“History not worth repeating or dredging up. None of us would look good.”
“You’re not making this easy, General.”
A smile eased across Hayes’ face. “If it were easy why would we call you in, Knox?”
“I’m not a magician. I can’t make things just appear or disappear.”
“We have the disappearing end quite well covered. All we need to find is what we need to make vanish. How about the man Gray met with on the night his home blew up?”
“The famous film director, Oliver Stone?” Knox could not hold back his smile.
“He used to have a little tent in Lafayette Park. Was there longer than anyone else. I believe his sign read, ‘I want the truth.’”
“Looking for the truth right across from the White House? Sort of like hunting for Nazis in a synagogue. You consider him important?”
“The fact that he is no longer where he used to be, yes, I consider him important.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“Not nearly enough. That’s also why I consider him somewhat important.”
“The grave being dug up at Arlington?”
“I was actually in the office on the day Carter Gray ordered that.”
“Did he say why he wanted it done?”
“He was always better at giving orders than explaining them.”
“So who was in the coffin? John Carr? Another body?”
“Neither. In fact there was nothing in the coffin.”
“So Carr might still be alive?”
“He might.”
“Was he a Triple Six? I read part of his military record. He would’ve fit the bill.”
“Take that as your working hypothesis.”
“So that would be the connection to Gray. Do you have reason to believe that Carr and Stone are one and the same?”
“I have no reason to believe that they’re not.”
“So why would Carr kill Gray and possibly Simpson?”
“Not all Triple Six personnel ended their deployment there on good terms. Carr may have been one such.”
“If so, he waited a long time to pull the trigger. And he had just been to Gray’s house. Did he have anything to do with blowing it up?”
“We don’t think so.”
“He could’ve killed Gray when he met with him.”
“Maybe he didn’t have the motivation then.”
“So what changed?”
“That’s for you to find out, Knox. There was the flag and grave marker. A clear sign, I think, that it’s connected to this John Carr and his grave being dug up.”
Knox marveled at how Hayes had gone from knowing very little and letting him find his own way in the investigation to, in a few short moments, shepherding him down the path he wanted. “I don’t disagree. The man just seemed to have done it ass-backwards.”
“Maybe he had his reasons. Regular reports, usual channels. But check back in with me tonight. If you need support, don’t hesitate. We’ll do what we can. Within limits, of course. As I said, not everyone is on the same page over this. Nothing I can do about that. Consensus in intelligence circles these days is as elusive as sectarian peace in Iraq.”
That’s reassuring. The right hand tells me to charge ahead while the left hand uses a knife to slit my throat.
Macklin pressed a button on the armrest of his seat and Knox felt the plane begin a tight bank to the right. Apparently, the flight and discussion were over.
To bolster that deduction Macklin rose without a word and made his way down the aisle to a door at the back of the plane. It clicked shut behind him.
Knox watched the clouds pass by as the plane began its descent through the Virginia sky. A half hour later he was tearing east on Interstate 66 in his Rover.
He would begin with Alex Ford and work his way through the usual suspects. But from what Hayes was both saying and leaving unarticulated, it seemed that all roads might lead right to a man named Oliver Stone.
If Stone had been a Triple Six and was good enough to take out both Simpson and Gray all these years later, Knox wasn’t sure he wanted to run into the gent. Yet those sorts of encounters just came with the territory. And Knox was still standing.
But so, apparently, was Oliver Stone.
Dangerous times indeed.
Retirement was looking better and better. If only he could survive that long.
CHAPTER 11
GREYHOUND DIDN’T TRAVEL to the vicinity of Divine, Virginia. Yet a rusting bus on wobbly wheels with the name “Larry’s Tours” crudely hand-stenciled on the side did. Stone and Danny sat in the back, next to a man who had a chicken in a crate on which he was resting his bare, swollen feet, and a woman who gave Stone far more attention than he would have liked, which included telling him her life story, all seventy-odd years of it. Fortunately, she got off before they did and was picked up by a man driving an ancient station wagon that was missing two of its doors.
They were finally let out at what Stone could only describe as the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. It made the one-horse stop Amtrak had dropped them at resemble a glittery metropolis on full throttle.
“Now what?” said Stone, shouldering his duffel while Danny clutched his small suitcase.
“Now we walk and thumb. Maybe we get lucky, maybe we don’t.”
Though it was not yet two in the morning they did get lucky and rode into Divine in the back of a pickup truck, with what the driver told them was a prizewinning hog named Luther who kept pushing his pink snout in Stone’s crotch.
In the distance Stone saw the silhouette of some massive facility. Narrow towers and three-story buildings rose into the dark sky. In the weak moonlight something glinted along the perimeter of the place.
“What’s that?” he said, pointing.
“Some place you never want to end up. Dead Rock. Supermax prison.”
“Why do they call it Dead Rock?”
“It’s built on the site of an old coal mine where about thirty years
ago twenty-eight miners lost their lives in a cave-in. Their bodies are still in there somewhere ’cause they could never get to them. So they just sealed it up. They send the scum of the scum to Dead Rock. Least that’s the official story. Hell on earth.”
“You know somebody in that place?”
Danny looked away without answering.
Stone continued to stare at the complex until they rounded a curve and it disappeared from his view. He realized that the glint he’d seen must’ve come from the moonlight bouncing off the slash-your-ass wire that surrounded the place.
After the truck dropped them off their transportation became their own feet. Divine was still mostly dark at this hour, but Stone could see lights here and there as they trudged down the street. A truck passed them going east. And then another followed. And then another. Stone saw eight in all. Through the dirty truck windows Stone spied lean silhouettes of the drivers as they hunched over their steering wheels, cigarettes dangling between fingers, the windows cracked to let the white cancer-causing vapor escape into the frosty air. All around him he could sense the shadows of the nearby mountains, darker even than the night.