The Camel Club (26 page)

“Kate, the thought of going out with you tonight was the
only
thing that got me through today.”

Alex looked a little surprised at the frankness of his words and quickly looked down, studying the exterior of his remaining martini olive.

Kate reached out and touched his hand. “I’m going to further embarrass you,” she said, “by telling you that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

The conversation turned to more innocuous subjects, and time sped by. As they were leaving, Alex muttered an expletive under his breath.

Coming in the door were Senator and Mrs. Roger Simpson and their daughter, Jackie.

Alex tried to duck by but Jackie spotted him.

“Hello, Alex,” she said.

“Agent Simpson,” Alex replied curtly.

“These are my parents.”

Roger Simpson and his wife looked like twins: very tall and fair-haired. They towered over their petite, dark-haired daughter.

“Senator. Mrs. Simpson,” Alex said, nodding at them both. Roger Simpson glared back at him so menacingly that Alex was convinced Jackie must have told him the whole story in her own biased way.

“This is Kate Adams.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Kate said.

“Well, take care, Agent Simpson. I doubt I’ll be seeing you around.”

He walked out with Adams trailing him.

As soon as they were outside, Alex blurted out, “Can you believe, of all the restaurants in this damn town—”

He broke off when Jackie Simpson popped out of Nathan’s.

“Alex, can we talk for just a minute?” She glanced anxiously at Kate. “Privately?”

“I’m pretty damn certain we have nothing to say to each other,” he shot back.

“It’ll just take a minute. Please?”

Alex looked at Kate, who shrugged and moved down the street a bit, studying the clothing in a shop window.

Simpson drew closer. “Look, I know you’re upset as hell at me. And you think I ratted you out.”

“Well, you’re batting a thousand so far.”

“It didn’t happen like that. As soon as Carter Gray left us, he must’ve called my dad. Even before he called the president. My father called and gave it to me up one side and down the other. He said I couldn’t let some maverick wreck my career before it even got started.”

“How did the director find out about my ‘old friend’?”

Simpson looked miserable. “I know, that was stupid. My father can be overwhelming. He ground it out of me.” She sighed. “My dad’s one of the most accomplished people you’ll ever meet. And my mother was a Miss Alabama, which makes her a saint down there. So being a simple detective didn’t cut it with them. They wanted me to go into business or politics. I put my foot down and said I was a cop. But they kept pushing for me to go on to a bigger pond. Just to get them off my back, I joined the Service. Dad pulled strings so I got assigned to WFO. His dream is for me to be the first female director of the Service. All I ever wanted to be was a good cop. But for them that wasn’t enough.”

“So are you going to do what your parents want your whole life?”

“It’s not that easy. He’s a man that’s used to people obeying him.” She paused and looked up at him. “But that’s
my
problem. I just wanted you to know that I’m really sorry for what happened. And I hope I get a chance to make it up to you.”

She turned and walked back inside before he could reply.

When Kate rejoined him, he explained the gist of the conversation. After he’d finished, Alex added, “Just when you think you have somebody pegged and you’re justified in hating her guts, she pulls a fast one and complicates things.” He glanced across the street and his features brightened. “Please tell me you’d like to go get some ice cream.”

She looked over at the shop across the street. “Okay, but I have to warn you I’m a minimum two-scoop sort of girl and I
don’t
share.”

“My kind of woman.”

CHAPTER
41

A
T
U
NION
S
TATION
S
TONE AND
Reuben found Caleb and Milton in the B. Dalton Bookstore. Caleb was poring over a Dickens masterpiece, while Milton was firmly entrenched in the computer magazine section.

Stone and Reuben rounded up the pair, and they all boarded the Metro, taking it to the Smithsonian station, where they rode the escalator up to the Mall.

“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Stone cautioned.

They took a stroll past the major monuments as tourists flocked around taking pictures and videos of all the sights. The Camel Club eventually reached FDR Park, where the FDR Memorial, a fairly recent addition to the Mall, was located. It covered a large area of ground and was made up of various statuary depicting significant symbols from FDR’s reign as America’s only four-term president. Stone led his friends over to a secluded section that was shielded from wandering tourists by a Depression-era breadline immortalized in bronze.

After he’d glanced around for a few moments, Stone shook his head in dissatisfaction and led them back to the subway, which they rode to Foggy Bottom. They exited and started walking. At 27th and Q Streets, NW, Stone stopped. Staring back at them was the entrance for Mt. Zion Cemetery, where Stone was the caretaker.

“Oh, no, Oliver,” Reuben complained. “Not another bloody cemetery.”

“The dead don’t eavesdrop,” Stone replied curtly as he opened the gates.

Stone led them into his cottage, where the others looked at him expectantly.

“I’ve done some research that I believe is critical to our investigation into Patrick Johnson’s murder. Thus, I hereby call this special meeting of the Camel Club to order. I propose that we discuss the topic of the recent spate of terrorists killing each other. Do I have a second?”

“I second,” Caleb said automatically, though he glanced curiously at the others.

“All in favor say aye.”

The ayes carried the motion, and Stone opened the large journal he’d brought from the rare book shop.

“Over the last eighteen months there have been numerous instances where terrorists have allegedly killed each other. I found this to be so interesting that I started keeping all the articles I could find on the subject. The last such incident involved a man named Adnan al-Rimi.”

“I read about that,” Milton said. “But why do you say
allegedly
?”

“In each instance the dead man’s face was fully or partially obliterated, either by gunshots or explosives. They had to be identified by their fingerprints, DNA and whatever else was available.”

Reuben spoke up. “But that’s just normal procedure, Oliver. When I was at DIA, we did that too, although we didn’t have DNA tests back then.”

“And we know from Reuben that NIC now controls all terrorist-related information.” Stone added, “The same information databases which Patrick Johnson helped oversee were used to identify all these dead terrorists.” He paused. “Now, what if Mr. Johnson were rigging that database somehow?”

After a long silence Milton was the first to speak. “Do you mean he might have been
manipulating
data somehow?”

“Let me put it more bluntly,” Stone replied. “What if he substituted on the NIC database the prints of the men found dead in place of the fingerprints of the terrorists the authorities thought had been killed?”

Caleb looked horrified. “Are you suggesting that someone like Adnan al-Rimi isn’t actually dead, but as far as American intelligence is concerned—”

“He
is
dead,” Stone finished for him. “His past has been wiped clean. He could go anywhere and do anything he wanted to do.”

“Like a sterilized weapon,” Reuben interjected.

“Precisely.”

“But wait a minute, Oliver,” Reuben said. “There are safeguards in place. If I remember correctly, at DIA no file alteration was allowed unless certain steps were followed.”

Stone looked over at Caleb. “They have a similar procedure at the Library of Congress Rare Books Division. For obvious reasons the person buying the books can’t input them into the database, and the converse is also true. That’s actually what made me think of this possibility. But what if you had both people in your pocket: the gatherer of the intelligence and the one assigned to put that data in the system? And what if one of them was senior? Perhaps
very
senior.”

Reuben finally sputtered. “Are you suggesting that Carter Gray is involved in this? Come on, whatever else you say about Gray, I don’t think you can reasonably question his loyalty to this country.”

“I’m not saying it’s an easy answer, Reuben,” Stone replied. “But if not Gray, then perhaps someone else who’s been turned.”

“Now, that’s more likely,” Reuben conceded.

Milton spoke up. “Well, if this is all true, why was Johnson killed?”

Stone answered. “If the two men we saw kill Patrick Johnson are with NIC, then it seems to me—given his extravagant lifestyle on a modest government paycheck—that two things might have happened. One, whoever hired him to alter the files was afraid his newfound wealth would lead to an investigation, so they killed him and planted the drugs. Or else Johnson might have gotten greedy, asked for more money and they killed him instead.”

“So what do we do now?” Milton asked.

“Staying alive would be my priority,” Reuben answered. “Because if Oliver is right, there’s going to be a lot of powerful folks looking to make sure we’re dead.”

“And Milton’s identity and home have no doubt already been compromised,” Stone said. “As for the men after us, I propose that we turn the tables on them.”

“How?” Caleb asked.

Stone closed his notebook. “We have the home address of Tyler Reinke. I suggest we follow up on that.”

“You want us to go marching right into the man’s crosshairs?” Reuben exclaimed.

“No. But there’s no reason why we can’t put him in
our
crosshairs.”

Ice cream in hand, Alex and Kate strolled down to the Georgetown waterfront near the spot where hundreds of years ago George Mason operated a ferry. Kate pointed out three boulders that were barely visible in the center of the river north of the Key Bridge and across from Georgetown University.

She said, “That’s Three Sisters Island. Legend has it three nuns drowned at that spot when their boat overturned. And then the boulders sprung up to symbolize their deaths and warn others.”

“The Potomac’s current
is
deceptively calm,” Alex added. “Not that anyone would want to swim in it these days. When it rains hard, you usually get some sewer overflow.”

“When they built Interstate 66, they were also going to build a spur off it that included a bridge across the river at that point. They were going to call it the Three Sisters Bridge, but there were so many weird construction accidents they finally gave up. Some said it was the ghosts of the nuns.”

“You believe in stuff like that?” Alex asked.

“Stranger things have happened. I mean look at some of the conspiracy theorists in this town. Most are probably crazy, but some of them turn out to be right.”

“I know a guy who falls into the category. His name’s Oliver Stone. The guy’s flat-out brilliant, if a couple paces off the sidewalk of life.”

“Oliver Stone? You’re kidding.”

“Not his real name, of course. I think it’s just his little joke aimed at people who believe he’s a quack. One of the most interesting things about him is he has no past, at least that I can find.” Alex smiled. “Maybe he’s been on the run all these years.”

“Sounds like a man Lucky would like to meet.”

“So does she still throw her underwear at dangerous men?”

“What?” a surprised Kate asked.

“Never mind.” Alex ate a spoonful of ice cream and looked over at Roosevelt Island. Adams followed his gaze.

She finally said, “So would you care to talk about it? Bartenders are great listeners.”

Alex motioned her to join him on a bench near the riverfront.

He said, “Okay, here’s what’s bugging me. The guy swims to the island and shoots himself. Does that sound likely?”

“Well, it
was
the island where he and his fiancée went on their first date.”

“Right. But why
swim
to the island? Why not just drive to it or walk? There’s a footbridge that crosses over the parkway and empties right into the parking lot of the island. And so does a bike trail. Then you jump the gate, go over to the island, get stoned and blow your brains out without schlepping through the Potomac. They found his car a good ways upriver, which means it was a long swim, in street clothes and shoes and carrying a pistol in a plastic baggie. It’s not like the guy was Mark Spitz or Michael Phelps.”

“But his prints were on the gun,” Kate retorted.

“Forcing someone’s hand around a gun and pulling the trigger isn’t that easy or smart to do,” Alex conceded. “The last thing you want is to put a gun in somebody’s hand that you’re trying to kill. But what if you got him drunk first?”

Alex pointed to his feet. “And the bottoms of his shoes bothered me.”

“How so?”

“They had dirt on them as you’d expect from walking through the brush, but there wasn’t any dirt on the ground around him. You’d think that some of that red clay would’ve ended up on the stone pavers around him. And his clothes were too clean. If you’d hiked around that island, you’d have twigs and leaves stuck all over your clothes. There was nothing like that on him. And if he had swum to the island, he would’ve had to trek through that bramble to get to the main trail.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Kate admitted.

“And the suicide note in his pocket? It was barely damp and the ink hadn’t run.”

“He probably carried it in the same plastic bag he used for the gun.”

“Then why not leave it in the baggie? Why pull it out and put it in a soaking-wet pocket that might cause the ink to run and the message to be lost? And while Johnson was wet when he was found, if he’d really swum all that way I would’ve expected him to be soggier and grimier than we found him. I mean the Potomac can get pretty foul around here.”

“But he
was
wet.”

“Yeah, but if you wanted it to seem like someone had swum all that way, what would you do?”

Kate thought for a moment. “Dunk him in the water.”

“Right, you’d dunk him in the water. And then there’s motivation. No one I talked to knew anything about Johnson dealing drugs. Hell, his fiancée was so ticked she threatened to sue me for even suggesting it might be true!”

“Like I always said, Secret Service doesn’t miss the details.”

“But come on, it’s not like we’re inherently better than the FBI with this stuff. They should’ve seen it too. I think there’s a lot of pressure from up top to put this to rest the easy way.”

“If someone brought him to the island and they didn’t want to use a car for fear of being seen, what would they do?”

As they were talking, they saw a police boat slowly pass.

Alex and Kate looked at each other and said together, “A boat!”

“That’s not something that’s easy to hide,” Alex said slowly.

Kate looked up and down the waterfront. “I’m game if you are.”

They threw their ice cream containers in the trash and headed down to the water.

It took them a solid hour, but they finally found it when Kate spotted a tip of the bow sticking out from the drainage ditch.

“Good eyes,” Alex complimented.

She slipped off her sandals and Alex his shoes and socks. He rolled up his pants, and they scrambled down there as a couple of passersby watched curiously. Alex ran his gaze over the old wooden rowboat, stopping at one point and putting his face very near the hull. “That looks like a bullet hole.”

“And that could be blood,” Kate said, pointing to a small dark patch near the gunwale.

“Which doesn’t make a lot of sense, unless they killed Johnson in the boat and then took him to the island. It was foggy that night, so I guess it could’ve been done without anyone seeing.”

“So what do you do with all this?” Kate asked.

Alex rose and pondered this. “I’d like to see if the blood matches Patrick Johnson’s or if it’s someone else’s. But if the director finds out I’ve been poking around this case again, I’m going to end up in a brand-new Service outpost in Siberia. That is, if he doesn’t kill me with his bare hands.”

“I can nose around,” Kate offered.

“No. I don’t want you anywhere near this. Some of the thoughts going through my head are downright scary. For now we’ll just have to leave it alone.”