“I’m awfully expensive.”
“And I’m kind of rich. It’s a perfect match.”
“There could be a conflict of interest.”
“Who with?”
“I already represent Granville Haynes.”
“What’s representing Granny got to do with representing me?”
“You can answer that far better than I.”
Tinker Burns again produced his checkbook. “Would a five-thousand-quid retainer clear up that conflict-of-interest question?”
Mott shook his head. “Tell you what. When the sheriff hauls you in again, give me a ring and we’ll try to work something out.”
“That a guarantee?”
“A guarantee suggests a refund,” Mott said. “We’ll call it a promise.”
Outside the Wendy’s, Mott was unlocking the door of his wife’s Volvo sedan when Tinker Burns, the door of his rented Jeep Wagoneer already open, turned and said, “What’s the best way to Middleburg?”
Mott turned around slowly to stare at Burns for several seconds. “You don’t want to go to Middleburg.”
“Why not?”
“The snow.”
“I got four-wheel drive and snow tires. Besides, a lot of it’s melted by now.”
Mott examined Burns for another five seconds before giving directions. “Straight out the Pike till you get to Leesburg. Then south on U.S. Fifteen till you hit U.S. Fifty. West on Fifty for seven or eight miles and you’ll be in Middleburg.”
“Thanks,” Burns said, got in the Wagoneer, started its engine and drove off as directed.
After watching him leave, Mott went back into the Wendy’s and located the pay phone next to the men’s toilet. He briefly considered the ethics of his decision, then looked up a name and phone number in his pocket address book and used a phone company credit card to place a long-distance call to Letty Melon, the former Mrs. Steadfast Haynes, at her 360-acre horse farm near Middleburg, Virginia.
Chapter 27
At a little past 5P.M. that Sunday, Hamilton Keyes stood at the large window of his library, staring out at the snow-blanketed garden and wondering what it would be like to go outside and build a twilight snowman. Finding it to be a mild temptation, easily resisted, he instead took a long swallow of his iced vodka and, without turning, made an announcement.
“After I resigned yesterday they offered to make me an ambassador.”
Muriel Keyes was sitting on the odd-size leather couch, wearing gray slacks, white Reeboks, a turtleneck of black silk and holding a Scotch and water. The announcement made her slosh a little of her drink onto a burled-walnut parsons table.
Using a paper napkin to mop up the spilled water and alcohol, she said, “You resigned?”
Keyes turned from the window. “I believe we’ve arrived at one of our ghastly need-to-know times.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do believe we have.”
“There’s a catch, of course,” Keyes said as he crossed the room and sat down. They now sat exactly as he and Gilbert Undean had sat on the previous Friday evening: Keyes in the leather armchair and his wife in Undean’s spot on the couch.
Keyes had another quick swallow of his drink, then made an exploratory pass over his bald head with the palm of his left hand and said, “The catch goes by the name of Steadfast Haynes.”
“Who died.”
“But who, before dying, managed to finish his memoirs, entitled Mercenary Calling.”
She began a smile that ended as a laugh that was almost a giggle. “He didn’t—call them that?”
“Afraid so.”
“What a juicy read they must be.”
“More than juicy, I’d say. Steady probably told everything he suspected, which is enormous, and all he knew, which is alarming.”
She nodded gravely and studied her husband for a moment. “From what you’ve said, I assume you haven’t read them yet.”
“All I did was dispatch Gilbert Undean to buy all rights from Steady’s son.”
She nodded again, this time as if at some nagging question. “Which is why Mr. Undean came calling Friday night.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember his name,” she said. “The son’s.”
“Granville.”
“He must be fully grown now. Didn’t Steady always keep him parked somewhere—or warehoused? What is he now—twenty-three or -four?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Good Lord. He was here for the services, of course. Have you talked to him?”
“No. I merely instructed Undean to offer him fifty thousand dollars for all rights to his father’s memoirs. The offer was rejected.”
“Do the memoirs have anything to do with Mr. Undean’s death?”
“I really don’t know.”
“How did you find out they existed? Did Steady try to sell them to you? It sounds so very like him.”
“His live-in companion called just after he died. She said that unless he was buried at Arlington with standard military honors, the memoirs would be sent to some New York literary agent. It was blackmail, of course, but the price was cheap, so I paid.”
“She was French, I believe. Isabelle Gelinet.”
Keyes nodded.
“She came to see me a few years ago when she was doing a story for Agence France-Presse. Something silly about the wives of spies. My answers nearly bored her to tears.
“And the story never ran.”
“Are her death and Undean’s connected?”
“If I were to guess, I’d say probably.”
“I’m sorry.”
“How many friends would you say Steady had?” he asked.
“I’d say dozens. Perhaps even hundreds.”
“There were only four at the Arlington services. Four, including Undean, who’d known him only in Laos.”
“You didn’t go?”
“I sent Undean.”
“You should’ve gone, Ham.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well I didn’t. Of the four who were at Arlington, two have been killed. Murdered.”
She shivered slightly. “Leaving only the son and who else?”
“Tinker Burns. An ex-mercenary turned small-time arms dealer. He’s an old friend of Steady’s. Perhaps his oldest.”
Muriel Keyes put her drink down and stared at her husband. “Tell me about your resignation and the offer to make you ambassador.”
“That royal summons I received yesterday morning?”
She nodded.
“It was from a White House hatchet man. A new boy. They need a few slots to pay off some political debts—to the far right, I’d guess, but I could very well be wrong. Anyway, it seems, my job will do nicely. So I resigned before the chop landed, but then, at the last moment, maybe on impulse—”
“You never did anything in your life on impulse.”
Keyes smiled. “At the last moment, I told the White House hatchet wallah all about the memoirs of Steadfast Haynes. He turned quite green. That done, he ordered me to buy the memoirs and hang the cost.”
“He would seem to be a real player.”
“He wants to be, but lacks finesse. He even offered me ten percent of the memoirs’ price.”
Muriel Keyes giggled again.
“Somehow sensing his faux pas, he then offered me my old job back. I made him a counterproposal.”
“Ambassador,” she said.
Keyes nodded, smiling and looking quite pleased.
“How much does young Haynes want for Steady’s memoirs?” she said.
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Then it’s really quite simple, isn’t it? You buy the memoirs. Young Haynes gets three quarters of a million. The White House sleeps nights. And you become ambassador.”
“It would be that simple,” Keyes said, “were it not for the mystery man.”
She giggled for the third time. “A mystery man. Dear God.”
“He’s the one responsible for the bidding escalation.”
“When do you make your new offer to—Granville, isn’t it?”
“Tonight. Whenever he gets back to his hotel room.”