Stone Cold (23 page)

CHAPTER 63

M
AX
H
IMMERLING
closed his book, yawned and stretched. Ever since his wife, Kitty, had died of cancer two years ago, his routine rarely varied. He worked, he came home, he ate a simple meal, he read a chapter in a book and he went to bed. It was an unexciting life, but his life at work was exciting enough. He had grown bald and fat in the service of his country. A nearly forty-year veteran of the CIA—he’d started there right out of college—his job was totally unique. Blessed with the most orderly of minds, he was like a central clearinghouse for the most diverse sort of matters. How would a coup in Bolivia or Venezuela orchestrated by the U.S. impact on the West’s interests in the Middle East or China? Or if oil dropped another buck a barrel, would it behoove the Pentagon to open a forward military base in such-and-such country? In a time of supercomputers and servers filled with trillions of bytes of data and spy satellites that stole your secrets from outer space, it made Max feel good that there was still a strong human element in the work of his agency.

He was unknown outside the corridors of Langley, was considered only a low-level bureaucratic grunt within it, and would receive neither wealth nor honors. Yet to the people who mattered, Max Himmerling was an indispensable asset to the world’s most elite intelligence-gathering agency. And that was enough for him. Indeed, after his wife’s passing, it was all he had left. His importance to his agency was represented by the two armed men who guarded the exterior of his house when he was home. Himmerling would retire in two years and dreamed of traveling to some of the places he’d analyzed all these decades. He was worried, though, that his money would run out before his life did. The government provided a good package and first-rate health care, but he hadn’t saved much on his own, and to continue living in this area, which he very much wanted to do, was expensive. He supposed he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

He lifted his tired, fleshy body from his easy chair and started up the stairs to his bedroom. He never made it.

The figure came from nowhere. The shock of the man standing in his living room nearly gave Max a heart attack. That was nothing compared to the shock he received when the intruder spoke.

“It’s been a long time, Max.”

Max put a hand against the wall to steady himself. He said in a shaky voice, “Who are you? How’d you get past the guards?”

Stone stepped into the small wash of light from a table lamp. “You remember the Triple Sixes, don’t you, Max? How about John Carr? That name ring any bells for you? If it does, even after all these years, you can pretty much figure out how I got past the two idiots lying unconscious outside that you call
guards.
”

Max stared up fearfully into the face of the tall, lean man standing across the room from him. “John Carr? It can’t be. You’re dead.”

Stone stepped closer to him. “You know everything that goes on at CIA. So you knew John Carr wasn’t in that grave they dug up.”

Max slumped back down in his chair and looked pitifully at Stone. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You’re the great brain. You always figured out the best logistics for our missions. They almost always went off without a hitch. And when they didn’t you were always thousands of miles away. So what the hell did you care? It was our asses on the line, not yours. So tell me, great brain, why am I here? And don’t disappoint me. You know how I hate to be disappointed.”

Max drew in a sharp breath. “You want information.”

Stone glided forward and put a vise grip on Max’s arm. “I want the truth.”

Max grimaced from the pressure on his arm, but there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. His strength was mental, not physical. “About what?”

“Rayfield Solomon. Carter Gray. And anyone else you know who had his finger in that debacle.”

Max had shuddered at the mention of Rayfield Solomon. “Gray’s dead,” he said quickly.

Stone’s long fingers tightened on the man’s arm until a bead of sweat broke over Max’s forehead. “That’s not what I meant by being truthful.”

“His home was blown up, damn it!”

“But he wasn’t in it. Now he’s out there, plotting and planning, just like he always did. Only I’m the target. Again. And I don’t like it, Max. Once was enough.” Stone squeezed harder.

“Look, you can crush my arm if you want, but I can’t tell you things I don’t know about.”

“I’m not going to crush your
arm.
” Stone let go and slid a knife out from his coat sleeve.

Max wailed, “John, you’re not a killer anymore. You got out. You were always different. We all knew that.”

“That didn’t seem to help me back then. My wanting to get out almost cost me my life.”

“Things were different back then.”

“So people keep telling me. But once a killer, always a killer. I did it very recently, in fact. In self-defense. But I still killed a man. Slit his throat from ten feet away. And he was a former Triple Six. I guess they’re not making ’em like they used to.”

“But I’m defenseless,” Max pleaded.

“I
will
kill you, Max. And it
will
be in self-defense. Because if you don’t help me, I’m a dead man. But I’m not going alone.” He placed the edge of the blade against Max’s quivering carotid artery.

“For God’s sake, John, think what you’re doing. And I lost my wife recently. I lost Kitty.”

“I lost my wife too. I didn’t have her nearly as long as you had your Kitty. But then you probably were the one who worked the logistics of the hit on me out on your nice, neat paper.”

“I had nothing to do with that. I only learned about it after the fact.”

“But you didn’t go running to the authorities about it, did you?”

“What the hell did you expect me to do? They would have killed me too.”

Stone pressed the blade harder against the man’s flesh. “For a genius you sometimes say stupid things. Tell me about Rayfield Solomon before I lose my patience. Because this is all about Solomon, isn’t it?”

“He was a traitor and you killed him, on orders.”

“We did kill him, as ordered. Roger Simpson said it came right from the top. But there’s obviously more to it. A lot more. Was Solomon innocent? And if he was, why were we ordered to kill him?”

“Damn it, John, just let it go! The past is dead.”

Stone’s knife cut into Max’s skin a millimeter beside the artery, and a drop of blood appeared. “Was Solomon innocent?” Himmerling said nothing. He just sat there with his eyes closed, his chest heaving.

“Max, if I sever this artery, you will bleed to death in less than five minutes. And I will stand here and watch while you do.”

Himmerling finally opened his eyes. “I’ve kept secrets for nearly forty years, and I’m not going to start talking now.”

Stone swung his gaze around the room and stopped at the pictures on the mantel. A young boy and girl.

“Grandkids?” he asked with an edge to his voice. “Must be nice.”

A trembling Max followed the man’s gaze. “You . . . you wouldn’t dare!”

“You people killed everyone I loved. Why should you get any better treatment? I’ll kill you first.” He pointed at the pictures. “And them next. And it won’t be painless.”

“You bastard!”

“That’s right. I am a bastard. CIA-built, owned and operated. You know that as well as anyone, don’t you?” Stone looked once more at the photos. “Your last chance, Max. I won’t ask again.”

And so for the first time in four decades, Max Himmerling let a secret slip out. “Solomon wasn’t a traitor. He knew some things, but he didn’t know all of it. People were afraid if he found out the truth, he’d talk.”

“People like who? Gray? Simpson?”

“I don’t know.”

Stone made another nick on Himmerling’s skin. “Max, I’m losing my patience.”

“It was Gray
or
Simpson. I never knew which.”

“And the secret?”

“Not even I knew that. It involved a mission Solomon and the Russian Lesya handled against the Soviet Union. The whole thing’s on the front burner now. I don’t know why.”

“One more question. Should be an easy one. Who ordered the hit on me?”

“John, please—”

Stone violently seized the man around the throat. “Who?”

“All I can say is you have the same choice as with the last answer,” Himmerling gasped.

So Gray or Simpson. Not that he was surprised.

Stone put the knife away and said, “If you try and tell anyone I’ve been here, you know what will happen. Gray will find out and he’ll suspect you told me things. And you can’t lie to him. He knows ways to get the truth out of the toughest people, much less someone like you. And when he finds out what you told me, guess what, Max?” Stone placed an imaginary pistol against the man’s head and pantomimed pulling the trigger. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Would you have really killed my grandkids?” Himmerling asked in a quavering voice.

“Just be glad they don’t have to find out.”

CHAPTER 64

A
FTER
S
TONE LEFT
, Max Himmerling breathed a sigh of relief; it caught in his throat.
The guards. They’ll know someone came.
They’ll contact . . .
He ran to pack a bag. He had long ago worked out a doomsday scenario of having to flee. Ten minutes later he was on his way out the door, boarding pass printed out, fake ID in his pocket. The ringing phone made him stop. Should he answer it? Something told him to. He picked it up. The voice on the other end was very familiar to him.

“Hello, Max. What did you tell him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Max, you’re a brilliant man, but a very bad liar. I don’t blame you. I’m sure he threatened you, and we both know what a dangerous man he is. So what did you tell him?”

Once more Himmerling spilled his guts.

“Thank you, Max, you did the right thing.” The line went dead.

Himmerling dropped the phone as the back door opened.

“Please,” he said. “Please.”

The silenced gun fired and the bullet hit him in the forehead. The body was placed into a black bag. In a minute the truck had carried it away. Officially Himmerling would be reassigned to a foreign post on short notice. When the next American chopper went down anywhere in the world, it would be recorded that Max Himmerling had been on it, his body burned beyond recognition. Thus would end the man’s near forty years of service to his country.

At least he would no longer have to worry about outliving his pension.

In his bunker Carter Gray smacked his fist into his palm. The loss of Himmerling was a heavy if unavoidable one. Gray knew he should have anticipated it, but he hadn’t.

He looked back at the computer screen in front of him. He had received the birth records from hospitals in major Canadian cities for the year in question. Even electronically they were voluminous. He had to separate the wheat from the chaff. Fortunately, he had known Rayfield Solomon well. They had been good friends, and friendly rivals. Indeed, it could be said that Solomon was the only man of his generation who could match Carter Gray in ability. Gray had to concede that in the field, Solomon might well have been his superior. So uncovering the man’s tracks wouldn’t be easy, but he did have the advantage of knowing him intimately.

He had focused his efforts on the name of the father listed in the birth records. Lesya would not have used her own name, of course. The name of the son would not help either, since Gray was sure that it would be different today. So it came down to the father. Rayfield Solomon was very proud of his Jewish heritage. Though the demands of his work did not allow him to practice his religion in a traditional fashion—critical missions could not be interrupted even for the exercise of his faith—Solomon had been an ardent scholar of his religion. He and Gray had had numerous discussions about theology. Gray’s wife had been a devout Catholic. Gray had not been particularly religious until his wife and daughter had been killed on 9/11. Solomon had often told him, “Find something to believe in, Carter, other than your work. Because when you leave this life, you leave work behind. If that’s all you have, then you have nothing. And eternity is a long time for nothing.”

Wise words the man had uttered, though Gray had not necessarily believed them back then.

His fingers skimmed over the computer keys, trying this and that search combination. The list of names was further and further reduced. He continued to scan the names until he came to rest on one proud father.

David P. Jedidiah, II.

He smiled.
You blundered there, Ray. You let personal trump professional.
Over the years since his family’s death Gray had also become a keen reader of the Bible, so the name of
this
father had particular relevance for him.

Solomon was the
second
son of David, his first legitimate child with Bathsheba. Jedidiah was the name that Nathan, the future King Solomon’s teacher, called him. And in Hebrew Solomon means “Peace,” hence the middle initial,
P.
Rayfield Solomon had used the name David P. Jedidiah, II, in the birth records. Carter Gray looked at the mother’s name, and then at the son’s. He picked up the phone and relayed this information. “Trace the son,” he ordered.

He put the phone down and said aloud, “So where are you now, son of Solomon?”

CHAPTER 65

I
T WAS MORNING
, with a chill in the air. Harry Finn stood by himself, hands in pockets, and stared at it: the empty hole in the ground at Arlington National Cemetery, where John Carr was supposed to be resting, for all eternity. That had been a lie. And why was Finn surprised? The government always lied about the most important things.

Even though he previously believed the man was dead, Finn had researched John Carr’s background. As a Navy SEAL he had done joint intelligence work with the CIA. Using the same skills that he made his living with today, he had slowly unearthed much of the history of his father’s last days, and also the pasts of the men who’d been involved in killing him.

Judd Bingham’s, Bob Cole’s and Lou Cincetti’s histories were pretty much the same. They had worked for the CIA, seemed to relish their duties in fact, until they’d retired to a life of comfort and leisure. Retirements that Finn had abruptly ended.

Only Carr was different. Officially, he had been killed while a member of an army unit, in the type of skirmish that popped up from time to time around the world and to which the United States was morally if not technically required to respond. Before becoming a member of the CIA’s Triple Six Division, John Carr had been one of the most decorated veterans of the Vietnam War, including four Purple Hearts, and none of them for hangnails. There was even talk of his receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor, the highest military award of all. Every soldier who earned it had instantly attained a place of immortality in the eyes of professional warriors, though many had been awarded the honor posthumously. This had led some to dub it “The medal you’ll never get to see.”

Carr had certainly seemed an ideal man for the military equivalent of an Olympic gold medal. Finn had read the official report with both thrill and horror. Carr had single-handedly saved his ambushed platoon of soldiers in a murderous firefight with a far larger mass of North Vietnamese backed by artillery support. Sergeant John Carr had personally carried four wounded men to safety on his back, repeatedly going back into harm’s way to do so. He had been hit twice by enemy fire and still somehow managed to kill a dozen Viet Cong, three of them in hand-to-hand fighting, while shooting several more out of trees with a marksman’s skill that the report described as nothing short of supernatural.

Finally, manning a machine-gun post, Carr had repelled repeated attacks, survived multiple mortar rounds exploding all around his position and still managed to call in an airstrike that had driven the enemy back, allowing his men to safely retreat. He had walked off the field of battle under his own power despite his uniform being soaked in his blood. Finn could not help feeling a certain level of respect for the man. He had always considered himself to be a soldier of the highest level, but he was thinking that John Carr had perhaps surpassed him on the ability scorecard that all professional military people kept in their heads.

Yet Carr had not been given the medal. Finn didn’t know that it had to do with politics rather than heroics on the battlefield. He didn’t know that John Carr’s growing ambivalence about the war had turned his superiors against him. His CO had not even recommended him for the medal until others had stepped in. Yet somewhere along the line, folks even higher up the command chain prevented a deserving soldier from receiving the military’s highest honor.

Instead Carr had disappeared from the ranks of the army until resurfacing years later, only to die in that minor skirmish and supposedly be buried at Arlington. Finn knew what Carr had been doing in the interim. He’d been killing, on orders from his government. Yet he was a man who had been on the receiving end of death too.

It had taken two years of foraging on databases he was not supposed to have access to, but Finn had learned that Carr’s wife had died one night when their house was supposedly burgled. The couple had had a daughter, but she had simply disappeared too. Finn was smart enough to read between the lines. The “burglary” had CIA hit written all over it. Carr must’ve angered his superiors somehow. Finn had been glad initially to learn that John Carr was dead. He had no interest in killing war heroes who had never gotten their just rewards, nor a man with the courage to buck the most powerful spy agency in the world.

But now perhaps Carr wasn’t dead. And if he wasn’t Finn knew what he had to do. What his mother expected him to do. Whether he liked it or not. And regardless of what sort of man John Carr was, he’d killed Finn’s father. For nothing.

Finn left the graveyard. He had work to do.

For now, John Carr would have to wait.