The Assassin

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

In the United States, shooting someone is a really big deal, so before very long, the building was packed with cops, FBI agents and — ten minutes after the others arrived — Secret Service agents. Some of them wore uniforms, most didn’t, but they all had guns and badges and little radios and lots of questions.

Five of them ended up firing questions at me at the super’s desk in the basement while someone got the elevators back in service and lab techs worked on the basement door, which had had the lock blown off.

A guy who looked like a paramedic helped me get my shirt off and slapped some disinfectant and a small bandage on top of my left shoulder. He did this while I answered questions. He even helped me get my shirt back on, then nodded at me and departed.

I kept my answers brief and to the point, explaining the how, when and where, and leaving the what and why to Jake Grafton. The five interrogators expected me to tell them more, a lot more, but I refused, which they took as a professional insult. Too bad. Finally, I was putting my Stanford legal education to good use.

An hour into this my Big Boss, William Wilkins, showed up. “Enough,” he said. It would have been interesting to see if indeed Wilkins could single-handedly stop the train, but he didn’t have to. The FBI director showed up, and my interrogation was indeed over.

With the brass watching, I reached over and picked up Grafton’s 1911 Colt and put it in my pocket. Picked up the agency shotgun, too, even though I had no more shells for it. Robin had some for hers, so maybe we could share. The police captain thought he would say something, then decided he wouldn’t.

Leaving the big bananas to confer with the police, I climbed the stairs to the lobby and strolled to the door of the building. A media circus was going on outside. A couple of television crews had set up shop, complete with lights and trucks, and helicopters with spotlights circled overhead. Spectators crowded the sidewalks and stood upstairs on balconies to watch as the police carried out the bodies one by one and sent them off to the morgue in ambulances.

Of course, I was interested in the guy who drove the Saturn. Some cop told me Willie had laid him out and was sitting on him when the police showed up. He was downtown being booked for felony murder, conspiracy and driving a stolen car, among other things. They dusted the Saturn for fingerprints, scraped mud from the fender wells and finally hauled it away to the FBI lab for a real going-over.

Squinting against the lights, I could see someone — it looked like Fred Colucci — talking to a television reporter. Not wanting to suffer through fifteen minutes of fame, I went upstairs to the Graftons’ condo. I rode up in the elevator with the holes in the ceiling. The other one was still out of service as they photographed and bagged the guy on top of it.

Willie was sitting on the couch telling Callie, Robin and Amy about his exploits while some female reporter on television gave them the hot scoop from the sidewalk in front of the building. The whole scene was more than a little weird. I waved to them on my way to the kitchen, where I poured myself a very healthy drink of Wild Turkey from Grafton’s liquor cabinet. I added an ice cube, then began sipping on it.

Callie came in, took the drink from my hand and kissed me on the cheek. Then she handed me back the drink, looked me in the eyes and said, “Thank you, Tommy.”

I nodded, trying to hold back the tears.

My cell phone rang. It was Jake Grafton.

“Maybe I’d better talk to him in the bathroom,” I said, and I went, taking my drink with me.

“It didn’t go well,” Khadr remarked to Abu Qasim, quite unnecessarily. They were watching CNN Headline News in Qasim’s hotel room in Greenwich, Connecticut. Khadr had a room on the floor below. “I didn’t know he was going to deliver the warriors,” Khadr added.

“Neither did I.” Qasim took a deep breath and let it out through his nose as he watched the camera pan across Grafton’s building. “It was always a long shot,” he murmured. “Jake Grafton is competent.”

“As is Carmellini,” Khadr admitted. “Al-Irani less so. Will he break under interrogation?”

“He knows nothing important.” Qasim used the remote to turn off the television. He had advised al-Irani to blow up Grafton’s building, but the Iranian objected. He lacked sufficient explosives, there was not enough glory in such a deed, and, finally, the real reason, the warriors wanted to enter Paradise with the blood of infidels on their hands. They wished to attack, to kill face-to-face. Qasim saw that he could not persuade al-Irani, so he stopped trying. “We all must serve Allah as we see best,” he admitted, which satisfied the Iranian.

Tonight he tried to forget what might have been. “Tomorrow we will drive to Winchester’s estate and look it over,” he said to Khadr. “It will be guarded by professionals every bit as good as Carmellini. They may have sensors deployed, and dogs. I want Winchester and Grafton.”

Khadr stood and adjusted his trousers. “We will see,” he said non-committally.

Qasim made eye contact. Khadr had no intention of trying the impossible; Qasim liked that. He wanted success, not glorious futile attempts.

“Indeed,” Qasim said. He nodded.

When he finally got off the telephone after talking to Callie, Tommy, his various bosses and Sal Molina, Jake Grafton went downstairs. Winchester, Smith, Marisa and Isolde were watching a television news show, which was airing an interview with a “terrorism expert.” The FBI had labeled the deceased and the lone survivor as armed terrorists making an attack on the family of a high-ranking government employee, whom they refused to identify. The reporters were frantic; even though it was two hours past midnight, they obtained a list of the building’s residents from someone, who of course refused to be identified. The “expert” on camera was consulting the list and making guesses.

Winchester used the remote to lower the volume as Jake went behind the bar to fix himself a drink.

“My telephone doesn’t work, Grafton,” Jerry Hay Smith said aggressively. “Neither does the landline or anyone else’s cell. Want to tell us about it?”

“About what?”

“About why you turned off the telephones.”

“I intend to get some sleep tonight and didn’t want to be interrupted by people reading me transcripts or playing recordings of your conversations. I know I could tell them to wait until tomorrow to call me, but I thought, if Smith makes his calls tomorrow, maybe they can all go home tonight and get a decent night’s sleep.”

“You bastard!”

“You want to go home and make your calls, you know where the door is. We’ll lock it behind you.”

“When this is over…” Smith whined, trying to sound ominous. It was a lost cause.

“I know,” Grafton muttered.

Jake brought his drink around and sat down beside Isolde. “How is Callie?” she asked, as if Jerry Hay Smith weren’t even there.

“Doing as well as can be expected, under the circumstances. She and Amy are coming tomorrow to visit with us for a few days.”

“They didn’t get Abu Qasim, did they?” Winchester asked.

Grafton shook his head no.

“He might be here tomorrow, too.”

“Or tonight. Or never.”

“Or he might be over at Cairnes’ house butchering him slowly,” Jerry Hay Smith said.

“Good point,” Grafton said cheerfully. “Or he might nave finished up with Mr. Cairnes and be waiting at your house for you to come home. One never knows.”

Smith stomped off, climbed the stairs and headed down the hall toward his bedroom.

“I think it’s time for me to retire also,” Isolde announced. She smiled at Jake and Winchester, glanced at Marisa and followed Smith.

Winchester finished his drink, then followed the others.

When only Jake and Marisa were left, Jake said, “Will he come here?”

“I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “I suspect he’ll send Khadr.”

“Still think he’ll try to kill the president?”

“Him, you, these others. The movement needs victories.”

“And martyrs,” Jake said, frowning into his drink.

“Those, too,” she said harshly. “The blood of martyrs is like perfume to Allah. It pleases and delights Him almost as much as the blood of infidels.” She rose and ascended the stairs.

“If you love me, die for me,” Jake muttered.

By nine the next morning we were rolling north up the interstate in Grafton’s SUV. I drove, and the women gabbled around me. Last night, before he went home, Willie and I had a few minutes alone. I thanked him for everything, including taking down the Saturn driver.

“Some cop tol’ me he’s an Iranian from Brooklyn,” Willie said. “I was hopin’ it was that Qasim dude, then I’d be a hero and get famous and meet hot women.”

“Next time.”

“You always say that, but there’d better not be a next time, Tommy. I’m too cold and too old, and that wine made me ’bout half sick. Had to nip at it, you understand, just to keep up appearances.”

“Right.”

After the women wound down and toddled off to bed about three, I tried to sleep on Grafton’s couch. The forensic guys were going to be working downstairs all night, but just in case, I had loaded my shotgun with Robin’s spare shells.

I had just gotten arranged on the couch when Grafton’s phone rang. I picked it up. Some enterprising television producer had obtained Grafton’s unlisted number. I rudely hung up on her, and then went into the kitchen and took the phone there off the hook. That way the beeping wouldn’t disturb me.

Back on the couch, I finally wound down and drifted off about four in the morning. Robin was up making coffee at five, waking me.

“Hey,” she said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s all right.”

“Want some coffee?”

“Please. Black.”

She brought me a cup. I sat up to drink it. “Thanks.”

She settled into the nearest chair and sipped at her cup of joe. Her hair was sticking out in every direction. I also noticed that she had a nice set of legs. “This isn’t going to become a regular thing,” she informed me as she tightened her robe around her.

“You mean coffee in bed in the morning?”

“Don’t want you to have any unrealistic expectations.”

“I’ll try to keep myself under control.”

I don’t think Robin had slept a wink, because she went to sleep in the back of the SUV as we rolled through New Jersey. Rain began falling from a featureless slate sky. At first it was just a sprinkle; then it became steady. When she woke up, I pulled over and we ran around the car, dashing through the drops, changing places. She hadn’t even gotten up to highway speed before I was asleep.

They were sitting in a rental car on a highway pull-off, a half mile from Winchester’s mansion. Just across the fence, horses grazed on hay strewn about a pasture. Khadr studied the mansion and barn with binoculars. A gentle rain was falling. The windshield wipers worked in slow rhythm.

“You can assume that there are armed guards,” Abu Qasim said.

Khadr did not reply. He was studying the trees that surrounded the house, which obscured most of it. He could see a few windows and the roofline, but little else.

“And the weather?”

“A storm is coming. The weather forecasters predict that the rain will get heavier, the wind will rise significantly, and about 3:00 a.m. the rain will turn to snow.”

“Once the snow begins, the guards will relax.”

“What do you know of snow?”

Khadr pondered his answer but didn’t lower the binoculars. Telling clients about past hits was foolish; the information was a weapon they could use to try to save themselves if they were ever arrested and interrogated. Not Abu Qasim, though; saving himself wasn’t on his agenda. Khadr said, “I once did a job in Russia. It was winter.”

After another minute he lowered the binoculars. “We have sat here long enough,” he said.

Abu Qasim started the car and steered it back onto the highway.

“So what do you think?”

“I think there is a place on the next hill with another view of the house. Drive over there.”

Qasim pressed. “Can it be done?”

“The risk is great. One must assume armed guards, an unknown number, and infrared and motion detectors. Some of the guards will be outside, some inside. Once I evade the outside guards, I must somehow enter the house, remain undetected, make my kills, then escape. It is a great undertaking.”

“That it is.”

“Your friends would undertake it for the glory. I will not.”

“Twice your usual fee?”

Khadr glanced at Qasim.

“This is the last job I need you to do,” Qasim said.

Khadr still said nothing. He was watching the road and looking over Winchester’s estate as the car rolled along.

“You are worried, perhaps,” Qasim mused, “that I will kill you instead of paying you.”

“Not really,” the killer replied.

“A payment in advance, perhaps? Wired to your bank in Switzerland.”

“There is not enough time. It must be done tonight during the storm or not at all.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I am safe from my clients only because they know that I will not blackmail them, nor will I demand more than the agreed fee; and should they fail to pay the agreed fee once it has been earned, I will kill them. I have had little monetary disputes with several clients in the past after I have done the job I was hired for, and those clients are now resting on Allah’s bosom. Or the Devil’s. Whichever makes you comfortable. In your case, however, the usual safeguards are unnecessary. You don’t care if I get caught and tell everything. If I told everything to the press it would only add to your legend and standing with the jihadists. You will pay for results and accept no excuses. If I try to blackmail you, you will laugh.”

Qasim remained silent.

“I kill because I am paid for it,” Khadir said. “A crime, a sin, whatever, I do it for money, like a whore. You buy murder because you hate. I leave it to your Allah to judge between us as to who is the evil man.”

When I awoke, Robin had a weather report on the radio from a New York City station. A big nor’easter was moving in. Going to be lots of rain and wind and maybe even snow. She must have seen me stir, because she glanced over her shoulder at me. “You want to drive?”

“I can drive,” Callie said.

“Let Mrs. Grafton do the honors,” I said. Truthfully, I was awake but very tired.

It only took another hour for us to get to Winchester’s estate. Fortunately I remembered how to get there and gave directions from the back seat.

Someone came out and held an umbrella as we got the car unloaded.

Jake Grafton was there. He escorted the women inside. I stayed on the porch, which wasn’t large, watching the rain. The porch was sort of out of the wind, which was about fifteen miles per hour, I estimated, gusting higher. The rain was steady, but not too heavy as yet. I leaned the shotgun against the wall within easy reach.

When Grafton came back outside to talk about the mess in Rosslyn, I went over it shot by shot, then told him about the interrogation, everything important that I could recall.

“You did well, Tommy,” he said.

I didn’t feel very pumped. There were bodies scattered all over Europe because I hadn’t been quick enough.

Grafton briefed me on the security, told me where the holes were and who was in them, and gave me an extra radio earpiece, so I could listen to any transmissions he or the guys outside made.

“I’ve still got your Colt,” I told him. “Robin has the other shotgun.”

He nodded.

“You didn’t tell me she was a former Marine.”

He gave me a little grin and said, “There’s liquor at the bar, and beer, if you want it. Dinner in about an hour.” Then he went back inside. I stayed on the porch watching the rivulets on the pavement, thinking about things.

Actually I was thinking about Marisa. She was inside, of course, and I wanted to see her, yet I didn’t. So I started going over it again, everything, trying to figure out who she was and what she believed. After a while I gave up. The truth was beyond me.

The night got awfully dark, and the rain kept falling. After a while Robin came out, handed me a drink and said dinner was on.

Marisa glanced at me when I came into the dining room. The dog was lying beside Winchester’s chair and stayed there. I had ditched my coat and shotgun on a chair in the living room. I seated myself across the table from her and down a seat. I looked around, found out who was there and who wasn’t and nodded at the two FBI agents who were cooking and standing inside guard duty when Grafton pronounced names. It must have been a nice break for them from chasing bank robbers and doing security investigations.

Winchester was at the head of the table, talking about his son, Owen, who I knew had been killed in Iraq. Grafton sat on one side of him and Isolde Petrou on the other. Isolde and Winchester were soon in deep conversation about what else needed to be done by banks, business and industry to help governments fight terrorism.

When I looked at Marisa, I found she was looking at me. She maintained eye contact, and only looked away when Amy asked her a question. She looked like the calmest person at the table. Of course, I wondered why. The possibility that she knew what was going to happen next reared its ugly head.

Grafton looked pretty calm, cool and collected, too, I noticed, but then, he always did. If they announced World War III and told him to lead the charge, he would still look exactly the same, still the Jake Grafton you always knew. Knowing him as I did, I thought he had a good idea what Qasim’s next move might be — maybe he had even played for it — but of course he couldn’t know.

Me? — I knew the bastard had murder on his mind. I was absolutely certain of that. The only thing I didn’t know was where and when and how.

Gonna find out, though. Sure as shootin’.

And I wasn’t calm. My stomach was doing flips; eating was the very last thing I thought I could handle. I poured some more of Winchester’s whiskey down there to settle things a little, but my appetite didn’t improve. I played with the salad, stirred it around, munched a piece of tomato. When I looked up, there was Marisa, watching me with those big brown eyes.

I looked at Robin Cloyd and found she was looking at me with a curious expression on her face. I didn’t have time to figure that out— Marisa was watching Grafton now. I tried to read her face and failed. It was like trying to decipher the Mona Lisa.

I gave up and went into the kitchen to see if the feds needed any help with the veggies or squashed potatoes or roast beast. Plates needed to be carried, they said. I began shuttling them to the table.

“Really getting nasty out there,” one of them said when I came back for the last two plates. I had almost forgotten. I looked at the rain hammering the window. Lord, it had turned to sleet! No wonder it was so loud.

“Glad I’m inside and not out in one of those holes,” the other guy said.

I took the plates in, set them down, then came back to the kitchen. The agents were settling down on stools at the counter with their own plates. I joined them and grunted at appropriate points in the conversation. Mainly, though, I listened to the wind and the sleet rattling on the glass.

I played with the food a while — I really wasn’t hungry — and pushed the plate back. Grafton came in shortly thereafter. “Great dinner, gents,” he said to the agents, who were still working on theirs.

He stood at the window looking at the sleet striking the outside win-dowpane, then came over to where I sat.

“If you were Khadr …?”

“Tonight,” I said.

“I think so, too,” he murmured, then paused to listen carefully as a gust pounded the sleet against the window. The sleet was basically soft hail.

After nodding to the other guys and saying something else nice about the grub, he went back to the dining room.