Stone Cold (22 page)

CHAPTER 60

W
HEN
A
NNABELLE RETURNED
to the hotel, Paddy was waiting for her in her room.

She sniffed the air. “You haven’t been smoking.”

“I tossed them in the trash can.”

“Why?”

“I need to be in fighting shape when we go up against Bagger.”

He looked so determined and yet so frail, like a stubborn little boy hell-bent on standing up to a bully, that for an instant Annabelle’s heart went out to him. She felt her hand reach out and touch him on the shoulder. And then the moment passed and she withdrew her fingers.

Yes, he was dying. Yes, he hadn’t technically let her mother die. But he was not suddenly the greatest father on earth. And he would be dead in six months. She was not going to let herself go down that road. She had grieved long and painfully for her mother’s passing. She would not do the same for him.

“Any luck with getting us some help?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Secret Service agent, Alex Ford. Oliver asked him to step in.”

“This bloke Oliver has some damn fine connections. Who the hell is he? I mean, living at a graveyard and all.”

“I’m not really sure who he is,” Annabelle said truthfully.

“But you said you could trust him.”

“I do trust him.”

Paddy looked hopeful. “Secret Service, that’s good stuff. Maybe they can pull in the FBI.”

She slipped off her sandals and sat down in a chair across from him. “I never thought I’d hear you sound so enthusiastic about having feds around.”

“Circumstances change. Right now, I’d take every bloody cop in the country marching in lockstep with us.”

“With Bagger, it might take that. So if I can get the cavalry how do we do it? I need details now, not generalities. How do we get him to confess?”

“You ran a long con on Jerry.”

“Right, so?”

“So you must have his telephone number.”

“I do. And again, so?”

“I’m going to call him and make him a deal he can’t refuse. I’m going to sell you down the river, Annabelle. He’ll offer cash, a ton of it. But I’ll tell him that’s not what I want.”

“So what
is
your motivation?”

“You bad-mouthed me to the con world after your mum died. Haven’t had a decent gig in years.”

“You’d have to sell that line one hundred percent.”

He stared across at her. “Not a problem, since it happens to be the truth.”

“So you ship me down the river, then what?”

“That’s where the cavalry comes in.” He added, “Obviously that’s a critical part of the plan.”

She stared at him suspiciously. “Obviously.”

“I’ve got the delivery all worked out.”

Annabelle hunched forward. “Tell me every detail of it so I can tell you it’ll never work.”

“Don’t forget, I’ve run a con or two in my day.”

When he’d finished, she sat back, impressed. It had holes, like all initial plans did, but nothing that couldn’t be sufficiently tweaked. It was actually pretty good.

“I’ve got some ideas we can add to it,” she said. “But the underlying concept is sound.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Jerry will do everything in his power to make sure once they leave the pickup spot they won’t be followed.”

“I realize that.”

“Well, since I’m the bait I have a heightened reason for making sure that we
will
be able to follow him.”

“He’ll send his boys to do the pickup. He won’t be there, just in case it’s a setup,” Paddy pointed out.

“I know that. And that’s our way in, actually.”

“How do you figure?”

The answer that had shot into Annabelle’s head made her smile. “We get to Jerry first.”

“How are we supposed to do that?”

“You’re going to do it.”

“I am?” Paddy snapped his fingers. “On the phone call?”

“On the phone call.”

“But we still need the cavalry or none of it does us a damn bit of good,” he added.

She put her sandals back on and grabbed her car keys. “Then I’ll go get it.”

CHAPTER 61

T
HEY SAT AT A TABLE
in a coffee shop near M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, barely a mile from Stone’s empty cottage. Annabelle gazed out the window while Alex kept his eyes on her. He was trained to read people’s expressions and body cues. This lady was tough to decipher, but it was clear she was under considerable stress.

“So why the sudden call?” he asked. “I didn’t figure I’d be seeing you again.”

“What can I say, I’m a sucker for tall cops.”

“Does that translate as a cry for help?”

“How much do you know?”

“Oliver asked me to dig up stuff on this Bagger guy and I did. It seems Milton and Reuben went to Atlantic City, presumably to the Pompeii Casino. Oliver said they were laying low now. They’re friends of mine too, so if they’re in trouble I’d like to know about it so I can help them while I’m helping you.”

“Is that what you do, run around helping people?”

“That’s what it says in my job description. So tell me about you and Bagger. And why did Oliver go to Maine?”

“You already seem to know everything.”

“Everything and nothing. But if you really want my help you’re going to have to trust me.” He cocked his head as she stared moodily off. “I take it trusting people is not something you do well.”

“That’s a philosophy that’s served me incredibly well over the years.”

“I don’t doubt it. But just so you know, I’ve covered Oliver’s back, more than once. And I’d trust him with my life.”

“I know, he told me. He said he’d go to war with you any day.”

Alex sat back. “There you go. So maybe I
can
help you, if you can bring yourself to trust me.”

Annabelle took a deep breath. Enlisting Alex’s aid was critical to her father’s plan to get Bagger. Yet even with that goal in mind this was so damn hard for her. She was sitting across from a cop—no, not just a cop, a federal cop! Someone who could bust her in a second if she misspoke. On the drive over it had seemed so simple. Now it appeared impossible.

Come on, Annabelle, you can do this.

With one more deep breath, she decided to do something she almost never did. She swallowed her principles and decided to tell the truth. At least part of it.

She quickly went through the main points. Bagger killing her mother. The fact that he was now in town. That she had teamed with her father to bring him down. Alex already knew that they’d been kidnapped and almost killed by Bagger’s men. She added, “I don’t have evidence of any of this. Nothing that would stand up in court. But it’s the truth.”

“I believe you. But my cop friends were a little pissed when they showed up to arrest the guys and found no one home.”

“No less pissed than I was.”

“Why is Bagger after you now?”

Annabelle went automatically to lie mode. “He knows I’m trying to nail him for my mom’s murder. He found out I went up to Maine where it happened. He doesn’t want me to find something that could put him away for good.”

Alex sipped his coffee and studied her some more. Either she was the best bullshitter he’d ever run across or what she said was legit. “And so you’re teaming with your old man? How exactly do you propose sticking it to Bagger?”

“My dad’s going to pretend to double-cross me with Bagger. Bagger gets me, I get him to confess, and the cops are there to nail him.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Because it has about a million holes in it, that’s why. And all of them end up with you dead.”

“That’s just the broad concept. It’s all in the details. It’s always in the details.”

“You really think you can make this work?”

“I sort of have a knack for it. My old man’s not that bad either.”

“Uh-huh. I’m going to need a little bit more than that if I’m going to be able to get you the backup you need.”

“I tell you what. We’ll get everything in place, you can take it to your people with a big nice bow, and then you can decide? Then if you say no, I die. That do it for you, big fella?”

“Hey, I’m just trying to be realistic here.”

“No, you’re being a classic bureaucrat. You look at how you
can’t
do something instead of how you can.”

Alex managed a tight smile. “Actually, the Secret Service is pretty can-do.”

“Good. Show me.”

“Give me a break here. I’m doing you the favor. I’m going out on a really big limb and it’s a long way down.”

Annabelle nervously balled her napkin up. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”

“The good news is the Justice Department really wants something to stick on Bagger. If I can dangle a big enough carrot in front of them, we should be able to get some FBI support. Bagger’s been involved in a lot of questionable stuff. Several murders in fact, but the evidence just wasn’t there.”

“I know of a few more, but without his tripping himself up, nothing you can use.”

“Just so you understand, I’ve only believed about half of what you’ve told me.”

She started to say something but Alex said, “But I’m not going to press it.”

Annabelle eyed him curiously. “Why not?”

“Because Oliver told me not to ask too many questions. He said you were a good person with an imperfect past.”

Annabelle studied him closely. “So who was John Carr?”

“He worked for the U.S. government doing some highly specialized work.”

“He killed people, didn’t he?”

Alex looked around but the place was empty and the girl at the counter was too busy reading about Britney Spears’ latest comeback in
People
to waste time eavesdropping on them.

“He doesn’t do it anymore. Not unless he has to. Not unless someone’s trying to kill him, or his friends.”

“I saw him kill a man,” Annabelle said. “He did it with a knife. Just a flick of his wrist and the man was dead. But the guy was trying to kill us.” She fiddled with her coffee cup. “Do you have any idea what’s really going on with him?”

“Did you hear about Carter Gray’s house blowing up the other night?”

“Yeah, I read about it.”

“Well, Oliver and Gray go way back, and not in a good way. Oliver was at his house, at Gray’s request, shortly before it blew up. And it was no accident. Oliver had nothing to do with it, but somebody else did. Somebody else who might just have Oliver on his target list.”

“So he’s got someone looking to kill him too?”

“Looks that way. And that’s why he didn’t want to hang around any of us.”

“And I was really upset that he abandoned me.”

“Hey, he called me in. I might only be the JV, but I’ve been known to get a few good punches in from time to time.”

“That stuff I said before about you being a bureaucrat.”

“I believe the exact phrase was
classic
bureaucrat.”

“Yeah, well, I take it back. I appreciate your help.”

“I need to make a few calls. And then I can help you fill in some of the details now that we have the
concept
nailed down.”

She returned his grin. “I’ve never met a fed like you before, Alex Ford.”

“That’s okay, you’re a new one in my book too.”

CHAPTER 62

A
S THE NIGHT SETTLED IN
Oliver Stone knew he was still being followed. Well, now was the time to say good-bye to the shadows. He ran for a cab and gave the driver an address in Alexandria. With deadly men in pursuit of him he was heading to a rare book store.

The taxi dropped him off in front of the shop on Union Street a block from the Potomac River. With the hunters behind him Stone hurried inside, nodding at the owner of the place, Douglas. The man had used to be called simply Doug, and had once sold pornographic comic books out of the trunk of his Cadillac. Yet he harbored a secret passion for rare books and a desire to be rich. That dream had gone unfulfilled until Stone had hooked him up with Caleb. Now
Douglas
ran a successful high-end rare book store. As part of the bargain Stone was given access to the place at all times, and had a room in the cellar area that he used to store some of his most important possessions. And it also provided something else that Stone was going to use right now.

Stone reached the cellar, unlocked a door and entered the room where an old fireplace sat, long unused. He reached inside the fireplace opening, where next to the damper switch was a small pull cord. He tugged and a door on an old priest’s hole-like chamber swung open. The room was filled with boxes stacked neatly on shelves, well above the flood line.

Stone opened a box and pulled out a journal that he stuffed in his bag. From another box he drew out a set of clothes, including a floppy hat, and changed into them. From a small metal box he took out an object that was more precious to him than all the gold in the world. It was a cell phone. A cell phone with a very special message carefully preserved on the built-in recording device.

When he left he did not reverse his path and go upstairs. He walked down a different passageway, toward the river. He unlocked one more door, passed through, knelt down, pulled on an iron ring that was seated into the floor, yanking hard, and a square of floor came up on hinges. He dropped through, traversed a dark tunnel that smelled of river, dead fish and mold, clambered up a set of rickety stairs, unlocked another door and came out behind a clump of trees. He passed along a footwalk by the river and plopped into a small boat owned by Douglas that was docked at one of the slips.

He engaged the Merc outboard and headed south, his white stern light the only sign of him in the darkness. He ran the boat up on the shore about two miles north of Mount Vernon, George Washington’s home, tying its bow line to a tree. He hoofed it to a gas station and called a cab from a pay phone.

On the ride back to town, Stone read through the journal. These records represented a significant part of his distant past. He had started keeping them almost immediately after he was recruited into the CIA’s Triple Six Division. He had no idea if the CIA still had the division operational and didn’t know if the men who’d attempted to follow him tonight were part of that element. However, he assumed that if they were ordered to kill him they would carry out the task with suitable skill.

Page after page of the journal was turned as Stone took a painful walk through his past work for the U.S. government. Then he focused on several photographs he’d pasted on one page along with his handwritten notes and some bits of the “unofficial” record he’d managed to snag.

He was staring at the photos of his three Triple Six comrades, all now dead: Judd Bingham, Bob Cole and Lou Cincetti. And then he looked at the older bespectacled man in the picture at the bottom of the page.

“Rayfield Solomon,” he said to himself. The hit had been quick and efficient but still one of the most unusual of Stone’s career. It had been in Sa˜o Paulo. The orders had been clear. Solomon was a spy, turned by the legendary Russian operative Lesya, last name unknown. There was to be no arrest and no trial; it would be too embarrassing for the American public to endure; not that lengthy explanations were ever given to the Triple Six teams.

Stone remembered the man’s expression as they burst in the door. It was not fear, he recalled. At best it was mild surprise, and then his features hardened. He politely asked who had ordered him to be terminated. Bingham laughed, but as the leader Stone stepped forward and told Solomon. There was no official requirement to do this. Stone simply felt every doomed man had a right to know.

Rayfield Solomon was a man of average height and build, more professor than secret operative in appearance. But to this day Stone remembered those wondrous eyes that burned into him as he raised his pistol. It was a gaze that bespoke a brilliant mind behind it, and a man who was unafraid of the death knocking on his door. He was no traitor, Solomon said. “You will kill me, of course, but understand that you kill an innocent man.” Stone was impressed at how calmly the man spoke while four armed men encircled him.

“You will have been told to make it look like a suicide of course,” Solomon said. This too stunned Stone because those had been his exact orders. “I am right-handed. As you can see, the hand is larger, stronger, so I’m not lying to you. Thus, place the shot in the right temple. If you wish I will also hold the gun and place my finger on the trigger so that my prints are on the weapon.” Then he turned to Stone with a gaze that froze even the veteran killer. “But I will not pull the trigger. You will have to do the killing. Innocent men do
not
commit suicide.”

After it was over, the men left as quietly as they had come. An overnight ride on an American cargo plane operated by a shell company of the CIA carried them back to Miami the next day. Bingham, Cincetti and Cole went out partying that night because the team had been given a few days off, as a reward for a job well done. Stone did not join them. He never did. He had a wife now and a young child. He stayed alone in his hotel room that night. He stayed up all night, in fact. The image of Rayfield Solomon would not leave his mind. Every time he tried to close his eyes, all he saw was the man’s gaze ripping into him, the words eating away his soul.

I am an innocent man.

Stone hadn’t wanted to admit it then, but all these years later, he could. Solomon had been telling the truth. Stone
had
killed an innocent man. Somehow he had known that this death would come back to haunt him. In fact, the Solomon case was one of the reasons Stone decided to leave Triple Six. It was a decision that ultimately destroyed his family.

They had called him a traitor, just like they had Solomon. And just like Solomon he’d been innocent. How many more Rayfield Solomons might have wrongly died by his hand?

He closed the journal and the cab dropped him off a few minutes later. He called Reuben, because if Gray couldn’t find Stone he would use any means possible to flush him out, including kidnapping his friends.

Stone said calmly, “The big man we thought was gone isn’t. Is your phone listed in your name?” Stone thought he knew the answer because he knew Reuben very well.

“Nope, I’m actually piggybacking on a friend of mine’s service,” Reuben said evasively.

“Luckily you just recently moved and don’t have an official address. Otherwise I would’ve already had you relocate.”

“I got
evicted
from the other place, Oliver. Left in the middle of the night because I wanted to avoid a certain rental dispute.”

“Now everyone needs to lay low because friends of mine are valuable to him. I’ll check in later.”

He needed information from the inside and he needed it now. There was only one man who was in a position to give it to him. Stone hadn’t seen the fellow in thirty years, but figured now was a good time to get reacquainted. Indeed, he wondered now why he hadn’t made the visit decades ago. Perhaps he’d been afraid of the answer. Now he was no longer scared.

He had focused on the Rayfield Solomon case because, in his long career, it had been the one Stone felt the most regret for. After he’d been assigned to kill the man, Stone researched his background. He hardly seemed like a traitor, though that was not Stone’s case to make. He’d heard of Solomon’s personal link to the legendary spy Lesya. And if she’d survived and was still out there, the woman might be exacting her revenge on the people who’d killed Solomon. An innocent man.