The Art of War: A Novel

by Stephen Coonts

  “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.

  I glanced at his hands as I handed him the box containing the pizza, said, “Eat it in good health,” and started to turn away.

  “Was you gonna throw it away?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “Got it for my kid, who just called and said he was staying at a friend’s house tonight. Not a pizza person myself.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and opened the box.

  I turned my back and walked around the corner of the building and up the incline to the street.

  *

  Fish watched Carmellini until he disappeared around the building. He wiped his hands on his trousers and helped himself to a piece of pizza from the box. Still warm. As he munched he looked around at the building, the four cars parked in this area, the Dumpster. He stood thinking about the four FBI dudes last night.

  Man, shooting them had been fun!

  He shook his head at his own stupidity. Shooting people is just a job, he told himself. You get to liking it too much and they’re going to get you, sooner rather than later.

  He tore another bit off the pizza, popped it into his mouth and chewed, savoring the tomato-and-cheese taste as his eyes roamed across the rear of the building.

  That guy … a good Samaritan, or a security guard?

  Not that it mattered. He’ll never see me again, Fish thought, and tore off another piece of pizza.

  *

  Cart McKiernan still had every hair he had been born with, Jake Grafton thought, although it was salt-and-pepper now, not jet black. His eyes still smiled when his lips did. Square jaw, good teeth—he looked like the admiral from Central Casting. “Send me an admiral for my movie.” They would send McKiernan.

  Tonight he was in sweats. He had a towel around his neck. “Was on the treadmill,” he apologized as he led Jake into the kitchen. “Want a beer or drink or something?”

  “Got a Diet Coke in the fridge?”

  “Sure.”

  McKiernan filled a glass at the tap with water for himself and led his guest into the den. High ceilings, at least ten feet, Jake noticed. A packed bookshelf. Comfortable furniture. Naval paintings from the days of sail on the walls. Seeing Jake look at them, McKiernan explained. “They’re on loan from the National Gallery.”

  “Nice.”

  “What’s on your mind, Jake?”

  “As you probably know, Admiral—”

  “Cart. Always Cart to you.”

  “Yessir. Cart. The president appointed me acting director of the agency after Mario Tomazic drowned—”

  “I read about it. Congratulations.”

  “I’m not sure congrats are in order. I feel like the guy getting strapped into the hot seat for the big jolt. In any event, I’m trying to get up to speed. Found a file in Tomazic’s office that said the Chinese have hacked into the navy’s database and are reading ship deployment schedules and the like.”

  “Yeah, I know about it.”

  “Can we talk here, in your den?”

  “It’s swept every week. They did it yesterday, as a matter of fact. I think we’re okay.”

  “Without going into it too deeply, I can tell you NSA is also into their computers. The Fort Meade folks tell me they are sharing summaries with you and your intel staff. The reason I came tonight—I would like your private, confidential, not-for-publication assessment of Chinese naval intentions.”

  Cart McKiernan wiped his face again with the towel and took a healthy drink of water. “The picture isn’t good, Jake. The Chinese are building massive amphibious capabilities and pumping up their naval assets. I think they’re capable right now of winning a short naval war with Japan and Taiwan, and invading Taiwan. The staff thinks they also have designs on the southern Ryukyu and Senkaku Islands. That would give them the seabed between those islands and the mainland. Needless to say, geologists think the oil deposits
there are probably as large as those in the Gulf of Mexico.”

  “What about the United States?”

  “They have already stated publicly that their nuclear ballistic missile subs could strike American West Coast cities, killing up to twelve million Americans. Those are their figures.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to help us with this,” the admiral said drily. “What we have is the U.S. Navy. And that’s about it.”

  Jake Grafton took a deep breath, then said, “It boils down to their assessment of what our reaction would be if they reacted to a ‘provocation’ by Japan or Taiwan. If they think we won’t aid our allies, or can’t aid our allies, we’re screwed.”

  “The White House says we will stand by our allies,” Cart McKiernan said flatly.

  “Right.”

  “We have treaties.”

  “Treaties are only paper when the shooting starts.” Jake Grafton worked on his Diet Coke. “How about the Middle East, Syria and Israel and Iran and all of that?” he asked.

  McKiernan scratched his nose. “What can I say? American foreign policy has been a disaster. Militants killed the U.S. ambassador in Libya. Nothing happened. The president was going to bomb Syria, then he decided to leave it up to Congress. He made a deal with Iran, which didn’t abide by their agreements. American credibility has gone into the ceramic convenience. Every holy warrior, tyrant and raghead wannabe has read the writing on the wall. America will do nothing. Yet when the shit really hits the fan and the public and Congress go berserk, the White House will call the United States Navy. Which has had its budget slashed and so forth.”

  Jake Grafton sat trying to digest it. Finally he said, “What’s in your naval database that the Chinese might be interested in?”

  The change of subject didn’t cause McKiernan to miss a beat. “Submarine and carrier operations, for one,” he said promptly. “When they stage one of their little propaganda productions in the Far East, you can bet they’ve read our ship schedule and know what we can do to respond and what we can’t.”

  McKiernen made a gesture of frustration. “And if the Chinese are into our stuff, Russia probably is. Maybe al Qaeda. Iran. North Korea. God only knows. The only people who don’t know our operational plans are our own people. We never tell our sailors anything, so they feel like they’re being jerked around without reason.”

  “So you assume the navy’s computer systems are all compromised.”

  “Yep. Everybody but Americans knows that all the Atlantic Fleet carrier task groups have been ordered to Norfolk on December twenty-second.”

  Grafton stared at the CNO. He certainly didn’t know that.

  “We did it before when the president and Congress got into a budget squabble,” McKiernan continued. “The debt limit will have to be raised again by year’s end.”

  “Doesn’t anyone remember Pearl Harbor?”

  Cart McKiernan leaned forward. “The United States Navy is following orders. The orders came straight from the White House.”

  Grafton’s thoughts tumbled around. “Who at the White House?”

  “Man, the National Command Authority. That’s the president. I’m just a sailor. I take orders and I give orders. I suspect the president wants those five carriers in port over Christmas so he can argue that without a higher debt ceiling from Congress we can’t afford to operate the navy, but no one on Pennsylvania Avenue has told me that. And, oracle that I am, I guarantee you they won’t say it. Ever. Still, I suspect that’s the reason they did it last time. And they won. Congress caved.”

  “Can’t you finesse them?”

  “How? If I don’t obey orders, they’ll fire me and get someone who will. You and I both know that.”

  “If anything happens to those five carriers, there will be rejoicing in Beijing.”

  “Tell me about it. And in Tehran and Damascus and Moscow and Benghazi and Pyongyang and a dozen other capitals around the globe.”

  “I know you’re going to take every precaution.”

  McKiernan nodded. “Every precaution anyone in the navy can dream up. All of them. Helicopters overhead day and night. Two attack subs submerged in Hampton Roads and two just outside the entrance to the bay. SEALs in the water around the ships. Armed fighters aloft. Boats containing sailors armed with Browning fifties patrolling twenty-four/seven. That area will be a quarantine zone for boats and a prohibited area for airplanes. We’ll shoot down any airplane that comes within ten miles of those ships. We did all that the last time, and nothing happened, knock on wood. Still, I’m going to sweat bullets until we get those task groups back to sea.”

  Jake slapped his thighs and stood. “Thanks, Cart, for the briefing. The agency will do everything we can to keep you informed.”

  “I know you will, Jake. I was going to call Mario, but after he drowned I figured you were probably up to your ass in alligators. You’ve saved me some sweat.”

  They said their good-byes, and Admiral Cart McKiernan escorted Jake to the front door and locked it behind him. Grafton looked at his watch. It was a half hour until midnight.

  He got in his car and pointed it toward Roslyn.

  *

  I was sitting in my car when I saw Grafton’s blue Honda Accord come up the street and turn into the parking garage. We didn’t put cameras in the garage—I didn’t even know if Grafton had an assigned parking space or just took whatever was available—but I planned to put Willie on it first thing in the morning. I had been eyeing that garage all evening. It was a perfect sniper’s perch.

  I sat there in the car holding my breath until Grafton came out of the garage and walked across the street to his building. He used a keypad on the front door, opened it and went in.

  I followed his progress to the elevator and, when he reached his floor, down the empty hallway to his front door. He walked as if he were tired, I thought, but at nearly midnight, I would have been surprised if he weren’t. He used the key and went in.

  When the door to his pad was closed behind him, I started my car and headed home.

  *

  The next morning at seven I called Jake Grafton at home. I figured he was up and getting ready to go to Langley. He said he didn’t have an assigned parking place in the garage. Nobody did. He was curt, no doubt from not enough sleep. Then I called Willie Varner. I figured it would take a day to install cameras and rig up a battery-operated Wi-Fi and booster transmitter on the roof. I went to Langley, got the stuff and took it over to Willie.

  “Two days,” Willie said, surveying the stuff.

  “Get busy, dude.”

  “Go spy something, Carmellini.”

  Back at Langley, I headed for the Liaison Office. The Company liaises with everybody, Congress, every federal agency, police departments …

  Zoe Kerry was waiting for me. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

  “It’s a secret. If I told you, I’d—”

  “Let’s go.” She marched out of the office, and I trailed along behind her.

  She had an agency sedan, a relatively new one that rode nice. I was thinking some more about trading cars when she asked, “Was that bullshit about waiting for a court date?”

  “I’ll prove my innocence. You’ll see.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It takes practice to be a good liar, so I work at it. I rarely tell the truth if a lie will serve.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “That was the truth, by the way.”

  “Just keep your mouth shut today. Okay? Don’t get in my way.”

  “I’ll be a fly on the wall.”

  There was a conference about Mario Tomazic’s death in the Hoover Building. Lots of conferences this day in that building, I supposed, since the FBI director, Maxwell, had just got spectacularly murdered. Yet if they were in a frenzy, it didn’t show much. The special agent in charge of the Tomazic investigation, a woman named Betty Lehman, chaired our meeting. It consisted of reports about various lines of inquiry and a
spirited back-and-forth about how many agents should be put on what.

  When Lehman thought she had it all, she said, “People, so far you haven’t given me any evidence that Tomazic’s death was anything but an accident. There is a very real limit on how many assets, for how long, we can devote to this unless someone somewhere gets something that points to murder. Something. Anything.”

  From the Hoover Building we went over to look at what was left of Reinicke’s apartment building. Kerry’s phone rang repeatedly, and she did a lot of listening. We found a place to park, then walked four blocks to the building. It was a mess. Looked as if a bomb had gone off in one corner, seven or eight stories up. The entire exterior walls of two apartments were gone, along with windows and glass and all the furniture from the small balconies. The exterior was extensively fire-blackened. Lots of windows missing. Crews of men were nailing up plywood, probably to preserve the scene for investigators.

  Kerry led me to an unmarked van parked near the building. Right beside it were two vans from the fire department. Police cars were scattered around, and we had to step over some flaked-out fire hoses. Debris all over the parking lot. Some of the cars still there had been damaged by falling objects.

  Inside the van we met the FBI guy, who was seated across a small metal desk from a senior fire guy, who wore a uniform. Kerry and I had to stand. She introduced me to both men.

  “What is the CIA doing here?” the FBI guy asked, looking at me. I had to break my promise to Kerry.

  “Liaisoning,” I said.

  “That is what Ms. Kerry is doing. She’ll tell you everything we want passed along.”

  “I can go outside, if you like, then pump her after we leave.”

  “Fucking spooks,” he grumped. “Like we have secrets. Listen all you want.”

  So I stayed. I got his name so I could put him on my Christmas card list.

  “Definitely a gas explosion,” the fire official said. “What triggered it, we don’t know. We hope to find out within a couple of days.”

  They yammered some more, talked about how the gas lines were routed, about the building’s maintenance records, emergency repairs and so on. No one offered us coffee.

  When Kerry’s cell phone began ringing again, she glanced at the number and went outside to answer it. I followed her. I wandered away a bit so as not to be seen eavesdropping, but I listened hard. Stuff about the investigation into Tomazic’s enemies. Apparently he had stepped on some toes on the way up in the army. I knew he also had a strained relationship with a son who had had serious drug problems in the past. Part of the conversation, I gathered, was a follow-up on the son’s whereabouts and current drug usage. I kinda doubted that a doper could manage to drown someone without being seen by neighbors, but what the hey. The experts were looking under every pebble.