The Camel Club (22 page)

CHAPTER
34

S
TONE WALKED BACK TO HIS
cottage and cleaned himself up, putting ice on his face and resting while the swelling went down. Then he used his borrowed cell phone and contacted Reuben and Caleb. They scheduled a meeting for that night; he was unable to get hold of Milton.

After that, he tended to the cemetery and helped a couple of visitors find a grave they were looking for. Many years ago the church had documented the people interred here, but that list had been lost. Over the past two years Stone had checked every headstone and local records to re-create an accurate list. He’d also steeped himself in the history of Mt. Zion Cemetery and acted as an informal tour guide, narrating this history to groups that came by.

As he finished with the visitors and returned to work, he felt his face burn. And it wasn’t from his recent injuries, but rather from embarrassment. It had been so stupid of him to do that particularly in front of Adelphia. He could still feel the weight of the knife in his hand.
So stupid
.

Later he decided to take the Metro to Milton’s house. If his friend had been able to trace the car tag, Stone wanted to know. Plus, he wanted to make sure Milton was all right. The people they were dealing with could also run down a fingerprint as easily as Milton could.

He was walking down the street toward the Foggy Bottom subway station when he heard a horn sound behind him. He turned. It was Agent Ford. He pulled his Crown Vic to the curb and rolled down the window.

“Want a ride?” Alex suddenly noted his friend’s injuries. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I fell.”

“You okay?”

“My ego was bruised more than my face.” Stone climbed into the car and Alex sped off.

Waiting for what he hoped was an acceptable period of time, Stone finally said, “I was thinking about our conversation last night. How’s your investigation going?”

“It’s going so well I’ve been busted back to protection detail.”

“Agent Ford—”

“You know, Oliver, after all these years, you can probably call me Alex.”

“I hope that my advice didn’t get you in trouble, Alex.”

“I’m a big boy. And you happened to be right. Only I didn’t have all the facts straight, and now I’m paying the price.”

“What facts?”

“Afraid I can’t say. Where you heading, by the way?”

Stone told him. “I’m visiting some friends,” he added.

“I hope they’re the ones in high places. You can never have too many of those.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have
any
of those.”

“Neither do I. But hell, it turns out my rookie partner—and I use the term ‘partner’ very loosely—it turns out she has some of those kinds of friends. In fact, she informed me today that her godfather is none other than Carter Gray.”

Stone looked at him. “Who’s your partner?”

“Jackie Simpson.”

Stone stiffened. “Roger Simpson’s daughter?”

“How’d you know that?”

“You mentioned friends in high places, and they don’t come much higher than Roger Simpson. He worked at the CIA but that was decades ago.”

“I didn’t know about that, but I guess it explains his interest in intelligence.”

Stone was staring out the window. “How old is the woman?”

“What, Jackie? Mid-thirties.”

“And she’s just starting out at the Secret Service?”

“She was a cop in Alabama before joining the Service.”

“What’s she like?”

“Well, she’s pretty high on my shit list right now. The lady basically sold me down the river this morning.”

“I mean what does she
look
like?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” Stone said.

“She’s petite, black hair, blue eyes, and has a big-time drawl when she’s real pissed. She doesn’t back down and says what’s on her mind. No shrinking violet.”

“I see. Attractive?”

“Why, you thinking about asking her out?” Alex said grinning.

“Old men are always curious about young women,” Stone replied with a smile.

Ford shrugged. “She’s pretty, if you get past the attitude.”

Mid-thirties,
thought Stone.
Black hair, blue eyes and an attitude.

“Have you ever met Carter Gray?” Stone asked.

“I did today,” Alex said.

“What was your opinion?”

“Pretty damn impressive.”

“So is that why you got in trouble? You ran into Gray?”

“Let’s just say I thought I’d be real smart and let the two NIC agents on the case run some analysis on the suicide note we found. That would give me an excuse to go there and poke around. Turns out I got sandbagged. I should’ve seen it coming.”

Stone had not been listening to the last part. His attention had been captured by the part about NIC having the suicide note.
Were Milton’s fingerprints on it?

“Uh, were the two agents at NIC helpful?”

“Not particularly. You know, I hate spooks, I really do. I don’t give a crap if you call them the National Intelligence Center, the Central Intelligence Agency, or the Defense Intelligence Agency, they wouldn’t tell you the truth if their mother’s life depended on it.”

“
No, they wouldn’t,” Stone said under his breath.

Halfway to his destination, Stone instructed Alex to let him off up ahead.

“I can take you all the way to where you’re going, Oliver,” he said. “The director gave me the rest of the day off to think about my sins.”

“I really need to walk.”

“Well, you should get that jaw checked out.”

“I will.”

As soon as Alex drove off, Stone pulled out his cell phone and called Milton. In one way it was disheartening to learn that the Secret Service agent was off the case, but at least he would not be in danger. Stone could not say the same about the rest of them.

Milton’s voice interrupted these musings. “Hello?”

“Milton, where are you?”

“I’m at Chastity’s.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Since this morning, why?”

“When you left your house, did you notice anyone around?”

“No.”

“Don’t go back home. I want you to meet me somewhere else.” Stone thought quickly. “Union Station. Can you be there in the next half hour or so?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll be standing by the bookstore. Were you able to run the car tag down?”

“That was no problem. I have his name and address. It’s—”

“Tell me in person. And, Milton, I want you to listen very carefully. You need to make sure that no one is following you.”

“What did you find out?” Milton asked nervously.

“I’ll tell you when I see you. Oh, one more thing. Could you see what you can find on a Jackie Simpson, Senator Simpson’s daughter? She’s a Secret Service agent.”

Stone clicked off and then called both Reuben and Caleb and updated them. After that, he set off for the nearest Metro station and a little while later stood at the entrance to the B. Dalton bookstore that occupied a large chunk of massive Union Station. While browsing through some books, Stone periodically checked the subway exit, where he assumed Milton would be coming out.

When Milton arrived from a different part of the train station, Stone looked at him questioningly.

“Chastity drove me,” he explained. “What happened to your face?”

“It’s not important. Is Chastity here?”

“No, I told her to go back home.”

“Milton, are you absolutely certain you weren’t followed?”

“Not with the way Chastity drives.”

Stone led him over to a bagel shop located across from the bookstore. They bought coffees and then settled down at a table in the far corner.

Milton took out his cell phone and hit a button.

“Who are you calling?” Stone asked.

“No one. My cell phone has a recorder built in. I just remembered that I have to call Chastity later about something, and I’m leaving myself a reminder. The phone I gave you has the same capability. And it’s also a camera.” Milton spoke into the recorder and then put his phone away.

“What’s the man’s name?” Stone asked.

“Tyler Reinke. He lives out near Purcellville. I have the street address.”

“I know the area. Did you find out where he works?”

“I checked everywhere I could get into, and I can get into quite a few places. But I didn’t find anything on him.”

“That might mean he does work at NIC. I don’t think even
you
could hack them.”

“It’s possible.”

“Did you find anything on Jackie Simpson?”

“Quite a bit. I printed it out for you.” He slid a folder over to Stone.

He opened it and gazed at a laser printer picture of the woman. Alex had been right, thought Stone; the attitude was evident on her features. Her home address was in the file too. It was close to WFO. Stone wondered if she walked to work. He closed the file, put it away in his knapsack and told Milton about NIC having the suicide note and the possibility of his prints being on it.

Milton let out a deep breath. “I knew I shouldn’t have touched that paper.”

“Would you still be on the NIH database?”

“Probably. And the Secret Service printed me when I sent that stupid letter to Ronald Reagan. I was just so upset with all his budget cuts on mental health.”

Stone hunched forward. “I wanted to have a meeting tonight at Caleb’s condo to go over things, but now I’m not sure if that’s safe.”

“So where do we meet, then?”

Just then Stone’s cell phone rang. It was Reuben and he was excited.

He said, “I met an old buddy of mine for a beer. We fought together in Nam, and we joined Defense Intelligence at the same time. I heard he’d just retired from DIA, so I thought I’d have a drink with him and see if he’d open up a little about things. Well, he told me NIC had pissed everybody off by demanding that all terrorist files be turned over to NIC. Even the CIA’s files were purged. Gray knew that if he controlled the flow of information, then he controlled everything else too.”

“So all other intelligence agencies have to go to NIC for that information?”

“Yep. And that way NIC knows what everyone else is working on.”

“But by law, NIC oversees all that anyway, Reuben.”

“Hell, who cares what the law says? Do you really think the CIA’s going to be absolutely truthful about what it’s doing, Oliver?”

“No,” Stone admitted. “Telling the truth would be counterintuitive for it as well as having no historical basis. Spies always lie.”

“Is the meeting tonight still at Caleb’s?” Reuben asked.

“I’m not sure that Caleb’s . . .” Stone’s voice trailed off. “Caleb?” he said slowly.

“Oliver?” Reuben said. “Are you still there?”

“Oliver? Are you all right?” Milton asked in a worried tone.

Stone spoke quickly. “Reuben, where are you?”

“At the disgusting shack I call my castle. Why?”

“Can you pick me up at Union Station and take me to my storage place?”

“Sure, but you didn’t answer me. Is the meeting still at Caleb’s?”

“No, I think instead . . .” Stone looked around. “We’ll meet here at Union Station.”

“Union Station,” Reuben repeated. “That’s not exactly private, Oliver.”

“I didn’t say we were
holding
our meeting here.”

“You’re not making much sense,” Reuben said grumpily.

“I’ll explain it all later. Just get here as quickly as you can. I’ll be waiting out front.” Stone clicked off and looked at Milton.

Milton said, “What are you going to your other place for?”

“There’s something I need from there. Something that might finally make sense out of all this.”

CHAPTER
35

“N
O ONE SEEMS TO BE HOME,”
Tyler Reinke said as he watched the front of Milton’s home from the car outside. He glanced at a file on Milton Farb. “Threatening to poison President Reagan’s jelly beans sort of tanks your career opportunities,” Reinke added wryly. “That may be why they didn’t come forward. Because of his record.”

Peters said, “What I want to know is, what was he doing on Roosevelt Island in the middle of the night?”

“I say we wait until later and then go exploring. If he’s in hiding, chances are he left something behind at his house to show us where he is.”

“In the meantime I think we should take another trip to Georgetown. Somebody might have seen something that night that could be helpful,” Peters said.

“And it might not hurt to take another look at the boat while we’re there,” Reinke added.

Captain Jack adjusted his hat and rubbed a finger against the yellow rose sticking out of his lapel as he surveyed the inside of his new property. The garage was large with three expansive work bays. However, the place was empty now except for one vehicle that was receiving the complete attention of his “mechanics.” Ahmed, the Iranian, wiped his brow as he came up out of the oil pit cut into the floor of the garage.

“How’s it coming?” Captain Jack asked.

“We’re on schedule. Have you talked to the woman?”

“That piece is in place and ready,” Captain Jack said. “And don’t ask again, Ahmed,” he added, looking stonily at the man. The Iranian nodded curtly and swung himself back down into the pit. Soon the sounds of power wrenches filled the space, and Captain Jack stepped out into the sunshine.

Ahmed waited a few more minutes, and then he reemerged from the pit, walked quickly to the worktable and slid out a long-bladed knife from an oily cloth that he’d hidden under some tools. He placed the knife under a piece of carpeting in the back of the vehicle and then popped the carpet back into place.

Outside, Captain Jack climbed into his Audi and drove to the apartment across from Mercy Hospital. One of the Afghans let him in.

“Are the weapons here?” Captain Jack asked.

“Carried them up piece by piece in paper grocery bags like you said to.”

“Show me.”

The man led him over to the large-screen TV set up in one corner of the room. Together they moved the TV out of the way, and the Afghan used a screwdriver to pry up the carpet, exposing the padding and subfloor. Here the subfloor had been cut away and replaced with plywood. Under the plywood Captain Jack could see that short lengths of rope had been attached to the floor joists in six-inch intervals. Lying on top of the ropes were two assembled sniper rifles with high-powered scopes.

“I’ve heard of the M-50s but I’ve never used one,” Captain Jack said.

“It’s got digital optics so no visible signature; it chambers the twenty-one-millimeter cartridge with environmental sensors built in, together with multithermal detection.” The Afghan knelt down and pointed to one part of the rifle. “It’s also got a neural feedback system that cancels muscle twitch.”

“I never needed that to do the job,” Captain Jack said matter-of-factly.

“And it’s coated with advanced Camoflex so it blends in with its surroundings with a push of this button. Its barrel is nanotechnology-refined and can place a round at less than .00001 minute of angle at one thousand meters. Overkill for this job, but so what. We’ve also got a couple of MP-5s with about two thousand rounds. ”

Early in his career Captain Jack had made the inexcusable error of inputting the barometric pressure
after
the adjustment for altitude had been made, the number typically given by weather forecasters. However, shooters needed the actual barometric pressure without regard to altitude adjustment. It had been a huge mistake because cold air was denser than warm, and the speed of sound was also lower in cold air, which was critical when one was chambering supersonic ammo. That mistake had caused his bullet to wound instead of kill, not an acceptable result when one was attempting to assassinate a head of state.

“Where have you hidden the ordnance?” he asked.

The Afghan went around to the back of the big-screen TV and unscrewed the rear panel. Neatly stacked inside were dozens of fully loaded MP-5 mags and boxes of M-50 rounds. “As you can see, we don’t watch much TV,” the Afghan said unnecessarily.

“How about the
other
two rifles and ordnance you’ll be using? They’re the most important of all.”

“They’re under the other floorboards. They’re ready to go. We’ve practiced over fifty hours with them. Don’t worry, we won’t miss.”

“The weather looks good for game day, but it can change quickly around here.”

The Afghan shrugged. “It’s not that difficult a shot at this distance. I’ve easily hit the target at three times this range at night
with
people shooting back.”

Captain Jack knew this was not mere bravado on his part, which was one of the reasons the man was here in the first place.

“But you’ve never done it quite
this
way before,” he said. “The range and flight path are a little different.”

“Believe me, I know.”

Captain Jack went into the bathroom and looked at his disguise in the mirror. He took off the hat and examined his thick hair shot through with gray and a mustache and short beard of the same coloring. He took off his tinted glasses, and blue eyes looked back at him. A small scar rested on the side of his nose, which was long and thick. In reality the beard and hair were fake. He was actually bald and clean-shaven with brown eyes and no scar, although his nose
was
long, but thin.

He put the hat and glasses back on. He’d disappeared many times in his life, sometimes while in the employ of others, including the government of the United States. Other times he’d been on his own, his shooting skill and nerve purchased by the highest bidder. But as he’d told Hemingway, his next disappearing act would be his last.

He drove out of town to the ceremonial grounds, barely ten minutes from downtown, and yet a lot could happen in ten minutes.

Captain Jack didn’t stop at the grounds but instead drove past them slowly, eyeing certain landmarks he’d long since committed to memory. The ceremonial grounds were framed by white rail farm fencing with only one vehicle entry point and numerous pedestrian entrances. Six-foot-high brick columns framed the car entrance, and the motorcade would have to pass through there going in and out. The Beast would find it a tight squeeze.

He eyeballed the surrounding tree lines, guessing at the placement of the American countersnipers that would be posted along this perimeter. How many would there be? A dozen? Two dozen? It was hard to tell these days, even with the best intelligence. They would be wrapped in their camouflage suits, blending in with their surroundings so perfectly you would step on them before you ever saw them. Yes, his men would most certainly die on these hallowed grounds. At least it would be quick and painless. Supersonic long-range ordnance, particularly to the head, killed you faster than your brain could react. The
fedayeen’s
death, however, would not be nearly as painless.

Captain Jack envisioned the motorcade coming in and the president exiting the Beast. He would wave, shake hands, pat some backs, give some hugs and then be escorted to the bullet- and bombproof podium as “Hail to the Chief” was played.

The reason the song was used when a U.S. president entered a room originated with President James Polk’s wife, who was furious that her diminutive, homely husband was often totally ignored when making an entrance. Thus, Sarah Polk ordered that the song be played whenever her husband came into a room. All presidents since had followed this imperious woman’s lead.

However, the origin of the song itself was even more amusing, at least to Captain Jack’s thinking. Set to the words of Sir Walter Scott’s epic poem
The Lady of the Lake,
it described the demise of a Scottish chieftain who was betrayed and then put to death by his archenemy, King James V. Ironically enough, the song that was used to herald the coming of the president of the United States actually chronicled the assassination of a head of state. In the last part of Canto Five, the poem summed up, in Captain Jack’s opinion, a query that all would-be politicians should give serious thought to: “
O who would wish to be thy king?”

“Not me,” he muttered to himself. “Not me.”

The ex-National Guardsman settled himself in the chair and looked at his new hand while the two men watched him carefully.

“Now that we’ve added the pouch, let’s begin practicing the movements,” the engineer said.

The American moved his hand and wrist as he had been shown, but nothing happened.

“It takes practice. Soon you will be an expert.”

Two hours later they had made considerable progress. Taking a break, the men sat and talked. “So you were a truck driver?” the chemist asked.

The former soldier nodded, holding up his hook and fake hand. “Not an occupation you can really do with these because I also had to help unload the cargo.”

“How long were you in Iraq before it happened?”

“Eighteen months. I only had four more months to pull, at least I thought. Then we got orders extending our tour another twenty-two months. Four years! Before all this happened I was married with a wife and family and holding my own in Detroit. The next thing I know, I’m scrambling to get the money to buy my own body armor and GPS because Uncle Sam didn’t have the cash. Then a land mine outside of Mosul takes
both
my hands and a chunk of my chest. Four months in Walter Reed Hospital, and I get back home to find my wife’s divorcing me, my job’s long gone and I’m basically homeless.” He paused and shook his head. “I did my tour during Persian Gulf One and sucked in all the shit Saddam was chucking at us. After my discharge from the army I joined the National Guard so I could at least have some income until I got back on my feet. I did my Guard duty and then resigned and started driving trucks. Then after all those years the army knocks on my door and tells me my Guard resignation was never ‘officially’ accepted. I told them not so politely to go to hell. But they literally hauled me kicking and screaming away. Then a year and a half later boom, there go my hands and my life. My own country did that to me!”

“Now it’s your turn to repay them,” the engineer said.

“Yes. It is,” the very ex-National Guardsman agreed as he flexed his hand.

Adnan al-Rimi strode through the hallways of Mercy Hospital, his observant gaze methodically taking in all details of his surroundings. A minute later he returned to the hospital’s front entrance just as an elderly patient was wheeled in, a portable IV hooked to her arm.

Adnan stepped outside and breathed in the warm air. To the left of the hospital’s front steps was a ramp for gurneys and wheelchair-bound patients. Al-Rimi walked down the steps to the sidewalk that ran in front of the hospital. There were fourteen steps. He turned and walked back up them, silently counting time as he did so. Seven seconds at a normal pace, perhaps half that if someone was running.

He went back inside the hospital, his hand sliding down to his sidearm. It was an old .38 revolver, a piece of American crap, as far as he was concerned. Yet that was the only weapon the security firm he worked for had to offer. It didn’t really matter, he knew, but still, weapons were of paramount importance to Adnan. He had required them virtually his whole life simply to survive.

He walked back down to the nurse’s station and stopped at the fourth tile over from the exact center of the station. Then he turned around and walked back toward the front entrance. Anyone watching him would just assume he was making his rounds. He counted off his paces in his head, nodding to a pair of nurses who walked by as he did so. Near the front entrance he turned right, counted his steps down this hallway, turned, pushed open the door to the exit stairs, counted his steps down two flights and found himself in the basement corridor on the west side of the hospital building. This corridor ran into another that carried him north and then emptied out into the rear exit area. A wide asphalt drive was located here that sloped upward to the main road running behind the hospital. Because of the grade and poor drainage, it often flooded here after even a moderate rain, which was another reason why everyone preferred entering through the front.

As he stood there, Adnan visualized several times a particular maneuver in his head. Finished, he went over to a pair of double doors, unlocked them and stepped inside, closing the doors behind him. He was now in the hospital’s power room, which also housed the backup generator. He’d been coached on the basics of this room by the security firm, in case there was an emergency. He’d supplemented that coaching by reading the manuals for every piece of equipment in the room. There was only one that he was really interested in. It sat on a wall across from the generator. He opened the box with another key on his chain and studied the controls inside. It wouldn’t be difficult to rig it, he decided.

He locked up the power room and went back inside the hospital to continue his rounds. He would do this every day, until
the
day came.

A little while later Adnan’s shift ended, and he changed out of his uniform in the hospital’s locker room and rode his bicycle to his apartment about two miles away. He prepared a meal of flat bread, dates, fava beans, olives and a piece of
halal
meat that he cooked on the stovetop in his tiny kitchen.

Adnan’s family had raised livestock and grown dates in Saudi Arabia, no small feat in a country with only 1 percent of its land arable, but they had suffered great hardship. After his father’s death the al-Rimis fled to Iraq, where they grew wheat and raised goats. Adnan, as the eldest son, became the family’s patriarch. He began butchering meat in accordance with Islamic law so it was
halal,
and the additional monies that this endeavor provided had been very welcome.

Adnan sat in his apartment staring out the window and cradling a cup of tea, his mind drifting back to that time. Goats, lambs, chickens and cattle had met their end at the point of his very sharp knife. These animals had to be slaughtered from their necks while Adnan spoke God’s name. Adnan never struck the spinal cord while doing his butchering, for two reasons: It was less painful to the animal, and it allowed convulsive motions to remain, which hastened the drainage of blood, as required by Islamic law. Under that law no animal could witness the death of another, and the animals had to be well fed and rested. It was a far cry from the mass killings of the “stun and stick” method used by American slaughterhouses. Yes, the Americans were the best at killing lots of things quickly, Adnan thought.