The Camel Club (25 page)

CHAPTER
39

I
T TOOK
A
LEX
F
ORD ABOUT AN
hour to decide what to wear on his night out with Kate Adams. It was a humbling and embarrassing sixty minutes as he realized how long it’d been since he’d gone on a real date. He finally decided on a blue blazer, white collared shirt and khaki pants with loafers on his big feet. He combed down his hair, shaved off his five o’clock shadow, dressed, chewed a couple of breath mints and decided the big, somewhat weathered lug staring back at him in the mirror would just have to do.

D.C. traffic had reached the critical stage where there was no good time or direction to be driving, and Alex was afraid he was going to be late. However, he lucked out after skirting an accident on Interstate 66 that left a clear field ahead. He took the Key Bridge exit, crossed the Potomac, hooked a right onto M Street and soon found himself cruising up 31st Street in posh Georgetown. It was a place named after a British king, and certain elements of the area retained that regal dignity that some might equate to outright snobbery. However, on the main shopping drag of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, the tone was decidedly funky and modern with gaggles of underdressed kids crowding the narrow sidewalks yakking on their cell phones and checking each other out. Yet in the upper regions of Georgetown where Alex was heading lived famous families with enormous financial portfolios and nary a tattoo or body piercing in sight.

As Alex passed one stately mansion after another, he started growing more nervous. He had guarded some incredibly powerful people over the years, but the Service prided itself as being an elite agency with a blue-collar nature. Alex was solidly in that mold and much preferred the lunch counter at the local IHOP to a three-star restaurant in Paris. Well, there was no going back now, he told himself.

The road he was on dead-ended at R Street near the massive Dumbarton Oaks mansion. Alex hung a left and continued on down R until he found the place.

“Okay, she wasn’t kidding about the mansion status,” Alex said as he stared up at the brick and slate-roofed behemoth. He pulled into the circular driveway, got out and looked around. The grounds were formal with the bushes all cut to the same height and shape and the late summer blooms presented in all their colorful and symmetrical glory. The moss was growing lushly around the stone slabs that led to an arched wooden door that accessed the backyard. Or with palaces such as this it was probably referred to as the rear grounds, Alex thought.

He checked his watch and found he was about ten minutes early. Maybe Kate wasn’t even here yet. He was about to drive around the block to kill some time when he heard a lilting voice calling out to him.

“Yoo-hoo, are you the Secret Service man?” He turned and spotted a small, stooped woman scurrying toward him, a basket of cut flowers hooked over one arm. She had on a wide-brimmed sun hat with white cottony hair poking out, beige canvas pants and an untucked long-sleeved jeans shirt; large black sunglasses covered most of her face. She seemed shrunken with time, and he put her age at around mid-eighties or so.

“Ma’am?”

“You
are
tall
and
cute. Are you armed too? With Kate you better be.”

Alex glanced around, briefly wondering if Kate was playing a joke on him and this odd woman had been hired as part of the gag. He didn’t see anyone and turned back to the woman. “I’m Alex Ford.”

“Are you one of
those
Fords?”

“Sorry, afraid there’s no trust fund in my future.”

She took off her glove, stuck it in her pants pocket and put out her hand. He shook it but then she didn’t let go. She pulled him toward the house. “Kate isn’t ready yet. Come on in, have a drink and let’s talk, Alex.”

Alex allowed himself to be led along by the woman because, frankly, he didn’t know what else to do. She smelled of strong cooking spices and even stronger hair spray.

When they reached the house and went inside, she finally let go of his hand and said, “Where are my manners, I’m Lucille Whitney-Houseman.”

“Are you one of
those
Whitney-Housemans?” Alex said, with a grin.

She took off her glasses and smiled back coquettishly. “My father, Ira Whitney, didn’t found the meatpacking industry, he just made a fortune off it. My dear husband, Bernie, may you rest in peace,” she added, looking at the ceiling and crossing herself, “now, his family made their money in whiskey and not all of it legally. And Bernie was a prosecutor before he became a federal judge. It made for some interesting family gatherings, I can tell you.”

She led him into a vast living room and motioned for him to sit down on a large sofa placed against one wall. She put the flowers in a cut crystal vase and turned to him.

“Now, speaking of whiskey, name your poison.” She went over to a small cabinet and opened it. Inside was a fairly complete bar.

“Well, Mrs. . . . uh, do you go by both names?”

“Just call me Lucky. Everybody does because lucky I’ve been, my whole life.”

“I’ll have a glass of club soda, Lucky.”

She turned and looked at him sternly. “I know how to make lots of cocktails, young man, but club soda ain’t one of them,” she said in a scolding tone.

“Oh, uh, rum and Coke, then.”

“I’ll make it Jack and Coke, honey, with the emphasis on the Jack.”

She brought him the drink and sat down next to him with her own glass. She held it up. “A Gibson. I fell in love with them after I saw Cary Grant order one on that train in
North by Northwest
. Cheers!”

They tapped glasses and Alex took a sip of his. He coughed. It tasted like she’d let the Jack run solo. He looked around the living room. It was about the size of his entire house and with far nicer furniture.

“So you’ve known Kate long?” he asked.

“About seven years, although she’s only lived with me for three. She’s wonderful. Smart as a whip, beautiful, a real pistol, but then, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Plus, she makes the best buttery nipples I’ve ever tasted.”

Alex nearly choked on his drink. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t get all excited, honey, it’s a specialty drink. Baileys and butterscotch schnapps. She
is
a bartender, after all.”

“Oh, right.”

“So are you one of the agents who guard the president?”

“Actually, starting tomorrow, I am,” Alex said.

“I’ve known every president since Harry Truman,” she said wistfully. “I voted Republican for thirty years and then Democratic for about twenty, but now I’m old enough to know better, so I’m an Independent. But I loved Ronnie Reagan. What a charmer. He and I danced at one of the balls. But of all the presidents I’ve known I have to confess that I liked Jimmy Carter best. He was a good, decent man; a real gentleman, even if he did lust in his heart. And you can’t say that about all of them, can you?”

“No, I guess you can’t. So you know President Brennan, then?”

“We’ve met, but he wouldn’t know me from Eve. I’ve long since passed my usefulness in the political arena. Although in my prime I had some sway. Georgetown was the place to be for all that. Kate Graham, Evangeline Bruce, Pamela Harrington, Lorraine Cooper, I knew them all. The dinner parties we had. The national policy we came up with sitting around drinking and smoking, although the ladies were often separated from the gentlemen. But not always.” She lowered her voice and looked at him with raised pencil-thin eyebrows that looked painted on. “Because the
sex
we had, oh, my Lord. But not any orgies or anything like that, honey. I mean you’re talking about government people, public servants, and it’s hard to get up early and work those long hours after sex orgies. It takes it out of you, it really does.”

Alex suddenly realized his mouth had opened wider and wider as he listened to her. He quickly closed it. “So, uh, Kate lives in the carriage house?”

“I’ve wanted her to move in here—the place has eight bedrooms, after all—but she won’t. She likes her space, all women do. And she can come and go as she wants.” She patted his leg. “So this is your first date with her. That’s sweet. Where’re you going?”

“I’m not sure. Kate picked the place.”

She gripped his hand again and looked directly into his eyes. “Okay, honey, let me give you some advice. Even the modern woman likes the man to take charge every once in a while. So next time
you
pick the place. Be decisive about it. Women hate men who can’t make up their minds.”

“Okay, but how do I know when
else
she wants me to take charge?”

“Oh, you won’t. You’ll just screw it up like every other man does.”

Alex cleared his throat. “So does she date a lot?”

“Okay, you want the 411 on Kate, don’t you, honey? Well, Kate only brings someone around every few months. Nobody’s stuck yet but don’t let that discourage you. She usually brings home some fancy-pants lawyer, lobbyist or big-shot government type. Now, you’re the first man with a gun she’s brought here,” she added in an encouraging tone. “You
are
packing heat, aren’t you?” she asked hopefully.

“Would that be a good thing?”

“Honey, all civilized women throw their underwear at dangerous men. We just can’t help ourselves.”

He grinned, opened his coat and showed her his gun.

She clapped her hands together. “Oh, that is so thrilling.”

“Hey, Lucky, get away from my man.”

They both turned around and saw a smiling Kate Adams standing in the doorway leading into the next room. She had on a pleated black skirt that ended midthigh, a white blouse open at the neck and sandals. Alex realized he’d never seen her legs before; she always wore pants at the bar. She gave Lucky a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I have been entertaining your beau while you made yourself beautiful, my dear,” Lucky said. “Not that it takes that much effort for you. Oh, it’s just not fair, Kate. Not even the best plastic surgeon in the world could give me your cheekbones.”

“You liar. The men were always gaga over Lucky Whitney. And they still are.”

Lucky smiled at Alex and said in a very coy tone, “Well, I have to admit, this young man did show me his
piece,
Kate. I bet you haven’t had that pleasure yet.”

Kate looked surprised. “His piece? No, I haven’t seen it yet.”

His expression one of horror, Alex jumped up so fast he spilled some of his drink on the couch. “My gun! I showed her my gun.”

“That’s right, that’s what he called it. His
gun,
” Lucky said, smiling impishly. “Now, where are you two going for dinner?”

“Nathan’s,” Kate answered.

Lucky raised her eyebrows. “Nathan’s?” She gave Alex a thumbs-up. “That’s where she takes the ones with real potential.”

CHAPTER
40

“R
EUBEN,”
S
TONE CALLED OUT
from his perch in the sidecar. “We have some time yet. Can we stop in at Arlington Cemetery?”

Reuben looked over at the nation’s most hallowed burial place for its military dead and nodded.

A few minutes later they passed through the visitors’ entrance and walked past the Women in Military Service Memorial. They paused for a moment near the Kennedy graves, Arlington’s biggest visitor draw, with the changing of the guard at the Tombs of the Unknowns a close second.

Continuing on, Reuben stopped and gazed at a stretch of grass near Arlington House. It had once been Robert E. Lee’s home but had been confiscated by the federal government after Lee had chosen to lead the Confederate army against the Union.

“Isn’t that where you found me, stoned outta my head?”

Stone looked at the spot. “It was a long time ago, Reuben. You pulled yourself out of it. You fought off your demons.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Oliver.” He paused and looked around at all the white tombstones. “I was just so damn pissed off. I lost half my company from Nam to Agent Orange, and the army wouldn’t even admit they’d done it. And then the same thing happened with the Persian Gulf syndrome. I just wanted to come here and scream, make somebody listen.”

“It’s probably best that you passed out when you did. The secretary of defense was here that day; it might’ve gotten ugly.”

Reuben gazed curiously at his friend. “You know, I never asked you what you were doing at the cemetery that day.”

“Just like everyone else, I was there to pay my respects.”

Stone stopped at one area and silently counted down the rows of white headstones until he came to one near the middle. He stood, his arms folded across his chest, while the setting sun burned down into the horizon. Reuben checked his watch but seemed reluctant to interrupt his friend.

Stone’s solitude was finally halted by a group of men passing nearby. He watched as they headed toward the newest expansion of Arlington Cemetery and one that was not yet completed. It was the 9/11 memorial site that abutted the grounds of the cemetery. The site included a signature monument to the lives that were lost at the Pentagon, and a memorial grove.

Stone stiffened when he saw who was in the center of the wall of armed security. Reuben glanced over too.

“Carter Gray,” Reuben muttered.

“Here to see his wife, I would assume,” Stone said quietly. “Before the crowds come tomorrow.”

Carter Gray stopped at the gravesite of his wife, Barbara, knelt on the ground and placed a small bouquet of flowers on the recessed earth. Technically, the anniversary of his wife’s death was tomorrow, but the cemetery would be filled that day, and, as Stone had deduced, the man had no desire to share his grief with a mass of strangers.

Gray rose and stared down at where his wife’s body lay, while his security detail kept a respectful distance away.

Barbara Gray had retired from the army as a brigadier general after a distinguished career in which she set many firsts for women in the military. Barbara Gray had also been one of the most vocal advocates for members of the World War II-era WASPs, or Women’s Air Force Service Pilots, to be eligible to receive burial at Arlington with
full
military honors, something denied to them because they were summarily disbanded after the war. In June of 2002 a new regulation allowed a number of women’s military groups, including the WASPs, to at least be buried with the more limited
funeral,
instead of full, military honors. Unfortunately, Barbara Gray had not lived to see it happen.

On the morning of September 11, 2001, Barbara Gray, then a civilian consultant, was meeting at the Pentagon on a project with two members of the army when the American Airlines flight slammed into the building, obliterating the room she was in. As an appalling footnote to this tragedy, the Grays’ daughter, Maggie, a government lawyer, had just arrived at the Pentagon to meet her mother. Her body was virtually cremated in the initial explosion.

As Carter Gray stood there looking at his wife’s grave, the image of that morning cut deeply into him. And then the waves of guilt followed, for he should have been in that building too. Gray was supposed to meet his wife and daughter at the Pentagon before they all headed out on a long-planned family vacation. He’d been caught in traffic and was running about twenty minutes late. By the time he got to the Pentagon, his family was gone.

As he finally pulled his gaze from the consecrated ground, Gray looked around and spotted the two men staring back at him from a distance. He didn’t recognize the large man, but there was something familiar about the other. Then he watched as the two men turned and walked off. Gray lingered by his wife’s grave for another ten minutes, and then, his curiosity getting the better of him, he headed to the spot where the two men had been standing. He realized this section of graves was familiar to him. He started looking at the headstones, his gaze moving swiftly down the neat rows of markers, until he stopped at one.

The next moment his security staff was hustling after Gray as he rushed down the walkway. As he drew closer to the exit, he stopped and bent over, sucking in huge amounts of air as his security team circled him, asking if he was all right. He didn’t answer them. He didn’t even hear them.

The name on the grave marker that had caused his pell-mell rush was pinballing around his mind. There was no body in the casket under that marker, Gray well knew. It was all a sham, all part of a cover-up. Yet the name on the marker wasn’t a fraud. It was a real man who, it was thought, had died in the defense of his country.

“John Carr.” Gray said the name, one he had not uttered for decades.

John Carr
. The most accomplished killer Carter Gray had ever seen.

Nathan’s wasn’t that crowded yet, and Alex Ford and Kate Adams were seated at a table in a corner near the bar area and had ordered some drinks.

“Lucky’s a real pistol,” Alex said. “How’d you hook up with her?”

“Before I went to Justice, I was in private practice. I handled the trusts and estates work when her husband died. We became friends, and she eventually asked me to come live with her. I said no at first, but she kept asking, and Mr. Right had failed miserably to show up at my door in the meantime. I pay rent for the carriage house,” she added quickly. “Lucky’s a very interesting person. She’s someone who’s been everywhere, knows everybody. But she’s lonely too. Old age doesn’t go down well with someone like her. She’s so alive, and she wants to do everything she used to do; but she really can’t anymore.”

“From what I saw she’s doing a pretty damn good job of trying,” he replied. “So why’d you jump to the government side?”

“Nothing too original. I got burned out on the billable hour treadmill. And you’re not going to change the world doing T and E law.”

“So what do you do at Justice to change the world?”

“I’m into a fairly new thing actually. After Gitmo Bay and treatment of POWs at Abu Ghraib, the Salt Pit and other places, Justice formed a new group to enforce the civil rights of prisoners deemed to be of a highly political nature as well as foreign combatants, and to investigate any crimes against those class of persons.”

“Well, judging from what I read in the papers, you must keep pretty busy.”

“The U.S. overall has an excellent record when it comes to treatment of POWs and persons listed as foreign combatants, but the longer the war against terrorism goes on, the more tempting it is for our guys to stoop to the other side’s level. After all, they’re only human, and they might come to view the person sitting across from them as someone not worthy of any rights at all.”

“But that doesn’t excuse them breaking the law.”

“No, it doesn’t. And that’s where people like me come in. I’ve been to the various war zones six times in the last two years. Unfortunately, it’s not getting much better.”

“It looks like Carter Gray has started counterpunching well.”

Kate sat back and sipped on the glass of red wine she’d ordered. “I have mixed feelings about that. I feel for him personally and his loss on 9/11. I think that’s the only reason he came back into the government sector. But I’m not convinced it was a good thing. ”

“What do you mean?” Alex asked.

“I know he’s gotten extraordinary results. I wonder if he employs extraordinary means to achieve them. For example, we’ve had real problems with rendition.”

“I’ve heard that’s quite a political football.”

“It’s no wonder with the way the procedure works. Suspected terrorists are transferred from the U.S. to other countries or vice versa without any legal processing or access by the International Red Cross. When we transfer prisoners out to other countries, verbal assurances are first required from the receiving country that the transferees won’t be subjected to torture. Well, the problem is there’s no way to verify that torture doesn’t occur. And in fact, it seems clear that the torture often
does
happen. On top of that, because such torture in the U.S. is illegal, some think NIC and CIA are actively involved in rendering prisoners to other countries so that torture can be used as a tool to get useful information. They’ll even get the receiving country to trump up charges against a suspect so he can be jailed, interrogated and often tortured. That’s against everything that America stands for.”

“Well, after seeing the place firsthand, I believe NIC is capable of pretty much anything.”

“So I take it your looking into that man’s death isn’t going all that well?”

Alex hesitated and then decided it wouldn’t hurt to come clean. He told her about his uncomfortable “chat” with the director of the Secret Service and about being busted back to protection detail.

“I’m so sorry, Alex.” She reached over and touched his hand.

“Hey, I set myself up for it. Gray plays in the big leagues, and having your own partner rat you out doesn’t help. I guess I was outclassed.” He took a drink of his cocktail. “Your martinis are much better,” he said, smiling.

She clinked her glass against his. “I knew I liked you.”

His expression grew serious. “I should’ve stuck to my original plan: with three years to go to finish off my twenty, put it on cruise control and don’t rock the boat.”

“You don’t strike me as a ‘cruising’ sort of person,” Kate replied.

He shrugged. “Look, let’s cut the shoptalk. Tell me more about yourself. That’s what first dates are for.”

She sat back and picked at a piece of bread in front of her. “Well, I’m an only child. My parents live in Colorado. They’ll tell you we’re descended from the Massachusetts Adamses, but I’m not sure I buy that. My dream was to be a world class gymnast. And I worked my guts out for it. Then I grew six inches in one year, and there went that dream. Right after high school I decided I wanted to be a croupier in Vegas. Don’t ask why, I just did. I enrolled in a course, passed with flying colors and took off for Sin City. But it didn’t last too long. I had a teeny problem with drunken high rollers thinking they could grab my butt whenever they wanted. After a few of them lost teeth, the casino suggested I head back East. When I started college, I decided to bartend to pay for it, and then I continued pouring drinks when I went to law school. At least with that occupation you have solid wood between you and the resident animals. And as you deduced earlier, I also play the piano. I earned money teaching it to help pay for school. I don’t need to keep bartending, but honestly I like to. It’s an outlet for me and you meet a lot of fascinating people at the LEAP bar.”

“Gymnast, croupier, bartender, piano-playing defender of truth and justice. That’s pretty damn impressive.”

“Sometimes I think it’s far more dysfunctional than it is impressive. So how about you?”

“Nothing too exciting. I grew up in Ohio. Youngest of four and the only son. My dad was an auto parts salesman by day, but by night he was the second coming of Johnny Cash.”

“Really?”

“Well, he wanted to be anyway. I think he had the largest collection of Cash memorabilia outside of Nashville. Always dressed in black, played a wicked acoustical guitar, pretty good pipes. I learned guitar so I could play with him. We even went out on the road together, playing some of the best hole-in-the-walls in the Ohio Valley. We weren’t great but we weren’t bad either. It was a blast. Then his four-pack-a-day habit caught up to him. The lung cancer took him in six months. My mom lives in a retirement village in Florida. My sisters are scattered around the country.”

“So what made you want to play the human shield?”

Alex took another drink and his look became somber. “I saw the Zapruder film clip of Kennedy’s assassination when I was twelve years old. I remembered thinking that something like that should never happen again. I’ll never forget the image of Agent Clint Hill jumping on the limo, pushing Mrs. Kennedy back into her seat. A lot of people at the time thought she was part of the conspiracy to kill the president, or else condemned her because they thought she was just trying to get away from all the blood on her, even if it was her husband’s. What she was actually doing was trying to retrieve the piece of her husband’s head that had gotten blown off.”

He finished his drink before continuing. “I met Clint Hill at a Secret Service function. He was an old guy by then. Everybody wanted to shake his hand. I told him how honored I was to meet him. He was the only guy to react when it happened. He helped Mrs. Kennedy, and he put his body between her and whoever was shooting at them. I told him if the time came, I hoped I did as well as he’d done. You know what he said to me?”

He looked up to see her gaze directly on him; Kate Adams seemed to be holding her breath. “What did he say?” she prompted.

“He said, ‘Son, you don’t want to be like me. Because I lost my president.’”

There was a long silence and finally Alex broke it. “I can’t believe that I’m sitting here dishing out this depressing crap. I’m not really like that.”

“With the day you had I’m surprised you didn’t bag tonight.”