The Camel Club (24 page)

There was a murmur of appreciation around the room at the skill of their opponents. It was an interesting reaction in the face of what he was telling them. He couldn’t allow them to choose between life and death when the time came. Captain Jack simply wanted them to act, just as the Secret Service trained their people. And each man had to understand that the forfeit of his life was the price to be expected for being a part of this historic day for Islam.

“As you know, the bullets that hit you will instantly carry you to paradise. You will have more than earned such a reward.” He said this part to them in Arabic.

Captain Jack now looked at each of the fedayeen. He had given them that title as one of honor. The Arabic term was
fida’i
and originally meant “adventurer.” Now it usually referred to Arab guerrilla fighters or to “men of sacrifice.” It was likely that all of Captain Jack’s men on the ceremonial grounds would perish, and thus they should have all been called by that title. However, some of Captain Jack’s men would unquestionably die. And thus their colleagues had not begrudged them being referred to as the fedayeen during the course of this mission.

After the briefing Captain Jack led them downstairs to a room that had been soundproofed by its former owner and used as a recording studio. That was another reason Captain Jack had leased the house, although the weapons they would be using wouldn’t be making that much noise. Here a firing range had been set up, and the men were given their guns and ordnance. For the next two hours they practiced on their targets, with Captain Jack throwing in unexpected disruptions via sound and video equipment, because it would be complete chaos when the real firing started.

Although Adnan al-Rimi would not be at the dedication grounds, he’d attended this meeting because he was a man who insisted on knowing everything that had to do with a mission. He had fought side by side with Captain Jack in the Middle East, and the American trusted Adnan as well as he trusted anyone.

Adnan was standing behind the Iranian named Ahmed, who lived in the apartment with the two Afghans, across from Mercy Hospital, and was working on the vehicle at the garage. Ahmed wouldn’t be at the dedication grounds either but, like Adnan, he had insisted on attending the meeting tonight. Ahmed kept muttering to himself. Something he said caught Adnan’s attention but the Iraqi didn’t show surprise. He spoke to Adnan in Arabic.

“My language is Farsi,” Ahmed answered. “If you wish to speak to me, do it in Farsi, Adnan.”

Adnan didn’t answer him. He didn’t like the young man commanding him to speak “his” language. Iranians, Adnan had long ago concluded, were a very different breed of Muslims. He moved away from the younger man. However, his gaze continually returned to him, and his ear to the Iranian’s angry words.

A half hour after the last of his men had left, Captain Jack drove to downtown Pittsburgh. The man he was meeting was waiting for him in the lobby of the city’s priciest hotel. The gentleman looked a little jet-lagged after the long flight. They rode the elevator to a suite overlooking the city skyline.

Though the man was fluent in English, he opened the conversation in his native Korean. Captain Jack answered him, in Korean.

As Captain Jack chatted with his North Korean colleague, he thought of a quote from a man he much admired. “Know your enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril.” The Chinese general Sun Tzu had written those words in a book titled
The Art of War
. Though centuries old, the advice still held true today.

CHAPTER
38

S
TONE AND
M
ILTON HAD TO
look twice as the motorcycle pulled to a stop in front of them at Union Station. Reuben lifted up his goggles and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.

“Reuben, what happened to your pickup truck?” an amazed Stone asked.

“Found this baby in a junkyard, if you can believe it. Spent the last year fixing it up.”

“What is it?” Stone asked.

“It’s a 1928 Indian Chief motorcycle with sidecar,” Milton answered promptly.

“How the hell did you know that?” Reuben said, glaring at him.

“I read about it in an article six and a half years ago in
Antique Motorcycle Magazine
while I was waiting at the dentist. I was there for a crown prep.”

“A crown prep?” Reuben asked.

“Yes, it involves isolation with rubber sheeting and drilling to shave off the enamel, which leaves a post of dentin approximately two millimeters in diameter, but without exposing the nerve. The permanent crown is made of porcelain. It’s quite nice. See?” He opened his mouth and showed them.

Reuben said impatiently, “Thank you for the bloody dental lesson,
Dr
. Farb.”

“Oh, there’s hardly any blood, Reuben,” replied Milton, who’d entirely missed the sarcasm in his friend’s remark.

Reuben sighed and then proudly ran his gaze over the pin-striped candy-apple-red motorcycle with attached sidecar. “A thousand cc power plant, rebuilt transmission and magneto. The sidecar’s not authentic; it’s a fiberglass replica, but it doesn’t rust and it’s a lot lighter. I got most of the parts off eBay, and a friend of mine had some extra cowhide leather that I used to reupholster the sidecar seat. And it’s a left-mount sidecar, which is pretty damn rare. One in this condition would sell for north of twenty grand, and I’ve only got about a tenth of that in it. Not that I’m thinking about selling, mind you, but you never know.”

He held out a black crash helmet to Stone that had goggles attached.

“Where exactly do I ride?” Stone asked.

“In the sidecar, of course. What the hell do you think it’s for? A damn flowerpot?”

Stone put on the helmet and adjusted the goggles, then opened the small door, stepped into the sidecar and sat down. It was a very cramped space for the tall man.

Reuben said, “Okay, let’s go.”

“Wait a minute!” Stone exclaimed. “Is there anything I should know about the motorcycle?”

“Yeah, if the wheel on the sidecar goes off the ground, you can start praying.”

Reuben hit the kick-starter and the motor caught. He revved it a couple of times, waved good-bye to Milton, and they sailed away from Union Station.

Reuben steered the motorcycle west on Constitution Avenue. They cut past the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, where war veteran Reuben gave a respectful salute to the wall, looped around the Lincoln Memorial and passed over Memorial Bridge, which carried them into Virginia. From there they headed south on the George Washington Parkway, which was referred to locally as the GW Parkway. As they raced along, they drew curious stares from people in vehicles they passed.

Stone found that if he angled his legs just so, he could nearly stretch them fully out. He sat back and gazed over at the Potomac River on his left, where a powerboat had just passed two crew teams racing each other. The sun was warming, the breeze inviting and refreshing, and for a few moments Stone allowed his mind a respite from the many dangers that lay ahead for the Camel Club.

Reuben pointed to a road sign and shouted over the whine of the engine. “Remember for years that sign read ‘Lady Bird Johnson
Memorial
Park’?”

“Yes. Until someone informed them she wasn’t dead,” Stone called back. “And named it after LBJ, who
is
.”

“I love the efficiency of our government,” Reuben cried. “Only took them about a decade or so to get it right. It’s a good thing I don’t pay taxes, or I’d be really ticked off.”

They both watched as a jet lifted off the runway at Reagan National Airport heading north and then did a long bank and eventually turned in the southerly direction they were traveling. A few minutes later they entered the official city limits of Old Town Alexandria, one of the most historic places in the country. It boasted not one, but two boyhood homes of Confederate general Robert E. Lee, as well as Christ Church, where the posterior of none other than George Washington had graced the pews. The town was chock-full of wealth, ancient but beautifully restored homes, rumpled cobblestone streets, wonderful shopping and eclectic restaurants, a vibrant outdoor life and an inviting waterfront area. It also was home to the federal bankruptcy court.

As they passed the court, Reuben said, “Damn place. Been through there twice.”

“Caleb knows people who can help you with your money. And I’m sure Chastity could provide valuable services to you too.”

“I’m certain sweet Chastity could service my needs, but then Milton would be really mad at me,” Reuben called out with a roguish wink. “And I don’t need help with the money I
have,
Oliver, I just need help with getting
more
of it.”

He turned left, and they pulled down a side street heading toward the river until it dead-ended at Union Street. Reuben found a parking space, and Stone extricated himself from the sidecar with some difficulty.

“What the hell happened to your face?” asked Reuben, who’d obviously just noticed these injuries.

“I fell.”

“Where?”

“In the park. I was playing chess with T.J., and then I was having coffee with Adelphia. I tripped over a tree root when we were leaving.”

Reuben grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “Adelphia! Oliver, that woman is mental. You’re lucky she didn’t drop a lethal Mickey in your java. Mark my words, one night she’s going to follow you to your cottage and slit your throat.” He paused and then added in a low voice, “Or worse, try and seduce you.” Reuben shivered, apparently at the thought of Adelphia as a seductress.

They walked past Union Street Pub and then crossed the street and headed toward a shop near the corner. The sign above the door read: “Libri Quattuor Sententiarum.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” Reuben asked, pointing at this plaque. “I know I haven’t been here in a while, but didn’t this place used to be called Doug’s Books?”

“That name wasn’t attracting the desired upscale clientele, so they changed it.”

“Li-bri Quat-tuor Senten-tiarum? That’s real catchy! What does it mean?”

“It’s Latin for ‘Four Books of Sentences.’ It was a twelfth-century manuscript by Peter Lombard that was cut up and bound around the 1526 edition of St. Thomas Aquinas’ lectures on the Epistles of Paul. Some scholars consider the Aquinas work to be the world’s rarest book. An even earlier work that was bound around that one might be even more special. Hence, it’s a very appropriate name for a rare book shop.”

“I’m impressed, Oliver. I didn’t even know you spoke Latin.”

“I don’t. Caleb told me about it. In fact, it was his idea to rename the shop. As you know, I introduced him to the shop’s owner. I thought it would be productive, given Caleb’s expertise with rare books. At first he simply advised on a few things, but now Caleb has an ownership interest in the place.”

They went inside the shop accompanied by the jangle of a bell attached to the arched, solid-oak door. Inside, the walls were equal parts exposed brick and ancient stone with worm-eaten wooden beams overhead. Tasteful oil paintings hung on the walls, and ornate bookshelves and massive armoires were bulging with ancient tomes that were all carefully labeled and housed behind glass doors.

In a separate room a pretty young woman was standing behind a small coffee bar making drinks for some thirsty customers. A sign on the wall asked customers not to enter the rare book area with their beverages.

A small, balding man came out from the back dressed in a blue blazer, slacks and a white turtleneck, his arms outstretched and a smile on his tanned face. “Welcome, welcome to Libri Quattuor Sententiarum,” he announced, the words rolling adroitly off his tongue. Then he stopped and eyed Reuben and looked at Stone.

“Oliver?”

Stone put out his hand. “Hello, Douglas. You remember Reuben Rhodes.”

“Douglas,” Reuben muttered under his breath. “What happened to ‘Doug’?”

Douglas gave Stone a prolonged hug and shook Reuben’s hand. “Oliver, you look, well, you look very different. Nice but different. I like the new style. No, I love it. Muy chic.
Bellissimo!
”

“Thank you. Caleb says that things are going well here.”

Douglas took Stone by the elbow and led them over to a quiet corner.

“Caleb is a jewel, a treasure, a miracle.”

“And here I was thinking he was just a print geek,” Reuben said with a smirk.

Douglas continued enthusiastically. “I can’t thank you enough, Oliver, for introducing Caleb to me. Business is booming. Booming! I started out selling porno comic books out of my car trunk, and now look at me. I have a condo in Old Town, a thirty-foot sailboat, a vacation house at Dewey Beach and even a 401(k) plan.”

“All through the power of the written word,” Stone said. “Remarkable.”

“Do you still sell the porn stuff?” Reuben wanted to know.

“Uh, Douglas, I need to look at my
things,
in the space Caleb arranged for me to use,” Stone said quietly.

Douglas’ face paled and he swallowed nervously. “Oh, of course, of course. Go right ahead. And if you want anything, just ask. In fact, we have some very fine cappuccino and wonderful scones today. It’s on the house, as always.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Douglas hugged Stone again and then hurried off to help a woman who’d entered the shop dressed in a full-length fur coat despite the balmy weather.

Reuben looked around at all the books. “Most of these writers probably died penniless, and he’s buying condos and boats and 401(k)s off their sweat.”

Stone didn’t answer. He opened a small door set off to the side of the shop’s entryway and led the way down a narrow staircase that emptied into the basement area. He headed along a short corridor and through an old wooden door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” He closed the door behind them and turned left down another hall. Then Stone took an old-fashioned key from his pocket and used it to open an arched door at the end of this hall, and they entered a small room that was paneled in very old wood. He flicked on a light and went over to a large fireplace that sat against one wall. While Reuben watched, Stone knelt down, reached his hand up into the inside of the fireplace and pulled on a small piece of metal attached to a short wire hanging there. There was an audible click, and a panel of the wall next to the fireplace swung open.

“Gotta love those priest’s holes,” Reuben said as he gripped the exposed panel and swung it all the way open.

Inside was a room about eight feet deep and six feet wide and tall enough for even Reuben to easily stand up in. Stone pulled a small penlight from his pocket and stepped in. Bookshelves lined all three walls. On each of these shelves were neatly stacked journals and notebooks, a few locked metal boxes and numerous cardboard boxes taped shut.

While Stone looked through the journals and notebooks, Reuben had a sudden thought. “How come you don’t keep all this stuff at your cottage?”

“This place has an alarm system. All I have guarding my cottage are dead people.”

“Well, how can you be sure that old
Douglas
doesn’t come down here and poke through your stuff when you’re not here?”

Stone kept examining the journals as he talked. “I told him that I’d booby-trapped this room and that no one other than myself could open it safely without threat of instant death.”

“And you think he believed you?”

“It doesn’t really matter. He has no personal courage, so he’ll never find out for sure. Plus, at my suggestion Caleb let some hints drop to Douglas that I used to be a homicidal maniac before my release from a hospital for the criminally insane solely on a technicality. I think that’s why he hugs me every time he sees me. Either he wants to stay on my good side or he’s checking for weapons. Ah, here we are.”

Stone pulled out an old leather-bound journal and opened it. The book was filled with newspaper clippings carefully glued to the pages. He read through it as Reuben waited impatiently. Finally, Stone closed the journal and then pulled out two other large books on a shelf. Behind these books was a leather case about eighteen inches square in size. Stone put this in his knapsack along with the journal.

On the way out Reuben got three scones from the attractive young lady in black.

“I’m Reuben,” he said, towering over her and holding in his belly.

“Good for you,” she said curtly before hurrying off.

“I think that young babe in there was rather taken with me,” Reuben said proudly as they got back to the motorcycle.

“Yes, I suppose she ran off like that to tell all her friends,” Stone replied.