Carrying a suitcase in each hand, Grafton led the women upstairs to locate a bedroom.
When he came back down, Winchester cornered him. “I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“Don’t we all?” Grafton tossed back.
“Seriously, what’s the damn government doing to catch those terrorist assholes? That sunuvabitch Qasim?”
“We’re working on it.”
“I’ll just bet.”
“Even while you sleep.”
“You’ll still be working on it even when we’re dead,” Smith called from behind the bar. He was apparently mixing martinis.
“We’re trapped like rats on a sinking ship,” Cairnes said nastily. “The only bright spot is a well-stocked bar. When we get it drunk up, I’d just as soon go to prison—the company will be better.”
Grafton scrutinized each face. “Tell you what. If you three don’t behave yourself and act civil to the ladies, I’m going to pour all that liquor and wine down the sink.”
Cairnes pulled a revolver from his pocket and waved it around a little. “Just try it, sailor-boy.” He replaced the revolver in his pocket and turned his attention back to his brandy snifter.
“How do we know,” Smith called as he added olives to a glass, “that one of those Petrou women won’t poison us, like they did Jean Petrou?”
“And to think they volunteered to do the cooking,” Jake said grimly. He headed for Winchester’s private office to call Callie and the folks at Langley.
Khadr arrived that evening at JFK on a flight from Paris. Qasim was waiting outside the terminal when he wandered out pulling his suitcase. Qasim almost didn’t spot him amid the throng of people queuing up for taxis and piling into waiting cars and limos. When he did, Khadr was looking around exactly like a tourist on his first visit to America, which this was. That might be a problem, Qasim thought.
Eventually Khadr joined the taxi line. Qasim didn’t see anyone paying the least attention to him.
Finally Khadr’s turn came and he climbed into a taxi, which went trundling off into the night and was soon lost amid a sea of taillights.
Qasim went back into the parking garage and rode the elevator to the fourth deck, where his borrowed car was parked. He was waiting outside Grand Central Station when Khadr came out of the south entrance precisely at 9:00 P.M. He pulled up and got out to open the trunk. Khadr put his suitcase in and climbed into the passenger seat, and away they rolled.
“Any problems?” Qasim asked.
“I hate air travel,” Khadr said.
“Welcome to the United States.”
“That is what the pilot or flight attendant said when we landed.” Khadr flashed a mirthless grin. “That passport worked like a charm. They didn’t even search my suitcase.”
“Perhaps because they already searched it in Paris before you boarded the airplane.”
“Perhaps,” Khadr acknowledged.
“You saw the other suitcase in the trunk. We’ll stop at a filling station when we get to Brooklyn. Put your clothes in it and leave yours in the men’s room.”
Khadr nodded his understanding.
Jake Grafton went outside after dark to check on his troops. He found Harry Longworth beside the barn sitting in a foxhole with a rifle wearing a nightscope cradled on his lap. Only the top of his head was aboveground. On the edge of the hole lay a handheld night vision device. He was wearing gloves, camouflage pants, coat and hat, and lined rubber boots. A slender boom mike ran from an ear to the vicinity of his mouth.
Grafton squatted beside the hole. “Comfortable?”
“Oh, you bet. Thirty or forty degrees warmer here than the Hindu Kush. This is like a vacation.”
“I hope so. So tell me where your people are.”
“Two sleeping. Nick and I are on watch. All four of us are on in the two hours after dawn and after dark. That’s about the best we can do.”
“You got food and water and all that?”
“Bottled water and MREs, sir. Poop in a hole. We can’t risk a run to town or over to the main house.”
“Isn’t there a kitchen in that chauffeur’s apartment over the garage?”
“Maybe. We don’t want to be seen going in or out. Even at night.”
“This should be my last time coming out.”
“Okay.”
“Those big windows in the other side of the house—someone with a rifle or grenade launcher could have a field day.”
“Nick’s over there in a hole in a big thicket, and we have some remote, wireless infrared sensors in the trees.” He showed Grafton the vibrator in his pocket that would be activated by the sensors. “Last night some neighborhood dogs set it off twice. They run through here occasionally when the guy up the road lets them out for their evening constitutional. Watch where you walk on the grass. There are also a couple of cats in the barn, and they prowl at night, too, although they haven’t yet set off a sensor.”
“How about people moving around?”
“The guy who takes care of the horses comes every morning and works in the barn and corrals and piddles with the nags until he gets tired of it and goes home. Yesterday he was here for four hours, the day before five. The gardener won’t be coming, Winchester said. And Winchester walks his collie on a leash morning and night.”
“How about the meter man?”
“Here last week. Won’t be back for a month, I’m told. Although Winchester gets his mail at the post office, the FedEx man has come every morning.”
“Okay.”
“I pulled the circuit breakers for the outside lights before I left the house. We’ve done everything that I can think of to do.”
Jake thought about that for a moment. He couldn’t think of any other precautions that these few men could take, either. Moving the people in the house to another location would present two sets of problems: guarding them wherever he moved them and keeping an ambush team here. Keeping them here was the low-manpower option.
“What freq are you guys on?” Jake asked.
Harry told him. Jake turned his radio to that frequency, donned his headset, adjusted the volume and squelch and said a couple of words.
“Loud and clear,” Harry said. “Nick?”
“Got him.”
“We’ll only use these if something goes down,” Harry cautioned, not using his radio. “The less we transmit, the better. If the assholes got their shit together, they got a scanner.”
“You can figure that they do.”
“I suspect so.”
Jake looked around, listened to the night. He could hear distant traffic, and once, from a long way off, the moan of a train whistle. After a bit he said, “If you hear shots inside the house, it’ll be me shooting the protectees.”
“It’s that bad, huh?”
“They’re at each other’s throats. Already. They may bolt, and unless I lash them to a bed or lock them in the basement, there isn’t much I can do about it. We’ll sit tight even if they run off. The villains may not know that they left, so something might happen anyway.”
“What about telephone communication?”
“We’re monitoring the landline. If they call someone they shouldn’t, like the police to come and rescue them, we’ll kill the circuit. We’re also monitoring their cell phone calls, but I can’t turn those off.”
“Okay.”
“Good luck, Harry.”
“Thank you, sir,” Longworth said. He watched Jake Grafton walk back to the house.
By a few minutes after 5:00 P.M. the light had faded from the sky. Normally, of course, the grounds of the estate would be lit by decorator and security lights, but thanks to Longworth, those were off. The high, thin overcast blocked out the stars, leaving the night beyond the windows totally black. In the distance the glow of a town could be seen on the horizon, but that was about it. The big black windows in the main room looked ominous, so immediately after dinner, which Grafton and Isolde Petrou prepared, the male protectees scurried off to t
heir bedrooms, where they all drew the blinds and drapes.
Marisa stayed to help with the dishes. When Jake had the dishwasher humming, she lingered, looking at the kitchen utensils, examining the hanging pots, scrutinizing the paintings on the wall. Grafton leaned back against the dishwasher and crossed his arms. When she again looked his way, a startled look crossed her face.
“Want to tell me about it?” he asked.
“About what?”
“I don’t know. You look as if you might have something to tell me.”
“No.” Marisa shook her head. “No,” she said, more definitely.
Grafton nodded, and she wandered out of the room.
He called his home, talked to Callie for a moment and asked to speak to Tommy.
When Carmellini got on the line, Grafton listed all the precautions that had been taken. “In light of all that, how would you get in?” he asked.
“If I suspected infrared detectors, I’d enter the grounds at night wearing a black thermal suit and take out the guards. Once they were out of the way, you people would be toast. Are the guys outside wearing thermal suits?”
“No. But they’re in holes.”
“Well . . . Your worst threat may already be in the house.”
“Marisa? I gathered the impression last night that you thought she was a nice package.”
“I meet the nicest people in my work,” Carmellini said. “That’s why I’m never going to retire.”
Jake went to the door of the kitchen, looked to ensure no one was eavesdropping, then said, “Did you search her luggage last night while she was asleep, like I asked you?”
“Yeah. Found that cell phone the customs people told you about. She had it stuffed inside a shoe in your closet.”
“You called in the number?”
“Right after you left.”
Jake grunted, then forced himself to say good-bye.
He wandered through the hallways, listening to the muffled television audio coming from each room.
And he waited.
Dinner at the Graftons’ was a somber affair. Good food, but the conversation dragged. Everyone was waiting for the bomb to blow or the gun to fire.
After dinner, I insisted on cleaning the kitchen. I was bored silly with sitting. Callie retired to her bedroom to read. As I packed the dishwasher and washed the pots and pans, I got to listen to Amy tell Robin Cloyd all about her boyfriend.
I couldn’t find a clean dish towel and was wiping my hands on my trousers when Robin spoke up. “What on earth are you doing, Tommy?”
“Going crazy,” I snarled.
Do the French still have the Foreign Legion? What’s the upper age limit, anyway?
CHAPTER TWENTY
A shotgun is a bit of metal and a couple of pieces of wood, and not much else. The two Grafton left also had slings attached, so they could be carried by hanging them over a shoulder.
The eighteen-inch barrels had once been a bright, polished blue and were now pitted, scratched and, in the one I was holding on my lap, a bit rusty in three places. The receiver was shiny, with only traces of the original bluing. All in all, the Remington Model 870 Police shotgun in my lap looked like what it was, a utilitarian weapon that was lucky to get a wipe-down occasionally and an annual look from the agency armorer.
The raw winter day outside the window was overcast, breezy and promised rain. When I talked to Willie on our radio net early this morning, he was doing okay, he said. “Gettin’ a taste of how the other half lives,” he told me. “More people oughta give this a try.”
“My next vacation,” I said.
The radio earpiece was a tiny thing, about the size of an earplug. It fit completely inside the ear channel, so was invisible from any angle but directly abeam. Most people who saw it would assume it was a hearing aid. Mine fit fairly well, so after a while I forgot it was in there.
The three women spent the morning watching chick flicks in the den, and I spent it walking around the living room, sitting in a chair with my shotgun on my lap or lying on the couch with the darn thing on the floor beside me. The other shotgun—Robin’s—was on the dining room table. She pumped all the shells out onto the carpet, pulled the trigger, made sure the safety worked, then loaded it again and left it there. Out in the living room I could hear the three of them laughing occasionally above the sound track.
Ah, me.
I couldn’t get Marisa out of my mind. She appeared to be a victim of an evil man—and I could go either way on this—a daughter whom he loved, sort of, and wanted to use to help with the family crimes, or an innocent child that he had made a psychic prisoner with a lifetime of abuse so that he could use her someday, someway, for his own perverted ends.
On the other hand, she might be Qasim’s loyal lieutenant, following orders, playing a role for us suckers. What if everything she told me, and presumably Grafton, was a lie?
She could have killed her husband. That would have been relatively easy.
It would have been more difficult, but she could have done Alexander Surkov. At Qasim’s order, perhaps.
Why did she try to distract me in the Zetsche castle when I was whanging away at a fleeing villain? The villain turned out to be her mother-in-law’s chauffeur, but she didn’t know that. Or did she?
Why didn’t I ask her when I had the chance?
Was I worried about the answer I might get?
And that knife in Zetsche—conceivably she could have put it there. Probably not, but perhaps.
I walked around Grafton’s living room, peeked out the crack in the drapes occasionally and worried all these beads again and again.
When I got hungry I raided the fridge, made myself a sandwich and ate it at the dining room table. Washed it down with a bottle of water. Thought about Marisa as I ate.
If something didn’t happen, and soon, I was going to lose it big-time. My future would be a straitjacket and a padded room.
Jake Grafton went to Huntington Winchester’s private office and locked the door, then called his boss, William Wilkins, on his portable encrypted satellite telephone.
“Eighteen cell phone calls from that house in the last three days,” Wilkins said with a sigh. “They’re worse than a pack of teenage girls. No incoming calls. Apparently they keep their phones off when they aren’t calling someone so that they can fool you. They do get a string of messages when they turn their phones on. All pretty innocuous, so far. If they have cell phones we don’t know about, they may have made and received a few more calls. Got a pencil?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jerry Hay Smith made eight calls. He called four different women, if you can believe it—that ugly little runt. And he called his editor four times, told him he was being held prisoner by the CIA. Those were interesting conversations.”
“The editor going to run it?”
“Not today or tomorrow. Smith told him to sit on it, but the editor is curious as hell.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Cairnes talked to his wife once, his kids twice and his bank associates three times. Winchester called his company headquarters twice and his divorce lawyer once.”
Jake was making notes. He added the numbers. “That’s seventeen.”
“Yeah. Saving the best for last, ol’ Marisa called someone in Brooklyn, a male. Gave him your home address in Rosslyn and told him where you and she and Winchester and Isolde and all the rest are.”
“Uh-huh,” Jake said, making a little meaningless doodle on his notepad.
“The bitch sold you out, Jake.”
“Looks that way.”
“You knew she was going to do it, didn’t you?”
“Kinda had a hunch. Didn’t you?”
“We have the number and location of that cell phone she called, and a voiceprint of the man she talked to. The account is in the name of some guy who isn’t in our database, an Iranian immigrant, we believe.”
“Don’t go after him,” Jake said. “Qasim probably isn’t there, and
if he is, he’ll boogie before you can spring the trap.”
“The FBI is chomping at the bit. We’re flat running out of time. I’ve talked to Molina three times today, and he wants me to pull the rabbit out of the hat now. I’ll keep you advised.”
“Okay.”
Jake hung up and continued to make designs on the notepad in front of him. Finally he tired of it and tore the top five sheets of paper off the pad, wadded them up and burned them in the fireplace. Then he went downstairs.
The whole crowd was seated around the fireplace in the living room. Conversation stopped when he appeared at the head of the stairs, and three or four of them glanced at him as he came down.
Looks like they’re planning a mutiny, he thought. He headed for the kitchen to talk to the FBI agent who was doing the cooking.
“Tommy, we got a watcher.”
Willie Varner’s voice in my ear brought me wide awake. I had been dozing in a living room recliner. The women were in the kitchen going through cookbooks and hunting through the cupboard, so we were going to eat well during our incarceration. I looked at my watch. Five thirty in the evening.
“Tell me about him,” I said to Willie as I got out of my chair and laid the shotgun on the couch.
“He’s in an old Saturn, kinda dark blue or maybe black—hard to tell in this light. Been sittin’ there for a half hour or so. He’s alone in the car, parked across the street, just sittin’ there watchin’ the building and the street.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Can’t tell. I’m in a doorway about fifty yards behind him. Can’t see nothin’ but the back of his head. Don’t want to move. Don’t want him to pick up on me.”
“Just sit,” I told him. “Watch for other people. There’ll be somebody else along after a while. You got something to eat?”
“Oh, yeah. Had a pit stop a while back and got a sandwich. I’m fine.”
“Thanks, Willie.”
I went into the kitchen and watched the women plot their culinary triumph. When Robin glanced my way, I motioned toward the living room. She followed me.
When we were there I told her about the watcher. “I suspect there will be other folks along sooner or later, and when they come, I’ll go down, sorta check them out. You sit in here with a shotgun.”
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