The Art of War

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was a few minutes after midnight when I called Jake Grafton. Checked on Willie’s phone to see that he was home — looked like they were out or in bed, but I rang his house anyway. Woke him up.

He showed up at the lock shop at a quarter past one.

I was sitting in the front of the shop checking my notes when I saw Grafton park out front. I unlocked the door for him, then relocked it when he was inside.

“You got him, huh?” Grafton said.

“He’s in back with Willie. Been jabbering his head off. I wrote it all down if you want to read it to save time.” I told him about Travis, Doc, Willis and Pablo.

Grafton went through the door from the shop to the workroom. We had our bomber spread-eagle on the floor with a work light in his face. We had been manipulating his arm below the crushed elbow socket. The wound was swelled up to about the size of a grapefruit, and blood was leaking out. The pain, I imagine, was excruciating. The assassin stood it a while, then tried to answer questions to get us to stop. That worked for a bit, but when he wound down we would have to stimulate him some more.

Grafton took a long look at the guy. The odor of shit and piss didn’t seem to bother him any. He kicked Fish’s foot so he would open his eyes.

“What happened to his elbow?”

“Car ran over it. Doc Gordon hit him from behind. He was shooting at me. He must have figured that I would find the bomb in my Benz.”

“How bad is the elbow?”

“Bones on both sides of the joint are crushed, I think. They’ll probably have to amputate. See his fingers? No circulation. They’re turning black.”

“But he’s still alive,” Grafton said with a sigh. “That’s good. I might think of a few more questions. Do you think he’s been telling the truth?”

“He did some lying there for a while, but we got those kinks straightened out.”

“These fingerprints on the last page?”

“His. He wasn’t in any shape to sign his name, so we put ink on his fingers, left hand, and he signed with those.”

Grafton gave me a look, then went over to the workbench, where we had Fish’s stuff laid out. Looked at the pistol with the silencer, at the suitcase, which only held two bricks to give it heft, and at his cell phone and keys, which were on a ring. He picked up the phone, played with it a bit and pocketed it.

Then the admiral sat down in the only chair and rearranged the lamp over Fish so that he could read my notes. I turned up the volume of the shop radio so that Fish wouldn’t be burdened by our conversation. “Tomazic, Reinicke and Maxwell. And Anna,” Grafton muttered. “Put the bomb in my place…”

After a bit Grafton said, “So this is why you saw him at Dulles.”

“He was coming back from Seattle. Did that job out there with a car bomb. He really gets off on car bombs.”

Grafton read on. A couple of times he glanced at Fish, who was enjoying the respite from excruciating pain. No doubt his whole arm hurt like hell, but nothing like it did when I twisted his lower arm or stood on it or kicked it. Then he about jumped out of his skin. He screamed and screamed. Fortunately our little shop was in a strip mall and the tenants on both sides had gone home for the night. There was no upstairs. Willie checked the alley behind from time to time. Fish could scream his lungs out if he wished.

Actually I had to go easy on that arm. If I had really tugged and twisted, I think the lower arm would have separated from the upper arm; the socket looked that bad. Then it wouldn’t have hurt anymore. Then I would have had to use a hammer on the left one and start all over. But I didn’t have to do it. Fish got positively garrulous. He even volunteered things, which was hard to believe. Yet I saw it happen.

Grafton was studying the meat of the revelations. Who gave Fish his targets, whom he had seen in Seattle, where he got his dynamite and fuses, how much he was paid, numbers for contacts, where he lived, where he kept his money, where his weapons were, who he had killed since the day he got out of diapers until this evening, all of it.

“So this Chinese guy, who is Kerry’s control, called him and sent him to Seattle?”

“So he says.”

“His name?”

“He doesn’t know it. The guy mentioned Kerry, called her a mutual friend.”

Finally Grafton asked the stupidest question I’d heard in years. “Did you read him his Miranda rights?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “I carry a card in my wallet. Willie heard me.”

“Good.”

Grafton went back to my notes. Finally he folded up my sheets of paper and put them in his pocket.

“What do you want me to do with him?” I asked.

“Well…” Grafton considered. He didn’t glance at Fish. “I’ll make a call or two.”

Jake Grafton went through the shop, made sure the outside door wouldn’t lock behind him, went outside, got out his cell phone and called Harry Estep at home.

After eight rings, Estep answered the telephone.

“Jake Grafton, Harry. Sorry to wake you up.”

Estep grunted.

“We’ve got a little problem that you can help us with. We’ve got the guy who killed James Maxwell. Among others. Our problem is what to do with him.”

A long silence followed. Finally Estep said, “Jesus Christ. How’d you do that?”

“He planted a bomb in Tommy Carmellini’s car at Dulles Airport. He was waiting around to see Tommy get blown up. Tommy and a few friends got him first.”

“Has he talked?”

“I’m going to reserve that for the time being. He’s in bad shape. A car crushed his elbow while they were trying to capture him. I’m afraid he needs to go to a hospital. I want you to send some people you trust to arrest him under a national security warrant and see that he is guarded around the clock, held incommunicado, available to no one.”

“I hope you haven’t fucked this up so we can’t use his testimony in court.”

“You know better than that, Harry. I doubt if he’ll say a word without his lawyer by his side. Your guys can read him his Miranda rights and all that. Still, we’re going to have to keep a serious lid on. If you like, I’ll brief you tomorrow. As it is, he needs to go to a hospital.”

“Who is it?”

“Goes by the name of Fish. His real name is Peter Vega. He’s a professional assassin.”

“Where is he?”

Jake gave him the address of Willie’s Lock Shop.

“Vega, Vega. Is he Hispanic?”

Grafton sneered into the phone. “Damn if I know.”

“Okay. Take him to Walter Reed. I’ll get some people over there within an hour.”

“Carmellini will run him over there.” The irony of that remark was not lost on Grafton. “Come over to Langley about eight. I’ll buy you breakfast.”

“I know you’re not telling me everything.”

“Of course not. Eight o’clock. My office. See you there.”

Jake hung up and went back into the lock shop.

Carmellini was sitting near Fish, not looking at him. The man was on the floor, moaning.

“Take him to Walter Reed,” Grafton told me. “The FBI will have some people there to meet you. They’ll arrest him and guard him around the clock. After the doctors get done with him, we’ll jail him. Might need him later to tell his tale again. If he will. If he won’t…” Grafton sighed. “He’ll be a one-armed assassin, assuming that someday the country gets back to normal. And assuming someone hasn’t permanently shut his mouth before that happy day arrives.”

“Okay.”

“Put a tourniquet on that arm. He’s still bleeding. And tape his mouth shut. He talks to no one.”

“Okay.”

“So your Benz has a bomb in it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Call the bomb squad. You’re no EOD specialist. See you in my office at ten.” He glanced at his watch. “This morning. And don’t forget you have an appointment at the Willard at noon.”

“Yes, sir.”

The admiral didn’t look at Fish again. Said hello to Willie, who had been sitting on a stool watching and listening, then walked out.

When I came back from locking the front door, Willie was putting his jacket on. “Damn,” he said. “That Grafton is somethin’ else.”

“Oh?”

“I was gettin’ around to kinda feelin’ sorry for this murderous son of a bitch after what you did to him, which God knows he had comin’, but that Grafton … He ain’t got a quarter ounce of sympathy in his whole body.”

“Sympathy isn’t one of his virtues,” I agreed sourly. “And I’m running a little short of it myself these days. Let’s get this asshole to a hospital before temptation gets the better of me. I’d sleep better nights if I killed him and dumped what’s left in a sewer.”

Admiral Cart McKiernan answered his phone after ten rings. He sounded sleepy, too.

“Couldn’t you have called in the morning?” the CNO asked, after Jake told him he wanted to see him at eight.

“I need to see you in the morning, as soon as possible.”

McKiernan sighed. “I have a Joint Chiefs meeting in the morning. Can this wait until lunch?”

“Yes, but I’d rather you come to Langley so I won’t be seen around the E-ring. I’ll buy your lunch.”

“A free meal! How can I refuse? See you then.”

Jake tapped on the glass that separated him from the driver’s compartment. The driver opened the window. “Langley,” Jake said.

Sitting in the chair behind the director’s desk, Jake sighed. He now knew who had killed Mario Tomazic, Reinicke and Maxwell, planted the bombs in his condo and Carmellini’s apartment, and gone to Seattle and killed one of the Russians who attempted to assassinate the president. Fish. Zoe Kerry had hired him for the DC hits. A Chinese man hired him for the Russian hit, a man Fish knew in Boston who was Kerry’s control. Fish had dumped the bag, even giving Carmellini the name of his Boston contact and his telephone number, plus a description of the Chinese man who met him in Seattle.

All that was left was the why. Staring at the map of Norfolk on his desk, Jake thought he had a glimmer about the why.

Zoe Kerry. What did she know?

If arrested and interrogated, would she talk or clam up?

If she was removed from the board, would her controller sound the alarm … in Beijing or Moscow, to whoever paid for murder and mayhem? Who was the controller? Someone was providing the money. Kerry certainly couldn’t be paying Fish for assassinations out of her own pocket.

He had told Tommy to take Fish to a hospital. He could be held there incommunicado and the word could be passed that he was not talking to anyone. Still, Zoe Kerry would eventually find out Fish was locked up. Criminals who commit serious crimes think they will never be caught; if they admitted the possibility, they wouldn’t do the crime. What would Kerry do when she heard about Fish? Disappear?

He thought about it. With Harry Estep’s help, she could be kept under twenty-four-hour discreet surveillance. Every phone call could be monitored. Except if she used a public telephone booth — that was the risk.

Kerry had had two shooting scrapes in cases involving Chinese intelligence operations in America. Had she tried to arrest spies or protect them? The Chinese had hacked into the navy’s computer systems. Five carriers were going to be in Norfolk over the holidays, and presumably the Chinese knew that. He asked Ilin for backdoor cooperation, and Ilin produced a map of Norfolk that he said was Chinese, a map that could be construed as showing the blast effect of a nuclear weapon. A team of Russians tried to assassinate the president. A man controlled by a rogue FBI agent killed the director of national intelligence, the director of the CIA and the director of the FBI. The same man, perhaps, was paid by a Chinese agent to kill one of those Russians with a car bomb in a parking lot at Sea-Tac Airport, and did so.

Add it all up, and what do you have?

Jake wrote a note to the receptionist asking to be awakened when she arrived, put it on her desk, closed his office door and stretched out on his couch.

If the Chinese hacked into the navy’s computer system, so could someone else. Like the Russians. Perhaps the North Koreans, but not likely. The Iranians had certainly been trying. Al Qaeda? The Venezuelans? What if …

If you are going to blow up half the American navy, why assassinate high-ranking intel officials? The director of the FBI? Why kill the president?

Who else was on Kerry’s list? Well, heck, he was. He knew that. But why?

He was thinking about the map when he went to sleep.

In Norfolk, Choy Lee had dinner with Sally Chan in the Chans’ restaurant. Sally’s father cooked the rockfish, which he served on a bed of rice with some traditional Chinese vegetables. He and his wife joined Choy and Sally at the table. It was a convivial meal, full of good cheer, happy conversation and smiles. The conversation was all in English, American English.

Choy wondered what the senior Chans would say if they knew he was a Chinese agent. But mainly he wondered what Sally would say if he told her. Would she drop him like a hot potato and immediately call the FBI?

He considered the problem from every angle as he sipped traditional tea.

“You are so preoccupied tonight,” Sally said. “What is on your mind?”

He shrugged. Now was not the time, nor was this the place.

“You need to get a real job,” Sally said seriously, gazing into his eyes. “Fishing all day and loafing is not an honorable occupation for a man of your youth.”

“I have earned my retirement,” he said defensively.

“No doubt, but what are you accomplishing?”

“I catch good fish.”

“Congratulations. Maybe you should become a commercial fisherman.”

“You are serious, aren’t you?”

“Indeed I am,” she said, still watching his eyes.

“I’ll think about it.”

Sally Chan still had his eyes pinned. “I think you are in love with me, and I am in love with you. You haven’t mentioned the L-word, but I think I know what is in your heart.”

Choy Lee’s blood pressure rose ten points.

He finished his tea and pushed the cup away. Like every other Chinese restaurant in America, this one gave out fortune cookies when the waitress brought the check. There was no check tonight, of course, but the waitress brought the cookies anyway. Choy smiled at her and examined the two on the small plate.

“Which one do you want?” he murmured to Sally.

“The one you don’t pick.”

He leaned forward, pretending to examine them, then seized the one nearest to him, broke it and extracted the small slip of paper. He unfolded it and read silently, “Important decisions await you.”

He crumpled it in his fist. Popped a piece of the cookie in his mouth.

“What does it say?” Sally demanded.

“I don’t know that I want to share. Open yours.”

She did so, and read aloud, “Romance is in your future.” She eyed him again. “Now yours.”

Choy saw no way out. He passed it to her. She smoothed the paper and read it.

“Prophetic, I would say,” she told him, and pocketed both of the small slips.

Choy Lee didn’t smile. He sat staring at her.