“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.’”
THIRTY-ONE
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.”
He paused for another sip. “Matthew idolized his father. He described Mike as a man’s man with a strict code of honor and a strong drive to achieve. Clearly, he was a brilliant entrepreneur. Before he died, Malone Commercial Development had branches in ten states, and the family fortune was estimated at over a half-billion dollars.”
Garrett whistled. “I didn’t know it was that much.”
“Oh yes. The Malones lived in an upscale Pittsburgh suburb, Fox Chapel. Matthew didn’t want for material things or opportunities, including foreign travel and a great private school. And thanks to his mother, there were plenty of books in the house to pique the curiosity of a little boy with a restless, inquisitive mind. He told me that current events and politics were frequent topics around the dinner table.”
Kessler looked off into space. “Well, Matthew could have turned out to be just another spoiled rich kid. But instead he grew into a well-educated, athletic young man with unusual poise and self-confidence. And he had a charming, dry sense of humor, too.”
“I envy his girlfriends,” she said, interrupting his reverie. “He must have been the most popular guy in school.”
Kessler shook his head. “You would think so. But actually, he was a loner. Not antisocial, just not really very social, if you get what I mean. Serious, solitary, self-sufficient. He told me once that he had been so captivated by the world of ideas that he felt little kinship with his more conventional peers.” He smiled. “I could relate to that. Perhaps that’s why we hit it off when we met, and why he eventually opened up to me.”