No Way Back(Jack McNeal #1)(41)

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.

“I’m good, thanks. Still digging through the background information on Graff. Fascinating stuff.”

“Not half as interesting as the girl who came on to you last night.”

“The lovely Francesca Luca?”

O’Brien cleared his throat. “One interesting chick, let me tell you.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Spit it out.”

“Numerous arrests for prostitution. Said it was to put herself through college. But she’s been bailed out numerous times. Here’s the kicker: it’s always the same person.”

“Who bails her out?”

“Same woman. Karen Simon. I did a bit of digging. Simon is her maiden name. So, this Karen Simon is bailing out this Francesca chick. But she’s not using her married name. She hasn’t been called Karen Simon for at least fifteen years. She’s married but separated. Husband lives in Switzerland, I think.”

“What’s her name now?”

“Karen Feinstein. I checked out Francesca’s phone records. She made two calls recently to a cell phone owned by Feinstein. I’ll send over the dossier later.”

“Who does Feinstein work for?”

“She’s the founder of Fein Solutions.”

McNeal’s interest was piqued. “Never heard of them.”

“Not many people have. Geo-strategy firm. Intelligence operatives.”

“You kidding me?”

“It gets better, kid. Karen Feinstein used to work for—”

“The CIA?”

“Bingo again! Know what else? You’re going to really like this.”

“We’ve got a connection with Graff?”

“Got it in one guess. Both worked within the Parwan Detention Facility at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. High-level detainees were their specialty, including breaking them. Both their names were mentioned in a partially redacted report from the Red Cross.”

McNeal got up from his seat and stared out over downtown DC. “I can see how that would work. Graff uses Feinstein to do work for his clients. His hands are clean. Or a lot cleaner than if he had taken direct involvement.”

“Keeps the heat off his company and his clients. And if the shit hits the fan, Feinstein or her operatives will take the rap.”

“And Feinstein is using people like Francesca Luca as your classic honey trap?”

“Pretty much.”