Graff was born lucky. He was an American. A sacred birthright. The land of liberty. He took a deep breath in the sultry early-morning air. Another day in the capital city of the free world. He was blessed. America was blessed.
Graff finished his run, checking his heart rate on his Fitbit. Perfect. He strolled back to his car, parked a block from the Smithsonian. It was only a short drive across the Potomac to his twenty-fourth-floor penthouse in Arlington with its floor-to-ceiling views of the monuments. Every day he was alive, he was privileged to appreciate their magnificence. They represented his values: Patriotism. Exceptionalism. Stoicism. Honor.
He gulped down some chilled Evian, quenching his thirst. He fixed himself the same breakfast he had every morning—freshly squeezed orange juice, black coffee, and muesli—to get his sugar levels back up.
Graff felt his mood begin to lift as the endorphins raised his spirits. He showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, and put on his favorite navy suit, starched white shirt, pale-blue tie, and expensive black leather oxfords. He fixed his gold cuff links. He checked himself out in a full-length mirror in the hall.
Ready.
Graff climbed the stairs to his home study on the upper level of the duplex and sat down behind his desk, panoramic views of the monuments framing him. A soft orange tinge washed over the granite and marble, bounced off of the reflecting pool.
He settled into his chair, his gaze wandering around his study. Black-and-white framed photos on his wall. A photo of him as a boy with his father, taken on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. A photo of him and the President. He had known the President for years. A close friend. A photo of him and his wife on their wedding day. Before it had all gone wrong. Somewhere along the way, whatever love they’d had for each other had eroded. It had pained him to begin with. In the end, he was just glad to be rid of her. The constant bickering, her liberal friends who held the country in contempt, her drinking, her pills, and her barely disguised hatred for him. It had taken time—years and years. He had begun to loathe her presence. Eventually, she was gone. It was just as well. He took a good long look.
Beside the wedding photo was a black-and-white photograph, taken by a photographer from Time, of Graff wearing a perahan tunban, the traditional shirt and pants outfit, and standing beside an Afghan elder smoking opium from a pipe. He didn’t recognize himself. He had trekked alone for three days before the day it had been taken, ingratiating himself with the villagers he knew would be loyal to the Taliban. But he only needed the tiniest pieces of information. Part of a jigsaw puzzle. He would show them a photo. Had they seen this man? This was a very bad man, he would say. The bad man hated children. And Graff wanted to make sure this man was brought to justice. That, along with gold, usually did the trick.
He reflected on the three photos. The things that mattered most to him, all encapsulated in those three photos. Family. Blood ties. Country.
The sound of his cell phone ringing snapped him out of his reverie. He had been expecting a call.
Graff picked up. “Hope it’s good news.”
“Nico sends his love.”
The coded phrase he had been waiting for. He had been waiting for days. Finally, Caroline McNeal was dead.
Eight
It was late morning when McNeal, traumatized and exhausted, was driven to Dulles and caught a flight back up to New York. He took a cab to the Village and looked over his small apartment. The place didn’t look as if the Secret Service, or anyone for that matter, had crawled all over it.
He locked up, got in his car, and drove away from Manhattan, all the way back home to Westport, Connecticut. He desperately wanted to be alone. He needed time. But maybe more than anything, he wanted space. Open space. A place to hide. A place to contemplate. A place to grieve. He felt as if part of him had died. A tiny piece of his heart. He hadn’t stopped loving her. Ever. And he never would.
But now, his mood spiraling, he needed a sanctuary.
McNeal pulled up the gravel driveway, taking in the colonial house overlooking Compo Beach, with its For Sale sign outside. The rain fell hard, trickling down the windows. The house had sat empty for over a week.
He locked the door behind him, stepped over the pile of mail on the welcome mat, and slumped on the sofa in the living room of his beautiful house. A house his wife had bought the moment she had set eyes on it. He could never abide the commute from Westport. But they had both loved the home. The town. He loved it for the sense of calm, away from the intensity of Manhattan and his work in Internal Affairs.
The place where his wife had returned on Friday evenings after her working week in Washington. The place where he had sat and waited for her to come back from her trips abroad. And eventually, the home to which she had never returned.