Chapter Fourteen

Graves paced in his study, or what passed for a study in this ridiculous little canoe. It had none of his books, except the few his stewards had brought. None of the pictures of his children, none of his things. All the details that made Scimitar home and this no more than a fancy hotel room. Still she was fast enough. Maybe he should head out again?

“Bishop and Rook to the tops” he said into the radio. A moment later Charlotte came up, coffee in hand, and sat in the chair facing his desk. Graves continued to pace.

“He tried to kill me, Charlotte,” he said finally.

“Again,” she replied, unmoved.

“I need to respond.”

“You do.”

“You all want me to kill him,” Graves muttered.

“No,” Charlotte snapped. “We want you to let me kill him, or better yet, let Tony kill him. Tony can kill him from here, without even getting out of his pajamas.”

“No,” Graves said and went back to pacing.

“No to Tony killing him? Or no to killing him at all?”

Graves dropped into his chair.

“I can’t,” he said, his face in his hands. “I can’t.”

“So what is your reply then?”

“I want to send Louie Tang a message,” Graves said. “Something big. Something loud and clear. I am tired of that son of a bitch. Him, we can kill.”

Bishop poked his head through the door.

“Sorry, Boss,” he said. “I was making our Tony turn off his screens.”

“I won’t keep you long, David. I had our Joe on the line, and he has some interesting news.”

“Oh, what now…”

“Alessandro Benitez has managed to get himself involved with an American agent.” Rook and Bishop looked at each other. Graves tried to remember Joe’s exact words “He called while Nick was here so I couldn’t react. But apparently our little money genius is dating an American counterterrorist expert. I don’t have time for this,” Graves said. “Someone call him and set him straight. Alex has always been a good lad. He may just need reminding.”

He stood up and turned, but it was too abrupt of a movement and he collapsed sideways as a spike of agony shot through his hip.

Next thing he knew he was sitting on the floor, Charlotte at his back, her lean, strong arm holding him still.

“Easy there, Sonny, easy,” she said. He groaned and leaned his weight on her, breathing through his nose. The pet name calmed him as much as the wiry strength of her.

“Get me…up…” he gasped.

They levered him upward and he leaned on the desk, feeling the cold sweat on his neck.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

“When are you getting that bit out?” Bishop asked. “I thought Simpson and Gomez were coming?”

“New Year,” Graves said, taking deep breaths. “Just after the new year.”

He managed to straighten and felt the AI in his left prosthetic trying to compensate for his shaking leg. More deep breaths, and he was able to walk out to the stateroom to his chair. And his pipe.

“Tell the crew to take us out. I want to go home,” he said. “We’ll make for Timor first.”

“That will be a hell of an answer,” she said. She kissed his sweaty forehead and left.

*

Nelson Graves considered himself a simple man. The things that made him happy tended to be physical, sensory, sensual. Those he indulged in whenever the opportunity presented. Life was too short to do otherwise. But intellectual challenges were few and far between. And his favorite was shooting. Impossible shots, the kind of shooting that had made him famous in the military, shots like this one. But a difficult shot was one thing. This?

“The rain is a bit much…” he muttered.

“It’s the rainy season, Boss.” Bishop sighed through the radio.

“You must admit it’s a bit much, though isn’t it?” Graves asked. “It reminds me of the scene from the movie. The one with the elves?”

“The what now?” Bishop sounded tired. Which he likely was. And annoyed. Which Graves knew he was.

“Damn. Nick would know…where there is the battle, and they are waiting for it to start, and then rain starts…with the…what are they? The little elf things.”

“Are you planning on talking the whole time?” Bishop snapped.

“Don’t I usually?”

Bishop sighed. That was true enough. Graves couldn’t maintain radio silence to save his life. And Bishop also knew, though he politely didn’t mention it, that his boss was nervous. Not about the shot, though that would be natural enough—a damn difficult shot. No, Graves was nervous because it was Mac; tangling directly with Mac was always risky. The wily old operator was perfectly capable of setting all this up as a trap. Graves didn’t think so, in this case—but it was possible. And that didn’t even account for his shared history with Graves and all the baggage there.

“An entire cargo-hold worth,” Graves muttered.

He adjusted his scope over his eye again. Bishop had the view Graves didn’t. The spotter’s view. In this instance he had the only view. Graves was shooting blind. He was perched high on a cell phone tower above Bishop’s head. Graves’s only target would be a reflection and a shadow.

Graves heard Bishop humming as he watched the room. Mac and his contact were drinking a couple of beers and talking at the rickety table. Graves saw the movement but waited—they weren’t where he needed them to be.

“Okay, get ready,” Bishop said. “You are—oh. Oh no. Oh, come on.”

“What is it?” Graves asked, shifting his view slightly. “I have no reflection visible.”

“No, it’s not that. I hope you don’t mind staying up there a bit longer.”

“What?”

“You have a firm grip?”

“What?”

“They’re fucking.”

He wished with all his heart that Bishop had lied to him. Fifteen years on and still. Still. Bloody hell.

“Send me the feed,” he said. Bishop groaned.

“Boss, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Bishop tried. He tried.

Graves didn’t answer; he wasn’t in the habit of repeating himself.

“Yes sir,” Bishop sighed. He fiddled with the camera’s lens and sent the feed.

The view of the room wasn’t clear, but enough to show the two men on the bed. Graves closed his eyes, memories swamping him.

“You should get married!” Barry laughed, pushing at Graves’s shoulder. The skinny monk nearly toppled him into their bonfire.

“We’d need a priest,” he answered back. Mac was laughing so hard he couldn’t even sit up straight, lying back on their blanket. They were on leave, roaring drunk.

“I can do that, you know,” Barry said, raising his voice to be heard over the singing. “I really can! I’m ordained. I’m Father Barry!”

“Just ’cause you a priest, don’t make this legit,” Mac snorted. “A dude can’t marry another dude. That ain’t real.”

“It is if we want it to be, Tommy,” Graves declared. “This is Bali! Anything can happen here!”

“Oh, yeah, sure, sure then,” Mac laughed. “Let’s get married… I can’t wait to tell General Cunningham I stole his daughter’s husband. He’ll be tickled. Buy us a goddamn toaster.”

“Do you take—what’s his name again?”

“I’m Mac!”

“His name is Thomas Tommy Macauley Mac.”

“Stop—its Mac”

“Do you take Mac as your husband? For all the good and bad, no matter what, until death divides you?”

“I do,” Graves said. Drunk or not, he meant it. He meant it.

“Do you take this Sonny guy as your husband? For all the good and bad, no matter what until death divides you?”

“Yeah, sure I do,” Mac said. Barry was holding his hands up to the stars, the crackling fire illuminating his skinny arms.

“Then by the power invested in me by the Lord Gawd, I pronounce you, Tommy and Sonny, married, with this ocean and these stars as witness. Now kiss!”

They kissed; it was messy, and they couldn’t stop laughing. It was the happiest day of Graves’s life.

*

“Boss, hey Boss,” Bishop said, snapping Graves out of his reverie. His voice was rough. Bishop had loved Mac, too, in his own way, and when Mac’s little brother was killed, Bishop had wept like a child. He had told Graves afterward that he loathed himself for the way they’d left the kid’s mangled body as they’d rushed a dying Graves onto the bird.

“I think they—”

Graves saw the shadow, looked down at the feed again I know that smile, the way he hops into his trousers, everything. He did the math instantly, with the perfect clarity that only came to him when he was shooting.

“Get ready…” David said, but Graves had already fired.

“Shots fired. Confirm kill?”

“Confirm. Target down,” Bishop said faintly.

Graves watched on the feed as Mac scrabbled out from under his lover’s body, rolled to the door, moving fast and smooth despite his bulk. In his anger, Graves sent a warning shot after him, able to see into the alley now without the need of the video.

“Endex. Let’s get out of this weather,” he snarled.

*

He was only sober long enough for the helicopter ride to Scimitar. He gave the order to head north again and got on the phone.

“Nelson fucking Graves,” came the oh-so-familiar voice.

“Good morning, Thomas,” Graves said.

“Why did you do it?” Mac asked.

“Keep my hand in, you know, can’t have these cubs thinking the old skills have gone soft. Glad to see I can still make that kind of shot. Damned tricky, you know. The rain was dreadful up there.”

“You knew who he was?” Mac’s voice was rough, slurred. Was he drunk? Probably.

“I knew someone in Anatoly Morozov’s organization was a mole,” Graves said. Now for the real killing blow. “But who? No. Not until last week. Not until you called him.”

There was silence, and Graves knew he had hurt him. Good. He hoped he did.

“Sonny,” Mac whispered. “Why did you do it? He was a good guy. He was just someone who made me happy.”

“He was a CIA agent working deep in the organization of one of my allies,” Graves snarled. “Do you really think I killed him because of you?”

“You made it personal because of me,” Mac shouted, his voice cracking. Graves laughed.

“And to see if I could still make the shot,” he said. “Don’t forget that!”

He cut the call and leaned back. He glanced at his pipe but then turned away. No, not yet. One more call. Then he was going to get so stoned he wouldn’t wake up until Singapore.

“Anatoly.”

“Lord Graves,” Anatoly Morozov sounded wary.

“I’ve fixed your little problem,” Graves said. “And answered what happened last month.”

“This is good news,” Anatoly Morozov said. “How can I repay you? This will cost me more than a night with my wife I think.”

“It will,” Graves said. “I need your contact in Louie Tang’s office.”

*

“But do they know what Thanksgiving is?” Lena asked. Nick shrugged. He was back on the old patio, watching Morris grill their chicken. Robbie was shaking his head.

“You’re so lucky,” he muttered. “I’m on duty that whole week. It isn’t fair.”

“It’s fair,” Lena said. “It’s so the junior enlisted can be off. You want time off for the holidays, then give up those stripes.”

“Hell no,” Robbie laughed.

“But what will they even serve at this dinner?” Lena continued. Nick had no idea. He poured the last of the wine into Lena’s glass. Nick wasn’t sure if Jeanne understood the concept, but since she and Roger Yeung insisted, he was willing to go along.

“Rich people nonsense,” Morris laughed. “Hummingbird wings.”

“Well, Roger is planning the food, so it might be okay,” Nick said. He had been pleased to see Roger again. The CFO-turning-food-blogger had returned to Singapore on a kind of culinary sabbatical. To build my brand, Nicholas, to build my brand.

“I mean, Roger lived in the states for two years,” Nick continued. “He has presumably been to an actual Thanksgiving of some kind?”

“Well, I’m looking forward to it,” Morris said. “Talk about name dropping. Oh, I say, Nicholas, do you remember that time we had Thanksgiving with San Soe Jeanne Kyaw?”

“You mean the Asian Peace Prize winner? The world famous art patron and designer?” Nick replied, playing along. “I do! Such a good time we had! You were there, weren’t you, Ms. Jarrett?”

“I was,” Lena said. “The hummingbird was exquisite!”

They fell over each other laughing, imagining Peterson’s face. Robbie grumbled some more until Lena planted herself in his lap.

“Lena! You home?” Came a voice from the street below. Nick glanced over the side and nearly spit up his beer. It was flip-flop guy.

“Hey, Big Mac!” Lena said over his shoulder. “Come on up!”

Nick gaped at her. But then flip-flop guy was there and greeting everyone and helping himself to beer. He froze when he saw Nick, his brown eyes going wide.

“Nick, Robbie, this is Thomas Macauley,” Lena said. “We’ve been on detail. Mac this is my boyfriend, Robbie. And I think you know Nick Erickson—he used to be the Chaplain’s assistant.”

“Hey, kid,” Mac said. His voice was raspy. “Dunno if you remember me…” He was rubbing the back of his neck and gave Nick a shaky smile.

“I remember you, snitch,” Nick said but held out his hand to take the sting away. He wasn’t angry. His life was good now. Better than it had been. He had forgiven the contractor long since. Mac shook his hand with obvious relief on his face.

“I told you he wasn’t mad,” Lena said, kissing Mac’s cheek.

“I should be,” Nick said. He meant to be teasing but Mac’s face fell.

“All right look,” Mac said. He shifted awkwardly. “I told you then, and I’ll tell you again. I took the pictures, didn’t think nothin’ of it, just going over the security the night before, tryin’ to see who was on what door. Peterson’s the one who lost his mind. I didn’t know you ’n him had beef like that.”

“I’m fine,” Nick said. “I work for Jeanne Kyaw now. Peterson can suck my cock.”

“Jesus, th’mouth on you…” Mac muttered. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Ms. Kyaw is good people.”

“She is,” Nick said. He couldn’t help but smile. Jeanne had that effect.

“So Daddy Warbucks did right by you then?” Mac asked.

“You mean Nelson Graves?” Nick asked. Mac started coughing, his face turning red. He had tried the chicken. Morris and Robbie laughed while Lena rescued Mac’s beer.

Nick leaned forward to rub Mac on the back. Mac’s face drew tight for a moment, and Nick noticed the rings under his eyes. This close, the big bear was pale under his beard and looked like he hadn’t slept in ages.

“Thanks,” Mac said. “Yeah I mean—goddamn that’s hot!—he’s kinda known for throwing his weight around.” His face tensed again but then cleared as he took a drink of his beer.

“He did,” Nick said. “He called Young, and Young called Peterson to say I was working for Jeanne.”

“Well, that’s classy,” Mac said as he glared at the chicken on his plate. “The hell is wrong with you people? This is hot as hell!”

Nick didn’t want to talk about Graves. His feelings for him were such a confused mix of lust and anger and hurt and frustration it was hard to think straight. But he was curious about one thing.

“Why were you taking pictures of us anyway?”

“Not y’all,” Mac said, waving his chopsticks. “The damn door. I do security audits. That’s my job. There’s supposed to be two Marines on every door.”

“Yeah he was trying to get me fired,” Morris said, kicking at Mac’s leg.

“Security audits?” Nick said, “Shit, I thought you was CIA?”

“Hell, no,” Mac said. “I get called in to look at security protocols.” He saw Nick’s face and held up his hands. “I mean, not like you was in danger or nothin’. Seein’ who you were with an’ all.”

Nick controlled his face. Not only was this “security protocol” bit bullshit, but talking about Graves was twisting him in knots. I would never let anything happen to you. That’s what he said to me. And he meant it. He wanted to take care of me and then he…changed his mind?

Nick forced himself to focus on the conversation in front of him.

“That’s the job I want,” Robbie was saying. “I wish I could work for someone like Daddy Warbucks. But I’d never see North Carolina again.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “I guess he travels a lot.”

“I bet,” Mac said. “Way too much of a hassle for me. But okay for young guys like you.”

“Honestly, I don’t have anything to do with him,” Nick said. “He’s up there,” Nick waved a hand over his head. “And I’m down here. We don’t cross paths.” He managed to keep most of the bitterness out of his voice. Most of it.

“So you only work for Jeanne Kyaw then,” Mac said. “I hear she does these big ol’ parties.”

“We were just talking about some Thanksgiving thing she is planning,” Lena said. “Hummingbird wings!”

“Quail eyeballs,” Nick laughed. Mac shuddered.

“You should invite Daddy Warbucks,” Morris said. Nick shook his head.

“No fucking way,” Nick snapped. “He ain’t even in town. Gone off somewhere doing stupid important-guy shit.”

Mac flinched, nearly dropping his beer.

“I bet,” he said. “I just fucking bet.” Lena frowned as Mac tilted his beer up and drank the whole thing in steady pulls.

“Easy there, Big Mac,” she said. “You might want to pace yourself.” She was gearing up for a grade A lecture; Nick jumped in to head her off.

“So, who is coming to eat hummingbird wings with me then?”

*

“I know what I saw,” Graves snapped. “I know a flashback when I see one. My God, I’ve had enough of them myself.”

Jeanne sighed. She took another long sip of tea, legs curled under her. Graves was pacing back and forth across the deck. It was midmorning, and they had rolled out the awnings to block the sun. But Graves was upset, agitated for Nicholas in a way she hadn’t seen before.

He wasn’t telling her much about what happened, respecting Nick’s privacy. Jeanne appreciated that. It was a good quality. She was sensible enough to understand her friend would fail even the most basic test of decency. He was not a good man. Not by any stretch. But Nelson Graves was a gentleman, and he had manners. Along with his generosity and his loyalty, his manners saved him from being irredeemable.

“Graves,” she sighed. “If he wants to tell you, he will. Otherwise, it is useless to speculate. Leave the poor boy alone.”

“I won’t pry,” Graves said. “I had him investigated, of course. But I didn’t read the report.”

Jeanne sat up at this. It was something she should have assumed. Of course. The horsemen would never have let Nicholas Erickson anywhere near Le Comte de Diarmuid et Cuylon without checking on him.

“I asked Harrison, in London,” Graves continued. “I asked him if Nick was any risk to me or mine. He said no. And so I deleted the report. Was that wrong? Should I have read it? Damn, this boy is driving me mad.”

He threw himself down, drumming his fingers on his prosthetic knee. He pulled out the ubiquitous case and lit a joint. The smell of marijuana, all citrus and damp leaves, wafted across the deck. He took a long drag and then passed it to Jeanne.

“I can’t stay,” Graves said. “I must go to Luzon. See my doctors again.”

“How bad is it?” Jeanne asked. She had been meaning to ask him. He hated to talk about his health. But it was obvious by how much opium he was smoking and his temper that something was wrong.

“Nothing new, darling,” he said bitterly. “Just more surgery.”

“Take Nicholas with you?”

“I cannot,” he said. “You know I cannot.”

“He would be good for you!”

“Too good. It isn’t possible.”

“Don’t be so—”

“Look at me, Jeanne!” Graves surged to his feet, storming to the rail and gripping it in both fists. She waited until he had some sort of control.

“Look at me,” he said. His voice was harsh, angry. “I’m forty-six! I’m torn to bits! Half the time I struggle to even speak properly. My life is one crisis after another.”

He turned back to her, and she sat up, alarmed at what she saw on his face.

“And I have a very great deal of killing to do before I can go home,” he said quietly. “And then—”

“And then?” Jeanne snapped. She stood up, balling her fists. “And then? And then what? That is where I worry.”

“What is there to worry about?” Graves asked.

“You!” Jeanne cried. “Nali and the children, for four months a year. Then you are alone, Graves.”

“I’m never alone, Jeanne,”

“Dramatic nonsense!” Jeanne snapped. “You are alone. And it isn’t good, and it isn’t right and—”

“Jeanne, stop,” he said, his voice dropping. “I am not dragging some innocent little American boy into the jungles of Burma to rub my back and listen to me play piano. Who would do that to someone?”

“You won’t even give him a chance to decide that for himself? You won’t even ask?”

“I already know the answer!”

“No, you don’t!”

“I do! He’s already said it! It’s no, Jeanne,” Graves shouted. “Just like it was no from Mona! No from Tom, no from Nali who is the mother of my children.” He turned away, breathing hard through his nose. “A head injury doesn’t make me stupid,” he muttered.

“Are you sure about that?” Jeanne snapped, spinning on her heel and heading for the stairs.