser next week at the Walden Hotel in New York. His column was about politics, which I scanned without much interest. Politics is like weather—everyone talks about it, but no one can do anything about it.