The Art of War: A Novel (12 page)

Anastasia Roberts gave me a hard look, shook the offered hand and said, “I’ve heard of you.”

“I won the Company camping award last year.”

“That must have been it,” she said coolly.

Hurley chimed in. “Admiral Grafton said you are going to be working with us,” he said, scrutinizing me.

“He told me that, too.”

“Welcome aboard.”

I assumed that was nautical humor. I smiled to show I was just one of the guys. “So how long have you been with the Company?”

“Eight months,” Roberts said.

“A year,” Hurley replied.

“Where did you work before you came here?” I asked, aiming at both of them.

Hurley answered first. “This is the first job I have ever had. The Company recruited me as I was finishing my doctorate.”

“Dr. Hurley. Cool.” I glanced at Roberts.

“I was over at the White House,” she said. “I’d had enough and floated my résumé, and the Company hired me.”

“And what did you do over there?”

“Political staffer. Memos and such.”

“We have paper to push, too.”

“And you?” she said.

“I’ve been here a while. Mainly tech support.”

“I’ve heard that you worked with the admiral before.”

“Occasionally.” I changed the subject, to where they lived, how did they like DC and so on.

We were still chatting a few minutes later when Jennifer, the desk person, sent me in to see Grafton.

I installed a program on his computer, iPad and cell phone so he could see the video from the cameras we planted that afternoon in his condo. We sat and watched for a few minutes.

“Too bad about Maxwell,” I said, trying to jostle him.

“Hmm,” he murmured.

“Willie made an observation I thought cogent. He said these cameras won’t stop buckshot.”

Jake Grafton swiveled his gaze to me. “There’s a killer out there,” he admitted.

“He’s pretty damned good at his business, too,” I observed.

“What do you suggest?”

“Bodyguards around the clock. Don’t cross the street without looking both ways.”

“Go see Joe Waddell in Security. He’ll have two armed men in a van a block or so from my building around the clock. Give them the address for the feed and the password.”

“I’ll stop in and see him before I go home tonight.”

Grafton made a noise and turned back to the monitors. Callie was in the kitchen on the phone.

“I didn’t think you wanted just everyone listening to you and Mrs. Grafton, so video is all you get.”

He didn’t say anything. Just flicked from camera to camera.

“Retirement might also be an option. Your wife doesn’t want you dead.”

“Stay with the FBI liaison officer tomorrow,” he said. “Then brief me tomorrow evening.”

“Aye aye, sir,” I said, and immediately regretted it. I was already starting to sound like Hurley. I closed the door behind me.

When I got home about seven o’clock I got a dinner from the freezer—meatloaf, mashed potatoes, gravy and corn—took it out of the box and punched holes in the top with a fork, then stuck it in the microwave. As it nuked, I turned on my laptop and went to the Grafton feed. Watching the video, I thought about Tomazic, Reinicke and Maxwell. Accidents normally come one at a time, randomly, I’ve noticed. Three big intel dudes dead in a week were two too many. Maybe I was getting paranoid. I told myself that Grafton probably had it already figured out and just hadn’t bothered to tell me about it. Or anyone else, I suspected. Damn him anyway.

I called Willie. “You been watching this Grafton feed?”

“Yeah. Writin’ the times down. This hourly rate is goin’ to work up to a nice chunk of change. Might even finance a trip to Vegas whenever Uncle Sugar shits me a check.”

“You going to watch it this evening?”

“Hell no. I got a date. She’s fixin’ dinner. Gonna try to get laid.”

“Good luck.”

Finally the microwave beeped and stopped humming. I ate my gourmet repast on the countertop while the video from Grafton’s condo and building played on my laptop. Washed the grub down with beer. Sooner or later, I told myself, I was going to have to get a life.

I had finished the frozen dinner and was working on my second beer when Callie answered the phone in the kitchen.

I wondered if Joe Waddell had those two guys in the van on station yet.

I got busy with my phone and set it up so that I could get the Grafton feed on it. Then I took a shower and changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. My pistol and shoulder holster were lying on the bed. The gun was an old Walther in .380 that I picked up cheap a few years back at a gun store. I looked at it with disgust. Compared to a 12-gauge shotgun, it was a peashooter. What I needed was full-body armor. I donned the holster and put the pistol in it.

*   *   *

Jake Grafton drove to Tysons Corner, then wound his way into a building complex. The seal of the Office of the Director of National Intelligence was on the guarded entrance. He showed his CIA building pass to the uniformed federal security officer on duty and was admitted to the parking lot.

This bureaucracy had been created after 9/11 because of political necessity. Prior to that, the director of the CIA had served as the national intelligence director. But the politicians had to do something after the 9/11 terrorist strikes, so a new agency was created—one that now had about 1,750 federal employees, another layer of bureaucracy to push the raw intel through before it got to the decision makers. Grafton thought it a wonder the U.S. government knew anything at all. But perhaps someone somewhere slept better knowing all these bureaucrats were on the job, except of course for weekends, vacations, federal holidays, sick days, snow days, office parties and all the rest of it.

He went into the building, showed his CIA pass again, walked through a metal detector and was escorted upstairs to the assistant director’s office.

The assistant director was a serving navy vice admiral, three stars, named Arlen Curry. He rose from the desk flanked by flags when Jake entered. The escort left and shut the door behind him.

“Sorry about Reinicke,” Jake said. “And Maxwell.”

Curry, in uniform, motioned Jake to a chair and took one himself three feet away, situated at a ninety-degree angle. Curry crossed his legs.

“Who’s going to be named acting DNI?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know. No one at the White House has said squat to me.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “You know that they named me acting director of my agency, so we’ll be working together.”

“The White House called me on that. Sal Molina. Congratulations. If you want them.”

“I don’t. What I want to know is why Mario Tomazic died.”

“I don’t think Tomazic drowned all by himself,” Arlen Curry said, biting off his words. “I don’t think the explosion that killed Reinicke was an accident. Maxwell and his bodyguards and limo driver certainly didn’t commit suicide with number-four buckshot.”

“Number fours, eh?”

Jake Grafton leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

“Want a drink?” Curry asked, and stood. “By God, I do.”

“Sure. Whatever you have.”

“What I have is bourbon. No ice.” He pulled a bottle from his lower right desk drawer and produced two glasses, which looked reasonably clean. He poured a healthy shot in each and handed Jake one. Then Curry returned to the chair he had vacated. Both men sipped in silence.

Jake let it lie. They talked about the international situation, about the current ins and outs of the intel business, but Curry had nothing to say that Jake didn’t already know. After a few more minutes, Grafton thanked Curry for his time and extended his hand.

Curry stared at the door after Grafton left. Then he looked at his watch and found he had a few minutes before the next meeting. He got busy with the stuff in the in-basket.

*   *   *

I found the surveillance van a block from Grafton’s building in Roslyn, around the corner, parked in an alley. It had the name of a local plumber painted on both sides and was dirty and scruffy; still, the antennae on the roof gave it away. If I could find it, so could a bad actor bent on murder. That was something to think about. I drove slowly through the neighborhood, looking. A mom-and-pop pizza shop across the street, a coffee shop, a dry cleaner, a little sit-down Mexican restaurant … and a large, six-story parking garage. Beehives of condos rose in every direction. Down the hill a block or so was an entrance to the Metro. A nice urban neighborhood on a hill overlooking the Potomac, with a subway stop. If you wanted to live in close, yet not in the District, this Virginia neighborhood was about as good as it got.

Only a few minutes after nine. People were still on the street, which was lined with parked cars. Cars flowed past on a regular basis. The windows of the condos were all lit up. People were inside reading, watching television, socializing, relaxing after a day at the office. Last night when Maxwell walked out of the National Press Club, that street looked benign, too. But it wasn’t. There was a killer on the loose. Or more than one. That fact gave this street a sinister tone tonight.

A car pulled out of a parking place at the curb, so I pulled in. Killed the headlights and engine and sat watching the screen of the cell phone. Mrs. Grafton had the boob tube on, but she was making something in the kitchen.

After a half hour sitting there contemplating the state of the universe and watching people on the sidewalk and in cars, I locked the car and walked across the street to the pizza joint for a beer.

*   *   *

When Jake Grafton was behind the wheel of his car he checked his watch. Ten after 10
P.M.
He checked the list of contacts on his cell phone and called the chief of naval operations, Admiral Carter McKiernan. He called him on his private home number.

“Yes.”

“Jake Grafton, Admiral. I’d like to stop around in about thirty minutes and see you.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow, Jake?”

“I’m up to my eyeballs, Admiral. I’d like it to be tonight, and off the record.”

“I’m not in bed yet. Come on over. You know where I live?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll tell the gate guards to admit you.”

“About half an hour, sir.”

“Right.”

The CNO lived in a mansion on government property at the old Washington Naval Yard. At this time of night, traffic into the district from Silver Spring was light. McKiernan was a naval aviator and had actually been the air wing operations officer aboard
United States
when Jake was the air wing commander. He had been a lieutenant commander then, selected early for commander.
God,
Jake thought,
that was a long time ago.
McKiernan had been selected for nuclear power school, and had gone on the usual career path to executive officer of a carrier, commanding officer of a supply ship, then commanding officer of a carrier. From there he had been promoted to rear admiral and had worked his way up the ladder. He was bright, loved the navy and knew how to lead. Jake had followed his career from a distance and had been pleased with each and every promotion.

Grafton wondered if Cart McKiernan would be candid.

*   *   *

I watched people on the sidewalks and in passing cars and trucks from the window of the pizza joint across the street from Grafton’s condominium building in Roslyn. The place was well lit and cheerful and smelled of wonderful comfort food. One guy worked the counter and phone; through the pass-out window I could see two more making pizzas in the kitchen. There were three couples and one guy with two kids in there munching pie when I arrived, laughing and whispering and relaxing after a day at desks somewhere. Other people came in from time to time, replacing the folks leaving, or to get a takeout pizza they ordered by phone. That phone. It was at the far end of the counter and never stopped ringing. I made myself at home on a counter stool where I could watch the street.

I was sipping a beer when I saw the homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of junk come slowly up the sidewalk from the direction of the Metro stop. He turned into the alley between Grafton’s condo hive and the one just down the hill. Going to mine the Dumpster behind the building, probably, or homestead a place to sleep.

I signaled for the bartender, who came over wiping his hands on a white towel. “How long would it take you to make me a pizza to go?”

“About twelve minutes or so.”

“Do you have one already made up you could stick in a box?”

“What kind?”

“Whatever you have ready to go.”

“I’ll see.” He was back a minute later. “Yeah, we got one we can warm up in about two minutes. Sausage, pepperoni and olives.”

“Fine.”

The derelict came out of the alley between the buildings, crossed in front of Grafton’s building and went down the alley to the loading dock and Dumpster behind it.

I watched him on the video on my cell phone.

When the pizza came, I paid for it and the beer and left a tip. “Thanks,” I said, and hit the door.

I crossed the street. My jacket was unzipped so I could get to the gun under my shoulder easily, if need be. I tried to whistle as I walked down the alley. My lips were too dry and I had to lick them. I got some noise out, but if there was a tune there I don’t know what it was.

The derelict was half in and half out of the Dumpster. He was bent over the lid of it with his upper body inside and his feet out.

I waited until he straightened up and could see me.

“Hey, dude. Can you eat a pizza?”

He eyed me and the pizza box. “Yeah.”

He climbed down. He had a couple of days’ worth of stubble, and his clothes looked dirty enough. I looked at his hands and neck. Fairly clean. Through the years and various adventures, I have noticed that men who never bathe take on a rich, ripe odor, not too bad. That’s after they quit stinking. I was downwind of the derelict, and I couldn’t smell that odor. Nor was he stinking.

He was about five feet nine inches tall, and compact. He looked fit, not skinny and starving like an alcoholic or drug addict. He had even features and brown eyes, a tad too close together, wide cheekbones and a chin that should have been a trifle smaller if he was ever going to get a job posing for magazine ads or strutting in front of a television or movie camera. Maybe he didn’t have those ambitions.