A mixture of fascination and trepidation grew as McNeal read on. He wondered whether this was indeed the guy who had killed his wife. Was Graff responsible for killing his own wife, Sophie Meyer? Taking a human life certainly wasn’t a problem for this guy.
The more he learned, the more fucked up it all sounded. McNeal read about Graff’s own father, a Korean War veteran who had become CIA station chief in El Salvador during the 1980s. He got exposed by Amnesty International for his part in tipping off the El Salvador death squads to the whereabouts of a dozen American priests and nuns who were working with the poorest in the country. Some were decapitated. Years later, by then an old man, Edward Henry Graff was found guilty of being an accessory to murder by a military court. He was jailed for exactly one year, then released, never to be seen or heard from again.
That was Graff’s bloodline.
McNeal gulped the rest of his coffee and leaned back in his seat, contemplating Graff, the man. He was, in many ways, the best and worst of America. The warrior, the brave soldier, the risk taker. McNeal admired that greatly. He read on, transfixed by the near-mythical figure of this man. He studied the field reports claiming Graff suffered from “psychotic episodes.” The warrior’s descent began high up in the mountains of Afghanistan, Graff and his men, for months at a time, fighting the enemy. Being watched by the enemy. Blending into the villages. It took raw courage. But it also came at a terrible price. Graff’s own psychological breakdown. Blood was shed. Atrocities. Innocent people were killed, or they disappeared.
Internal CIA memos spoke of the same sorts of tactics Graff’s father had advocated as an advisor in El Salvador.
McNeal knew war was a dirty business. Peter had served in Iraq during a one-year tour of duty. His brother had returned haunted. Eyes dead. Crazed. His brother had turned himself around and found his home in the NYPD. Another kind of war. A war on the streets. Day by day, month in, month out.
McNeal knew how cops like himself reached breaking point. He had investigated hundreds of bad cops. One event could be the trigger to a total loss of control. A cheating wife. Then alcoholism, followed by violent mood swings. All leading to the shooting of a suspect who was mouthing off after getting caught stealing from a bodega. A street thug who spat on an officer already at the end of his rope. In a way, McNeal had more than a little sympathy for guys he investigated. Even guys like Graff. Men who did the dirty work, employed by the American government to do their bidding. Then, when they returned fucking crazy, the man, not those who sent him there, took the rap.
The dossier O’Brien had supplied was a glimpse into a world most people never saw. Which was probably just as well.
McNeal read on. Graff’s work within the CIA continued. His work in the field was over. But his knowledge as an “advisor” was invaluable. He moved around. Countries like Somalia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Turkey, and the interventions in and invasions of Libya and Syria. A bewildering array of conflicts. Graff was there, in the shadows.
Eventually, Graff returned to America. He started his own business—Graff & Associates, based in Arlington, Virginia. He picked up a lot of government contracts. He became a multimillionaire. He married well-known socialite Sophie Meyer. Clippings from Vogue and Tatler reported the “private” family wedding. The ceremony had been held at Meyer’s father’s home in Southampton, Long Island. A handful of guests, including a member of the British royal family and a billionaire hedge fund recluse.
No pictures of the wedding were available. That wasn’t to say none were taken. But it had clearly been a very, very private affair, unusual for a woman like Meyer. A woman who would turn up for the opening of a new store on Fifth Avenue. A woman who was seen at the most achingly hip clubs in West Hollywood or the West Village. A deluxe hotel opening in Las Vegas? She was there. She added a sprinkling of glamor. She knew people. And they turned up too.
The dossier contained a handful of photos of Meyer at parties, occasionally draped on the arm of a man. One black-and-white long-range photo taken by a Washington, DC, freelance photographer appeared to show Henry Graff in the back of a limousine, approaching his offices in Arlington.
McNeal built a fascinating picture of Henry Graff, a man whose wife had died in mysterious circumstances. He stared at the photo of Graff in the back of the vehicle. Eyes hooded. Clean-shaven. Graff was a man to be feared. For sure.
McNeal was still reading the dossier on Graff when his cell phone rang.
“Jack, you okay to talk?” The voice of O’Brien.