The Camel Club (46 page)

“And now they’re trying the ploy of
not
killing us?” the bewildered moderator asked.

“Precisely,” the smug pundit answered.

Brennan had received a copy of the kidnappers’ demands and spent a long time in his private quarters going over them. He also reviewed with horror the details of how close the U.S. had come to launching a nuclear strike against a nation that, it turned out, was innocent of the alleged wrongdoing. While Brennan praised his vice president publicly, he was shocked when he learned how quickly Hamilton had been persuaded to authorize the use of nuclear weapons and how close he’d come to launching one. Brennan was now thinking seriously of other VP candidates.

He held lengthy meetings with his various experts in Muslim affairs and other Western leaders and spent long hours with his wife and family. He went to church several times in one week, perhaps seeking divine advice for the secular problems of humankind.

Now that the president was safely back, the international press started to report more openly about the kidnappers’ demands. Throughout the capitals of Europe, South America and Asia, people were actually focusing more on the
substance
of the demands, since, for once, they didn’t have an accompanying pile of human bodies and rubble to overshadow them.

Finally, Brennan called a meeting of his cabinet, his National Security Council and his top military advisers. There he brought up his abductors’ demands.

His national security adviser immediately protested. “Sir,” the NSA said, “it’s absurd. We can’t comply with any of them. It’s beyond preposterous.”

Secretary of Defense Decker spoke up. “Mr. President, to even consider those demands is a sign of weakness on behalf of this country.”

Brennan’s response was terse. “We came within seconds of killing six million people on what turned out to be deeply flawed evidence.”

“We didn’t start this thing. And there’s always risk involved,” Decker countered.

Brennan stared the man down. “We are the world’s sole remaining superpower. We have a nuclear arsenal capable of destroying the world. Even if others don’t show restraint,
we
have to!”

The way Brennan was looking at Decker, it was clear a new secretary of defense would be joining a new vice president in Brennan’s second administration.

Brennan pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket. It was the note that had been found on him after the kidnapping. He read it to himself. “From great sacrifice comes great opportunity.” And as history had shown and Brennan well knew, great presidents were often created during such times.

He turned away from Joe Decker and his Pentagon folks and looked at Andrea Mayes, his secretary of state.

“I think it’s time we got to work,” President Brennan said.

CHAPTER
70

J
ACQUELINE
S
IMPSON WAS LAID TO
rest in a private service at a cemetery in northern Virginia. In attendance were her grief-stricken parents, close family friends, political dignitaries, representatives of the Secret Service and her godfather, Carter Gray.

Nearby but hidden behind a copse of trees stood Oliver Stone, wearing a brand-new black suit and tie that his friends had purchased for him. As the minister spoke words of religious wisdom and comfort, Stone didn’t hear them. His gaze was transfixed on the coffin that held his daughter,
Beth
. He didn’t cry. He was having trouble deciding what he should feel. He was her father, but then again, he wasn’t. He had had her for three years; the Simpsons for the rest of her life. Simply from a time standpoint, he had little claim to be here. And yet he could not have stayed away.

When the ceremony was over and all the others had left, Stone emerged from his hiding place and walked down to the burial spot. The cemetery workers were about to lower the coffin into the hole in the ground, but Stone asked them to wait.

“Are you family?” one asked him.

“Yes,” he answered. “I’m family.”

For twenty long minutes Stone knelt in front of the coffin, with one of his hands resting on its smooth, polished surface.

He finally rose on shaky legs, bent over and kissed the coffin, placing a single flower on top. It was a daisy.

“Good-bye, Beth,” he said quietly. “I love you.”

The Camel Club, Alex and Kate met at Stone’s cottage the following day. Reuben had been treated for his wounds, and the doctors had taken care of a couple of bothersome kidney stones at the same time. Chastity was fully recovered from her ordeal, something she had absolutely no memory of.

Alex brought with him the newspaper account of Jackie Simpson’s death. “She was a damn hero, and all she’ll be remembered for is being a victim of a carjacking,” he said bitterly.

Stone was sitting behind his desk. “You’re wrong. That’s not all she’ll be remembered for,” he said firmly.

Alex changed the subject. “It’s killing me that Carter Gray is now some national hero when he was going to murder the president. There has to be something we can do.”

Reuben said, “But if we go public, then everything else comes out. I’m not sure the country can handle that after everything that’s happened.”

Stone said quietly, “Carter Gray will be taken care of. I’ll personally see to that.”

They all looked at him curiously, but the man’s expression did not invite questions.

Reuben stood. “Okay, I think it’s time to make it official.” He cleared his throat. “I hereby call a special meeting of the Camel Club to order. Because of their exemplary work on behalf of the United States, and their invaluable assistance to the club, I move that we admit two new members: Agent Alex Ford and Kate Adams. Do I have a second?”

“Second,” said Milton and Caleb together.

“All in favor say aye!”

And the ayes carried.

Alex said, “Okay, I need to know something. Why the
Camel
Club?”

Stone answered, “Because camels have great stamina. They never give up.”

“That’s what Oliver says, but the real reason is this,” Reuben countered. “In the 1920s there was another Camel Club. And at each meeting of that club they would all raise their glasses and take a vow to oppose Prohibition to the last drop of whiskey. Now,
that’s
my kind of club.”

When the meeting broke up, Alex stayed behind to talk to Stone in private.

“So Oliver Stone is really John Carr,” he said.

“
Was
John Carr. He’s dead,” Stone said bluntly.

“Oliver, you told Carter Gray that your country had taken your family. What did you mean by that?”

Stone sat down behind his desk and fiddled with some papers lying there. “Let’s just say that I thought I’d finished my ‘duties’ for my country, but apparently, my country believed that my job was not one you ever walked away from.” He paused. “It’s the greatest regret of my life that my family suffered because of me.”

“Your daughter’s name was Beth?” Alex said cautiously. “And she was born in Atlanta?”

Stone stared at him. “How did you know that?”

Alex was thinking of the mistake on the NIC database as to Simpson’s birthplace that she’d pointed out to Hemingway. Yet the database was right. She was born in Atlanta, not Birmingham, where the Simpsons were from. And then he thought of the two tall, fair-haired Simpsons and their petite, dark-haired daughter. Now Alex had a good idea what Oliver Stone’s dead wife looked like. It was clear to him that Jackie Simpson and Beth Carr were the same person.

“It was on her official file,” Alex answered.

Stone nodded absently.

Alex put his hand on Stone’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”

“Don’t pity me, Alex. I’ve done many things in my life that I hate myself for. I could excuse them by saying I was serving my country, but that’s not really much of an excuse, is it?”

Carter Gray had just finished his briefing with the president and was heading back to his chopper on the lawn of the White House. It had been a good meeting, although Brennan was making some curious—and to Gray’s thinking, disturbing—noises about a decided shift in America’s policies toward the Middle East. However, Gray stopped pondering this when he saw the man standing at the fence looking at him. Oliver Stone motioned over to where Reuben sat astride his Indian motorcycle. Then Stone pointed to the west. As Gray followed this gesture, it was clear what the man intended.

A few minutes later Gray was in a limo following the motorcycle. As he’d expected, it turned into Arlington National Cemetery. A few minutes later, with his security detail at a discreet distance, Gray stood across from Stone in front of John Carr’s grave.

“I can give you ten minutes at most, John,” Gray said.

“My name is Oliver Stone.”

“Whatever,” Gray said impatiently.

“And five minutes will be more than enough.”

“Then get on with it.”

“How did my daughter end up with the Simpsons?”

Gray looked a little put out by the question but said, “As you know, Roger Simpson worked at the CIA with me. We were very good friends. They couldn’t have children. It seemed like a good solution. You and your wife had no family, and I couldn’t just abandon the child, although there were some at the Agency who thought she should’ve just been shot too. I had no idea you were even alive, John.”

“I don’t believe you looked very hard.”

“I had no involvement in what happened to you. I didn’t order it and I didn’t condone it. In fact, I saved your daughter from being killed.”

“But you did nothing to stop the attack on me and my family, did you?”

“Did you really just expect to walk away from it all?”

“I never would’ve betrayed my country.”

“That’s not the point.”

“That is
precisely
the point!”

Gray threw up a hand. “This is ancient history.”

Stone pointed to the left. “Part of your history lies over there, where your wife is buried. Do you just forget that?”

“Don’t you dare talk about her,” Gray snapped. “Now, is there anything else?”

“Just one more thing,” Stone said. “I want you to resign your position.”

Gray stared at him blankly. “Excuse me?”

“You are to resign your position immediately as national intelligence director. You’re no longer fit for the post.”

“I feel sorry for you,” Gray said, shaking his head. “I really do. You served your country capably, and if you need something to make your old age more comfortable, I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll go public, tell all that I know.”

Gray looked at him with pity. “And you have so much credibility, a man who doesn’t even exist. And that friend of yours, Reuben. I’ve looked him up. He’s even more incorrigible than you. And if you think Alex Ford is going to say anything, think again. He won’t jeopardize his career by taking me on, and he’s smart enough not to drag the country through something like this. So just go back to your little hole, John, and crawl in for good.”

“All I need is for you to resign.” Gray shook his head wearily and turned to leave. Stone added, “Before you go, you might want to listen to this.”

Gray turned back around and saw that Stone was holding out a small tape recorder. He hit the play button.

A moment later Gray was listening to himself as he calmly talked about killing the president at Murder Mountain.

When Stone hit the stop button, Gray exploded, “How the hell did you—”

He stopped as Stone held up his cell phone. “A friend gave me this phone that’s also a recorder. And being an old spy, I put it to good use.” He handed Gray the tape. “I’ll be delighted to hear of your resignation tomorrow morning.” He started to walk off and then turned around. “We
both
served our country capably, Carter. But the way we did it just doesn’t have a place anymore. And thank God for that.”

Gray just stood there, his face red and his chest heaving. “I’m not a zealot, damn you. I’m a patriot!”

“Actually, you’re neither one, Carter.”

“Then what am I? Tell me,” he said tauntingly. “What the hell am I?”

“You’re wrong.”

The next day Kate and Alex met for lunch. All of Washington was talking about Carter Gray’s abrupt resignation.

“Oliver couldn’t have had anything to do with that, could he?” Kate asked.

“I think Oliver Stone is capable of a lot more than either of us know,” Alex replied quietly.

After their lunch the two walked hand in hand past a very familiar building.

“I can’t seem to get this place out of my head,” Alex said, staring across at the White House.

“Well, I’ll just have to work extra hard on getting your mind on other things. After all, in a few years you’re a free man, Agent Ford.”

He looked at her and smiled. “I really don’t consider myself a free man anymore.”

“Am I supposed to take that as a compliment?”

He kissed her. “Does that answer your question?”

They watched as a helicopter lifted off from the White House grounds.

Alex looked at the NIC insignia on the tail. “That was probably Carter Gray making his last trip to the White House.”

“Good riddance,” Kate said.

“The person who replaces him might be just as ruthless,” Alex cautioned.

“Now, that’s a truly frightening thought,” Kate said.

“It’ll be okay.” Alex pointed over to Lafayette Park. “So long as he’s here.”

On a bench sat Stone and Adelphia drinking the café.

Adelphia was talking animatedly; however, it was clear that Stone’s attention was fully on the building across the street.

Alex and Kate walked off down the street, leaving the country in the capable hands of citizen Oliver Stone, and the Camel Club.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To Michelle, thanks for always being my number one fan and best critic. I’m still amazed that you read every word in every draft.

To Aaron Priest, thank you for being there for me from day one. None of this would be possible without you.

To Maureen Egen, Jamie Raab, Tina Andreadis, Emi Battaglia, Tom Maciag, Karen Torres, Martha Otis, Jason Pinter, Miriam Parker and the rest of the Warner Books gang who work so hard on my behalf. You have my thanks and appreciation.

To Lucy Childs and Lisa Erbach Vance for all the thousands of details you handle every day for me.

To Frances Jalet-Miller, your editing skills and incredible insight were on full display with this book. Thank you.

To Art Collin, my sincere thanks and gratitude for reading through early drafts.

To Dr. Monica Smiddy, thank you for the detailed and thoughtful medical advice. You make a humble writer sound like a forensic genius.

To Dr. John Y. Cole at the Library of Congress, thank you for the amazing behind-the-scenes tour of LOC and the expert knowledge of its magnificent buildings and collections.

To Mark Dimunation and Daniel De Simone with the Library of Congress for patiently answering all my questions and letting me glimpse the library’s Rare Books reading room. It’s a true gem.

To the USSS Washington Field Office, my utmost thanks and respect for all you do and for your willingness to share your knowledge with me.

To Jennifer Steinberg, my gratitude for always getting answers to those last-minute research questions.

To Maria Rejt, for your very helpful comments.

To Bob Schule, for reading the words, giving me incredibly good comments, educating me on energy policy and, above all, being the best friend anyone could have.

To Neal Schiff, thanks for always being willing to share your FBI knowledge.

To Charles Veilleux, thank you for the expert advice on firearms and weapons.

To Tom DePont, for help on financial issues in the novel.

To Dr. Alli Guleria, a dear friend, for always being there for us, and for educating me on all things orthodontic and Indian.

To Lynette and Deborah, for navigating the “Enterprises” straight and true.