Mrs. Grafton had the television on. I paused to watch for a minute or two. The DC police had found an abandoned garbage truck that had apparently been the Maxwell killer’s getaway vehicle six blocks from the National Press Club. The driver of the truck was dead on top of the garbage in back. Already someone had come forward who had seen the garbage truck parked behind the press club.
Mrs. Grafton watched with me. “What’s going on, Tommy?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Grafton. But the admiral asked me to wire this place up. Do you have a Wi-Fi system in the condo?”
“Oh, yes. Do you want to see it?”
“Please.”
It was under the television.
I walked through the condo, looked things over, then came back to her. “I brought Willie Varner with me. You know him?”
“We met in Paris. He’s a nice man.” I had never before heard Willie called nice, but I kept a straight face.
“He and I own a lock shop in Maryland. Willie’s a little rough around the edges, but he’s good people. He’s downstairs now. What we would like to do is put some surveillance cameras in your place here, everywhere except the bathrooms and master bedroom. The cameras have their own batteries, which will run them for a couple of weeks before they will need to be replaced. We’ll also put some cameras in the hallway and down in the lobby, in the other building entrances and a few outside. All of them will send their signals to your Wi-Fi system, which will put the feed onto the Internet so we can monitor it from different locations. Is that okay with you?”
She wasn’t thrilled. “I suppose this is necessary.”
“We’ll also install a battery backup to your Wi-Fi system, so if the juice goes out in the building, it will still work. We’ll put a broadcast terminal with a battery backup on the roof to boost your system.”
She took a deep breath and said, “If you think this is necessary.”
And that was precisely the reaction I expected from Mrs. Jake Grafton. The thought crossed my mind that in her own way, she was as tough as he was. Likes attract, not opposites.
“I think this is the most reliable system we can install quickly,” I said. “It can be defeated, but only by someone who knows it is here and how it works. It won’t deny access, but it will give anyone monitoring it warning.”
“Okay,” she said.
“We’ll get to work outside first, and do the interior last. Be a couple of hours before we get back to you.”
“I’ll have some lunch ready whenever you are.”
We left it there. I closed the door behind me and took the elevator down to find Willie.
The cameras we installed were digital, of course, and very small. They looked like smoke detectors. The satellite transmitter on the roof took about an hour to wire up, backup battery and all, and another hour to tie in to a CIA satellite com channel. As I worked I tried to picture the mind-set of the killer who gunned down the FBI director and two bodyguards.
Whoever he was, he was no amateur. No disaffected office worker. He was cool and deadly. Maxwell may or may not have been armed, but the bodyguards were. Undoubtedly he didn’t give them time to draw their weapons. Just boom, boom, boom.
Mrs. Grafton did indeed have ham and cheese sandwiches, chips and coffee waiting when we got back inside. With a trapped audience, Willie was in seventh heaven. Talking with his mouth full, he delivered himself of opinions about national politics, the Redskins, the Nationals, women, taxes, the mayor, potholes and Downton Abbey. I was amazed at the comments about the PBS TV show. I didn’t know he watched. You learn something new about the human condition every day.
After lunch, while Willie installed the cameras in the condo, I loaded a program on Mrs. Grafton’s iPad and her iPhone, did mine, too, and checked that the cameras were working as they were supposed to. “I’ll also load this onto the admiral’s iPad and phone and any computers he wants to monitor this stuff at work. I’ll check on the system occasionally, and so will Willie. We’ll have this stuff up and working by tomorrow morning.”
She thanked us and offered us some cookies. Willie took two handfuls, and we said good-bye.
On the way back to Maryland I said to Willie the Wire, “I didn’t know you watched period British shows.”
“You need to get some culture, Carmellini. Without culture you’re one-dimensional. I noticed that in you. Women do, too. It’s holdin’ you back, man, professional life and love life.” He started munching another cookie.
“I wondered what the anchor was,” I replied.
“Culture, dude.”
“I’ll get a quart next time I’m in Walmart.”
Willie changed the subject. “You know that killer dude who did Maxwell may be makin’ the rounds. Those surveillance cameras we put in today won’t stop buckshot.”
“No,” I agreed, “they won’t.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Whenever peace — conceived as the avoidance of war — has been the primary objective … the international system has been at the mercy of its most ruthless member.
The next day I popped into the director’s suite and met the four secretaries and two executive assistants. The secretaries were women in their fifties who had worked their way up the food chain to the head honcho’s office. I assumed there were pay raises involved. They were nice ladies, and way too old for me. The executive assistants, however, were a different matter. At least the female one was. She looked to be in her late twenties. Her name was Anastasia Roberts. She was black, shapely and brilliant. I liked the way her agency ID dangled between her breasts, which were just the right size and shape. She was tall, with the top of her head coming up to my chin. I didn’t see a wedding ring.
The guy, Max Hurley, was also on the right side of thirty, about five foot eight and whippet thin, with cordlike muscles. He had a head of hair that stood straight out and scraggly facial hair that he didn’t shave but once a week, if that. I figured him for a long-distance runner. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring either, but these days, many married people didn’t.
I had heard about the EAs, and now I was meeting them. These folks were geniuses the Company recruited from Ivy League colleges and elsewhere in government. They were going to be superstars in a few years, so they started in the director’s office to learn the ropes fast and went on from there. Folks not quite as intellectually gifted called them geeks, and I suppose they were.
Anastasia Roberts gave me a hard look, shook the offered hand and said, “I’ve heard of you.”
“I won the Company camping award last year.”
“That must have been it,” she said coolly.
Hurley chimed in. “Admiral Grafton said you are going to be working with us,” he said, scrutinizing me.
“He told me that, too.”
“Welcome aboard.”
I assumed that was nautical humor. I smiled to show I was just one of the guys. “So how long have you been with the Company?”
“Eight months,” Roberts said.
“A year,” Hurley replied.
“Where did you work before you came here?” I asked, aiming at both of them.
Hurley answered first. “This is the first job I have ever had. The Company recruited me as I was finishing my doctorate.”
“Dr. Hurley. Cool.” I glanced at Roberts.
“I was over at the White House,” she said. “I’d had enough and floated my résumé, and the Company hired me.”
“And what did you do over there?”
“Political staffer. Memos and such.”
“We have paper to push, too.”
“And you?” she said.
“I’ve been here a while. Mainly tech support.”