The Art of War

CHAPTER SIX

Accidental deaths are difficult to arrange. That is why murderers and hired assassins usually kill their victims the tried-and-true traditional ways, with gun, knife, bomb, garrote, poison or blunt instrument. Amateurs rarely use accidents because they miss out on the satisfaction that comes from using violence on an enemy. Professional assassins don’t have enemies; they have targets. So when an assassin has time to set it up and wants to keep police guessing for a while, accidental death is the logical choice.

Fish was a professional. Had been since he got out of reform school at the age of eighteen and an up-and-coming mobster paid him to whack his boss. Fish did the job cleanly and fatally, leaving the police with no clues. The mobster was appropriately grateful and began steering business his way. Five years later, Fish was paid to whack his benefactor, and did so. He had no sense of loyalty, none of the so-called higher emotions. He was a sociopath without a shred of conscience. Smart, too. He read up on police methods, knew most of the latest scientific discoveries used in forensics and was a methodical craftsman. He also enjoyed his work in the same way a fine mechanic enjoys repairing a well-made machine. He knew how to do it and he did it well. That was enough.

His nickname, Fish, came to him early in life. His childhood acquaintances labeled him a “cold fish,” later shortened to Fish. He didn’t care one way or another.

Tonight he sat in a stolen car in the parking lot of a large apartment complex near the Potomac in Georgetown. He was waiting. Had been since six that evening. Now, at twelve minutes after ten, his target arrived in a limo followed by a car containing two guards. The target got out of the car, muttered something to the driver, flapped a hand at the guards in the trailing car and went inside the building.

The limo and guard car soon disappeared into traffic.

From where Fish was sitting, he could see the windows of the target’s apartment on the eighth floor. Sure enough, six minutes after the target entered the building, the lights in the apartment came on. Fish rolled down the window of the Lexus, chosen because it would blend in perfectly with the other cars parked nearby, and lit a cigarette. He smoked it down and crushed it out and put the butt in his pocket. Time passed. After an hour, he lit another.

He was patient. He watched other cars arrive and people enter the building. He paid attention to the sights and noises from the street. Listened with the window down and occasionally smoked a Marlboro.

At two minutes before midnight, the lights in the target’s apartment went out. Or almost out. There was a suggestion of a light in one window, perhaps a night-light or an adjustable light that functioned as one.

Thirty minutes, precisely, after the lights went out, Fish reached behind him and took a small box from the backseat. He opened it on his lap. Two remote controllers were there. He selected one that he had previously labeled, turned it on, waited for a green “ready” light, and when he got it moved the control lever forward, then full aft. He looked again at his watch, turned off the power and put the first controller away.

He had allowed ten minutes in planning for the next stage, so he lit another cigarette and sat smoking it as he watched the windows of the target’s apartment, checked traffic and the rare pedestrians, watched two more cars arrive and their drivers and one passenger go inside the building, and he listened. Listened to the night. Listened to life happening up and down the length and breadth of the great city.

When the ten minutes had passed, Fish opened the case and removed the second controller. He turned it on and waited for the green light that indicated it was ready to use. Meanwhile he started the engine of his car.

The green light came on. Fish aimed the controller at the window and moved the joystick full aft, then full forward.

Five seconds later he saw the glow in the apartment window, which quickly grew brighter. Then the apartment exploded. The windows blew out in a gout of fire.

Fish put the controller back in its box, closed the box and laid it on the seat behind him. He snicked the gearshift lever into drive and fed gas. Thirty seconds later he was rolling eastward, paralleling the Potomac, toward the center of town. Two minutes passed before he heard the first siren. He lit another cigarette.

The newspapers carried the story on the front page. Navy Rear Admiral (ret.) Jake Grafton had been appointed by the president as the new acting director of the CIA. I bought copies of three of the papers before boarding my plane in San Francisco and read the stories as the big bird winged its way eastward toward Sodom on the Potomac. According to the White House propaganda minister, the president needed several months to find a suitable candidate to be permanent director, nominate him or her and let the Senate do its advise-and-consent role.

Staring out the window as we flew over the Rockies and out over the Great Plains, I wondered what in the world Jake Grafton needed me for. He certainly wasn’t going to give me a big promotion and a department to run. Maybe he wanted me to bug the Oval Office. Or maybe not. With Jake Grafton, predictions were worthless.

I’d worked with him enough the last few years to know how his mind worked, which might best be described as unconventionally. He didn’t go from A to B to C and thereby arrive at D. He went straight from A to D. He was usually sitting on D while I was trying to figure out where B was. So Grafton was now acting director while I remained a grunt in the spook wars.

My old 1964 Mercedes 280SL coupe was right where I’d left it in the long-term parking lot at Dulles Airport. I threw my bag in, stuck the key in the ignition as I said a little prayer for the battery, then gave the key a twist. The starter ground a while before combustion began. I pumped the accelerator. After a pleasant roar, the old gal settled into a rocking idle with clattering valves. One of these days I am going to be forced to choose between trading cars and becoming a long-distance hiker.

It was nearly six in the evening, but I figured with his new elevation and all, Grafton would still be at the office. I confess, I was kinda curious about the sudden summons from an all-too-rare vacation. I tooled over to Langley, showed my pass to the gate guard and was admitted to the grounds.

I knew where in the complex the director’s office was, of course, although I had never before had occasion to visit the inner sanctum. The secretary in the outer office looked at my building pass and matched the photo to my dishonest phiz. I tried to look handsome. She had a nice jawline and good eyes, which I happen to like in women. Her long blond hair was tied up in a ponytail. Her legs were under the desk, so I couldn’t tell about them. Everything in sight looked great, though. She was at least a Goddess Third Class. Perhaps even a Goddess Second Class. Goddesses of any rank are rare, in my experience, especially in government service. The plaque on her desk said her name was Jennifer Suslowski.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Unfortunately—”

“Admiral Grafton is in conference right now. Perhaps—”

“I have just returned from Moscow with Putin’s evil plan for world domination. Send him a note that I’m around and I’ll go get a sandwich. See you again in a half hour or so.”

In the cafeteria I got a turkey sandwich and a cup of lukewarm coffee. While I ate, I eyed up some of the egghead chicks and the seminary crowd, who were huddled over their tables and talking about anything but shop. The guys at the next table were discussing the football fortunes of the Redskins, who were trying desperately again this year to rise above mediocrity. At the table on my other side they were talking about the demise of the late director — was his death accident or murder?

Murder? The word jolted me.

A television mounted high in one corner of the room was airing a news channel. Finally I began paying attention. There had been a fire in an apartment building in Georgetown in the wee hours this morning. At least seven people died, including Director of National Intelligence Paul Reinicke, a retired air force four-star general. Police suspected a gas line leak, they said.

The White House press secretary had some wonderful things to say about Reinicke, whom I had never met. By reputation, which was merely Company shop talk, he was a paper-shuffling boob who demanded that intelligence analyses be edited to conform to his view of the world, which, amazingly enough, mirrored the worldview of the White House and National Security Council staff. “He’ll be greatly missed,” the press secretary said. Nothing was known yet about the other victims. Three people were hospitalized in critical condition with burns.

The director of the CIA, now the DNI. Being a big weenie in Washington was getting unhealthy.

A half hour later I was back looking at the director’s secretary, the goddess without a wedding ring. She glanced at me as I seated myself in one of the three empty chairs, and kept on with whatever she was doing on the computer. After a minute her phone buzzed. She answered it and talked in a low whisper. When she hung up, she said to me, “You may go in now.”

I went. Gave her a smile in passing, a deposit for the future. She didn’t smile back.

Grafton was pounding the keys of his computer when I entered the director’s office and closed the door. He didn’t look up, just said, “Hey, Tommy. Grab a chair.”

The director had pretty good digs. A wall-to-wall carpet, of course. A flag on a pole behind the desk, oil paintings on two walls, drapes for the windows, three padded chairs and a couch, motion detectors mounted high in the corners, infrared sensors. There were three doors, the one I had entered and two others, both closed.

When Grafton quit typing and swiveled toward me, I said, “Congrats. Maybe. Can I have your old office?”

“This job is temporary.”

“I read that in the papers, but who believes any of that stuff?”

He passed over the secretary’s note. It was a printed form. The block labeled TO SEE YOU was checked. There was a handwritten note: “Mr. Carmellini with Russian plan for world domination. Will return at 7:50.”

I passed it back. “Is she demented?”

“Quite the contrary.”

“I’ll work on her in my spare time. If I have any.”

“You won’t. I want you to put surveillance cameras in my condo building and the garage where I park my car. Rig it up so Callie can look at it on her home computer.”

“Okay. I can requisition the stuff I need. I’ll need a signature on the form.”

“I can do that. I want it done as soon as possible. Callie is worried.”

“It’ll take me a couple of days if I do it by myself. If I can get some help, just a few hours.”

“Okay.”

“You going to want the system monitored by anyone besides your wife?”

“I was thinking of your friend Willie the Wire. And you and me.”

“Why not a tech-support dude?”

“The less talk around here, the better. And for what it is worth, Callie likes Willie.”

“She and I may be his only fans on this little round rock. I’ll see if I can get this chore done in the morning.”

“Fine. Then I have another little chore for you. Paul Reinicke, the DNI, and six other people were killed in an apparent gas explosion in his apartment building last night. Three badly burned, two less so. The explosion took out Reinicke’s apartment, the apartment above him and the two on either side. The fire department managed to save the building, but it was touch and go.”

“I saw a bit about it on the television in the cafeteria.”

“I want you to work with our FBI liaison officer. Mario Tomazic drowned, Reinicke blown up … It begins to smell to high heaven.”

“Can’t the liaison guy handle it?”

“It’s a she. And yes, she’s an FBI agent on temporary assignment to us and very competent. I want you right there beside her.”

I didn’t like anything about this. I didn’t know anything about law enforcement except how not to get caught. Hanging with cops wasn’t on my bucket list. “Why does she need help?” I asked.

“I don’t know that she does. You’re there as my eyes and ears.”

“Why me?”

“Because I’m giving you an order. I have transferred you to my staff.”

“Oh, wow. I’m floating upward through the goo toward the top. Is there a promotion or pay raise involved?”

“Ah, no.”

“You’re the boss,” I replied.

“Don’t you forget it.” That was the Jake Grafton I knew. The old attack pilot. Retired admiral. Warrior extraordinaire. A real softie.

I noodled it a bit. “How did this ace FBI female get to be the CIA’s liaison person?”

“Her name is Zoe Kerry. She was in a couple of shootouts. Killed some people. We had an opening and the FBI wanted to give her some easier duty for a while so she could get her head on straight, so they sent her to us.”

I was less than thrilled. “Zoe Kerry. By any chance is she related to Unbelievably Small?”

“I don’t know. Ask her.”

“How come I don’t get some easy duty occasionally?”

“You have my phone number. Day or night.”

“Just what am I supposed to be looking for?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you on this, Tommy. Use your head. Now I’ve got work to do. Beat it.”

“Aye aye, sir.” I stood, saluted and stalked out. Damn him anyway.

The secretary was still at her desk.

“You’ll be delighted to hear,” I said softly, leaning forward as if I were sharing a secret, “he was very impressed with my work obtaining Russia’s diabolical plan.”

“I am so happy for you.” She didn’t smile.

“And now I’m off to more fabulous adventures. I need the office number of the liaison people, please.” I flashed her a winning smile so that she would know I was a trustworthy son of the Red, White and Blue.

Jennifer consulted her Tippy-Top Secret list and gave me the info.

I decided today wasn’t the day to try to get better acquainted with Jennifer. There was always tomorrow, I hoped. I thanked her, blessed her with another gracious smile and made tracks.

Zoe Kerry, the FBI’s former ace shooter and now CIA liaison to that fearsome federal agency, wasn’t in her cubicle at the Liaison Office, which handled agency relations with Congress and other federal agencies. I knew the head guy, Charlie Wilson, and chinned with him for a minute. He knew, he said, that the director’s office was sending me down here temporarily.

Wilson was a tennis nut, ten or so years older than me, who always looked harassed. Dealing with the people on Capitol Hill takes a certain talent, and he had it. Still, he looked as if he had ulcers. I got comfortable in one of his two guest chairs. “I need a favor,” I said.

“Like what?”

I fished Mom’s envelope from my coat pocket and dropped it on his desk. “That’s a knife and fork with fingerprints. Some mine. I need to know who else’s prints are on there.” The only way he could get them, of course, was to have the FBI lift the prints, classify them and run them through their database.

“Got a file number?”

“Nope.”

“For Christ’s sake, Tommy. You gotta have a file number. You know that.”

I leaned forward a little and whispered, “It’s a secret.”

“If this is some broad you’re trying to make, forget it.”

“I don’t need fingerprints for that. Can’t you make up a file number?”

“Oh, hell.”

“I’d really appreciate the favor, Charlie.”

“If it’s anybody but Joe Six-Pack, you are going to have some explaining to do.”

“Thanks.” I got out of my chair, shook hands, said I’d see him tomorrow, then headed for the barn.

I picked up milk and eggs at a convenience store and bought a sub on the way home, home being an apartment in the Virginia suburbs. I had moved there from my place in Maryland to get a slightly better commute, lower taxes and an easier drive to and from Dulles Airport. Given my travels hither and yon, I didn’t own a pet, not even a goldfish, so the dump was always lonely. Especially after ten delightful days in glorious California.

The super had my mail, which consisted of a few bills and lots of junk flyers. I found a college football game on television and left it on for the noise. Sipped a beer, ate the sub, put my underwear and dirty shirts in the washing machine, settled in on the couch to finish the beer … and woke up in the wee hours. Ah, the glamorous, exciting life of an intelligence professional.

FBI Director James Maxwell ate dinner with a group of friends every Tuesday night at the National Press Club in Washington, where he was a member. He treasured the social interlude and rarely missed a Tuesday evening dinner unless work obligations prevented it. He tried to ensure they didn’t.

None of his five friends, all male, were in law enforcement. They consisted of a banker, a scientist at the Naval Ordnance Lab, a newspaperman, a novelist who used to be a college professor, and a retired investor. They had been fraternity chums in college and had kept up their friendship through the years, kept it up by working at it. The ironclad rule at the dinner table was no shop talk. Sports, politics, international affairs, movies, food, cigars and families were the usual topics of conversation. None of his friends mentioned the recent demise of the CIA director and national security adviser because they knew the FBI was investigating, and Maxwell certainly wouldn’t. He left all that at the office. He wouldn’t talk about ongoing investigations to anyone outside the FBI or the Justice Department, not even his wife.

One of the attractions of the National Press Club was the people you ran into there. Of course there were the media types, newspaper editors, reporters and columnists, television personalities and talk show hosts, lobbyists for every industry and cause under the sun, and the occasional senator or congressman or big-business mogul. These were the people who made Washington the center of the universe. The movers and shakers. A word here, a handshake there, a smile, and James Maxwell felt like one of them. He liked that feeling. There were times when he needed it.

So this evening he finished his dinner and had one more drink with his friends — he wouldn’t be driving — and wished them good-bye. He paused to chat with a senator for a minute or two.

Fish drove up in a garbage truck behind the press club, where the three big Dumpsters were located, and was gratified to see the limo was still parked over against the side of the concrete wall, out of the way. It had been there the last three Tuesday evenings when he checked. And this Dumpster area had no security cameras aimed at it. He had checked that, too.

He stopped the big garbage truck in the street and, using his mirrors, backed it in toward the nearest Dumpster. This truck was equipped with a power lift that picked up the Dumpster and emptied it into the bed of the truck. The truck beeped as he backed it up. Almost to the Dumpster, but not quite. A light rain was falling, and he had the windshield wipers going. Little wind.

He put the transmission in neutral, set the parking brake and climbed down from the cab. Walked around to the driver’s side of the limo. There was about three feet of clearance between the car and the concrete retaining wall. The driver of the limo was sitting in it, wearing earphones. An iPod, it looked like.

The driver saw him coming and ran down the window. Fish put his hand in his right coat pocket.

“Hey,” the driver said.

Then Fish shot him. Didn’t take the pistol out of his pocket. Fired right through the coat. The bullet slammed the driver sideways. Fish removed the revolver from his pocket, checked that the hammer wasn’t jammed with a piece of cloth, then looked at the driver. He had taken a round in the neck. Fish leaned in and shot him in the head. Then he put the revolver back in his pocket.

Fish walked around the front of the limo and climbed back into the cab of the garbage truck, which was idling nicely. As he surveyed the street — it was nearly eleven o’clock, and no pedestrians were around — he picked up the 12-gauge pump shotgun on the seat beside him and checked it. Safety off. He pointed it at the driver’s door, so when he opened the door and started to climb out the weapon would be pointed in the right direction, ready to fire. He had used a hacksaw to cut the barrel down to twelve inches, so the front bead sight was gone. No matter. At this range, he would merely point and shoot.

He waited. Listened to the idling diesel engine.

He had waylaid the driver of the garbage truck an hour ago. Killed him as he climbed out of the truck. The driver was now in the bed with the garbage.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. About twenty-three minutes after he shot the limo driver, Fish glanced at his watch. He wasn’t nervous, was in no hurry. He was ready, had a good plan, and it would work. He knew it would. He kept his eyes on the truck’s right rearview mirror. In it he could see the back door of the club that led out onto the loading platform.

Two minutes or so later he saw three men come out that door. That was right. Maxwell and two bodyguards. They crossed the loading platform and went down the stairs behind the truck and a green garbage Dumpster.

Fish opened the driver’s door and stepped out, with the shotgun pointing.

Then they were there, coming from behind the Dumpster, heading for the limo. He had the shotgun up.

The first shot was for the lead man. The man in the middle, Maxwell, soaked up the second round of #4 buckshot, and the third man got the third round. All body shots.

Fish worked the slide again, catching the third spent shell in his hand, then closing the action. He picked up the two spent shells at his feet, then walked over to the men lying on the concrete. They were bleeding profusely from torso wounds. Fish was taking no chances. He fed two more shells from his left coat pocket into the magazine of the shotgun and shot Maxwell in the head, blowing it apart. Pumping the gun, he shot each of the others in the head. Picked up the spent shells.

He went back to the truck, opened the door, tossed the shotgun into the passenger seat and climbed aboard. Brake off, transmission in gear, he pulled out onto the street and drove away.

The next morning I coffeed, ate two boiled eggs and called my lock-shop partner, Willie Varner, also known as Willie the Wire. “How’s everything?” I asked.

“You just out of jail, or was it the hospital?” Willie was habitually surly, and more so in the mornings. I had lived with that for years, ever since we went into business together.

“Hey, I’ve been out of town.”

“This shop is a business, Tommy, and as a co-owner, you should check on it more often.”

“I’m in business with a black Bill Gates. I trust you, dude.”

“The women come in to see the Great Carmellini. And I need you to sign job bids.”

“And I need some help today,” I told him. “I’ll be there around ten o’clock. We’ll close the shop and open it tomorrow.”

“Any money in this?”

“Contract wages. By the hour.”

“Well, a little extra pocket money would be helpful,” Willie admitted.

“Have any bids ready to sign. I’ll see you at ten or thereabouts.” I rang off.

Willie Varner was about twenty years older than me, and probably the best lock picker alive. He had taught me a lot. He gained his skill picking hotel locks and carrying out the guests’ luggage, unfortunately without their permission. The second time he got out of prison for those activities, he decided to go straight. That’s when he and I went into the lock-shop business together. Despite his abrasive, sour personality, he was my best friend and he could keep his mouth firmly shut. I trusted him, for one very good reason: He knew if he crossed me no one would ever find his body.

Zoe Kerry was a hard-body of medium height, with short dark hair and short fingernails without color. She had a nice jawline and a pleasant face without laugh lines. I tried to decide if she was a runner or tennis player or just an exercise nut.

“Name’s Tommy Carmellini,” I said. “Grafton sicced me on you. I’m supposed to follow you around.”

She eyed me without enthusiasm. “He sent me a memo.”

“Great.”

“Why did he send you?”

“He didn’t say.” I shrugged.

She thought I was lying, which was ridiculous. She also thought I was a boob, and maybe that was the best way to play it.

“I don’t think he likes me,” I said earnestly. “But they have to give me something to do while I’m waiting for my court date. Grafton said you were FBI on assignment.”

“Admiral Grafton.”

“Yeah, that Grafton. He said you shot a couple of folks and came to us to unlax and rewind.” I smiled.

“Umph.”

“So what’s on your agenda today?”

“The agenda is finding out where the FBI was on Paul Reinicke’s and Mario Tomazic’s accidents, and now James Maxwell, the FBI director.”

I goggled at her.

“Maxwell, two bodyguards and his limo driver were assassinated last night. Haven’t you heard?”

“No.” I don’t normally listen to the news or read the paper in the morning, as both of them have detrimental effects on my digestive system. But I didn’t share that personal info with her.

She gave me the bare-bones particulars. She was slightly distracted.

“Did you know any of the three of them?”

“One of the bodyguards.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it.

“He was…” She left it there.

“Unfortunately I cannot accompany you today,” I said apologetically, “as I have another errand. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“I’ll try to stifle myself until then.”

“Of course.”

It was about ten thirty when I showed up at the lock shop with all the goodies stowed in the car. Willie and I transferred them to the shop van, which already had all the tools we would need arranged in belts and bins inside. We were a one-stop lock shop, modern as hell and really up to date. Willie was already in his lock-shop coverall, so I stepped inside and pulled one on over my trousers and shirt.

As I dressed, Willie said, “So, spy, who we gonna bug?”

“Jake Grafton.”

He stared at me. He had obviously been reading the papers, too, and knew that Grafton was the new acting director. “You’re shittin’ me, right?”

“Nope. At his request. Actually, I think, at his wife’s request.”

Willie mulled it. He still had all his hair, now flecked with gray. If you could have gotten a suit and tie on him, you might have labeled him distinguished. He did indeed own such an outfit. He bought it to be buried in. I saw him wear it just once, a few years back.

When we were rolling along toward the Grafton pad in Roslyn, he said, “Man, they’re poppin’ these big government dudes one after another. I saw on the morning TV that the director of the FBI, Maxwell, got shot to death last night. Behind the National Press Club. You hear about that?”

“Yes.”

“Shotgun. Him and two bodyguards. His driver was whacked as he sat in the limo. Four FBI dudes, deader than hell.”

“This morning?”

“Well, near midnight, I heard on the TV. They’re still lookin’ for the shooter. A fuckin’ hit. Four FBI dudes, just like that.”

I didn’t say anything.

Willie motored on anyway. “Third big government honcho this week, the TV babe said. Tomazic, Reinicke, now Maxwell, the FBI head weenie. Room at the top, that’s what they’re making. Room at the top so all the people in the chain can move up one notch. Like a cakewalk. ‘Ever’body take one step forward.’ I kinda figure it’s raghead terrorists or some frustrated paper-pusher who never got the promotion he figured he’d earned.”

“You think?”

“Kinda looks like that. But maybe it’s someone gettin’ even. Maybe he’ll get the warden at that federal pen in Williamsburg, South Carolina, next. That cocksucker gave me a really hard time. Told me I was too sassy. He didn’t like no sass, y’know, and him bein’ the warden and all, he don’t have to take much. None, actually. He ran that damn prison like he was Adolf Hitler’s bastard kid on a mission for God.”

I didn’t care much for Willie’s prison reminiscences, but it was no use trying to change the subject once he got into one of his moods. I drove and thought about the job. And about killers with shotguns. In Roslyn we pulled around the Graftons’ condo building into the service area and locked up the van. I sent Willie on a reconnaissance to see who, if anyone, might be watching the building while I went up to the admiral’s condo and knocked on the door. Callie Grafton opened it.

“Hi, Tommy,” she said. “Come on in.” I entered, and she closed the door behind me.

Mrs. Grafton is my idea of the perfect lady. She still had her figure and erect carriage, she was attractive, and she was pleasant with everyone she met. She had brains. In her sixties, she was the kind of woman that some men my age wish they had had for a mom. I sure did. Mine was a ditz.

Anyhow, she had been married to Jake Grafton since they were in their twenties. What she saw in him I’ll never know. Oh, he was polite enough and smiled occasionally, but he had my vote for the toughest man alive on this side of the Atlantic. He was also smart, determined, fearless and, when necessary, absolutely ruthless. Maybe his wife had found a warm and fuzzy spot in him somewhere, but I had never seen it. If he had such a place, I thought, it was probably microscopic.

Mrs. Grafton had the television on. I paused to watch for a minute or two. The DC police had found an abandoned garbage truck that had apparently been the Maxwell killer’s getaway vehicle six blocks from the National Press Club. The driver of the truck was dead on top of the garbage in back. Already someone had come forward who had seen the garbage truck parked behind the press club.

Mrs. Grafton watched with me. “What’s going on, Tommy?”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Grafton. But the admiral asked me to wire this place up. Do you have a Wi-Fi system in the condo?”

“Oh, yes. Do you want to see it?”

“Please.”

It was under the television.

I walked through the condo, looked things over, then came back to her. “I brought Willie Varner with me. You know him?”

“We met in Paris. He’s a nice man.” I had never before heard Willie called nice, but I kept a straight face.

“He and I own a lock shop in Maryland. Willie’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s good people. He’s downstairs now. What we would like to do is put some surveillance cameras in your place here, everywhere except the bathrooms and master bedroom. The cameras have their own batteries, which will run them for a couple of weeks before they will need to be replaced. We’ll also put some cameras in the hallway and down in the lobby, in the other building entrances and a few outside. All of them will send their signals to your Wi-Fi system, which will put the feed onto the Internet so we can monitor it from different locations. Is that okay with you?”

She wasn’t thrilled. “I suppose this is necessary.”

“We’ll also install a battery backup to your Wi-Fi system, so if the juice goes out in the building, it will still work. We’ll put a broadcast terminal with a battery backup on the roof to boost your system.”

She took a deep breath and said, “If you think this is necessary.”

And that was precisely the reaction I expected from Mrs. Jake Grafton. The thought crossed my mind that in her own way, she was as tough as he was. Likes attract, not opposites.

“I think this is the most reliable system we can install quickly,” I said. “It can be defeated, but only by someone who knows it is here and how it works. It won’t deny access, but it will give anyone monitoring it warning.”

“Okay,” she said.

“We’ll get to work outside first, and do the interior last. Be a couple of hours before we get back to you.”

“I’ll have some lunch ready whenever you are.”

We left it there. I closed the door behind me and took the elevator down to find Willie.

The cameras we installed were digital, of course, and very small. They looked like smoke detectors. The satellite transmitter on the roof took about an hour to wire up, backup battery and all, and another hour to tie in to a CIA satellite com channel. As I worked I tried to picture the mind-set of the killer who gunned down the FBI director and two bodyguards.

Whoever he was, he was no amateur. No disaffected office worker. He was cool and deadly. Maxwell may or may not have been armed, but the bodyguards were. Undoubtedly he didn’t give them time to draw their weapons. Just boom, boom, boom.

Mrs. Grafton did indeed have ham and cheese sandwiches, chips and coffee waiting when we got back inside. With a trapped audience, Willie was in seventh heaven. Talking with his mouth full, he delivered himself of opinions about national politics, the Redskins, the Nationals, women, taxes, the mayor, potholes and Downton Abbey. I was amazed at the comments about the PBS TV show. I didn’t know he watched. You learn something new about the human condition every day.

After lunch, while Willie installed the cameras in the condo, I loaded a program on Mrs. Grafton’s iPad and her iPhone, did mine, too, and checked that the cameras were working as they were supposed to. “I’ll also load this onto the admiral’s iPad and phone and any computers he wants to monitor this stuff at work. I’ll check on the system occasionally, and so will Willie. We’ll have this stuff up and working by tomorrow morning.”

She thanked us and offered us some cookies. Willie took two handfuls, and we said good-bye.

On the way back to Maryland I said to Willie the Wire, “I didn’t know you watched period British shows.”

“You need to get some culture, Carmellini. Without culture you’re one-dimensional. I noticed that in you. Women do, too. It’s holdin’ you back, man, professional life and love life.” He started munching another cookie.

“I wondered what the anchor was,” I replied.

“Culture, dude.”

“I’ll get a quart next time I’m in Walmart.”

Willie changed the subject. “You know that killer dude who did Maxwell may be makin’ the rounds. Those surveillance cameras we put in today won’t stop buckshot.”

“No,” I agreed, “they won’t.”