The Art of War: A Novel

by Stephen Coonts

  After I opened them, I stood back when he gestured. He started through the stuff as if he suspected I was smuggling in a load of heroin or Cuban cigars. He emptied the clothes, felt the lining, wadded the clothes up and put them back in, then attacked the carry-on, which had the newspapers from London, a couple of books and my cell phone, which was off, a wall charger and my key ring. Plus a toothbrush and toothpaste.

  When he had given all that stuff a very careful look, he gestured to a couple of the armed goons. “You need to go with these gentlemen. They will do a body search.”

  “Guess this is my lucky day,” I said. “I hope they have warm hands.”

  “Don’t get cute, buddy.”

  I thought that excellent advice. I was taken through a security door into a long puke-green corridor. The feds must buy puke-green paint in railroad tank cars. Lots of doors. They picked one halfway down on the left side and sent me in first. My bags were brought in, too. As two people searched the luggage again, meticulously, I was told to strip to the skin. Then I was given a body cavity search.

  When the jerk finished and was taking off his rubber glove, I said, “I hope you enjoyed that.”

  “Keep talking, asshole, and we’ll do it again.”

  There is a time and place for everything, I reflected, and this wasn’t it. The guy tossed me a small towel to wrap around my waist; then I was led back into the corridor and into a room at the end that housed a major X-ray machine. I expected to meet Dr. Frankenstein, but I got an overweight guy wearing a white gown. He coached me through a complete body series. If I had had an implanted microchip or a diamond in my ear, they would have seen it. Ditto a condom of coke in my intestines.

  “How do my lungs look?” I asked. “I had a chest X-ray scheduled. Maybe I can cancel it.”

  My technician ignored me.

  Afterward, a heavyset guy with lots of tattoos took me back to the original cubicle, gestured to my pile of duds and told me to get dressed. When I was reunited with my luggage, I told the inked-up dude, “I assume you’ll send the bill to Obamacare.”

  “Your tax dollars hard at work, Jack. Scram.”

  The whole ordeal took about an hour and a half. Anna was nowhere in sight when I emerged. I took the bus into the long-term parking lot. I sat there feeling pretty good about my decision to mail the map to Willie Varner as we rode the rows and people got on or off the bus.

  My old Benz was right where I left it. The tires still had air. After I loaded my bags into the trunk, the door lock admitted me. I arranged myself behind the wheel and clicked the seat belt. Inserted the ignition key, said my usual prayer, and twisted the thing. Nothing. The engine didn’t even make a noise.

  I opened the door again. The dome light didn’t come on.

  Uh-oh! I got out, opened the hood and took a look. Yep. The battery was gone. Some asshole had stolen it. They hadn’t taken off the terminal wires, but had cut them.

  Welcome home, Tommy!

  I was cussing when the realization hit me that I could have easily been dead. Instead of some lowlife stealing the battery, what if that Dumpster diver from Grafton’s had put some dynamite under the hood? Was this a warning from the bomber?

  I felt the icy fingers of the devil run up and down my back. And now I had Anna to worry about.

  *

  I took a taxi to Grafton’s. On the way I played with my phone, got the video from the security cameras and saw Anna in the kitchen talking to Callie.

  When the admiral got home at six o’clock, Anna, Callie and I were finishing off our second bottle of wine. He looked a little stunned when he saw Anna. Callie jumped right in. “Jake, Tommy and Anna are engaged.”

  She and Anna looked at each other and smiled, as if they knew something we males didn’t.

  Jake Grafton looked surprised. He gave me the once-over to see if I had lost it or suffered a severe head injury. After he decided I looked more or less normal, he made polite noises for a minute or two, “Congrats” and all that, then motioned for me to follow him into his office.

  He closed the door behind me and demanded, “What the hell has gotten into you?”

  “I’m going to commit matrimony. Hormones, probably. Anna and I got the urge at roughly the same time.”

  “What if she’s a spy for the SVR?”

  “If the FBI catches her doing nefarious stuff in the good ol’ U.S. of A., they can prosecute her.”

  “I see. You know that you’ll have to resign from the agency when the preacher signs the marriage license. Before the ink’s dry. Why don’t you two just shack up together?”

  I tried to look horrified. “You mean, like, live in sin? The shock might kill dear ol’ Mom. And I’d have to lie when I do the annual lie detector thing. You know how adverse I am to falsehoods.”

  Grafton threw up his hands. “Oh, hell. Okay, you win. The day before the wedding, you resign. Get married unemployed.”

  “Okeydokey.”

  He dropped into a chair. “Where’s Ilin’s stuff?”

  “I mailed it to Willie Varner. An envelope that he said contained a map. The stuff you asked for he said would take a couple of weeks.” I told him about the meet at the corner bar at the Willard.

  “A map of what?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t open the envelope to peek. He said he got it from a guy in China. He said the guy had risked a lot and if anyone saw it his life might be in danger—all the usual crap. All of which meant hold it close. The thought struck me as I watched him that I was hearing precisely what he would have said if he were selling a map generated in a Moscow apartment to peddle to foreign spies for a thousand bucks a copy. I don’t know what you paid for this piece of graphic art. Maybe there is a lost gold mine or buried pirate treasure under the X. I suspect there is a very slim chance you got a bargain, and a much larger chance you got screwed.”

  Jake Grafton watched my face as I spoke. When I ran out of words, he said, “Tell me what happened at the airport.”

  I sat down across from him and went through it as best I could.

  He had questions. “Did you get the impression that they knew you weren’t the guy on your passport?”

  “Well, not really. But they were looking for something that they believed I had. I didn’t think they were just randomly searching. They were hunting for something they knew was there.”

  He thought about that for a moment, then said, “Why did you decide in England to mail the thing?”

  I shrugged. “An article in the paper … just a feeling I had. If they’d got their hands on it, as paranoid as they are, I’d be in a cell incommunicado until the very last terrorist goes to his reward in Paradise.”

  “That’s the mystery.” Jake Grafton regarded me as an unusual specimen. “Why did you decide to mail it and not carry it—carefully—upon your person?”

  I shrugged as I thought about my answer. Finally I said, “Because I thought it was more likely to get here if it was delivered by the post office. Willie isn’t on anybody’s list of dangerous characters, so I sent it to him. Also, I knew his address.”

  Grafton sighed. Yeah, Willie was probably below the radar. If they were working off a list of the president’s ten thousand worst enemies, Willie Varner, black ex-con, probably wasn’t on it. “Let’s talk about your car,” he said. “Instead of stealing the battery, someone could have put a bomb under the car or under your hood.”

  “That thought occurred to me.” I tried to keep my voice even.

  Grafton grimaced. “The FBI says they can’t find anything on that Dumpster guy you ran into at Dulles.”

  “I didn’t think they would.”

  “Why not?” He regarded me with knitted brows.

  “Just an itch between my shoulder blades. Something isn’t right.”

  “A whole lot of things aren’t right,” Grafton said with feeling. “Welcome home!”

  *

  Mrs. Grafton insisted on fixing dinner. I sat and watched Anna’s face as she chatted,
ran her eyes over me, sipped a glass of chardonnay, gestured with her hands. I liked the way her eyes moved, the way she smiled, the way she tossed her head occasionally to get a stubborn strand of hair back from her eyes. I liked the sound of her voice, the accent, the way she chose words and made them sound. I wondered if I would ever get over the wonder of being with her.

  Jake Grafton was apparently relaxed. He smiled and chatted and his eyes took in everything.

  Of course it was Callie Grafton who got to the nub of it. She asked Anna, “You and Tommy—isn’t this sudden?”

  Anna looked at me and said, “I should have married him the first time he asked, several years ago, when I was here. Life gave us a … what do you say?… a do-over again?”

  “A do-over.”

  “Yes. A chance to make another choice, a better choice.” Her hand grasped mine. “He asked again, and this time I knew the right thing to say. The right thing for both of us.”

  Dinner was salad with chicken, with Callie’s homemade dressing.

  After dinner Grafton took me back to his office and gave me a pistol for my pocket. It was loaded. He put one in his pocket, too. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. Let’s go get the car and I’ll drive you two over to your place.”

  “You still have guards in a van around the corner?”

  “Oh, yes. I feel like a crime boss.”

  We got the car from the garage, after opening the hood and checking it out, and Grafton parked in front of his building in the loading zone. I went upstairs and hauled Anna’s bags down, then went back for mine. We said good-bye to Callie, who kissed us both.

  Traffic that evening was terrible. Everyone inside the Beltway was trying to get out. As we crept along in stop-and-go traffic, a fine mist of rain smeared the windshield. Grafton played with his wipers, and we chatted.

  I have relived that drive in my memory a dozen times, and I can’t recall what we talked about. Anna sat in the backseat behind Grafton, and I rode twisted around so I could see her. I remember her smile. She was so full of hope. Full of life.

  Grafton dropped us under the awning of my building, so we were out of the misting drizzle as we unloaded the luggage. I got out my keys and opened the door to the building. Grafton wanted to help me carry the luggage, but I refused. Anna and I could pull it on the little wheels, and we had kept him long enough. I can’t remember what I said. Thanked him, certainly. I remember him hugging Anna and shaking my hand and smiling broadly.

  Then he held the door until we were through it. The elevator came as he drove away.

  I remember thinking that if I had known I was bringing Anna home, I could have really cleaned up the apartment. Oh well.

  I opened the door, let her precede me, then began dragging luggage in. The place smelled closed up. I had been gone a week. I went to the windows and opened them a few inches to admit some air.

  I don’t remember turning the lights on, but I must have. I think I gave her a tour of the place, both bedrooms, the kitchen, showed her the closets.

  I asked her if she wanted something to drink. I have forgotten what she said. Maybe she wanted a glass of water.

  Anyway, she was in the bedroom with her suitcase and I was in the kitchen when it happened. There was a huge concussion, like a car crash, and I remember being swept off my feet and flying through the air … I don’t remember sound. No boom. None of that. Just the impact and flying through the air.

  Then nothing.

  *

  When I woke up I was in this hospital bed, Admiral. How long have I been here?

  A policeman came a while ago. I don’t know when. Or maybe a fireman. Someone in uniform. He told me she died instantly. The bomb was apparently in the dresser. He said the blast was centered in that corner of the bedroom. He said a wall that was blown out whacked me in the kitchen.

  So Anna’s dead. And I can’t remember much. How long have I been here? When are they going to let me out?

  Do you know who did it?

  Don’t beat around the bush with me, Grafton. Tell it to me straight.

  Who did it? Who put that bomb in my apartment?

  Who murdered Anna?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.

  —Sun Tzu

  When he came out of the hospital room, Jake Grafton found four men wearing casual clothes and light jackets standing in the hallway. They were covert operators from the agency: Travis Clay, Willis Coffey, Doc Gordon and Pablo Martinez. All had pistols in holsters hidden under their jackets.

  “How is he?” Coffey asked.

  “Has a concussion, some contusions, cuts and scrapes, a light burn and some memory loss. Doctor said nothing is broken or smashed. They want to observe him for a few days.”

  The four men nodded grimly. They all had worked with Carmellini on various occasions.

  “So how about two of you on watch outside the door day and night. Twelve-hour shifts, staggered. No one but hospital personnel with the appropriate badges with photo ID goes through the door. If they take him out, one of you accompanies him and the other waits in the room. I told the doctor to arrange to have meals brought up to you from the cafeteria.”

  They nodded.

  Jake took a paper from his pocket and handed each of them a sheet. It was a photo from a computer printer. “Study this photo and keep the paper in your pocket. It’s from the video cameras at Dulles. Tommy recognized this guy there last week, chased him and had him in hand when the police interfered. The guy escaped. It’s just possible this guy is the dude who tried to bomb my place and did bomb Tommy’s. If it is him, he’s a killer. I’d like him alive and able to talk, but don’t take any chances. He’s undoubtedly armed. If you have to shoot him, kill him.”

  They all nodded again.

  “He’s a little under six feet, Tommy said. White man, and fit.”

  “We have a name?”

  “Not the one his mother gave him.”

  More nods.

  “Call me anytime if you have any trouble. You have my cell number. If anything goes wrong. Anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can visit him a little, one at a time, when the doctor says it’s okay, but he needs rest.”

  “Yeah.”

  As Jake came out of the elevator in the lobby, he met Willie Varner coming in.

  Varner recognized him.

  “Let’s chat,” Jake said, and led him into the lobby and gestured to chairs. “How’d you learn about this?”

  “Man, it was in the mornin’ paper.”

  Grafton sighed.

  “His girl really got it, huh?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Same guy who tried to bomb you?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  Willie ran his hand through his hair. “Damn,” he said softly. “He called me from London. Said he was gonna get married.” Willie sighed, remembering. “Never heard him so happy. And it all turned to shit.”

  Grafton described Tommy’s physical condition. “He’ll be out of here in a few days. No visitors.”

  “Man, the same asshole could walk in here and waste him.”

  “I have some men upstairs.”

  “Okay.” Willie nodded his head and wiped his eyes. “Really tough shit for Tommy, man.”

  “He told me he mailed you an envelope from London. When it comes, call me. Don’t open it. I’ll send a man to get it.”

  “Okay. You know I’m still watchin’ the video from your place from time to time. If anythin’ happens, I can’t call Tommy. Want me to call you?”

  “Yes. If you can’t get me, call nine-one-one.”

  “He really gonna be okay?”

  “The doctor is hopeful. So am I.”

  Willie cussed a bit, then stood up, and they walked out of the hospital together.

  When Grafton stuck out his hand in the parking lot to shake, Willie Varner seized it and gave it a pump. “You
better find that bomber motherfucker soon,” he advised. “If Tommy gets to him before you do, there won’t be enough left of him to make a little dog’s breakfast. Tommy’s a good guy, and something like that wouldn’t be good for his soul.”

  *

  When he got back to Langley, Jake Grafton found Zoe Kerry waiting for him.

  “Carmellini’s place was blown up with a dynamite bomb. Four sticks, at least.”

  “What else?”

  “The FBI is working it, Admiral. There’s a security camera in the lobby, but it’s on a twenty-four-hour loop. We took it and sent it to the lab, but…”

  “What about that dude Tommy tackled at Dulles last week?”

  “We’re working that angle. Getting some resistance from Homeland. What their problem is I don’t know.”

  “Tomazic?”

  “No further information.”

  Grafton thanked her and sent her on her way. Then he had the receptionist call Sarah Houston. When she came into his office fifteen minutes later, he asked, “What have you got?”

  “How is Tommy?”

  She seated herself near the corner of Grafton’s desk and put her file folders on her lap.

  “Alive, with a concussion and cuts and bruises. A few days before they discharge him.” Grafton eyed Tommy’s former girlfriend. “No visitors, the doctor said.”

  Sarah nodded. “I didn’t know he had a fiancée.”

  “They just decided to get married. He brought her back from Switzerland. He asked her to marry him once before, years ago, and she refused. She said yes this time. Came home with him and got blown up. Murdered. Sometimes life hands you a shit sandwich.”

  She didn’t say anything to that, merely glanced at the files in her lap.

  “What do you have?” Grafton asked, all business.

  “The Chinese have indeed been into the navy’s computer systems. I’ve got a report here. It will take a while to read.” She passed it across.

  “Anything jump out at you?” he asked as he glanced through it.

  “I think the Russians have been in there, too. The systems are structurally weak.”