The Assassin (21 page)

When I finished my narration, he asked, “Did she kill Zetsche?”

“I dunno. I’ve run through it a hundred times today, trying to decide. I don’t even know if she opened the servant’s door. Anyone in the house could have opened it. Anyone could have killed the juice. All I know for a fact that I could swear to is that she was standing in Zetsche’s bathroom with a gun in her hand—with him in bed with a knife in him, dead as old dog food—and she sandbagged me downstairs a few minutes later, when I was about ready to drill the villains. Villains plural.”

“Tommy,” Grafton said gently, “I hate to have to tell you this, but the man you shot was Isolde’s chauffeur.”

“Aaw …”

“He must have been following the assassin, chasing him, when you opened fire. It was a tragic, regrettable accident.”

I didn’t know what to say. Even if I had known, I doubt if I could have got it out. That moment had to be the lowest point in my life.

“Of course,” Grafton continued after a few moments, “he might have been the one who admitted the assassin to the house. He might have been in that stairwell to lock the door after he left when you opened fire.”

I stared at him. Finally I found my tongue. “Why in the world would he lock the door behind the killer? With four dead bodies cluttering up the place? They jimmied the jamb to make it look like a break-in; they even left the pry bar lying there so the police would be sure to find it. Locking the door behind the guy would show the world that there were two people involved.”

“I don’t know, Tommy. Maybe the chauffeur was playing solitaire in the dark and heard the killer leaving and chased him. Maybe he went downstairs to check on the power and the killer rushed by him.”

Maybe, perhaps, could be—

Infuriated, I spluttered, “What’s the answer? What is going on?”

“Damn if I know,” he said and shrugged.

Jake Grafton, spymaster. Yeah, dude, he’s got it all figured out. Right.

As I sat there contemplating strangling him, my eyes settled on the back of Speedo Harris’ perfectly barbered head. The thought occurred to me that Jake Grafton probably knew a lot more than he wanted MI-6 to know.

Yeah. That was it. He was mushrooming everyone, including me, keeping us in the dark and feeding us shit.

I scowled at him and he pretended not to notice. The jerk!

Did you ever meet someone with an irrepressible, volcanic personality that stunned you and left you gasping? I’ve met a few—Jake Grafton’s understated personality is like that on those rare occasions when he lets the tiger come out to play—but none measured up to Oleg Tchernychenko, whose inner fire overwhelmed and dazzled everyone within range.

We were in an old mansion on the windswept moors. It was as big as a medium-sized Holiday Inn but much better decorated. More comfortable, too. The big room that the guy at the door brought us to had a roaring fire going in a huge, blackened fireplace, but since Tchernychenko was holding forth in front of the fireplace, keeping us frozen with his eyes and voice and facial expressions, I didn’t get a chance to look around much until later. Whoever owned the joint—I doubted if this Russian did—was very much into World War I. Helmets and bayonets and uniforms were mounted high on the walls, along with other memorabilia from that period, such as silver cigarette cases engraved with the autographs of German aerial aces, old newspaper front pages, photos of the princes and belles of the age and the like. Everywhere there were books, hundreds of them, thousands.

As I said, though, for the first five minutes I didn’t see any of it. I was staring at Tchernychenko and his mane of graying hair. It seemed as if he were about to whip out a white baton and conduct the orchestra, but no. He did his conducting with voice and eyes and facial expressions and presence.

“Grafton!” the Russian boomed. “When I heard that name I told them to let you in—there couldn’t be two Jake Graftons sneaking about, now could there? Of course, the hour is late, but we arrive when we arrive, eh?”

I rolled my eyes at the boss, who didn’t even look my way. Fortunately Speedo was in the kitchen with the help, so tomorrow the boys and girls at MI-6 weren’t going to be puzzling over Tchernychenko’s remarks. At least I hoped Speedo was there. Then I wondered if Jake Grafton cared.

“Ah, yes, Grafton.” Tchernychenko didn’t have much of an accent—if anything, he sounded to me as if he were British, or had wasted much of his life hanging around them.

“MacGregor!” he roared. “MacGregor! Come take some orders and bring these gentlemen a drink.”

Since we were in Scotland, we drank the local stuff—neat, of course. Even adding water would have been sacrilege.

Grafton had trouble getting a word in edgewise, so he let Tchernychenko run on. He was ranting about the Islamic fundamentalists, “Islamofascists,” he called them.

“Amazing as it sounds to a logical mind, many British leftists are very sympathetic to the fascists, even though they are xenophobic, misogynic, homophobic, antidemocratic religious fanatics who are willing to murder anyone who doesn’t believe as they do. Add the British instinct to root for the underdog to a generous dose of anti-Semitism and it’s positively breathtaking what they can explain away. British intellectuals have a lot to answer for, including their fascination with Communism in the twentieth century. They are going to again cover themselves with glory, I fear.”

He paused a moment for air, then said, “They need another Churchill and they haven’t one.”

Grafton moved right in. “We came tonight to discuss the Surkov murder with you.”

“Alexander Ivanovich … a tragic figure.” Tchernychenko shook his leonine head. “Polonium, so he would suffer. A lesson to every Russian.”

“He accused the Russian government of poisoning him,” Grafton murmured.

“They did it, of course.”

“Not some terrorists, perhaps?”

“Oh, no. Putin and that crowd are trying to make the expatriates come to heel. A few spectacular poisonings will bring them around, he thinks. One of these days he’ll snap his fingers and they’ll obey like trained dogs.”

“And you—how do you stand with the Russian government?”

“They will not shed tears at my funeral,” Tchernychenko said curtly and took a mighty slug of scotch.

“If the real enemy is terrorists and they get you, you’ll be just as dead,” Grafton pointed out calmly. He had a way of saying things that would freeze your blood if a normal person said them, yet from him the remark seemed candid but harmless. That was an illusion; nothing about Jake Grafton was benign.

“No one unknown to me can get onto the grounds. I have four men on duty every hour of every day.”

“Russians?”

“No. British. There isn’t a Russian alive who can be trusted to disobey Putin … me included.” He chuckled, as if that comment were funny. “I know these men and pay them well. They are loyal and extremely competent. They know the stakes, and they know that in the long run Putin and the terrorists will lose. Tyranny and fanaticism burn with a white-hot flame for a short time, then they always sputter out. No one trembles today when one mentions Hitler or Joseph Stalin—no one. Would you like more Scotch?”

For the first time, Grafton glanced at me. “Tommy, would you please check on Speedo? See that he gets a drink and is properly entertained.”

I rose and went off to find the British op. When I glanced back as I went through the door, Grafton and Tchernychenko had their heads together.

I will tell you frankly, I didn’t believe the Russians iced Surkov, or Jean Petrou, or Wolfgang Zetsche. I had a name and wasn’t letting go: Abu Qasim.

Or, maybe, Marisa Petrou. For husband Jean, at least. A little of Mom’s heart medication in hubby’s vino and voila! Life is looking up.

After visiting the kitchen and ensuring Speedo was being properly attended to, I wandered through the house, looking at the stuff from World War I. The downstairs held four large rooms with twelve-foot ceilings, each with a massive fireplace. Little rooms were arranged down the west side of the building: kitchen, pantry, a few bathrooms and a couple of small sitting rooms that now contained televisions. I inspected the entire ground floor and the outside doors and staff door and the view from the windows. Just plain old Scottish night was visible out each window, black and windy and wet. The portraits on the wall and the black windows stared at me as I walked along, looking at this and examining that. The floorboards creaked and groaned with every step. The sound of the wind whispered through that Scottish mansion. Every few moments I paused, closed my eyes and listened to the song of the wind and the rattling windows. Drafty old place. Cold, too. Fifty-five degrees would be my guess, almost cold enough to hang meat. I was fast losing any secret desire I might have had way back when to live in a castle or McMansion. My warm, cozy little apartment was going to look sooo good.

After I had checked out the downstairs, I went upstairs and sniffed around. The rooms were smaller, still chilly and drafty, stuffed with loaded bookcases, and the only bath was at the end of the hallway. Eight bedrooms, three sitting rooms and one bathroom. My mom wouldn’t have liked it.

I wondered about Isolde’s chauffeur. Was he a good guy who tried to capture a villain, or was he one of “them,” a holy warrior trying to earn glory in the next world by committing mayhem and murder in this one?

That Marisa …

Maybe I shot the wrong man in that castle near the Rhine. If I was supposed to get a guilt trip over that possibility, it wasn’t working. I didn’t feel anything, not guilt, angst, remorse … not even relief. Okay, okay, I’m lying again. The truth was I felt guilty and in over my depth. Yet when I ran through the events of that evening in my mind, I couldn’t see what I could have done differently.

I was getting more than a little peeved at Marisa. She knew the answers—all the answers—and she wasn’t talking.

The 1911 Springfield felt good in my pocket, a nice, solid, deadly lump. I got it out and exchanged the half-empty magazine in the grip of the thing for a full one. Checked that the hammer was back and the safety was on, then wedged it back under my belt.

“Wolfgang dead,” Tchernychenko muttered. “Murdered.”

“With a knife, apparently,” Jake Grafton said smoothly, “and you may be next.”

The Russian made an unpleasant noise with his lips and teeth. “I’m safe as it is possible to get here in this house.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Some Arab knife artist or mad bomber isn’t going to dash across these highlands in the dead of winter and through four armed men. On the other hand, if Putin wants me dead, there isn’t much you or I or anyone on earth can do about it. There isn’t anyplace on this planet one can hide from him. The polonium—it was a warning. So we would know and fear him.”

“Perhaps,” Grafton said slowly, “you are misreading this situation. I have been told by a man I respect that the Russian government had nothing to do with Surkov’s death.”

“The Russian government? Those mice that serve at Putin’s pleasure? Perhaps they didn’t. But Putin—I have incurred his wrath before. He is consolidating his power in Russia. He wants to become a czar, to rule Russia.” Oleg Tchernychenko waggled a finger at Grafton. “I think he will do it. Yes, sir. I think he will do it. Beholden to no one, with a mandate he wrote himself, he will rule as Stalin did, as Lenin did, as Czar Nicholas and Catherine the Great did.

“You people of the West, of these little green islands and the lands across the Atlantic, you don’t understand. You have your elections and make polite noises and debate endlessly and vote. Let me tell you, sir, they don’t do that in Russia. Never have and probably never will; certainly not in our lifetimes. And, Admiral, they don’t do that democracy twaddle in the Middle East. God speaks to the imams and they tell the faithful and the faithful charge off to die gloriously as soldiers of God— and kill a few infidels, if at all possible. Those simple fools have never asked why God needs their help, nor will it ever occur to them to ask.

“On the other hand, Putin doesn’t need God’s help. He can build his empire with his own two hands. He can poison Alexander Surkov in Mayfair and all the power and might of Great Britain can’t save his life. We Russians, we understand the basic laws of political physics.”

Jake Grafton said nothing. He sipped at the last of his Scotch.

Tchernychenko wasn’t finished, however. “There is a man, Sheikh Mahmoud al-Taji, who runs a mosque in London. The British court released him today—it was on the telly this evening. He will not be jailed or deported.”

“I heard about that.”

“He’s a terrorist.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“I have my sources. Rumor has it he is trying to buy weapons and explosives from Russia. I have friends—I hear these things. Why would they say them if it were not true? And why the British government didn’t accuse him of that I can’t imagine. So now he is free to stand in his mosque and preach his poison. ‘To die in the name of Allah should be the goal of every believer.’ That is his mantra. The court didn’t convict him because he didn’t say ‘to kill and die in the name of Allah.’ The judge is a fool.”

Grafton didn’t reply.

“What are you going to do about him?” Tchernychenko demanded.

“What should I do?” Grafton asked softly.

“Have him killed. Send your soldiers after him.”

“He is a religious leader. As far as I know, he hasn’t raised money for terrorism, hasn’t plotted terror strikes, hasn’t enlisted soldiers in the war of terror. I, too, have heard rumors, but they are only that, rumors. All he has done that the British could prove is rant in a mosque.”

“He is inflaming the rabble. Surely you can see that?”

Jake Grafton rubbed the stubble on his chin. It had been a long time since he shaved this morning. “We’ve assassinated five men. All five were actively engaged in terrorism. True, they preached in mosques and argued politics, too, but first and foremost, they were directly responsible for murder of the innocent.”

“You can’t draw that line and defend it,” Tchernychenko roared. “Your Abraham Lincoln noted that there was no difference between the wily agitator who induced a soldier to desert, and the soldier who did indeed desert.”