The Art of War: A Novel by Stephen Coonts Page B

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.