The Last Spymaster (46 page)

“I’ve never heard you apologize for anything.”

He sighed heavily. “It’s long past time.”

A strange quiet filled the car. Suddenly she lifted her chin and stared hard into the rearview mirror.

Before she could speak, he jerked himself erect. “I see it.”

A District police cruiser was speeding up behind them. The temperature inside the car seemed to plunge. The traffic light ahead turned red.

“Damn!” She slowed and stopped behind a Mini Cooper.

Neither moved. He studied his side-view mirror, watching the police car draw closer. It pulled abreast in the next lane. He waited for some indication the police had made them.

When the stoplight switched to green, Raina hesitated then drove smoothly forward. The police car angled away and was out of sight as soon as they crossed the intersection.

He exhaled. “It’s a reminder of how vulnerable we are.”

She seemed to think about that. “You’re right, Jay. We
are
vulnerable, and I’m sorry for being so hard on you.” Finally she asked, “Did you ever find out who the client was who demanded you set yourself up for treason?”

He shook his head, feeling weary. “Our closest link was Moses. Bobbye and I tried everything to identify him. We’re still trying. No one she or I
questioned had heard from Moses for a couple of years before then, and no one’s heard from him since.”

“The client could be anyone. But how did the client find out about me and the CIA? I never told anyone, and it sounds as if you didn’t, either. You kept the information controlled at Langley?”

“I sure as hell did. It was need-to-know. That meant only four people—the DCI, Arlene Debo; the DDO, Greg Stephens; the ADDO, Palmer Westwood; and me. Arlene, Greg, and Palmer were retired by the time Moses called to blackmail me, and frankly I can’t imagine any of them would say a word to anyone. But clerks and secretaries and data techs have some access—if they figure out how to work the system. So it also could’ve been someone else at Langley. Believe me, Bobbye and I investigated thoroughly. We could never pinpoint the informant.”

“You don’t think it was Larry Litchfield?”

He shook his head. “He didn’t find out about you until he took over as DDO. That’s when he had need-to-know. He still has no idea I’m anything but a traitor. Bobbye and I—and now you—are the only ones who have all the facts.”

“The client has to be someone you know personally,” she persisted. “The ‘offer’ was a vendetta. Revenge—very personal revenge.”

As Elaine hurried toward her Jaguar, she surveyed the busy street near the Maine Avenue wharf. She had dry-cleaned and felt reasonably sure she was safe. Breathing deeply, she pulled out her cell phone.

There was another message from Jay, no doubt anxious about her, plus three from Elijah Helprin and three from Palmer Westwood. Something urgent must have happened. Since Elijah had been the first to phone, she dialed him first then jumped into the Jag. As she turned on the engine, he answered.

“Have you heard from Jay?” he asked worriedly. “We’re getting no information out of him. For some reason, he’s cut us off.”

With one hand, she spun the Jag into the street. “He’s with Raina. They have a lot to talk about.”

“True. Where have you been?”

She filled him in then asked what he and Palmer had learned.

“We had luck with Ghranditti’s shipment.”

She listened to the items, staggered by the chilling implications.

Finished with the list, Elijah sounded particularly weary. “Palmer and Frank and I are finally together, waiting for orders from Jay. We still don’t know where the shipment’s being held—or when it’s transferring. Come join us. That way at least we’ll be ready when Jay needs us, or maybe we can figure out what to do next on our own.”

“Good idea. Where are you?”

He gave her the address of a motel in Southeast Washington, and she turned the Jag, heading toward it. She dialed Jay. She was relieved to hear his voice. She could hear the sounds of an engine and traffic, too. He and Raina were also driving.

“Thank God,” Jay breathed. “You’re alive. Tell me what happened.”

Elaine described the long chase and hiding in the dress shop. “I liked
the poetic justice of using a Whippet dart to down a Whippet operative. I just talked to Elijah. Everyone’s concerned about you. I know they’d like to hear from you. They’re in a motel, waiting for me.”

She heard Jay’s sharp intake of air. “Don’t go there.”

As she listened to his explanation, fear then rage swept through her. “I can’t believe Elijah or Palmer is Moses. It must’ve happened some other way!”

“Don’t go to the motel,” Jay insisted. “I can’t get over there to protect you unless I drop following up a good lead. Drive someplace else and lie low—but don’t tell me where. I’m not going to say where we’re heading, either, but I’ll phone as soon as we have something useful. I won’t cut you out of the action, Elaine, but for now, please do as I say.”

She mulled. “But if Elijah or Palmer really
is
Moses, then we’ve lost an opportunity to find out which one. And if they’re both clean, I’ll be with them when you call and are ready for support.”

“Dammit, Elaine.” There was a long pause. When he spoke again, there was resignation in his voice: “All right, go if you must, but report every hour.”

As Martin Ghranditti’s elevator door opened onto the sweep of polished brass and carved wood in the elegant lobby of his small apartment building, his cell phone rang. He answered as he marched across the marble tiles.

“Yes?” He passed a scattering of other residents, ignoring them.

“We got a problem, boss.” It was Karl, his Ukrainian chief of household security.

Ghranditti knew at once. “Is it Marie? The children? What’s happened? Where’s Dante?”

“Dante is unconscious,” Karl reported gloomily. “The hospital says it was an overdose of OxyContin. It is touch and go. Boss—Mrs. G was stealing the kids.”

Ghranditti dug the cell into his ear. “Tell me.” Ahead of him the uniformed doorman opened one of the two monolithic glass doors.

“Armand was behind it. He got them passports and airline tickets,
rented a car, and put many suitcases of the kids’ toys and clothes and her jewels and clothes into the limo’s trunk. They were going for sure.”

Ghranditti walked out into the roar of Washington’s traffic and exploded, filling the dark air with curses. The old-fashioned concept of loyalty was dead, even from his own wife. As his limo appeared at the curb, he demanded, “Armand told you this?”

“Oh, boss. It is very sad. Armand ran into a bullet. He is dead. Oh, one more thing. Mrs. G dyed her hair dark. She hid it under a scarf.”

Ghranditti swore again. For a moment he wanted to murder her. How dare she, after everything he had done for her. He took deep breaths.

As his chauffeur ran around to open his door, Ghranditti ordered, “Don’t let Mrs. Ghranditti out of your sight. Drive her and the children to the airport. Tell Jock to take the nanny there. Fly all of them to Washington in one of the company jets. There’s a doctor here I want her to see.” Obviously, new medical care was the only solution. Marie must regain control of herself. “She’ll need to have her hair color returned to normal tonight, too. Someone will phone you with the details of both appointments. I don’t want her with me until all of that’s handled. Then as soon as my business is finished, I’ll take them to the island.”

Bearing his burden with dignity, Ghranditti ended the call and sank into the limo’s luxurious interior. He pulled out a cigar, and the door closed with a whisper, shutting out the gaudy blare of the metropolis. He was worried about Marie’s instability. She was lucky he had taken her in hand when she was still not much more than a child. The poor woman. Well, with proper medication, she would be fine again. He had tried to do the same for his first Marie. . . .

Before grief could rise in his throat, he stopped himself from thinking about her. He put his cell phone away, but it rang again. This time it was Jerry Angelides. As his limo blended into the bright lights of traffic, he listened to Angelides’s sober report.

“Cunningham and Tice are still on the run, Mr. Ghranditti, I am sorry to say. But there’s a bright side—they haven’t screwed up the deal.”

“Has everything arrived at the terminal?” Only when the ship left Baltimore
for the high seas would his mind be at ease. Its destination was Port Muhammad bin Qasim, Karachi, Pakistan. For six months he had been sending furniture and other large items to a wholesaler in Karachi to establish a pattern. Baltimore was a foreign-trade zone, where goods could leave without fees, but U.S. Customs was supposed to inspect all shipments. Still, they had too many containers and not enough time, so they relied on patterns. In the beginning they had checked his containers closely, finding that the items accurately matched his manifests. This time, Angelides again e-mailed the manifest. As they had for four months, Customs matched it against the earlier shipments and approved it without looking inside the containers.

“Yes, sir,” Angelides said firmly, “all the stuff’s there, safe and sound. The stevedores are almost done loading the ship. Your big deal’s going off without a hitch.”

Ghranditti’s rage at Tice was bottomless, but he could not let it stop him from enjoying the future. He owed that to Marie and the children. He warned in a steely voice: “That does
not
release you from your responsibilities. You must still find Tice and Cunningham.” He told Angelides the latest news about Raina Manhardt. “My contact says she’s arrived in Washington.”

“I’m keeping part of the boys out on patrol everywheres,” Angelides assured him. “I’ll tell them to look for her, too. Then I’ll refresh all my contacts and sources. They’ll get back to me the second anything turns up. Hell, the cops could be arresting Cunningham or Tice or both right now.”

“They’re trying to make a fool out of you, Mr. Angelides,” Ghranditti growled.

“No way are they going to do that. I will get those people and make them dead!”

Hiding their uneasiness, Jay and Raina sauntered across the elegant lobby of Martin Ghranditti’s building, past the suspicious glances of the valet and the few residents sitting in stately chairs and sipping their evening tea. But as
soon as Jay slid the copy of the key into place and Ghranditti’s elevator gave a soft chime of acknowledgment, the glances changed from suspicion to acceptance tinged with curiosity. He and Raina boarded and gazed at each other.

“So far, so good,” she said as the door closed.

The elevator rose and at last opened onto an expansive vestibule where funnels of soft white light shone down from the ceiling. Weapons in hand, they stepped out, and the lights brightened, showcasing opulent furnishings and a snow-white carpet that seemed a foot deep.

A melodic artificial voice inquired politely, “Welcome to Martin Ghranditti’s residence. Would you like music this evening?”

Raina looked at Jay. “I wonder if it asks the maid that, too, when she arrives.”

“My bet is it’s a crew of maids.” He raised his voice: “No music.”

As they split up and searched the rooms, lights preceded them. Voices inquired about temperature, quality of lighting, and music. When Jay approached a wall, a fully equipped bar swung out. At a long expanse of aquarium glass, a glass door slid open, and fresh breezes gusted in. He slipped outdoors and around a wraparound terrace decorated with a manicured jungle of flowers and small trees.

Then he found Ghranditti’s office and walked straight past a mammoth desk and a sofa-and-chairs grouping to the computer. He turned it on and left for the kitchen. It was a stainless-steel monument to food preparation—refrigerators, stoves, microwave ovens, regular ovens, freezers, counters, cabinets. He studied the food in the Sub-Zero refrigerator and pulled out beluga caviar and chopped boiled eggs and sour cream and Gala apples. He found a box of large soda crackers in a cabinet and bottles of water in another.

He put the food he had taken onto a gilded tray and went to look for Raina. He found her on the far side of a recreation room armed with video games, a professional Foosball table, a full-size billiards table in dark walnut, matching tables for chess and checkers and card games, a well-equipped bar, and an oversize liquidlike television screen hanging like a fine painting on the wall.

“Look what just revealed itself.” Raina gestured at a colossal entertainment complex worthy of the Kennedy Center. “Let’s check out those surveillance tapes I brought from Geneva. I’ve loaded one into the VCR.” She picked up a remote control.

They settled uneasily onto the sofa. With a weary sigh, she took off her wig, beard, and mustache. She ran the fingers of both hands through her matted hair again and again until the jet-black locks shook free. Jay smiled, soaking in the face he remembered so well, the fine bones, the clear skin. She had aged but in a way that somehow made her more beautiful.

He set the tray on the cocktail table. “We need to eat.”

She nodded mutely. When the TV screen came alive, she said, “What we’re seeing is the building’s front lobby. Milieu had the entire fifth floor. So anyone who takes the elevator to it or from it is of interest to us.” She put the speed to fast-forward.