America (47 page)

When the staff left for the day, Zipper Vance stayed behind, as he usually did. “I'm worried,” he said, “about Willi Schlegel. He sent you that E-mail after Washington. After New York, nothing. Total silence. That's not like him.”

“He wants the satellite,” she said dismissively. “He'll get it too. He doesn't give a damn about New York.”

“That assassination attempt in Washington,” Zip continued, “killed a Frenchman. Would you know anything about that?”

“Never heard the name before.”

“I have,” Zipper said brightly. “Works with Jake Grafton in the SuperAegis liaison office. As I listened to the story, I wondered.”

Her face revealed nothing. “Wondered what?”

“Wondered if you hired someone to kill Jake Grafton.”

“He's no threat.”

Vance snorted. “Hell, he's the only threat. He's got this caper figured out. Doesn't have any proof yet, but he'll get some. Carmellini is working with him now—oh, yes! I browsed through the classified, encrypted E-mails those people are firing around. Why in the world you did that little charade with Tommy Carmellini is beyond me.”

“Who else was going to do it? You? Carmellini wouldn't have been interested in your manly charms.”

“Did or did you not try to have Jake Grafton murdered?”

“For Christ's sake, Zipper, don't get squeamish on me now.” She picked up a newspaper off a nearby pile, one with a front-page, above-the-fold photo of a column of smoke arising in Brooklyn from the crash of an air force fighter, and held it where he could see it. Then she tossed it back on the pile.

“We didn't kill anyone, Zel. Until now.”

“Don't give me that
shit!
” she roared. “I won't listen! You and I worked very hard to get this snowball rolling. Now it's an avalanche, and I don't want to hear you holier-than-thou telling me
you
have clean hands.”

“We'll go to our graves with those people's deaths on our conscience,” Vance whispered, refusing to meet her eyes. “But we never pointed at one person and said, ‘You! I sentence you to die.'”

“Oh, there's an important distinction,” Zelda said acidly. “I am really not in the mood for this shit. How about taking it down the street.”

Standing at the elevator door, waiting while the cage rose, Vance said, “Guess I'd better start watching my back, huh? Like Jake Grafton. One of these days it will occur to old Zelda that Zipper Vance is the only eyewitness who could testify against her. Too bad for the Zipper, but he'll never see it coming. Won't feel a thing! And we all gotta go sometime.”

He got into the cage and pushed the button to take it down.

She waited until she saw him walking away from the building on the outside security camera, then went over to raise the elevator and turn it off.

Who did he think she was, anyway, some bleeding-heart flower-power hippie like her mother used to be?

Zip Vance needs to open his eyes. This is the twenty-first century, the age of capitalism. Hudson Security Services exists because the world is full of companies that want to protect their secrets. And they want to buy other people's secrets. She made a fine living selling both stolen secrets and security systems to the same people! Everyone wants to buy! Ethics? Don't make me laugh!

Today it's Europe, Incorporated, versus America, Incorporated. Forget the flag-waving bullshit. Those are the two big dogs and they are vicious. Willi Schlegel, billionaire industrialist, has spent a lifetime making sharp deals and squashing anyone in his way. Antoine Jouany, financier, has been busy separating people and their money any way he can get away with. He has even invented ways. Regardless of how he got it, he knows that money spends just fine.

Scruples? Ha! Give me a break!

People die every day. Zip knows that. Car wrecks, cancer, lightning, plane crashes, stray bullets from gang-bangers … What is the difference?

*   *   *

“Admiral, this is Commander Packenham,” Toad said. “He was the officer in charge of training the Blackbeard team in New London.”

If Packenham thought there was anything unusual about having a conference with a flag officer wearing a T-shirt and shorts, he didn't mention it. He had driven down from Connecticut, he told Jake, at Toad's request. He began by describing the training program he had constructed for the team, then discussed personalities.

Jake Grafton said little. When Packenham discussed Kolnikov, however, Grafton met his eyes, listened intently.

“Kolnikov was the best of them,” Packenham said, “the quickest study. Turchak had as much experience as he did, but Kolnikov was a natural leader. He would have done very well in anyone's navy.”

A few minutes later Packenham said, “Nothing bothered Kolnikov. He was the calmest, steadiest man I have ever met. The others worried about safety, about backup systems and emergency procedures and all that, but not Kolnikov. He listened and absorbed the information, but it didn't seem to me as if”—Packenham paused and searched for words—“as if life or death really mattered to him anymore. It was as if he didn't care. About anything! Does that make sense?”

*   *   *

When Jake arrived home that evening, Callie was on the balcony of the apartment washing clothes by hand. She was heating water on the charcoal grill, washing the clothes in a tub, then hanging them on the railing of the balcony to dry. He helped her while he told her about the shot that killed Maurice Jadot and critically wounded an Arlington police officer.

“Why,” Callie asked after she had heard him out, “would an assassin shoot Jadot?”

“I don't think he intended to,” Jake replied. “I think he shot at me and missed.” He hadn't said that to the FBI agent—he didn't know whom he would repeat the comment to—but he always leveled with Callie.

“Jake! You set up that whole thing with Ilin. Those people were FBI.”

“I don't think this had anything to do with that little adventure. I was just trying to make Ilin talk that day. I think the shooter today wanted to shut me up.”

“Why?”

“Someone told somebody something.”

“Who?”

“Ilin, maybe. Maybe not. He told me Russia doesn't want Europe to get the satellite.”

“Is that what this is about? That satellite?”

“Maybe. I think so. But hell, I don't know.”

He poured the hot water over the tub of wet clothes to rinse them, then began working the soapy water from a pair of undershorts.

Callie sat down abruptly. She stared at the sky, examined her hands, then rose and went into the apartment.

Jake worked his way through the tub, twisted each item to get as much water out as he could, shook it out, and hung it on the railing. When he had finished he went to find her.

Callie was sitting in the kitchen, crying silently.

“Hey,” he said. “What's wrong?”

“Like everyone else in this damned city,” she said, “I am working my ass off trying to keep body and soul together. Classes were canceled at the university, so I have no job. The dealer sent a tow truck today for the car—the driver said two weeks at least, maybe three. They're swamped.

“I cook on a charcoal grill, wash clothes in a tub, sweep the apartment with a broom, eat canned food by candlelight—I don't ever again want to go to a restaurant that has candles on the table—take sponge baths, and go to bed ten minutes after dark because there is no television or radio or CDs or movies or Internet.
Nothing!
I live like my great-great-grandmothers, reading by candlelight. Then my husband comes home and casually announces that someone tried to murder him today. The bullet missed by an inch or two. No big deal! Ho-hum, just another day in twenty-first-century America.” Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her cheeks.

He reached for her. She pushed his hand away.

“I'm feeling sorry for myself. Okay?”

“That's allowed,” he said.

Her voice was hoarse. “I didn't volunteer for any of this. I don't want my husband shot to death. I don't want to be a widow. I don't like get-back-to-nature campouts in the city. I don't want to live a simpler life—I liked it fine just the way it was. Jesus, is this America? What the hell happened to my country?”

After this outburst her tears dried up. She sniffed and swabbed at her cheeks. In about a minute she said, “I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being selfish.”

He bent over and kissed her. “You aren't selfish. You're human. No apology necessary.”

“Oh, Jake!”

“Hey, they didn't get me. We're still alive and kicking.”

“Yeah.”

“We're still trying to figure it out.”

“Figure out what?”

“What happened to our country.”

*   *   *

The following morning Jake Grafton was in a thoughtful mood. The police had said that the dead assassin was carrying a silenced pistol in a shoulder holster.

Twice during the night Jake had awakened thinking about that pistol.

Was he really the target, or was that deduction mere anxiety from being so close to a death by violence? Had he really felt the whiff of the rifle bullet? Did his sudden movement throw off the assassin? Or did the assassin aim at Jadot? If he was the target, why didn't the assassin shoot at him with his second shot?

There was no way to know any of the answers, of course. After the rush of adrenaline, there was only a cold memory of the edge of the abyss.

While he was putting on his blue uniform he dug out an old Smith & Wesson .38 from the bottom of his sock drawer and loaded it. He put it behind his belt in the small of his back. Just in case, he told himself. Then felt foolish.

Foolish or not, he still had the gun on him when he kissed his wife good-bye. She was still in bed. On his way out he pulled the apartment door closed until it locked. Then he tried the handle.

The September air was like wine as he stood on the sidewalk examining the people passing on foot and in cars. The sunlight was brilliant, the shadows crisp.

If he had been the target, someone else might try again. He consoled himself with the thought that only a fool would ignore that possibility.

Still, the pistol felt heavy and hard in the small of his back.

A smile crossed his face. God, it felt good to be alive.

He was still savoring the air and the people and the noise when a car pulled to a stop beside him on the street. Flap Le Beau was in the front passenger seat and a marine was behind the wheel. Jake climbed into the back.

“Good morning, sir,” Jake said. “Corporal.”

“Good morning, sir,” the driver said.

Flap just grunted and passed Jake a newspaper. It was from Atlanta. The headline was the revelation that the top echelon of American military officers was profiting from the travails of the American economy. Someone leaked the list Carmellini had brought back from London.

Jake glanced at the story, which originated in London. So the leaker wasn't anyone in his office. For some reason, that fact made the headline easier to take.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A television reporter and photographer were waiting outside Jake's building when he arrived. He sat in the car with Flap Le Beau watching them. They hadn't seen him yet. “Uh-oh,” he said.

“What are you going to do?”

“If I ignore them it will look like I've got something to hide.”

“That's the spirit. This is Washington. Deny, deny, deny.”

“I'll go a long way following that advice.”

“Don't hold anything up in front of your face. And don't let them see the handcuffs. That stuff prejudices the jury.”

“Your name was on that list too. Want to come over and hold a joint conference, tell them how we're going to invest our newfound riches?”

“Out,” Flap said, jerking his thumb. “I'll hurry over to my office and watch you on the news.”

As Jake got out of the car he adjusted the pistol under the blouse of his blue uniform so it wouldn't fall out.

The reporter was a woman, and she had the drill perfected. He heard her say into the microphone as he walked toward the door, “Here comes Admiral Grafton now.”

She shouted, “Admiral Grafton, Admiral Grafton!”

Jake walked over, trying to look innocent. How do you do that?

“Admiral Grafton, this morning a London newspaper printed a story that said you and a number of other American military officers have huge accounts with the Jouany firm. Would you comment on that?”

“I don't have an account with any of the Jouany firms. I have never invested a dollar with them. There's been some mistake.”

“So you're denying that Antoine Jouany owes you over three and a half million dollars?”

“Yep, I'm denying it. He doesn't owe me a penny.”

“How about the other officers on the list?”

“I can't speak for them,” he said, and turned toward the door to the building.

She asked another question anyway, “Have you been subpoenaed yet by the House subcommittee?”

Jake kept going. Oh, boy! A congressional subpoena. That would get today off to a rollicking start.

*   *   *

Sonny Killbuck was waiting upstairs with a pile of computer-generated maps and photos taken by reconnaissance satellites. Ilin, Barrington-Lee, and Mayer were in the outer office going over software with two NASA experts. They were still trying to determine why the SuperAegis launch went awry. Jake doubted if the reason would ever be determined, but it gave them something to do. Fortunately, telephone service had yet to be restored, so reporters weren't ringing the phone off the hook.

“Two of Heydrich's salvage ships are working wrecks,” Killbuck told Jack. “One is in the Maldives, and the other is docked in Nice. Verified with satellite photography.”