The Camel Club (19 page)

“They destroy my country! They say Iraq is united with Al Qaeda and Taliban. That is insane. Hussein and bin Laden were mortal enemies; we all know that. And fifteen of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers, they are Saudis. Yet I do not see American tanks roll down streets of Riyadh, only Baghdad.”

“Deposing a man they helped keep in power, I know. But Iraq doesn’t own a chunk of America as the Saudis do. Besides, all ‘great’ civilizations slaughter others who stand in their way. You can talk to the American Indians about that one. But if you want to hear about Muslim cruelty against other Muslims, go see the Kurds.”

“You tell me this. You tell me this now! Why? Why!”

Captain Jack’s voice was calm but still very firm. “Because the anger you mistake for passion is the one thing that could destroy all that we’ve worked for. I need you to focus, not hate. Hate makes you do irrational things. I do not tolerate irrational thinking, do you understand me?”

There was silence.

“Do you?”

Djamila finally said, “Yes.”

“The plan has changed. It’s actually a little cleaner now. I want you to listen very carefully. And then you will practice this new routine, over and over until you can do it in your sleep.”

When he finished telling her of the new details, she said, “Like you say, it is easier. It is the way I would go to the Franklins’ house.”

“Exactly. But we have to account for everything. On
that
day, if the Franklins’ routine varies for any reason, and it may, because presidents don’t come to town every day, someone will be standing by. You remember what you have to say?”

“‘A storm is coming,’” Djamila answered. “But I do not think it will be necessary.”

“But if it
is
necessary, then it will be done.” He said this sternly, in Arabic.

She hesitated, then asked, “And if the storm comes?”

“Then you will do what you were brought here to do. But if they catch up to you”—he paused—“you will have your reward. As a
fida’ya.
”

Djamila smiled as she gazed at a point in the cloudy sky where a bit of the sun was easing through. No one had ever referred to her as a
fida’ya
before.

She was still staring at this spot when Captain Jack left.

He’d learned enough.

CHAPTER
28

"I
THOUGHT THE CASE WAS
closed,” Jackie Simpson said as she and Alex drove away from WFO in his car.

“I never said that.”

“The Bureau found the drugs; you filed your report. You said you were going back to catching counterfeiters and standing post. I remember it pretty clearly because it’s when you also gave me that fabulous career advice.”

“I got a call from Anne Jeffries last night. She said the drugs were bullshit. She threatened to sue us.”

“She’s full of crap. And she can’t sue us for doing our job. Hell, it’s not like we planted the heroin in Johnson’s house.”

Alex glanced over at her. “But what if someone else did?”

She stared back at him skeptically. “Planted drugs? Why?”

“That’s for us to find out. Right from the get-go this case hasn’t made sense.”

“It makes perfect sense if you accept the fact that Patrick Johnson made a ton of money dealing drugs; he was getting married and didn’t see a way out.”

“If he didn’t see a way out, why did he agree to get married in the first place?”

“Maybe despite her dowdy looks, little Annie is Superwoman in bed and wouldn’t give it up anymore without a ring on her finger. So he pops the question and then has second thoughts. He feels trapped and decides the only way out is to bite the bullet.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“You don’t know a lot about women, do you?”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning that being only a man’s lust repository gets a little old after a while. Women want permanent relationships of the diamond variety. Men want conquests.”

“Thanks for stereotyping the entire human race; it was very informative.”

“Well, here’s another theory for you: Johnson was dealing drugs, but with his marriage he wanted to quit the business. It’s not the sort of business you just walk away from. As a wedding gift his associates gave him a bullet instead of a toaster.”

“On the island where he had his first date? How would they have known?”

“Maybe from Anne Jeffries, the lady who is now protesting so much that her sweetie was never involved in drugs.”

“So she’s lying to us?”

“She’s either incredibly stupid or else she knew about the drugs.”

“So if she had no problem with it, why would he kill himself?”

“Maybe he wanted to walk away from the business, but
she
didn’t want him to.”

Alex shook his head. “So now in cahoots with the druggies, she kills her fiancé?”

“It’s as plausible as your theory.”

“I don’t think Anne Jeffries could tell the difference between a kilo of heroin and a box of sugar even if we shoved them down her throat.”

“Whatever.” Simpson folded her arms across her chest. “So where are we going?”

“Remember the two guys we met out at Roosevelt Island, Reinke and Peters? I called them. They’ve finished the handwriting analysis, and I thought we could go learn those results, get our note back and then snoop around.”

She exclaimed, “Snoop around! Did you know that when the president goes to NIC, the Secret Service isn’t even allowed on certain floors with him because our security clearances aren’t high enough?”

“Yeah, I know. That still pisses me off,” Alex said.

“So what do you expect to find out there?”

“As part of our investigation we need to know what Johnson did at NIC.”

“What happened to the man who didn’t want to screw up his last three years?”

Alex stopped the car at a red light and looked over at her. “If I’m afraid to screw up, then I should just turn in my badge right now. And since I’m not willing to do that . . .”

“And this wonderfully patriotic epiphany just hit you?”

“Actually, an old friend pointed it out to me last night.”

The light turned green and they started off again. He glanced over at her, and that’s when he suddenly noticed it, because she’d unbuttoned her jacket.

“That’s a SIG .357.”

She didn’t look at him. “My other gun was a little heavy.”

Alex also noted that she was not wearing her usual flashy breast pocket handkerchief.

They were passing through western Fairfax County on Route 7 when Simpson finally spoke again. “I had dinner with my father last night.”

“And how is the good senator?”

“Enlightened,” she answered tersely.

Alex wisely kept his mouth shut.

When they pulled up to the main security entrance at NIC, Alex surveyed with awe the sprawling complex that lay ahead.

“What the hell is NIC’s budget?”

“It’s classified, like ours,” Simpson answered.

It took them nearly an hour to clear security, and even then, despite their protests, they had to turn over their weapons. The two were escorted through the halls by a pair of armed guards and an inquisitive Doberman that kept sniffing at Alex’s pant leg.

“Let’s not forget we’re all on the same team, little fellow,” Alex said jokingly to the dog.

The guards didn’t even crack a smile.

The two Secret Service agents were deposited in a small room and told to wait. And they waited. And waited.

“Is it my imagination, or did we cross into a foreign country back there?” Alex said sourly as he balled up a piece of paper and missed a three-pointer aimed at the wastebasket.

“
You’re
the one who wanted to come here,” his partner snapped. “I’ve got a full caseload back at WFO that I could be working on to build
my
career.”

Before Alex could answer, the door opened, and in walked Tyler Reinke followed closely by Warren Peters.

“Long time no see,” Alex said as he made a protracted show of checking his watch. “I’m glad you two could finally make it.”

“Sorry about the wait,” Reinke said casually. He pulled out a piece of paper, and they all sat at the small table in the center of the room.

“The handwriting on the note matches Johnson’s,” Reinke said. “No doubt about it.” He passed across the analysis for the Secret Service agents to examine.

“No surprise there,” Alex said. “Where’s the note?”

“In the lab.”

“Okay.” Alex waited, but neither of the men said anything. “I’ll need it back.”

“Right, fine,” Peters said.

“It might take a little time,” Reinke added.

“I was hoping you’d say that, because we wanted to look around Johnson’s office and talk to some of his co-workers. Get a feel for the stuff he was working on.”

The men looked at him blankly. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Peters said.

“Guys, this is a homicide investigation. I need a little cooperation.”

“As far as cooperation goes, we ran the handwriting analysis for you. Besides, it looks pretty clear that the man committed suicide. That’s the Bureau’s conclusion too.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Alex shot back. “And investigating a person’s workplace is standard for this sort of case.”

“Patrick Johnson’s work area is restricted to the highest security clearance levels,” Reinke said firmly. “No exceptions. Your clearances aren’t good enough. I checked.”

Alex leaned forward and eyed Reinke. “I guarded the president of the United States for five years. I worked on the Joint Anti-Terrorism Task Force while you were still banging cheerleaders in college. I’ve stood post at meetings of the Joint Chiefs where they talked about stuff this country is doing that would make both of you crap in your Brooks Brothers pants.”

“Your security clearances aren’t adequate,” Reinke reiterated.

“Then we have a big problem,” Alex said. “Because I’ve been assigned to investigate this case. Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

“Meaning what?” Peters asked.

“Meaning I can get a warrant to search Johnson’s workplace and talk to his colleagues, or you can just let me do it, security clearance
inadequacy
notwithstanding.”

Reinke smiled and shook his head. “There’s not a court in this country that would issue a search warrant for these premises.”

“What, you’re playing the national security card?” Alex said scornfully.

“Secret Service uses it all the time,” Peters retorted.

“Not for something like this. And let me remind you that the Department of Homeland Security is my boss now, not wimp-ass Treasury.”

“Right. And the director of Homeland Security reports to Carter Gray.”

“Bullshit, they’re both cabinet secretaries.”

Simpson cut in. “Are you guys finished seeing whose penis is bigger? Because this is getting pretty stupid.”

The door opened, and both Reinke and Peters shot to their feet.

Carter Gray stood there gazing at them. Alex watched in stunned silence as Gray walked over and gave Simpson a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“You’re looking lovely as always, Jackie. How are things?”

“I’ve had better days,” she answered, and then gave Alex a scowl before turning back to Gray. “This is my partner, Alex Ford.”

Gray nodded. “Good to meet you, Alex.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Simpson said, “I had dinner with Dad last night.”

“The senator needs to go deer hunting again with me. The last time I bagged a six-pointer. Haven’t had a damn bit of luck since.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“What can we do for you?”

She told him about wanting to look around Patrick Johnson’s office.

“I told them they lacked the necessary security clearances, sir,” Reinke interjected.

“I’m sure you did.” Gray glanced at Simpson. “Come on, Jackie, I’ll walk you down there myself.” He looked back at Reinke and Peters. “That’ll be all,” he said tersely. The two men instantly fled the room.

As Gray led them down the hall, Alex whispered into Simpson’s ear, “Jesus, you didn’t tell me you knew Carter Gray.”

“You never asked.”

“So how do you know him?”

“He’s my godfather.”

CHAPTER
29

W
HILE
A
LEX AND
S
IMPSON WERE
trying to make some headway at NIC, Oliver Stone was playing chess in a park near the White House. His opponent, Thomas Jefferson Wyatt, known universally as T.J., was an old friend who had worked in the kitchen at the White House for almost forty years.

T.J. was a member of the congregation of United Methodist that owned Mt. Zion Cemetery. It was T.J. who helped Stone get the caretaker’s job there.

Weather permitting, Stone and Wyatt would often play chess on Wyatt’s day off. In fact, it was through chess that the men became friends.

Stone made a move without his usual deliberation, and the adverse result was swift as Wyatt captured his queen.

“You okay, Oliver?” Wyatt asked. “Not like you to make mistakes like that.”

“Just some things on my mind, T.J.” He sat back against the park bench and gazed keenly at his friend. “It looks like your current boss will be around for another four years.”

Wyatt shrugged. “From the kitchen one president looks a lot like another, Republican or Democrat. They all eat. But don’t get me wrong. He’s doing an okay job. He treats us good, gives us respect. Gives respect to the Secret Service too; not all of them do, you know. You think you’d treat people willing to take a bullet for you pretty good.” Wyatt shook his head. “Things I’ve seen on that score make you sick.”

“Speaking of the Secret Service, I saw Agent Ford last night.”

Wyatt brightened. “Now, that’s a good man. I told you after Kitty died and I had pneumonia he came to my house to check on me almost every day he was in town.”

“I remember.”

Stone moved one of his bishops forward and said, “I saw Carter Gray land at the White House yesterday.”

“Secret Service don’t like that one bit. Chopper coming in should only be Marine One with the man on it and that’s all.”

“Carter Gray’s status allows him to make his own rules.”

Wyatt grinned, hunched forward and lowered his voice. “Got some scuttlebutt on him you’ll get a kick out of.”

Stone eased forward. Their chess matches sometimes included snatches of relatively innocuous gossip. White House domestic staff tended to have long tenures at the White House, and they were famous for both meticulous attention to their duties and, more important for the First Family, their discretion. It had taken Stone years to get Wyatt comfortable enough to discuss anything that happened at the White House, however trivial.

“The president asked Gray to go up to New York with him on 9/11, you know, for his big speech at the memorial site.” Wyatt paused and looked around at a passerby.

“And?” asked Stone.

“And Gray flat turned him down.”

“That’s a little brazen, even for Gray.”

“Well, you know what happened to his wife and daughter, right?”

“Yes.” Stone had met Barbara Gray decades ago. She was an accomplished woman even back then, with a compassion that her husband had never possessed. Stone had instantly respected her, later faulting the lady only for her poor choice in husbands.

“Then the president asked Gray to go up with him to that town in Pennsylvania, the place that changed its name to Brennan.”

“And is he?”

“You don’t turn down the man twice, right?”

“No, you don’t,” Stone agreed.

Both men fell silent as Wyatt studied the board and then made his move, edging his rook toward Stone’s knight.

While Stone considered his options, he said, “I see that Gray has some problems of his own to deal with. This fellow Patrick Johnson who was found dead on Roosevelt Island, he worked for NIC.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s been making the rounds at the big house.”

“The president’s concerned?”

“He and Gray are real tight. So dirt hits Gray, it’s bound to splash on the president. The man’s no dummy. The president’s loyal, but he’s not stupid.” T.J. glanced around. “I’m not telling tales out of school. Everybody knows that.”

“I’m sure NIC and the White House have been working the media hard, because there wasn’t much in the morning news about it.”

“I know the president’s been ordering a lot of late-night snacks and coffee. Man’s going into the homestretch on the election, and he doesn’t want nothing to upset the applecart. And a dead body can upset a lot of things.”

After their chess match was finished and Wyatt had left, Stone sat and thought for a bit. So Gray was going to Brennan, Pennsylvania? That was interesting. Stone had thought it a little gutsy of the town to pull a stunt like that, but apparently, it had paid off.

He was about to leave when he saw Adelphia walking toward him, carrying two cups of coffee. She sat down and handed him one. “Now we have the café and we
chat,
” she said firmly. “Unless you have
meeting
to go to,” she added drolly.

“No, no, I don’t, Adelphia. And thank you for the coffee.” He paused and added, “How did you know I was here?”

“Like that is big secret. Where do you come when you have the game of chess? It is here you come, always it is. With that black man who works at White House.”

“I didn’t know I was that predictable in my movements,” he said, his tone somewhat annoyed.

“Men, men are always predictable. Do you like your café?”

“Very nice.” He paused and then commented, “You know, these aren’t cheap, Adelphia.”

“It is not like I drink the café a hundred times all of the days.”

“But you have money?”

Adelphia eyed his new clothes. “So? And you, you have the money.”

“I have a job. And my friends, they help me.”

“It is no one that helps
me
. I work for money, all of it.”

Stone was surprised that he’d never asked her this before. “What do you do?”

“I am seamstress for laundry place. I work when I want. They pay me good. And they give me good deal on room,” she said. “And then I can buy the café when I want.”

“It must be very rewarding to have such a skill,” Stone said absently.

They stopped talking, and their gazes idly took in other people in the small park.

Adelphia finally broke the silence. “So your match of chess, you were victor?”

“No. My defeat was based on equal parts lack of concentration and my opponent’s considerable skill.”

“My father, he was very excellent at the chess. He was a, how you say . . .” She hesitated, obviously searching for the right words in English. “My father, he was a, how you say,
Wielki Mistrz
.”

“A grand champion? No, you mean a grand
master
. That’s very impressive.”

She glanced at him sharply. “You speak Polish?”

“Just a little.”

“You have been to Poland?”

“A very long time ago,” he said, sipping his coffee and watching the breeze gently move the leaves on the trees overhead. “I take it that’s where you’re from?” he asked curiously. Adelphia had never spoken about her origins before.

“It was in Krakow that I was born, but then my family, they move to Bialystok. I was just a child, so I go too.”

Stone had been to both those cities but had no intention of telling her that. “I really only know Warsaw, and, as I said, that was a long time ago. Probably before you were born.”

“Ha, that is nice thing you say that. Even if it is a lie!” She put her coffee down on the bench and gazed at him. “It is very much younger you look, Oliver.”

“Thanks to you and your wizardry with scissors and a razor.”

“And your friends, do they not think so too?”

“My friends?” he said, glancing at her.

“I have seen them.”

He looked at her again. “Well, they’ve all come to visit me at Lafayette Park.”

“No, I mean at your
meetings
I have seen them.”

He tried not to look concerned at her stunning words. “So you followed me to my
meetings
? I hope they weren’t too boring.”
What has she seen or heard?

She looked coy and, as though she’d read his thoughts, said, “It might have been things I hear, or it might not.”

“When was that?” he asked.

“So finally it is I have your attention.” She edged closer to him and actually patted his hand. “Do not worry, Oliver, I am not spy. I see things but I do not hear. And the things I see, well, they stay with me always. Always they do.”

“It’s not like we have anything worth overhearing or seeing.”

“It is truth you seek, Oliver?” she said, smiling. “Like your sign say, it is truth you want. I can tell. You are such a man who seeks this.”

“I’m afraid as the years go by, my chances of actually finding it are fewer and fewer.”

Adelphia suddenly glanced over at a person who was staggering through the park. Anyone who had been on the streets of Washington over the last ten years had probably seen this pitiable sight. He had short stubs of bone and skin where his arms should have been. His legs were so horribly twisted that it was a miracle he could even remain upright. He was usually half-naked, even in winter. He had no shoes on. His feet were scarred and covered with sores, the toes oddly bent. His eyes were largely vacant, and a steady current of spittle slipped down his face and onto his chest. As far as anyone knew, he could not even speak. A small pouch hung from a string around his neck. Written across his tattered shirt in childlike scrawl was one word: “Help.”

Stone had given money to the man on numerous occasions and knew that he lived over a steam grate by the Treasury Department. He’d tried to help the man over the years, but his mind was simply too far gone. If any government agency had stepped in to help, Stone was unaware of it.

“My God, that man, that poor man. My heart, it bursts for his suffering,” Adelphia said. She raced over to him, pulled out some dollars from her pocket and placed them in his pouch. He babbled something at her and then staggered off to another group nearby, who also immediately opened their pocketbooks and wallets to him.

As Adelphia was returning to her spot next to Stone, a large man stepped in front of her, blocking the way.

He said gruffly, “I don’t look as shitty as that guy, but I’m hungry and I need a drink bad.” His hair was ratty and in his face, but he wasn’t dressed that shabbily. However, the stench coming off his body in waves was overpowering.

“It is no more I have,” Adelphia answered in a frightened tone.

“You’re lying!” He grabbed her arm and yanked Adelphia toward him. “Give me some damn money!”

Before Adelphia could even cry out, Stone was beside her.

“Let her go
now
!” Stone demanded.

The man was a good twenty-five years younger than Stone and far bigger. “Get out of here, old man. This doesn’t concern you.”

“This woman is my friend.”

“I said get out of here!” He followed this with a vicious swing that caught Stone flush on the chin. He dropped to the ground, clutching his face.

“Oliver!” Adelphia screamed.

Other people in the park were yelling at the man now, and someone was running off, calling out for a policeman.

As Stone struggled to get to his feet, the man pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and pointed it at Adelphia. “Give me the money or I’ll cut you bad, bitch.”

Stone made a sudden lunge. The man let go of Adelphia and staggered back, dropping his knife. He fell to his knees, every muscle in his body trembling, and then he collapsed onto his back on the grass, writhing in agony.

Stone picked up the switchblade and then palmed the weapon in a very unusual way. He reached over and ripped open his assailant’s collar, exposing the man’s thick neck and throbbing arteries. For an instant it seemed that Stone was going to slice that neck open from ear to ear as the knifepoint edged very near a pulsing vein. There was a look in Oliver Stone’s eyes that virtually no one who had known him over the last thirty-odd years had ever seen. Yet Stone abruptly stopped and gazed up at Adelphia, who stood there staring at him, her chest heaving. At that moment it was not clear which man she feared more.

“Oliver?” she said quietly. “Oliver?”

Stone dropped the knife on the ground, rose and wiped off his pants.

“My God, you are bleeding,” Adelphia cried out. “Bleeding!”

“I’m fine,” he said shakily as he dabbed at his bloody mouth with his sleeve. That was a lie. The blow had hurt him very much. His head was bursting, and he felt sick to his stomach. He picked at something in his mouth and yanked out a tooth the man’s punch had loosened.

“You are no fine!” Adelphia insisted as she watched him.

A woman came running up to them. “The police are coming. Are you both okay?”

Stone turned to see a patrol car, its lights flashing, pull to a stop at the curb. He quickly turned to Adelphia. “I’m sure you can explain everything to the police.” This came out a little garbled because his lip was swelling.

As he staggered off, she called out to him but he didn’t turn around.

When the police came up and started asking her questions, all Adelphia could think about was what she had seen. Oliver Stone had dug his index finger into the man’s side, near the rib cage. This simple move had caused a very large, angry man to drop to the ground, helpless.

And the way Stone held the knife had struck her deeply, for a very personal reason. Adelphia had seen a man grip a knife that way only once before, many years ago in Poland. The man had been a member of the KGB, who had come to forcibly take her uncle away for speaking out against the Soviets. She had never seen her uncle alive again. His gutted body had been found in an unused well in a village twenty miles away.

As Adelphia glanced around, she gasped.

Oliver Stone had disappeared.