The Art of War: A Novel

by Stephen Coonts

  “You will have to turn up the volume on that thing,” he said. “I usually leave it off.”

  Sarah played with the mouse and keyboard a moment; then came a sound of a phone ringing, then a male voice: “Yeah.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” A woman’s voice, one that sounded familiar.

  “Say what you want to say. I’m busy.”

  “Why did you put that bomb in Carmellini’s place?”

  “He saw me. And I owed him. What’s it to you?”

  “You know our deal. Only when I give you the target. Being unpredictable keeps you alive.”

  “You’re getting your money’s worth.”

  A click, then the humming of a dial tone.

  Sarah hit a key. “Want to hear it again?” she asked.

  “Whose phone?”

  “Listen to the voice and tell me.”

  She played the conversation again.

  “Zoe Kerry,” Grafton said when the dial tone sounded.

  “Yep. Her phone. She dialed a number that is a prepaid cell. No name.”

  Jake jerked a thumb, and Sarah vacated his chair. She walked around the desk, sat and crossed her legs. He collapsed into his and stared at the computer screen. As he watched, the screen saver began dimming the screen. After another minute, the screen went dark.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “Do you want a recording of this, or the conversation put in writing?”

  “A recording.”

  “I’ll put it on a CD.”

  “Bring it to me personally. And we’re not going to say anything about this to anyone. Especially Zoe Kerry.”

  She nodded her understanding.

  “Anything else I need to know?”

  “I’m working the phones, Admiral. Checking on the Chinese navy. When I get something, I’ll make an appointment and come up.”

  He didn’t look at her, just nodded.

  *

  Sarah got out of the office through the door ahead of the executive assistants, who were marching in with their piles of daily reports and memos and directives, all of which needed his attention.

  After he had waded through it, a process that took an hour and a half, Grafton shoved the paper back at Roberts and Hurley and said, “I have a research job. Max, are you up for it?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I want résumés of the careers of the top officers in the Chinese navy, say the ten most senior. I need it as soon as I can get it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hop to it,” Jake said, and Anastasia and Max scampered out.

  *

  I’m certainly no bomb expert, and I never went to an EOD school. Somehow Grafton never sandwiched that one in. However, I’d watched the experts play with roadside bombs in Iraq and picked up a few things, so I probably knew a bit more about the subject than the proverbial man on the street, may he rest in peace.

  Lying in the hospital I had thought about bombs, about fuses and batteries and how to trigger the capacitor to set the whole mess off with a big bang. It kept my mind off Anna Modin.

  Driving out to Dulles late in the afternoon, I felt as if I were in some transition world, somewhere between reality and the world as I wished it to be. Anna was gone, to whatever comes next. I didn’t even know if she believed in an afterlife. Somehow that never came up.

  The only fact that I had hold of, that kept me going in a semi-straight line, was the fact she was murdered. Probably by the same bastard that had tried to kill Grafton. Who probably did kill the director of the CIA, the director of the NIA and the director of the FBI. Maybe he had something to do with trying to kill the president. I didn’t know, but if I could just get my hands on the guy, I thought I could find out. If his heart didn’t give out under interrogation.

  Anyone can be made to talk, to tell everything he knows about any subject on earth, if enough pain is applied. Anyone: you, me, anyone, no matter how tough they are. Or almost anyone. There is a tiny number of people who can endure pain up unto their death and never talk. They are rare individuals. Still, the drawbacks to that technique of obtaining information are twofold. First, the sufferer is likely to tell you what he thinks you want to hear in order to end the pain, so you may be obtaining bullshit you think is gold. Secondly, applying the pain does things to a sane man that are impossible to explain or live with. The torturer becomes an animal.

  I didn’t think my conscience would be a big problem. All I had to do, I thought, was think of Anna and tightening the screw would not be difficult. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  First, we had to catch the bastard.

  Willie and I went shopping for a battery and the cables to replace the cut ones. We took the shop van. We also bought a mechanic’s mirror, for looking under vehicles, plus a tiny camera on a flexible fiber-optic hose for looking into tight places.

  At three that afternoon Travis Clay showed up at the lock shop with two tactical headsets they had borrowed from the Company. We tried them out. The other guys would have them, too. We would be on channel one. The other guys were already on their way to the airport. They would slip into the lot at intervals and do a look around, as surreptitiously as possible, then find parking places. We hoped there would be parking places. Although we were interested in an area of about fifteen acres in that hundred-acre lot, Dulles was a busy place and parking places were hard to come by. We would just have to do the best we could.

  Everyone would be in place, surrounding the old red Benz, when Willie and I showed up at five o’clock to do our thing.

  We chatted on the tac net on the way to the airport. Everyone in place. Not ideal positions, but at least they were arranged around the Benz. They had done some looking, but not much. If our rabbit saw them searching the lot, he would boogie. If he was there. We were hoping he was. I had my fingers crossed.

  I had my Kimber in my shoulder holster. Willie wouldn’t carry a gun even if he had one: He was a two-time loser, and being caught with a gun would have probably got him prosecuted as a habitual criminal, which would have meant a serious stretch in the pen, maybe life. He wouldn’t have touched a shooter even if it had tits on it.

  We put on coveralls with the name WILLIE’S LOCK SHOP emblazoned on the back. They looked as if they hadn’t seen a laundry since last spring. Willie slid behind the wheel of the van, and I climbed into the passenger’s seat.

  On the way to the airport, Willie had second thoughts. “What if this guy has a bomb rigged up with radio control, Tommy? You thought about that? He see you near that car and push the button and drive off while you takin’ the long slide to hell.”

  “I don’t think that’s likely,” I explained. “He can’t sit in that parking lot around the clock, and he hasn’t the foggiest when I might show up. If I do.”

  “Man, ’less that fool’s there, he put a bomb in your car to pop when the hood is lifted, it might blow up a couple of mechanics from Joe’s Garage.”

  “You don’t really think he gives a damn, do you?”

  Willie shrugged. “Maybe not. But if there is a bomb in the car, he oughta be in the next state over. If he’s got a lick of sense.”

  “Willie, if he had a lick of sense he wouldn’t be assassinating people. This is a special kind of dude.”

  “Special,” Willie agreed, his head bobbing.

  “He likes killing people. Hold that thought.”

  “And us standin’ round that ol’ Benz beggin’ him to do it to us. Talk about lackin’ sense!”

  Actually, I was kinda hoping this guy would take a shot at me. And miss, of course. Then the snake-eaters and I would have his homicidal ass to do with as we chose. As I chose. And I had plans.

  Got to catch him first, though. Got to catch him.

  *

  We drove into the long-term parking lot, took a ticket and went creeping down the aisles. “Slow, man, slow,” I said as I scanned every car in sight. “We’re a couple of mechs looking for this dead car.”

  “In a lo
ck-shop van!”

  Well, it was the best we could do on short notice.

  Fortunately, the area where the Benz was parked wasn’t full. There were other cars creeping in, looking for parking places, and here and there people dragging suitcases on wheels and queuing up at the bus stops, waiting for a ride to the terminal, which was over a half mile away. Jets took off and landed, although the noise wasn’t loud. Amazing how they had quieted those things the last few years. Now at the airport jet noise was just a background drone.

  “There it is,” I said, pointing. “Park right in front of it.”

  He did. I got out, went around back and opened the doors and took out the mirror. I didn’t rubberneck. That was Willie’s job. He stayed behind the wheel and was supposed to be looking right, left and ahead.

  Of course, it was possible our bomber wasn’t in the lot but was somewhere a good distance away, with a rifle. That seemed unlikely, although possible. Hell, anything was possible. The hairs on the back of my arms seemed to come to attention as I walked up to the Benz and looked ’er over. Looked in every window, walked all the way around the car, keeping moving.

  I may be a stud, but I didn’t have it in me to just stand there posing for a sniper. Then I slid the mirror, which was on a four-foot handle, under the car and began looking. It was an interesting device, with a twist-grip handle that allowed the operator to adjust the angle of the mirror. I did the driver’s side first. Didn’t see anything. Worked my way around. Looked up into the engine compartment, then under the passenger side, then under the trunk area. Didn’t see a thing that wasn’t supposed to be there.

  After I had done the whole car, I put the mirror in the back of the van and took out the optical device on the flexible probe. It even had a little spotlight on it.

  “You have the eyeballs going, right?” I said to Willie.

  “No, fool. I’m takin’ a nap.”

  I inserted the optical device under the bottom of the hood. Tried to get it over the top of the radiator for a look. I couldn’t. The gap between the radiator and sheet metal was too small. After five minutes of trying, I gave up. There was nothing for it but to pop the hood and take a peek.

  First I had to open the car. I had the keys in my pocket, but if there was a watcher, that wouldn’t do. He hadn’t used keys, and after all, this was a lock-shop van. I got the tool we used to open cars after people locked their keys inside and slid it down between the driver’s window and the outside sheet metal of the door.

  Manipulated the flat tool a bit, and the lock popped.

  I put it back in the van, like a careful workman, then opened the driver’s door. Very slowly, alert for the slightest sign of resistance. There was none. I reached in, pulled the little handle to release the hood, then closed the door and went around front.

  “There’s a guy watchin’ us,” Willie said on the net. “Behind the van. He’s out of his car, foolin’ with a little suitcase and watching us.”

  “Got him.” That was Doc Gordon.

  I took the video probe over to the front of the Benz and reached inside to ease the hood off its latch. Then I planned to insert the probe for another look. I was trying hard to look nonchalant, just a workman doing his job.

  “He’s walkin’ this way.” Willie’s voice in my ear. “He dumped the suitcase. Comin’ quick.”

  That’s when I looked. Yep, it was him. About a hundred feet away and striding along.

  I dropped the tool and ran toward him. He was in the middle of the traffic lane. He stopped with his feet spread and raised a pistol he had been carrying down by his leg. I hadn’t seen the pistol when I started toward him. It was too damn late to stop.

  He took a two-handed grip, raised the weapon, which seemed to have a silencer on it.

  I was going at him on a fast lope. I juked left, the pistol flashed and popped, and I faked right and went left again. Another shot, another miss.

  Thinking about it later, I was amazed at how cool I had been as the assassin blazed away. Pulling my own shooter didn’t even cross my mind. I wanted this son of a bitch alive. All I can tell you is that right then I guess I didn’t give a good goddamn.

  The fact that I was still running toward him must have made him lose the tactical picture. He never saw or heard the car coming up behind him. Doc Gordon’s front grille caught the shooter in the ass and he went forward onto his face.

  Doc slammed on the brakes and I sprinted up, kicked the pistol away. The guy was stunned. Spread-eagle on the pavement. I rolled him over. Yep. It was the Dumpster diver.

  Doc was leaning out the car window.

  “It’s him, all right. Back up, then run over his elbow.”

  I stuck his right arm out and stood back. Doc leaned out the window and eased the car forward. The left front tire went right over the guy’s elbow, crushing it. He screamed.

  I dragged him out from under the car. Doc and Willie helped me put plastic ties on his wrists and ankles and gag him with a strip of duct tape.

  Willie ran back to the van and backed it up. I told him when to stop. Doc and I picked up the guy and threw him in the back. Then we looked around. No one seemed to be watching. “We got him,” I said on the net.

  Doc retrieved the silenced pistol and the guy’s suitcase and tossed them into the van. Then he closed the rear doors.

  “All you guys get out of here,” I said on the net. “See you tomorrow at the office.”

  Got mike clicks in reply.

  “Go up to the Benz,” I told Willie. He got behind the wheel and moved the van.

  I took a last look around. Blood on the pavement. It would wash off when it rained again. Blood always washes off.

  Willie climbed between the seats and took a look at our patient. “He’s bleeding,” he said to me.

  “Put a tourniquet on that arm,” I told him. “Use a plastic tie. Make it tight.”

  “So why did he come runnin’?”

  “There’s a bomb in the Benz and he thought I was going to find it.”

  Indeed, six minutes later I saw it with the optical tool. It was wedged near the firewall, with a trip wire taped to the front of the hood. With the hood almost down, there had been just enough room for him to work. Looked like five or six sticks of dynamite. Of course, if I had just lifted the hood all the way …

  We would come back, disarm the bomb and install a new battery in the Benz later. We would also pick up the bomber dude’s ride to see what we could learn from it.

  I shoved the last of my gear in the van, climbed in and pointed at the distant exit from the lot. Willie put the van in motion.

  The bomber was writhing in the back, moaning softly. He was hurting bad. I figured he was going to be hurting a lot worse pretty soon. I threw a blanket over him so the woman in the tollbooth wouldn’t get a shock.

  I put on my seat belt, sat back, took off the tactical headset and mike. Yawned. Snapped on the radio to drown the moans. Willie had it tuned to a DC rock station. The whanging of an electric guitar, insane drumming and incomprehensible lyrics matched my mood.

  “Well, come on, Tommy. Gimme some cash for the parking lot tab.”

  I dug out my wallet.

  Truth is, I felt pretty good. Better than I had all week.

  *

  Choy Lee was in love. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with Sally Chan. But he was a Chinese spy, monitoring American fleet movements, which seemed fairly innocuous in and of itself. He had told her months ago that he was an early retiree from Silicon Valley, which explained his income and his hobby, fishing. If he got married he could always keep up the deception, of course, until his control transferred him or ordered him home. Then he and Sally could drop off the edge of the planet into the beating heart of America.

  However, the addition of Zhang Ping to his station worried him. He had reported every ship movement for months, without fail, and then came Zhang. Was he about to be ordered home? What if he proposed to Sally and she accepted? How would Zhang take it?

/>   Now he and Zhang were spending every day in the new boat cruising around Hampton Roads, drift fishing, trolling or anchoring near one shore or the other and fishing. Fishing, fishing, fishing. Actually he fished and Zhang sat in the captain’s chair in the little cabin and used binoculars, by the hour.

  Today the temperature was in the mid-fifties and there was a twenty-to twenty-five-knot wind blowing under a high overcast that blotted out the sun. Zhang’s laptop was in a stand near the helm, beside the radar scope and GPS. Earlier, when Zhang went to the head, Choy had examined it. A wire with a USB plug ran from the computer to a power outlet to keep it charged. There was another USB plug, too, and the wire for that ran into the console. Choy figured Zhang had wired it up one evening when he and Sally were in bed at a Virginia Beach motel. He wondered where it went. He didn’t get to dig around to find out. When he heard the head flush he moved noiselessly back to his fishing rod and was reeling in to check his bait when Zhang came up the small ladder from the cabin.

  As Zhang searched with binoculars, Choy thought about Sally. She was American to the core. Choy’s occupation would horrify her. Her father’s parents had fled China when the Communists were on the verge of victory and come to America. Her father had been born here and had served in the army during the Vietnam War. Her mother was a fifth-generation American from California. Both of them hated Communism and believed in the American dream with all their hearts. So did Sally. She had made that crystal clear on several occasions when some liberal commentator or politician on television spewed an elitist, anti-American viewpoint. “Crap,” she called it, and changed the channel.

  So what was he going to do? If he turned himself in to the FBI, perhaps he would eventually be released, and then he could marry Sally. She might forgive past sins, but she would never continue their relationship if she knew he was an agent of the Chinese military. Never. And he thought too much of her to try to keep his occupation a secret.

  He felt a bite and set the hook. “Got one,” he called to Zhang, who put down his binoculars and asked, “Should I move the boat?”

  “I don’t think so. It isn’t that big.”