The silence was broken several minutes later when Jake asked, “You want a hamburger or Subway for dinner?”
“Whatever.”
Callie Grafton was peeved, but as she sat watching the road unwind before them she tried to put it all into perspective. She had known Jake Grafton was a warrior when she married him, way back when, and he had proved it many times since. Mario Tomazic was not Jake’s personal friend, but he was a brother officer, and Jake stood by his fellow warriors. It was in his DNA. Tomazic’s fight was his fight. She bought it when she married Jake and she bought it now. She sighed inwardly. She was ready to ditch it all and do the grandparent thing, let life slow down, hang out with other retirees. Jake obviously wasn’t. And perhaps he never would be. He could smell a fight from a mile away, and he found the prospect irresistible. That was who he was.
She had never liked the president, had voted for the other man, but thank God the stupid SOB had the sense to appoint Jake as interim director. He couldn’t have found a better man if he had scoured the earth for candidates. No doubt Sal Molina had something to do with it: Callie had heard Jake mention his name several times. Molina was the president’s right-hand man, his brain trust, if any of those idiots in the White House had any brains. Many pundits assured their readers daily that they didn’t.
“I love you, Jake,” she said.
He glanced at her, flashed that grin that had always warmed her and said, “I love you, too, Callie.”
The Graftons got subs and soft drinks at a gas station/convenience store, and when they were rolling along munching and slurping, Callie asked, “Didn’t Tomazic have some bodyguards? Where were they?”
“He always gave them the weekend off. Didn’t want them underfoot when he went to the Eastern Shore.”
“So will you get bodyguards?”
Jake glanced at Callie. That had slipped his mind. “Well, I guess so. When the interim appointment gets announced.”
“Twenty-four/seven, or are you going to do the free-weekend thing like General Tomazic?”
Jake put the rest of his sandwich back in the bag. He thought about bodyguards as he drove along.
Callie wouldn’t let it lie. “If someone somewhere wanted the director of the CIA off the board, you may be next.”
Jake pulled over to the side of the road and removed his cell phone from his pocket. He scrolled through his contacts, picked one and touched the screen.
A two-week vacation was a rare treat for me. My name is Tommy Carmellini. Forty-eight weeks a year I am a wage slave for the CIA as a tech-support guy, which means I install and monitor listening devices, break into computers, bug embassies, that kind of thing. However … every now and then I get dragooned by Jake Grafton, head of Middle Eastern ops, for special assignments. I had just returned to the States from one of those in Egypt a couple of weeks ago and managed to finagle a vacation.
An old college buddy and I had used the last eight days to free-climb some cliffs in Yosemite. It had been a few years since I had that kind of a workout. I was sore as heck the first few days. Feeling fit and studly now. Mom’s bathroom scale said I had dropped seven pounds. My trousers were loose, and I was using a new belt notch.
It had been a delightful interlude … until I got a good gander at her new boyfriend, Cuthbert Gordon. He was in his early seventies, short and not carrying any extra weight, with a huge white handlebar mustache and a tan that looked as if it came from a bottle. And he was a talker.
I could hear a cell phone ringing. In the kitchen. I felt my pockets. Maybe I had left it there.
Gordon was prattling on. “… retired from the university on Long Island and decided to try California. Teaching a couple of courses on investing at the community college here just to keep my hand in. A mutual friend introduced me to your mom. Wonderful lady. We’re thinking about an Australian vacation next month. It’s spring down there. I’ve been to Australia and New Zealand about a dozen times through the years and love it. Skin diving, the beaches, sightseeing … I think it’s perfect for your mother. I’ll pick up the tab, of course, and—”
“Tommy,” Mom called from the kitchen, “it’s for you.” I kinda thought it would be, since it was my phone. “Some man named Jake.”
Uh-oh. A call from Jake Grafton out of the blue was not good news. Hadn’t been yet, and doubtlessly never would be.
“Excuse me,” I said to Mr. Wonderful. I put my glass of merlot on the stand beside the chair and went into the kitchen.
Mom held her hand over the telephone mouthpiece and whispered, for the eighth or tenth time, “Isn’t he terrific?” She was smiling brightly.
I didn’t have a high opinion of Mom’s taste in men. This one was even smarmier than the last one I met, three or four years ago. That one had been married five times and had all his chest hair waxed out every week or two … but I digress.
I relieved her of the phone.
“You’re calling about my promotion, right?”
“Hey, Tommy.” Yep, it was Jake Grafton. “Have you been following the news?”
“No. It’s called a vacation. Has war been declared?”
“That’s next week. How about coming back ASAP? I need you.”
I gave it a second to let him know I was unhappy, as if he cared, then said, “I’ll get a flight tomorrow.”
We said good-bye, and I hung up the phone. “My boss,” I told Mom. “I’m going to have to go back to Washington tomorrow.”
“Did you get a promotion?”
“No such luck.” Mom was also kinda slow on the uptake.
“I’m sorry, Tommy. I thought Bertie and I could take you into San Francisco for an evening.” Bertie, no less. Ye gods!
“Next time, maybe.”
When she broke the news to the boyfriend, he asked me, “Who do you work for, anyway?”
“It’s a government job,” I said evasively. I tried to remember what lie I had told Mom. Did I say I worked for the GSA or FHA? Or was it Freddie Mac?
“Tommy is in housing,” she told Mr. Wonderful with a proud smile. “Mortgages and all that.”
“Mortgages, eh?” he said. “I made a lot of money in mortgages — back before the crash, of course.” And away he went, regaling us with his adventures in secured debt instruments as we sliced up our dead animal and vegetables.
After dinner, while Mom made coffee, I flipped through her stack of old newspapers. Found that the agency director, General Mario Tomazic, had drowned this past weekend. More riots in Egypt, the revolution in Syria was heating up again, North Korea was making more threats, another city had filed for bankruptcy … looked as if life on this old planet was perking perilously along as I climbed cliffs. A call from Jake Grafton — could this be about Tomazic? Hell, drowned is drowned. Wasn’t a thing I could do for the guy, whom I had met only once, except wish him a happy hereafter.
Obviously something was up, but I wasn’t really curious. Sort of bummed about not getting to do some more climbing. On the other hand, one evening with Mr. Wonderful was quite enough.
“Would you like some dessert, Tommy? I fixed your favorite, blueberry pie. Bertie likes it, too.”
“Sure, Mom.”
Afterward I helped her clean up. Slipped a knife and fork that Mr. Wonderful had used into the side pocket of my sport coat when Mom wasn’t looking.
“That was a short call from that Jake,” she remarked.
“Yeah. He always acts like Ma Bell is personally charging him for every word.” I let it drop.
Curious phrase, “I need you.”
The last time Grafton thought that only I could properly handle a chore, I spent a couple of months camping in the African outback. I said a silent prayer. No more camping, please! And I damned well didn’t want to go back to Egypt. Or Iran. Or Iraq. Or …