Stone next approached the statue of the French general Comte de Rochambeau at the southwest corner of the park. As he did so, at the adjacent intersection of Jackson Place and Pennsylvania Avenue security teams were arrayed into walls of Kevlar and submachine guns awaiting the arrival of the prime minister. As he continued on, Stone met the ganger face-to-face. The man seemed to be walking in quicksand, moving but not getting anywhere. And there was a gun under his jacket; Stone could see the awkward but familiar bump in the material even in the darkened conditions. That was ballsy, thought Stone. You didn’t come down here armed, unless you wanted a rooftop countersniper to assume the worst, with the result that your next of kin might receive an official apology after your funeral. So why would the man risk his life?
Stone gauged the potential shot trajectory from the ganger to where the prime minister would be entering Blair House. There was none, unless the ganger had a weapon that could defy the laws of physics by bending its bullets around corners.
Stone let his gaze drift to the man in the suit at the northwest corner of the park. The fellow was still examining the statue, an act that normally would take at most a minute or so. And why come here at this hour to do so anyway? Stone eyed the soft-sided briefcase the man carried. Because of the distance between them Stone could not see it clearly, but it appeared bulky enough to contain a small bomb. However, the distance between the bomber and the prime minister essentially doomed any assassination attempt.
The motorcade continued down West Executive Avenue toward Pennsylvania. Sirens and guards galore for what amounted to a half-block-long slow jog on armored wheels. They would hang a left on Pennsylvania and pull in front of the curb next to the famous long green awning that capped the main entrance to Blair House.
Stone spotted movement to the right of him from across the park. The jogger was on the go once more. Stone couldn’t be sure, but he thought the fat man was looking in the direction of the suit.
Stone’s attention next shifted to the woman. She had risen too, slipped the bag over her shoulder and set off to the north side of the park toward St. John’s Church. She was tall, Stone noted, and her clothes hung well on her long frame. He gauged her age at closer to thirty than forty, though he’d never gotten a clear look at her face because of the poor light, the distance and the many trees in between them.
His gaze swiveled again. On the other side of the park the suit was finally moving, heading northwest toward the Decatur House Museum. Stone looked behind him. The ganger was watching him now, not moving at all. Stone thought he saw the man’s index finger twitch as though on a trigger pull.
The motorcade made the turn onto Pennsylvania and stopped in front of Blair House. The door to the lead stretch popped open. These types of limo exits tended to happen fast for obvious reasons. You only remained exposed to a possible bullet fired at long or short range for as brief a time as possible. Tonight, though, swiftness did not happen.
The stocky and elegantly dressed prime minister got out slowly and, with the assistance of two aides, gingerly limped up the steps under the awning that had covered the heads of many world leaders. A bandage was wound thickly around the man’s left ankle. As he made his entrance into the building a wall of eyes looked outward to every crevice for threats. There were some British security personnel in the mix. However, the heavy lifting on this protection detail was being handled—as it always was for visiting heads of state—by the U.S. Secret Service.
Because of where Blair House was situated, Stone could not see the prime minister exit the limo on his injured limb. His focus remained on the park. The jogger was walking toward the center of the grass. Stone’s gaze shifted. The woman was nearly clear of the park. The suit was already on the sidewalk that fronted H Street.
Five more seconds passed. Then the first shot hit.
The impact of lead with the ground sent up a little geyser of dirt and grass four feet to the left of Stone. That was followed by more rounds, the slugs digging into the grass, ripping up flowerbeds, smacking against statues.
As the gunfire continued everything slowed down for Stone. His gaze rotated through the field of fire as he dropped flat to the ground. The suit and the woman were gone from his line of vision. Ganger was still behind him, but on his belly too. The poor jogger, however, was running for his life. And then he simply disappeared from Stone’s view. Vanished.
The firing stopped. Seconds of silence. Stone slowly rose. As he did so, he didn’t tense, he relaxed. Whether this saved his life or not was anyone’s guess.
The bomb detonated. The center of Lafayette Park was engulfed in smoke and flying debris. The enormously heavy Jackson statue toppled over, its Tennessee marble base cracked in half. Its reign of more than a hundred and fifty years in the park was over.
The concussive force of the explosion lifted Stone off his feet and threw him against something hard. The blow to his head made him dizzy, nauseous. For a fleeting instant he sensed debris being blown all around him. His lungs sucked in smoke, dirt and the sickening smell of the bomb residue.
As the sound of the explosion subsided it was replaced by screams, sirens, the screech of tire rubber on asphalt and more screams. But Oliver Stone never heard or witnessed any of this. He was lying facedown on the ground, his eyes closed.
CHAPTER 5
“OLIVER?”
Stone smelled the antiseptic and the latex and knew he was in a hospital. Which was far better than being dead in a morgue.
His eyelids fluttered open. He saw her face. “Annabelle?”
Annabelle Conroy, unofficial member of the Camel Club and its only known con artist, clutched his hand. She was lean and a couple inches shy of six feet with long reddish hair.
“You have to stop getting blown up,” she said.
Her tone was flippant, her look was not. She used her free hand to sweep the hair out of her face and Stone could see her eyes were puffy. Annabelle did not cry easily, but she had shed tears over him.
He touched his head where the bandage was. “Not cracked, is it?”
Annabelle said, “No. Mild concussion.”
As Stone looked around he noted that the room was fairly bursting with bodies. There was NFL-sized Reuben Rhodes on the other side of the bed, with diminutive librarian Caleb Shaw next to him. The tall Secret Service agent Alex Ford was on Annabelle’s right and looking equally concerned. Behind them Stone saw Harry Finn.
Finn said, “When I heard about the bomb going off at the park, I knew you had to be in the middle of it somehow.”
Stone slowly sat up. “So what happened?”
Alex answered. “They’re still trying to figure it out. Gunfire and then the explosion.”
“Anyone else hurt? British PM?”
“In Blair before the explosion. No one was shot.”
“With all the gunfire it’s remarkable no one was hit.”
“More like a miracle.”
“No theories?” Stone asked, looking at Alex.
“Not yet. The park is a mess. Locked down tight as I’ve ever seen it.”
“But the PM?”
Alex nodded. “Preliminarily, he was the target.”
“But a pretty poor attempt, then,” said Reuben. “Since the explosion and gunfire happened at a park he wasn’t in.”
Stone eyed Alex again. “Rebuttal to that?” he asked slowly. With each word he spoke his head hurt even worse. Thirty years ago he could have shrugged this off and kept moving forward. Not now.
“Like I said, it’s early yet. But I’ll admit that’s a major puzzler. Not a good day for the PM all around.”
“What do you mean?” asked Stone.
“He twisted his ankle. Moving pretty slow.”
“You know this firsthand?”
“He took a tumble on some interior steps at the White House before the d
inner started. Little embarrassing for the guy. Fortunately, media cameras don’t roll inside that part of the building.”
Annabelle asked, “What were you doing at the park last night? I thought you were still in Divine, Virginia, with Abby.”
Stone looked out the window and saw that it was morning. “I came back,” he said simply. “And Abby stayed there.”
“Oh,” said Annabelle in a disappointed tone, but her look was actually one of relief.
He turned back to Alex. “There were four people in the park last night besides me. What happened to them?”
Alex looked around the room before clearing his throat. “Unclear.”
“Unclear as in you don’t know or you can’t tell us?” said Stone.
Annabelle gave the Secret Service agent a fierce look. “Oliver was almost killed, Alex.”
Alex sighed. He had never mastered the art of balancing professional secrecy with the Camel Club’s constant demands for intelligence on mostly classified matters. “They’re reviewing the video feeds and debriefing the human eyeballs on the park last night. They’re trying to put the picture together.”
“And the four other people in the park?” Stone persisted quietly.
“Four people?”
“Three men and one woman.”
“I don’t know anything about them,” replied Alex.
“Where exactly did the explosion happen? I couldn’t really tell.”
“Roughly middle of the park. Near the Jackson statue, or what’s left of it. Pieces of it along with the fence and the cannon were blown all over the park.”
“So there was significant damage?” asked Stone.
“All parts of the park were affected, but the major bomb damage was