Robert Bidinotto - Hunter

“Would you mind my asking who these people are? I’m sure he would want to know.”

“Well, I’m not at liberty to reveal any names at the moment. However, I’m certain that their feelings will be conveyed back to him in due course.”

Frankfurt entered the room at that moment, catching his eye with a smile and nod. He sat opposite Grayson.

“Mr. Grayson was just telling me that his gift is largely in response to your work, Carl.”

Frankfurt beamed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Doctor, words are inadequate to encompass the reach of your deeds,” Grayson said.

MacLean glanced down at Grayson’s business card, which he’d placed on the table at his fingertips. “I see you’re headquartered in Los Angeles.”

“It is just a place to hang my hat. My financial-services consultations take me all over the country. One of my regrets is about Christmas this year. I have heard about your gala annual holiday party, and I would have loved to attend,” he said. Then grinned. “Assuming that my donation would have been sufficient to purchase a ticket.”

MacLean and Frankfurt laughed with him. He really liked this man. More than a bit stuffy, but obviously a kind soul. You found so few like him in the business world these days.

MacLean said, “That’s too bad. Our trustees will be attending, and I have no doubt they would have wanted to meet you.”

“Yes, it is regrettable,” he said. Then his face brightened. “However, perhaps I might contribute a little something to your celebration?”

MacLean exchanged glances with Frankfurt, whose face reflected his astonishment. “Oh, but Mr. Grayson, you’ve already been more than generous!”

The man leaned forward, his eyes intense and eager. “No, really. If you would please permit me-perhaps introduce me to your event planners-I would love the opportunity to participate. I have been involved in planning a number of high-profile, even theatrical, events. I am certain that I could add some creative touches to your celebration, as well. Since I will not be able to be in the room with you in person, it would be my pleasure to join you in spirit.”

MacLean looked again at Frankfurt. “What do you think, Carl?”

“I could him put him in touch with the people over at the hotel.”

“That would be splendid,” Grayson said, smiling broadly. “I have about another free hour today-assuming that your schedule permits, Dr. Frankfurt.”

“Oh, of course. I’d be delighted.”

MacLean rose from his seat. “Mr. Grayson, I’m just flabbergasted. In all my years of charity work, I’ve never had an encounter quite like this one-so unexpected, and so delightful. I can’t begin to thank you enough. I hope to see much more of you.”

Grayson shook hands with him. “Oh, you will, sir. And again, your gratitude is quite unnecessary. If you will forgive me a familiar platitude, just think of this as my way of ‘giving back.’”

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

Friday, December 19, 1:01 p.m.

She rapped on the door.

“It’s unlocked.”

She entered Garrett’s office. He stood near the coffee table and club chairs with an elderly, distinguished-looking gentleman in gray tweed. Both men smiled as she approached.

“Annie Woods, I’d like you to meet my old friend, Professor Donald Kessler of Princeton University.”

“Professor emeritus, actually; my teaching days are long past.”

She smiled and shook hands with him. He was in his seventies and blade-thin. But he still had a full head of wavy white hair and a matching goatee. She thought, amused, that he could do ads for a fried chicken chain.

Garrett gestured for them to sit. Annie poured some coffee from the waiting pot while he began.

“Don taught undergrad Politics at Princeton’s Woodrow Wilson School for Public Policy. Also, grad courses in International Studies, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not,” Kessler replied.

“But years before that, and just after he finished his doctorate, he spent about seven years with us as a case officer. Damned good one, I might add.”

“Until I met the girl of my dreams,” the old man said.

Garrett smiled at him gently. “She sure was something, Don.”

“She was.” The soft way he said it told her the rest of the story.

“Anyway, after Don left the Agency and started teaching at Princeton, we kept him on the payroll as an outside consultant. Among his little assignments over the years was to spot talent for us.”

Kessler turned to her. “In the old days, the Company recruited many officers straight from the Ivy League. I was one of those recruits, and later, one of the recruiters.”

“Which brings us to why I called you in,” Garrett said. “Annie, I was right. I’ve been blind. I had it all in my head, all along. But it didn’t come together for me until Don came by to visit. He asked what I was working on, and no sooner did I begin to tell him, than it hit me.”

She leaned forward. “What?”

“Remember our conversation a few months ago about our assumptions? About how one or more of them had to be wrong?”

She nodded.

“Well, our very first assumption was wrong. Motive. ”

“What do you mean?”

“We knew the Russians would want to stop Muller from spilling his guts about their operations. That’s motive. So when he was taken out, we followed a chain of very reasonable inferences. Because Muller was killed at a top-secret safe house, we figured somebody had to tip the sniper about the location. And that implied a source on the inside-another Agency mole. Yet, we were baffled because the crime-scene evidence didn’t suggest a Russian sniper, but an American.”

“Right,” she said. “So we deduced that our Agency mole must have enlisted an Agency sniper. And then we went on a wild goose chase looking for somebody in SAD or OS who might have done it.”

“Just as my mole-hunt proved to be a wild goose chase. Because we never double-checked our initial premise. Motive, Annie. We, the FBI, everybody-we all simply assumed that the Russians were the only people who might want James Muller dead.”

The thought startled her. “Well, who else, then?”

He reached for a small manila envelope lying on the coffee table and handed it to her.

“Annie Woods-meet Matt Malone.”

*

She opened the flap and withdrew a 5 x 7 photo. It showed a dark-haired, bearded man in rough clothing. He sat on a flat-topped boulder in a harsh, stony landscape with jagged mountains in the background. Across his lap lay what looked to be an AK-47. She couldn’t make out much of his face: The grainy shot had been taken at a distance, and he was in profile, looking at something off-camera. If she hadn’t been told his name, she would have guessed that he was an Afghan or Paki tribesman.

“Let me guess,” she said. “He’s one of ours.”

“He was one of ours. The best damned officer I ever ran.”

“The best damned officer I ever recruited,” added Kessler.

Garrett got up, rolled his shoulders, then headed for his desk drawer. He came back with two packs of Luckies and his electronic smoke filter.

“Grant, you’re incorrigible,” Kessler said.

“Screw you.” He clicked a button, got the gadget humming.

She asked, “So what can you tell me about this man?”

Kessler took a sip of black coffee, put down the cup. Spread his pale, bony hands on the thighs of his trousers, then closed his eyes, remembering.

“Matthew Everett Malone. Born 5 June 1969 in Pittsburgh. An only child. His father, Michael Henry Malone. A hugely successful building contractor whose business took off in the 1950s. That was the initial phase of Pittsburgh’s ‘Renaissance’ redevelopment. Helen Cassini, Matthew’s mother by Malone’s second marriage, was with a Pittsburgh newspaper. She met Malone while on assignment. They married and she left the paper when she became pregnant with Matthew.”