Not a Creature Was Stirring by Jane Haddam Read Free Book Online Page A

gun?”
    Gregor sat back, stretched out his legs, and told George all about the briefcase, the money, and the deal. His powers of narration seemed to have increased since he left the FBI. He’d never claimed quite that degree of attention from his listeners before.
    By the time Gregor was finished, George was up on his feet and pacing—something, given arthritis and the general creakiness of old age, he never did. “But Gregor,” he said. “That’s crazy. That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.”
    “It’s even crazier than you think it is,” Gregor said.
    “I don’t see how it could be. It’s crazy enough to start.”
    Gregor held up his glass and let George take it from him. He wasn’t in need of another drink, but watching George pace that way, in such obvious pain, made him feel terrible.
    “Listen,” he said. “If Robert Hannaford had been a self-made man, I might have looked at this thing and decided it was crazy but not impossible. But Robert Hannaford is not a self-made man. Do you see what I mean?”
    “No,” George said.
    “Self-made men sometimes think anything can be solved by money. Their whole lives have been motivated by money. A man I knew, a congressman, told me once it was true that anyone can get rich in America—as long as that was all he wanted to do. That’s the kind of commitment it takes, to be Carl Icahn, say. But the hereditary rich are different. They have money.”
    “So?”
    “So they learn early that there are a hundred better ways of getting what they want than shelling out cash. They have family connections—in Washington, in New York, in government and industry and the security services. If Hannaford wants me out at Engine House for Christmas Eve dinner, why not just call somebody who knows somebody at the Bureau? The Bureau knows where to find me. What’s more, anybody with any sense has to realize I owe those people.”
    George nodded. “All right. So why?”
    “My considered judgment?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Gossip,” Gregor said definitely. “Whatever’s going on with Robert Hannaford has to be sensitive enough so that he doesn’t want any gossip. Which means it’s probably actionable. You know what I’d do, if this had happened when I was still working?”
    “Send Mr. J. Edgar Hoover after them?”
    “J. Edgar,” Gregor said, “is blessedly dead. Blessedly for the rest of us, I mean. No, what I’d have done is go straight to the senator I thought I could trust most. And I do mean straight.”
    George had settled himself in his chair again. The part of him moving now was his head. It was going back and forth like a door swinging on its hinge in a stiff wind. “Krekor, you’re talking as if this is about spies.”
    “Spies is one of the things that might explain it. I can think of two others.”
    “What?”
    “That one of his children is involved in a plot to kill the president. Or that one of his children is involved in major fraud.”
    This time it was George who took a long pull on his drink. He looked like he thought he needed it. “Krekor, in your voice I can hear it. You don’t believe any of those things. I don’t believe any of those things, either. They sound like science fiction. Miss Hannaford’s unicorns are for me more real.”
    “Well,” Gregor said, “that sort of thing is real enough for me. I’ve spent most of my life living with it in one way or another. What bothers me is that I don’t think any of it is real in this case.”
    “Why not?”
    Gregor waved a hand in the air. “For serious espionage, you need access. From what I’ve been able to figure out so far, neither Hannaford himself nor any of his children have it. As for the other things—Tibor thinks this man is, I wouldn’t say an agent of the devil, but close. He didn’t like Hannaford at all.”
    “Then there’s probably nothing to like,” George said. “Tibor isn’t a practical man, but I would listen to him about people.”
    “So would