Stone didn’t answer. He just left the room, left the WFO, hit the streets and kept walking. The night air was crisp, the sky cloudless. There was snarled traffic and honking over near the Verizon Center because some event was going on there.
As he walked along, Stone thought of the last few moments he’d been with Tom Gross. He hadn’t really focused on the man’s safety. He’d wanted to go after John Kravitz. In truth, he’d believed that he was keeping Gross safer by going after the alleged bomber at his home berth and leaving Gross behind. It had never occurred to him that they would attack at the tree farm and kill Kravitz. They definitely had manpower and intelligence and nerve. A formidable combination.
A sudden thought struck him and he called the number Riley Weaver had left for him. He wanted to know if Weaver had a list of the events that had been scheduled at Lafayette Park. If there was a lead in that list, Stone wanted to run it down. Someone answered the phone. Stone identified himself and asked for Weaver. The man put him on hold but was back within ten seconds.
“Please don’t call this number again.”
The line went dead and Stone slowly put his phone back in his pocket. The explanation for that brusque putdown was easy. Weaver knew that Stone had screwed up and cost an FBI agent his life. Because of that, Stone was off the cooperation list with NIC now. And forever.
As he passed block after block, his focus continued to deepen, even as the D.C. nightlife went on all around him. Runners along the Mall, tourists with maps in hand, partiers packed in groups heading to the next entertainment and office-dwelling men and women in suits lugging thick briefcases and burdened with weary countenances as they trudged home, probably to keep working.
Taking out Kravitz made perfect sense if he were involved in the bombing. One less mouth to betray the people behind it. They must have staked out the trailer park and were there ready to kill the man when Stone had shown up. But there was an alternative theory that if true was far more disquieting.
They knew we were coming.
In order to do that, they either would have needed to follow them or been ahead of them. Both scenarios carried serious implications and also the possibility of a mole in their ranks. But why the tree farm? Had Lloyd Wilder been involved as well? If so, the man was a consummate actor. The woman in the office? A long shot.
Tom Gross? But why take him out? He was the lead investigator, but he would simply be replaced with another. And the murder of an FBI agent would only result in the formidable Bureau tripling its already heightened effort to find those behind the Lafayette Park incident. It made no sense at all. None.
He arrived at his destination, flashed his badge to gain admittance and entered Lafayette Park. At least his credentials hadn’t been pulled. Yet. He sat on a bench, surveyed the surroundings where the investigative work was still going on. His mind swirled with recent events, not one bit of it solidifying into something useful. It was just mist, vapor. As soon as he focused on something promising, it vanished.
His gaze shifted to the White House across the street. The bombing had no doubt popped the president’s bubble of safety that he believed he had here. Every security force involved in defending this bit of earth had suffered a hard blow to their professional egos.
Hell’s Corner, Stone thought, was indeed living up to its name.
When he looked up he saw the man approaching. A part of him was surprised, but another part was not. He drew a long breath and waited.
CHAPTER 37
THE CAMEL CLUB MINUS ITS LEADER sat around Caleb Shaw’s condo in Alexandria, Virginia, overlooking the Potomac River. Caleb had just finished serving tea and coffee to everyone except Reuben. The big man had brought his own hip flask with something presumably stronger in it than Earl Grey or Maxwell House.
Annabelle was dressed in a black skirt, loafers and a jean jacket. She spoke first and her tone was blunt. “How bad is it, Alex?”
Alex Ford, still wearing a suit and tie from his workday, leaned forward on the hassock, took a sip of coffee and said, “Pretty bad. An FBI agent is dead along with three other people, including at least one bombing suspect.”
“And they’re blaming Oliver?” asked Caleb with an air of indignation.
“Yes,” Alex said. “Whether rightly or wrongly. I told Oliver that there were many people unhappy with him being involved in this case, and now it’s come home to roost.”
Harry Finn was leaning against the wall. He’d finished his coffee and put his cup down. “Meaning making a scapegoat out of Oliver is a great way to kick him off the case?”
“Right. Although knowing Oliver, he probably does blame himself for what happened.”
Reuben growled, “You go after terrorists, people can get hurt. And they damn well asked him back into the fold, not the other way around.”
“That’s what’s so infuriating, Alex,” said Annabelle. “He didn’t have to do this at all. Now he’s in there risking his life and they blame him for someone getting killed.”
Alex spread his hands. “Annabelle, don’t be naïve. This is Washington. There’s nothing fair about any of it.”
She flung her long hair out of her face. “That makes me feel so much better.”
Caleb spoke up. “But what will happen now?”
“An investigation is being conducted. Two of them, actually. The search for the terrorists goes on, obviously. But now there will be a secondary inquiry regarding what happened that led to the death of Agent Gross and the others. To determine if there’s any evidence of negligence or wrongdoing.”
“With respect to Oliver, you mean,” interjected Annabelle.
“Yes.”
“What might happen to him, worst case?” asked Caleb.
“Worst case? He might go to prison depending on how it plays out. But that’s unlikely. He might be kicked off the case. That’s far more likely. Even with his friends in high places, no one can stand that heat for long. Especially if the media starts riding that horse right into the ground.”
“This is a nightmare,” said Caleb. “If the media does enter the fray then they’ll start investigating Oliver and his past.”
“The man doesn’t have a past, at least officially,” noted Reuben in a deep grumble.
“Exactly,” said Caleb. “That’s my point. They will be relentless in trying to find out exactly who he is.”
“The government won’t want that,” said Alex.
Reuben nodded in a knowing fashion. “He knows too damn much. A lot of stuff that would be embarrassing if it came out now.”
Annabelle said, “Triple Six stuff, you mean?”
“Exactly.”
“You… you don’t think the government… might try to silence him?” she said in a halting voice.
Caleb looked incredulous. “This isn’t the Soviet Union, Annabelle. We don’t assassinate our own people.”
Annabelle glanced at Alex, who quickly looked away. She said, “All right. He’s helped all of us in one way or another. Which begs the question of why we’re here debating whether to help him or not.”
“That’s not the question,” Alex said. “The question is, by trying to help him will we make it even worse for him?”
“How is that possible?” she asked. “Right now he has everyone against him. He needs us. We’re all he has left.”
“He made his position on that pretty clear,” said Alex. “He doesn’t want our help.”
“Only because he doesn’t want us in danger,” she shot back. “And speaking for myself, that’s not a good enough reason.”
She rose. “So I’m going to help him, whether he wants that help or not.”
CHAPTER 38
JAMES MCELROY SAT DOWN next to Stone on the bench while the Brit’s security team hove
red in the background. He leaned his cane against the edge of the metal armrest.
“Chapman has filled me in on the particulars,” said McElroy.
“I’m sure.”
“She said you saved her life.”