Liberty's Last Stand (11 page)

“Thanks. You too.” Grafton moved a few degrees around the tree and stood watching the rain.

I parked in front of the lock shop and went in to see Willie Varner, my partner. He knew more about locks than I ever hoped to know, and much of that knowledge was acquired in prison. They say prison will broaden a man; I couldn't testify to that, but the experience seemed to have stretched Willie's mind somewhat, even if it didn't do anything for his morals or ethics.

“Damn, Carmellini,” he said, “I thought you was gone out west somewhere on the lone prairie learnin' to rope and ride and sing to the dogies, whatever they are.”

“I've only been gone three days, Willie.”

“Come back to reenlist in the CIA, have you?”

“Nope. Come back to break Jake Grafton out of prison.”

“I saw the
Post
. And heard about him on TV. He's famous now. Arrested and all for tryin' to kick Barry Soetoro outta the White House and get him started on his way to Hell. You ain't serious about bustin' him out, are you?”

“I am.”

He made a rude noise. “You are a real damn fool, Tommy. I've known some real losers in my day, people so damn stupid they needed help to pee, but you take the prize. Where they got 'im?”

“Camp Dawson.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It's a National Guard camp over in West Virginia.”

“Ahh, the beatin' heart of civilization. I should of heard of it, cultured as I am. And after you get him outta there, where pray tell are you two gonna go? Yemen? You can share a goat herder's hut with some holy warriors. I heard the summers are kinda warm there. Maybe you can summer up at the North Pole in an igloo.”

That was Willie, always asking the tough questions. “I don't know. Haven't thought that far ahead.”

“Better get that figured out before you cross the line, Tommy. Send me your address in a year or two when you're settled so I can send you birthday cards.”

“How do you like living in a dictatorship? Transition going okay?”

“So far so good. There's a kid down the street teachin' me the Sieg Heil salute. Want a beer?”

“Why not?”

We settled down with longnecks in the back room of the shop. That was where I broke the news that I needed some help.

“Oh, no!” Willie roared. “Forget that! Wash out your filthy mouth, Carmellini. I ain't ever goin' back to the joint, and how I know that is because I ain't ever goin' to do anythin' that would get me sent back there. Livin' in the joint with a bunch of losers who would as soon kill you as look at you, eatin' mac and cheese, no liquor or beer or women,
jackin' off under the sheets. . .nope. Ain't gonna do it again, Tommy, so you just forget whatever shit is in your twisted head.”

“I know you're a patriot.”

“The hell I am! Who told you that? You go wave the fuckin' flag somewheres else.”

“One of the sons of liberty.”

He said a crude word that is illegal to say on the television or radio. Maybe even on the telephone. I knew I could talk him around, so we each had another beer and talked about Barry Soetoro and martial law and all that.

That evening I stopped in to see if Mrs. Grafton was home. I buzzed the door in the front lobby, told her who I was, and she let me in. Rode the elevator up.

Callie Grafton looked tired and out of sorts. She offered me something to drink and I chose bourbon. She poured me a healthy drink over ice.

She knew all about what the government spokesmen were saying to the press about her husband. “None of it is true. He has devoted his life to serving America. I can't believe that anyone could say these things about him with a straight face. Tonight on television they named two other men they said were coconspirators. I've never even heard their names before.”

“They're sacrificial goats,” I said, and watched her face.

She reached for my drink and took a sip. “I think so too.”

“I'm thinking of busting him out of Camp Dawson, or wherever they move him. It can be done, but afterward he'll be a fugitive.”

“So will you. And anyone who helps you.”

“Can you go visit him? Like tomorrow?”

“I don't know. I can call him and ask.”

“Please do so. Right now. Don't tell him that I'm here.”

She went into the master bedroom, I suppose, and I sat at the little kitchen dining nook working on my drink and looking at the lights of
Washington. Lots of lights, all the way to the horizon. Thought about being a fugitive in Barry Soetoro's America.

I also thought about the possibility that the Grafton condo was bugged. It was a very slim chance, I thought. There hadn't been enough time, and why Grafton? Sure, they were setting him up as a human sacrifice, but why would they care what Callie Grafton said? There was nothing she could do about it.

Finally Callie returned. “I can see him tomorrow afternoon. They are still allowing visitors.”

“Good,” I said. “I doubt if they'll have the visitor's rooms wired up already, but they might.” I handed her a watch. “Put this on and wear it. Pushing the stem in turns on a very high pitched sound, too high for human ears, but it will overpower any listening device and mask a conversation.”

“Where did you get this?” she asked.

“Liberated it from the CIA. I thought that someday I might need it more than they did, and darn if that day didn't come. When your conversation is over, don't forget to push the stem again to turn the squealer off.”

“How will I know it's working?”

“The second hand will cease to move when the squealer is on, and resume when it's off.”

“Okay.”

“You need to ask him if he wants out. That's the only question, and it's yes or no. He'll understand about being a fugitive if we get him out. Maybe they've been threatening him, maybe they haven't, but Jake Grafton will know the score. Yes or no. Can you do it?”

“Of course.” She acted as if that were a silly question.

“On your way home, please call me. I'll give you my cell number. If his answer is yes, he wants out, you will tell me that he looks good. If the answer is no, tell me he looks tired.”

“He said they were listening to telephone calls.”

“It's worse than that,” I admitted, and decided to share some classified information. “NSA is recording and data mining every telephone call in America. All of them. Have been for at least six months. Never
say anything on any telephone that you don't want the government to hear.”

She sniffed. “Handling that much information, they couldn't be very efficient.”

“Computers are marvelous things. Never bet on bureaucratic sloth and incompetence. Just pray for it.”

She stared straight into my eyes. “Tommy, how are you going to get him out?”

“I don't know just yet,” I said. “I'll get some help and we'll put our heads together and see what is possible.”

She started to say something, thought better of it, and examined her hands.

I hoped Jake Grafton would say yes, and I told Mrs. Grafton that.

“Why?” she said.

She was a tough broad, so I looked her straight in the eyes and explained. “Cynic that I am, I suspect if we don't spring him the Admiral is bound for a maximum security prison. Or a graveyard. Accused, convicted, and executed, he wouldn't be around to embarrass the crowd that needs him as a scapegoat.”

She kept her eyes on mine. “You may be right,” she said softly.

“Mrs. Grafton, if the White House didn't need some scapegoats, why did they accuse your husband of something ridiculous?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I'll call you tomorrow on the way home, Tommy. Thank you for coming.”

“He looks good or he is tired.”

I finished the drink, punched my cell number into her phone, said good-bye, and left. In the elevator down I thought about the fact that Callie Grafton didn't once mention herself, ask what she would do if her husband escaped custody. In her own way she was as tough as Jake Grafton. If I were Barry Soetoro, I wouldn't want to share an elevator with her.

When I was out of the parking garage and tooling through the city toward the lock shop, I got back onto the problem of how my helpers—they didn't yet know they were going to be my helpers—were going to snatch Grafton from the arms of the law. I had an idea or two
about how we might evade afterward, for a little while at least, but first things first.

I decided to call my girlfriend, Sarah Houston. She used to be a dataminer at the NSA, with the world's biggest and best computer system to play with. It helped that she was also a genius and the most gifted hacker alive on this side of the Pacific. Hacking and selling secrets had gotten her into serious trouble a few years ago and she went to the joint, but Jake Grafton had sprung her to help him. That worked out, so her name was changed and she was given a new identity. Grafton had gotten her transferred to the CIA, and she had an office two floors below mine. I didn't know what she was doing at the agency, and I hadn't asked. Not that she would have told me anyway. If there was ever a woman who thrived on secret shit, Sarah Houston was her name.

She and I had an up-and-down relationship. Just now we were down. It was an old, old story: she wanted to get married and I didn't.

She answered the phone on the third ring. “What is it, Carmellini, you jerk?” I am not a fan of caller ID, and this is why.

“Hey, gorgeous. I was thinking of dropping by in about a half hour to run something—”

“No.” She hung up.

We Carmellini men are made of stern stuff, so I went anyway. I buzzed her apartment from the lobby. No answer. Maybe she had a guy up there tonight, but I didn't think so. Men who could handle that edgy personality were rare indeed. I was one, sort of, but there is only one Tommy Carmellini.

I pushed the buzzers on three or four apartments, and was rewarded with a click. I was elevated to the fourth floor and marched purposefully to her door and rapped politely.

She must have looked through the security eye. “Get out of here, Carmellini, before I call the police.”

“I'm here to talk about Jake Grafton.”

Ten seconds. . .then she opened the door and stood there. She was wearing a robe and slippers.

“Well?”

“It would probably be better if we talked inside your place.”

She pulled the door open and headed for her living room. I came in and closed the door.

“Well?” she said again.

“You have probably been reading about Jake Grafton being accused of conspiring to do a coup d'état. I need your help with a jail break.”

She sat down and ran her hand through her hair. “Damn you, Tommy.”

“I had nothing to do with it, and you know damn well Jake Grafton didn't. You know Jake Grafton. But Soetoro and his staff are going to frame him and either lock him up forever or execute him. If he doesn't get hanged in his cell while he is awaiting trial.”

“They wouldn't do that,” she whispered.

“You think?”

She put her face in her hands. Finally she whispered, “Okay. They would.”

“Right now he's being held in a detention center at Camp Dawson in West Virginia. They'll move him soon to the federal holding center in Washington. We need to know when they plan to do that, and how many agents will transport him. I assume they will be FBI agents, but I don't know that for a fact. You could help with that.”

She studied the carpet. After a bit she said, “You know if they catch me getting out of line they'll send me right back to the women's prison at Alderson. A knock on the door, handcuffs, and I'm gone for the rest of my life.”

“If they catch me and Willie and the guys, we're going up the river too. If we're still alive.”

She went into the kitchen and I heard her knocking around. In a few minutes she was back with two drinks. I sipped mine. Gin. I don't think much of gin, but I sipped along as if I drank it every day. She sipped hers too.