The Camel Club

CHAPTER

26

AFTER HE’D LEFT THE BAR, ALEX Ford grabbed a bite to eat at a nearby diner, wedging his butt between the wide frames of two hefty D.C. cops at the counter. He shared some shoptalk with his law enforcement brethren and also swapped some old doomsday gossip. Alex’s personal favorite was, “At all costs, stay out of the Metro on Halloween.” What Alex really wanted to do was stand on the counter and shout for all to hear that a beautiful woman had just asked him out. Instead, he quietly finished off his cheeseburger, french fries and wedge of blueberry pie washed down with black coffee. Afterward, he headed back to WFO to check his e-mails.

Sykes still hadn’t responded, although Alex had received an electronic receipt that the man had opened the e-mail report. He wandered the halls of WFO, half hoping to run into Sykes and see where he stood on the investigation. Alex had written up thousands of reports, but this one went right to HQ, something not all that common for street grunts like him, who weren’t being groomed to move up the agency’s leadership ladder. When you knew the director’s eyes were going to be running over your feeble attempt at logical composition, it tended to make the neck hairs stand up and start twitching.

He passed by the assignment board and noted that his photo and Simpson’s had been placed under the heading “Special Assignment.” As he looked at the olive-skinned lady staring back at him out of the photo, he muttered the name “J-Glo.” Maybe she should just go back to Alabama. Daddy would probably love that.

He killed some more time at his desk and then decided that if Sykes really wanted to talk, he’d find him.

Out on the sidewalk he sucked in a chest full of crisp night air and smiled as he thought of Kate Adams, and then he walked down the street with a lift in his step that had been absent for a long time. He thought about heading home, but what he really wanted to do was talk to someone. However, all his good friends were married Secret Service agents, which meant if they weren’t on duty, they were spending some rare quality time with their families. And Alex shared little in common with the young bucks at WFO.

This made him realize that in three short years he was going to have to make some pretty major decisions. Would he just retire? Or would he go to another agency, live mostly off his pension from the Service and stockpile the paychecks from the new job? This was known as double-dipping. It was completely legal, and many feds did it to pad their retirement funds. It was a way to even out things after they’d worked for below market-value in the public sector.

Much of Alex’s adult life had been a blur, learning the ropes at the Service, busting bad guys in eight different field offices, then on to protection detail, where he had spent every waking hour hopping planes and running from one city, one country to the next. He had been so busy worrying about everybody else that he had never spent much time worrying about himself. And now that it was time to think about his future, Alex suddenly felt totally incapable of doing so. Where did he start? What did he do? He felt a panic attack coming on, and not one that another martini would’ve cured.

He was standing paralyzed on a corner deciding what to do with the rest of his life when his cell phone rang. At first the name and number on the caller ID screen didn’t register, but then it clicked. It was Anne Jeffries, the late Patrick Johnson’s fiancée.

“Hello?”

“You don’t think I would know if the man I was going to marry, the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with, was a damn drug dealer!” She screamed this at him so loudly that he jerked the phone away from his ear.

“Ms. Jeffries—”

“I’m going to sue. I’m going to sue the FBI and the Secret Service. And you. And that bitch of a partner of yours!”

“Whoa, hold on, now. I can understand that you’re upset—”

“Upset? Upset isn’t even in the universe of what I’m feeling. It’s not enough that Pat had to be murdered, now his reputation is being destroyed too.”

“Ms. Jeffries, I’m just trying to do my job—”

“Save your pathetic excuses for my lawyer,” she snapped, and then hung up.

Alex put his phone away and took a deep breath. He wondered whom the woman might call next? The Washington Post? 60 Minutes? Every boss he’d ever had? He called Jerry Sykes’ private cell number. It went into voice mail, but Alex left a detailed message about his brief but explosive conversation with the bereaved fiancée. Okay, he’d done what he could. The shit was probably going to fly anyway.

He definitely didn’t want to go home now. He wanted to walk. And think.

His wandering took him, as it often did, to the White House. He nodded to some of the uniformed Secret Service that he knew, and stopped and chatted with an agent who was sitting in a black Suburban gulping down black coffee. Alex and the man had started out together at the Louisville Field Office, though their paths had parted after that.

POTUS was hosting a state dinner tonight, his friend told Alex. And then it was off to campaign in the Midwest the next day, with a 9/11 ceremony in New York City after that.

“I like to see a president who keeps busy,” Alex replied. Some chief executives worked their butts off, pulling a full twelve hours during the day, changing into a tux and doing the Washington social two-step and then working the phones from their private quarters until the wee hours. Other presidents liked to cruise through the day and knock off early. Alex had never thought the presidency was a “cruising” sort of job.

He passed into Lafayette Park and was surprised to see a light on in Stone’s tent. Maybe he’d finally found somebody he could really talk to.

“Oliver?” he called out softly while standing next to the lighted tent.

The tent flap fell open, and he stared at a man he didn’t recognize.

“I’m sorry,” Alex said, “I was looking for—”

“Agent Ford,” Oliver Stone said as he stepped outside.

“Oliver? Is that you?”

Stone smiled and rubbed his clean-shaven face. “A man needs a fresh start every once in a while,” he explained.

“I came by looking for you last night.”

“Adelphia told me. I miss our chess matches.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t give you much competition.”

“You improved a lot over the years,” Stone replied kindly.

While Alex was on presidential protection detail, he’d visited Stone as often as his busy schedule allowed. At first it was to check up on potential problems near the White House. Back then, Alex considered anyone within a square mile of the place who didn’t carry a Secret Service badge as the enemy, and Stone had been no exception.

What had really intrigued Alex about Oliver Stone was that the man didn’t seem to have a past. Alex had heard rumors that Stone had at one time worked for the government. So Alex went on every database he could think of looking for some history on the fellow, but there was simply none. He didn’t search under “Oliver Stone,” an obviously fake name. Instead, he surreptitiously got Stone’s fingerprints and ran them through AFIS, the FBI’s massive automated fingerprint identification system. That came back negative. Then he passed them through the military databanks, the Secret Service’s own computer files and through every other place he could think of. They all came back zip. As far as the United States government was concerned, Oliver Stone didn’t exist.

He’d once followed Stone to his caretaker’s cottage at the cemetery. He checked with the church that owned it, but they would tell him nothing about the man, and Alex had no probable cause to force the issue. He’d watched Stone working in the cemetery a few times, and when he’d gone off, Alex considered searching the cottage. Yet there was something about Stone, an intense measure of dignity and also a profound sincerity, that caused Alex to finally reject this idea.

“So what did you come to see me about?” Stone asked.

“Just passing through. Adelphia said you were at a meeting.”

“She likes to embellish. I met some friends over on the Mall. We like walking there at night.” He paused and added, “So how are things going at the WFO?”

“It’s nice working cases again.”

“I heard that an employee of yours was killed.”

Alex nodded. “Patrick Johnson. He worked at the National Threat Assessment Center. That’s really been blended with NIC now, but I’m involved because Johnson was still sort of a joint employee of ours.”

“You’re involved?” Stone said. “Do you mean that you’re working the case?”

Alex hesitated. There didn’t seem to be any reason not to acknowledge his involvement. It wasn’t exactly confidential. “I was assigned to poke around, although it seems to have been solved.”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“They found heroin in Johnson’s home. They think whoever he was dealing with killed him.” He didn’t mention Anne Jeffries’ call. That part wasn’t publicly known.

“And what do you think?” Stone said, eyeing him keenly.

Alex shrugged. “Who knows? And we’re just really piggybacking on the FBI.”

“And yet a man has been killed.”

Alex looked at his friend questioningly. “Yeah? I know that.”

“Over the years I’ve watched you, Agent Ford. You’re observant, diligent, and you have sound instincts. I think you should use those talents on this case. If the man’s work was sensitive to this nation’s security, a second pair of eyes is certainly in order.”

“I’ve covered the bases, Oliver. If it wasn’t drugs?”

“Exactly. If not drugs, what? I think someone should answer that question very thoroughly. Perhaps the answer lies with his work. Consider that planting drugs at his home would be an easy way to cover something up.”

Alex looked doubtful. “That’s highly unlikely. And quite frankly, NIC is a big can of worms to open for a guy looking to retire in three years.”

“Three years isn’t such a long time, Agent Ford; not nearly as long as the years you’ve already served your country. And unfortunately, fair or not, the end of one’s career is what a person is usually remembered for.”

“And if I make a misstep on this one, maybe I don’t have a career left.”

“But the other important point to realize is this: The end of one’s career is also what you remember most vividly. And you’ll have decades to possibly regret. And that is a very long time.”

Leaving Stone, Alex slowly walked back to his car. What the man said made sense. There were issues that were not clear in Alex’s mind about Patrick Johnson’s death. The drug discovery did seem a little too convenient, and other details just didn’t add up. In truth, he had been only halfheartedly investigating the case, more than ready to follow the Bureau’s lead and its conclusions.

And Stone had been right on another level. Alex had stayed at the Service after his accident because he didn’t want to go out on a disability ride. Well, sleepwalking through a major case wasn’t the way he wanted to go out either. There was something to be said for professional pride. And if U.S. presidents shouldn’t cruise through their duties, Secret Service agents shouldn’t either.

Oliver Stone watched Alex pass out of sight and then quickly walked to his cottage at the cemetery. From there he used the cell phone Milton had given him to call Caleb and tell him of this latest development. “It was a stroke of good fortune that I couldn’t ignore,” Stone explained.

“But you didn’t say anything about us seeing the murder, did you?”

“Agent Ford is a federal policeman. Had I told him that, his duty would’ve been clear. My best hope is that he will dig up something at NIC that would have been beyond our means to do.”

“Won’t that place him in jeopardy? I mean if NIC’s gunning down its own employees, they might not stop at killing a Secret Service agent.”

“Agent Ford is a capable man. But we’ll also have to act as his guardian angels, won’t we?”

Stone clicked off and, suddenly remembering he hadn’t eaten any dinner, went into his kitchen and made some soup, which he ate in front of a small fire he’d built. Cemeteries always seemed to be cold, no matter the season.

After that, he sat down in his old armchair next to the fire with a book that he’d been reading from his very eclectic collection that Caleb had helped him assemble. That’s all he had left: his friends, his books, some theories, a few memories.

He glanced at the box with the photo album again, and, despite intuitively knowing it would be a bad thing, he put his book down and spent the next hour drifting through his past. Stone lingered over the pictures he had of his daughter. One showed her holding a bunch of daisies, her favorite flower. He smiled as he remembered how she would pronounce it: dayzzzees. There was another picture of her blowing out candles on a cake. It wasn’t her birthday. She’d gotten stitches in her hand after she’d fallen on some broken glass, and the cake was her reward for being so brave. The cut left a scar in the shape of a crescent on her right palm. He’d kissed it every time he held her. He had so few memories of her that Stone clung desperately to every one.

At last his mind went back to that final night. Their house had been situated in a very isolated area; his employer had insisted on that. It was only after the attack that Stone understood the reason for this requirement.

He remembered the creak of the door as it was opened. Cut off from their child, he and his wife barely slipped through the window when the muffled shots commenced. Stone remembered visualizing the suppressor cans on the ends of the muzzles. Thump — thump — thump. They nipped at him like lethal gnats. And then his wife screamed once, and that was all. She was dead. Stone killed two of the men sent to execute him that night, using their own guns against them. And then he’d gotten away to a safe place.

That night was the last time Stone saw his wife or his daughter. The next day it was as though they’d never existed. The house had been emptied and all signs of the murderous attack obliterated. All attempts to find his daughter over the years had failed. Beth. Her full name was Elizabeth, but they had always called her Beth. She was a beautiful child and the pride of her father. And he had lost her forever on a hellish night decades ago.

When he eventually learned the truth of what had happened, Stone was consumed with the idea of revenge. And then something happened that struck those thoughts from him. He read in the paper of the violent death of a man, an important man, in a country overseas. The killing was never solved. The man left behind a wife and children. Stone recognized the fingerprints of his former employer all over that killing. It was a scene personally very familiar to Stone as well.

That’s when he realized he was not a man who deserved revenge even for his wife being murdered and his child taken from him. His past sins were many, piled high under the dubious cloak of patriotism. For Stone, it effectively disenfranchised him from seeking justice for the wrong committed against his family.

He disappeared and traveled the world under a number of aliases. It had been relatively easy; his government had trained him very well to do just that. After many years of wandering he embarked on the only option left to him. He became Oliver Stone, a man of silent protest, who watched and paid attention to important things in America others didn’t seem drawn to. And still, it had not been nearly enough to balance the pain of losing the two people he cared most about. That would be his burden until his last breath.

When he fell asleep in the chair as the fire died low, the wetness of his tears still shimmered on the album’s slick pages.

CHAPTER

27

DJAMILA ROSE AT FIVE O’CLOCK in her small apartment on the outskirts of Brennan, Pennsylvania. Shortly after dawn she performed her first prayer of the day. After she had cleansed herself and removed her shoes and covered her head, Djamila went through the Islamic rituals of standing, sitting, bowing and prostrating herself on her prayer rug. She began by reciting the shahada, the central statement of Muslim faith: La ilaha illa’Llah, or “There is no god but God.” After that, she recited the opening sura, the first chapter of the Qur’an. The invocations were performed silently, only her lips moving as she formed the words. After she’d finished her salat, she changed her clothes and readied herself for work before sitting down to breakfast.

As she surveyed her tiny kitchen, Djamila reflected on her conversation with Lori Franklin the day before. Djamila had lied to her employer, though the American would have no way of knowing of the deceit. Djamila’s official papers showed her to be a Saudi. That, and her being a woman, had allowed her entry into America to go very smoothly, even in post-9/11 times. Djamila was actually an Iraqi by birth, and a Sunni Muslim by religious practice, as were over 80 percent of all Muslims, although in Iraq the Sunnis were in the minority. In early times the Sunnis clashed with their Shia counterparts largely over the issue of the successor to the Prophet Muhammad. Now the differences were far more numerous and bitter.

The Shiites believed that the fourth rightly guided caliphate, Ali ibn Abi Talib, Muhammad’s son-in-law and also his cousin, was the true blood successor to the Islamic Prophet. Shia Muslims performed a pilgrimage to Mazar-i-Sharif to the blue mosque where Ali was entombed. Sunni Muslims believed that Muhammad had not appointed his successor, and thus they established the caliphates to take over for the Prophet after his death. The Sunnis and Shiites agreed that none of the caliphs rose to the level of a prophet; however, the fact that three of the four caliphs had died violent deaths was a testament to how fervently divided the Muslim population was over this issue.

Under the secular regime of Saddam Hussein, Djamila had been allowed to drive a car, whereas in Saudi Arabia this wouldn’t have been possible. The Saudis followed a very strict form of sharia, or Islamic law. This strictness required women to be completely covered at all times, and it prohibited them from voting and even from going out of the house without a permission note from their husbands. These rules were scrupulously enforced by the tenacious, whip-wielding religious police.

There was also the notorious “Chop-Chop Square,” the main square in downtown Riyadh. It was here every Friday where those who broke the sharia were punished for all to see. Djamila had been there once and watched in horror as five people lost both their hands and two others their heads. Far more subtle punishment was the fallaga, the beating of the bottom of the feet in a way that left no marks, although the victim was typically unable to walk, so great was the pain.

The rest of the world had largely looked the other way ever since King Ibn Saud, conqueror of Arabia and the ruler who had given his name to the country, hired geologists to come look for water but who struck oil instead. With fully one-quarter of the world’s black gold reserves under the country’s sands, a resource eagerly coveted by the industrialized world, the Saudis could usually do what they wanted without fear of repercussions.

However, Djamila had not entirely lied to Franklin. Living in Baghdad, and being a Sunni Muslim like Saddam Hussein, she had worn clothes mostly of her choosing, and she had been well educated. Despite that, she had hated living under the Iraqi dictator. She had lost friends and family who “disappeared” after speaking out against the despotic ruler. During the American invasion of Iraq she prayed that Hussein would be toppled, and those prayers were answered. She and her family at first welcomed the Americans and their allies as heroes for giving them back their freedom. But then things rapidly began to change.

Djamila returned from the market one day to find her family’s home reduced to rubble after an errant air strike. All of her family, including her two young brothers, perished. After that tragedy Djamila went to live with relatives in Mosul. But they fell victim to a car bombing in the resulting insurgency against the American presence in Iraq.

Next Djamila traveled to Tikrit to stay with a cousin, but the war had forced her to flee there as well. Since that time she’d been homeless, joining a growing number of people who had essentially become nomads, constantly caught in the fighting between an ever-larger army of insurgents, and America and its allies. In one of these groups she had met a man who spoke out against the Americans as being nothing more than imperialists after precious oil. He argued that all Muslims had the duty to strike back against this enemy of Islam.

Like most Muslims, the only jihad Djamila had ever practiced was the “greater jihad,” the internal struggle to be a better follower of Islam. This man was obviously speaking of another jihad, the “lesser jihad,” the holy war, a concept that originated with Islam in the seventh century. At first Djamila dismissed the man and his advocacy as mindless ravings, yet as her situation grew bleaker, she found herself beginning to listen to him and others like him. The things he was saying, added to the horrors she had seen firsthand, started to make sense to the young woman who’d lost everything. And soon her dismay and hopelessness turned to something else: anger.

Before long, Djamila found herself in Pakistan and then Afghanistan, being trained to do things she would never have contemplated before. While in Afghanistan she wore the burka, held her tongue and obeyed the men. She would go to the market and soon her clothing would swell because she shoved all the items she purchased under it. The burka had a grill in front of the opening for the face. It was designed to take away a woman’s peripheral vision. If she wanted to look at something she had to turn her entire head. In this way, it was said, the husband would always be able to tell what was holding his wife’s interest. Even with the Taliban gone, many burkas remained. But even women who took the burkas off were not really free, Djamila could see, since their husbands and brothers and, indeed, even their sons still controlled every aspect of their lives.

After months of training, she was on her way to the United States, along with scores of others like her, all with forged documents and all with a burning ambition to strike back against an enemy that had destroyed their lives. Djamila had been taught that everything about America was evil. That the Western life and values were in complete opposition to the Muslin faith and, indeed, had as its core mission the complete destruction of Islam. How could she not fight against a monster such as that?

Her first weeks in America had been divided between monotony and eye-opening experiences. For weeks she had little to do except carry messages back and forth. Yet she was seeing America, the great enemy, for the first time. She had visited some of the shops with an Afghan woman. The woman was shocked to see pictures of people on the products in the stores. Under the Taliban all such graphics had been blotted out.

Americans were large people with huge appetites and the cars they drove, Djamila had never seen such enormous cars. The stores were full, the people wore all sorts of different clothes. Men and women embraced in the streets, even kissing in front of strangers like herself. And things moved so fast she could barely follow them. It was as though she had been hurled far into the future. She found herself terrified but also curiously intrigued.

Then she had been taken from the group she had come to America with and brought to another city, where she received still more training. She was given a new identity, complete with references. And she was also given the very special van that she now drove. She was next sent to Brennan and became the Franklins’ nanny. She enjoyed the work and loved being with the boys, but as time passed she longed to go home. America was simply not for her.

Djamila had always looked forward to the time when she would perform the hajj, the pilgrimage to the most holy site in Islam, Mecca, the town in Hejaz where Muhammad was born. As a child she had heard stories from family who’d undertaken this most significant event in a Muslim’s life. She envisioned standing in a circle around the Great Mosque, or Al-Masjid al-Haram, in Mecca, performing her prayers.

The pilgrimage continued in Muzdalifa, where the Night Prayer was observed and twenty-one pebbles were picked up for symbolic stoning of Satan at Mina. Two or three days were spent in Mina for various ceremonies before the return to Mecca. Families who made the pilgrimage were allowed to add the term “hajj” to their name.

As a little girl Djamila had been especially drawn with anticipated delight to stories of the four-day celebration afterward, the ‘id al-adha, the Festival of Sacrifice, also known as the Major Festival. She had also looked forward to painting the mode of transportation she used to make the pilgrimage on her front door, an old Egyptian custom that other Muslims sometimes copied. However, Djamila had never gotten the chance to go to Mecca before her country had exploded into war. Now she doubted she would ever be able to do so. Indeed, she felt it very unlikely that she would return to her homeland in anything other than a coffin.

She packed her things for work and went down to her van. She glanced at the back cargo area of the vehicle. Hidden there was an add-on feature that the car manufacturer would never have dreamed of offering.

In the center of downtown Brennan, Captain Jack closed on the purchase of his new property, an automobile repair facility. Dressed in an elegant two-piece suit, the distinguished-looking “entrepreneur” took the keys, thanking the seller and his agent as he drove away in his Audi convertible. They had smiled and counted their money and wished him luck. Good luck to you too, he wanted to say. And good luck to the town of Brennan. It’s certainly going to need it.

A few minutes later Captain Jack parked his car at a curb, flipped open his iPAQ, went online and entered the chat room. Today’s film was The Wizard of Oz. He remembered watching it as a child. Probably unlike most viewers, he’d always sympathized with the plight of the enslaved flying monkeys. He left his message arranging a meeting at the park.

The auto repair facility would be one of the most critical elements of this operation, and that was where the woman came in. If she didn’t come through, none of his work would matter. Some things a person couldn’t get from faceless e-mails, like whether someone had the will necessary to do the job.

Sometimes you had to go see for yourself.

The day was overcast and a bit chilly, so the park was nearly empty. Captain Jack sat on a bench, read his newspaper and drank his coffee. He had spent half an hour making a careful reconnoiter of the park before ever leaving his car. The odds that anyone had him under surveillance were astronomically small. Yet one didn’t survive long in his line of work by tripping over the small but crucial details.

The front pages were filled with very important news: The stock market, amazingly, had gone up yesterday after having gone down the day before. American football was thick in the air; war on the gridiron they called it. Well, at least those who had never been in the real thing called it that. Captain Jack also learned that, shockingly, one movie star was actually leaving his wife for another movie star. And then he read of the revelation that a rock musician had been found lip-synching during a live concert. And that a car bombing had killed three Israelis in that never-ending struggle. Retribution would be swift, proclaimed Israeli officials. Yes, it would, Captain Jack knew. You didn’t screw with the Israelis. Captain Jack was a very brave, battle-scarred man. Yet even he avoided directly antagonizing the Israelis.

Buried in the far back pages of the newspaper, Captain Jack read how AIDS in Africa continued to kill millions. He next skimmed an article on how civil wars on that continent had claimed millions more. Half the world lived in complete poverty, stated another story. Thousands of children were dying every day simply because they had nothing in their bellies.

Captain Jack put down the paper. He was not much of a moralist; he’d killed many people in his lifetime. If there was a heaven and a hell, he knew where his eternal lodgings would be. But, really, lip-synching on the front page?

He heard the children first, but didn’t look in that direction. Next he listened to the swing being swung, and then the whirligig started going round and round. He smiled at the screams of delight from the young ones.

Finally, the sounds of the children quieted down. More minutes passed, and then he heard car doors open and close. Next he listened to the footsteps coming toward him. They were measured, calm treads. Then came a slight squeak from the bench directly behind his as the person sat down. He immediately lifted up his paper.

“I think the Steelers could go all the way this year, don’t you?” he said.

“No, my money is on the Patriots,” the other replied.

“Are you sure?”

“I am very sure of what I say. If I were in doubt, I would say nothing.”

With their identifying code out of the way, Captain Jack got down to business.

“Things are good with the Franklins?”

“Yes, very good,” Djamila replied.

“Routines all square, no curves thrown at you?”

“Their life is simple. He works all the time. She plays all the time.”

He caught the edge behind her words. “Oh, you think so?”

“I know so.” She paused and added, “Americans disgust me.”

“Do they, now?”

“They’re pigs! They are evil, all of them!”

He said one word in Arabic that froze Djamila.

“Listen to me,” Captain Jack said firmly. “A few Americans are bad and a few Muslims are bad. But most want to live in peace and relative happiness, make a home, have a family, pray to God and die with dignity.”

“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

WHILE ALEX AND SIMPSON 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.

CHAPTER

30

“THIS IS WHERE PATRICK JOHNSON worked,” Carter Gray said, sweeping his hand across the room.

Alex slowly took it all in. The space was about half the size of a football field with a large open area in the middle and cubicles along the perimeter. Computers with flat screens were on every desktop and servers hummed in the background. Men and women dressed in business attire either sat at their desks totally focused on their work or else walked the halls speaking into phone headsets using cryptic jargon that not even Alex, with all his federal time behind him, could understand. The sense of urgency here was palpable.

As Gray led them over to a set of corner cubicles, Alex caught images of people’s faces flashing across some of the computers, most of them Middle Eastern, with data, presumably about each person, flowing down one side of the screen. The thing he didn’t see was a single scrap of paper.

“We are paperless,” Gray said.

Alex was startled by this comment. Has the man added mind reading to his repertoire?

“At least the people working here are. I still like to feel the material in my hands.” He stopped at one cubicle, larger than the rest, whose walls, instead of waist level, were six feet high.

“This is Johnson’s office.”

“I take it he was a supervisor of some sort,” Simpson commented.

“Yes. His precise task was to oversee the work on our data files of all terrorist-related suspects. When we took over N-TAC, we combined that staff and their files with ours. It was an ideal fit. However, we, of course, didn’t want to strip the Secret Service of all involvement. That’s why Johnson and others here were joint employees.”

Gray said this in a magnanimous tone. However, as Alex looked around the space, he thought to himself, Nice but useless bone to throw our way, since we had no control over our “joint” employee. His gaze came to rest on the only personal item in the office. It was a small framed photo of Anne Jeffries sitting on Johnson’s desk. Alex noted that when the woman was all made up, she looked very pretty. He wondered if Anne Jeffries was meeting with a lawyer right now. A moment later another man joined them.

Tom Hemingway flashed a smile as he put out his hand to Alex. “Well, I guess my cover’s blown, Agent Ford.”

“I guess so,” Alex said as he winced at the man’s crushing grip.

Gray raised an eyebrow. “You two know each other?”

“Through Kate Adams, the DOJ lawyer I was working with, sir.”

Simpson stepped forward. “I’m Jackie Simpson, Secret Service.”

“Tom Hemingway.”

“Nice to meet you, Tom.” She gazed appreciatively at the handsome Hemingway until she caught Alex scowling at her.

“I was just showing them Patrick Johnson’s office and explaining what he did for us,” Gray said. “They’re investigating his death on behalf of the Service.”

“If you’d like, sir, I can take over from here. I know you have a meeting.”

“Tom knows much more about computers than I do,” Gray said. That wasn’t exactly true, but Gray had never been one to boast of his strengths, because that very hubris often turned them into weaknesses.

“Don’t forget to tell your father what I said, Jackie.” Then Gray left them.

“So what exactly are you looking for?” Hemingway asked.

“Basically an understanding of what Johnson did here,” Alex answered. “Secretary Gray said that he oversaw the data files on terrorist suspects.”

“That’s right, among other things. I guess the best way to describe it is that he and the other data supervisors are like senior air traffic controllers making sure all the pieces go together smoothly. The databases are constantly being updated with fresh intelligence. And we’ve streamlined things too. The FBI, DEA, Homeland Security, ATF, CIA, DIA and others each had its own database. There was a lot of overlap and wrong information and no way for one agency to thoroughly access another agency’s files. That was one of the problems that led up to 9/11. Now it’s all maintained here, but the other agencies have 24/7 access.”

Alex spoke up. “Isn’t that a little risky, putting everything in one place?”

“We have a backup center, of course,” Hemingway said.

“Where is it?” Alex asked.

“I’m afraid that’s classified.”

Well, I saw that one coming.

“And keep in mind that our system didn’t replace the Bureau’s AFIS,” said Hemingway, referring to the FBI’s fingerprint identification system. “We’re after terrorists, not pedophiles and bank robbers. We also bought several private firms that specialized in intelligence data mining and other areas of technological expertise.”

“NIC bought private companies?” Alex said.

Hemingway nodded. “Government doesn’t have to reinvent the wheel any more than the private sector. The software literally digs into trillions of bytes of information in numerous databases and builds patterns, suspect signatures and behavior and activity models that can be used in investigations. Our agents have handheld devices, like PalmPilots, that allow them instant access to these databases. With a single query they can access all relevant information about a subject. It’s incredible stuff.”

“How do you effectively oversee an operation this big with people constantly firing stuff at you?” Alex asked.

“When all the other agencies’ files came over, it created quite a backlog to work through. And between you and me, there were some glitches, and the system actually crashed a couple of times. But it’s all running smoothly now. It was Johnson’s task and others here to oversee that and also to ensure the accuracy of the data input. It’s very labor-intensive work.”

“So not so speedy,” Alex said.

“Speed is useless if the information is wrong,” Hemingway countered. “While we try to keep everything as up-to-date and accurate as possible, perfection, of course, is not attainable.”

“Could you show us some file examples?” Simpson asked.

“Sure.” Hemingway sat down at Johnson’s desk and put his hand in a biometric reader. Next he hit some keys on the computer, and a face appeared on the screen along with a fingerprint and other identifying data.

Alex was suddenly staring at himself, along with seemingly everything he’d ever done since coming out of his mother’s womb.

“Underage drinking conviction,” Simpson said, reading one of the sections.

“That was supposed to have been expunged from my record,” Alex snapped.

“I’m sure it was expunged from the official record,” Hemingway said. “How is your neck by the way? Looks like a nasty injury you suffered.”

“You’ve got my medical records? What the hell happened to privacy?”

“You must’ve neglected to read the fine print on the Patriot Act.” Hemingway hit some more keys and another search field came up. He said, “You go to the LEAP Bar a lot.” He pointed at a list of credit card purchases from that pub. “I’m sure the presence of the lovely Kate Adams is a factor.”

“So every time I use my credit card you know what I’m up to?”

“That’s why I always pay in cash,” Hemingway said smugly.

He typed in some more commands, and Jackie Simpson’s photo, digitized fingerprint and basic information sheet came up. She pointed at one line. “That’s wrong. I was born in Birmingham, not Atlanta.”

Hemingway smiled. “See, not even NIC is infallible. I’ll make sure it’s corrected.”

“Do you have any bad guys in there, or do you just spy on cops?” Alex asked.

Hemingway punched some more keys and another face sprang up. “His name is, was, Adnan al-Rimi. He was killed by another terrorist in Virginia. You can see that al-Rimi has been confirmed as deceased. That’s what the little skull and crossbones symbol in the upper right-hand corner signifies. A little corny and I’m not sure who came up with that idea, but it’s pretty clear as to a person’s current status.” Hemingway opened a drop-down window. “You can see the fingerprint image here. We were able to positively ID al-Rimi from his digital prints, which we had on file.”

“Did Johnson have any information that would be valuable to someone?”

“I think in broad terms everyone who works at NIC would have information that could be valuable to an enemy of this country, Agent Ford. That’s why we run background checks and perform a rigorous vetting process.”

“Can’t do any better than that,” Jackie Simpson said.

“But didn’t Patrick Johnson’s sudden wealth raise red flags here?” Alex asked.

Hemingway looked chagrined. “It should have. Heads will roll for it.”

“But not yours,” Alex remarked.

“No, that wasn’t my responsibility,” Hemingway answered.

“Lucky you. So if the drugs weren’t Johnson’s source of income, you’re saying it’s unlikely that he could have been selling secrets from here?”

“Unlikely but not impossible. But the drugs were found at his house.”

“Do you mind if we talk to some of Johnson’s co-workers?”

“I can arrange that, but I’m afraid your discussions will have to be monitored.”

“Wow, just like in prison, only we’re the good guys,” Alex said.

“We’re the good guys too,” Hemingway shot back.

An hour later, after they’d spoken to three of Johnson’s colleagues, Alex and Simpson learned that none of them really knew Johnson on a personal level.

After they’d collected their guns, Hemingway escorted them out. “Good luck,” he said before the automatic doors shut behind them.

“Right, sure, thanks for all your help,” Alex groused.

They walked back to the car while two army grunts toting M-16s followed.

“Either one of you guys wanna hold my hand in case I suddenly go berserk?” Alex asked before turning back around and marching on in disgust.

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” Simpson said.

“So is ninety percent of investigative work. You should know that,” Alex said heatedly.

“What are you so pissed about?”

“Are you telling me all that stuff in there didn’t creep you out? Hell, I was half expecting a photo of when I lost my virginity to pop up.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide. And why were you such an asshole with Tom?”

“I was an asshole with Tom because I don’t happen to like the son of a bitch.”

“Oh, well, I guess that explains your relationship with me.”

Alex didn’t bother to answer. But he did lay down rubber on NIC’s pristine asphalt getting the hell out of Big Brother Town.

CHAPTER

31

A FEW MINUTES AFTER ALEX AND Simpson had left, Hemingway passed Reinke and Peters in the hallway at NIC and gave a short nod of his head. Fifteen minutes later Hemingway drove out of NIC. Ten minutes after that, Reinke and Peters did the same.

They met at Tyson’s II Galleria, a large upscale shopping mall, purchased coffees and walked along the concourses. They’d already used an antisurveillance device to ensure that none of them had been bugged, and each had taken great pains to make sure they hadn’t been followed. A major rule of being a spy was to make certain your own agency wasn’t spying on you.

“We tried to stop them from going through Johnson’s office,” Peters said. “But then Gray came in.”

“I know,” Hemingway replied. “That’s why I went down there. The last thing I want is Carter Gray turning his attention to this.”

“What about Ford and Simpson?”

“If they get too close, there are ways to deal with them,” Hemingway said. “We found a print on the suicide note and ran it.”

“Did you get a match?” Reinke asked.

“Yes.”

“Who is it?” Peters asked.

“It’s in your jacket pocket.” Hemingway finished his coffee and threw away the cup. Peters pulled out the piece of paper Hemingway had slipped there at some point. He read the name: Milton Farb.

Hemingway explained, “He worked at NIH years ago as a computer systems expert but had some mental problems and popped up in some psych centers. He was in the phone book, so it wasn’t hard tracking his address. I’ve e-mailed an encrypted version of his background file to you. Watch him, and he’ll probably lead you to the others. But do nothing without checking with me first. If we can avoid killing them, we will.” He walked off in one direction while Reinke and Peters headed off in the other with renewed energy.

Carter Gray returned to his office, made a few phone calls, including one to the White House, and then held a series of brief meetings. After that, Gray settled down for another task that would take him several hours. Whenever the president was traveling and Gray was unable to accompany or meet him on the road, they conducted a secure video conference call for the daily briefing. Gray typically spent a good deal of each day preparing for that call, but he knew that the salient points could be summed up very quickly.

“Mr. President, the world as we know it is going straight to hell, some of it due to our own actions, and there’s little we can do about it. However, so long as we keep spending hundreds of billions of dollars on homeland security, I can reasonably guarantee that most Americans will be safe. However, all our expensive efforts can still be defeated by a small group of people with enough nerve, dumb luck and plutonium. Then all bets are off, and we could all very well be dead. Any questions, sir?”

Instead of preparing for the briefing with Brennan, though, Gray wanted to go for a drive. Unfortunately, he wasn’t allowed to. As with the president, the secretary of intelligence was not allowed to drive himself; he was deemed too vital to the security of the nation to be behind the wheel of a car. However, what Gray really wanted to do was go fishing. Since he couldn’t do that right now with a pole and bait, he decided to try another version of fishing, one at which he was also very skilled.

He typed in a request for a name on his laptop. Within five minutes he had the information he wanted. NIC personnel were nothing if not efficient.

It had been one of his most brilliant moves, Gray thought, centralizing all terrorist databases under NIC’s control. While it made the system far more accurate, it also gave NIC the heads-up on other intelligence agencies’ operations. If the CIA, for example, needed information on something, they would have to access one of the NIC databases and Gray would instantly know what they were looking at. It had worked beautifully, allowing him to spy on his intelligence brethren under cover of bureaucratic efficiency.

He set up the images and data on split screens so he could view them all simultaneously. There were many men staring back at him. Almost all were Middle Eastern; they had all been duly recorded in the NIC database, complete with digital fingerprints, if available. And they were all dead, many at the hands of other terrorists. The skull and crossbones marker resting in the upper right-hand corner of each man’s picture confirmed this fate. They included an engineer and chemist who were also expert bomb makers. Another, Adnan al-Rimi, was a courageous fighter with nerves that had never broken in the heat of battle. Six others lost their lives when an explosive went off in the van they were in. Whether it was accidental or intentional had never been determined. The crime scene had been horrific, with body parts instead of bodies to collect. Other than Muhammad al-Zawahiri, none of these men were on the “A-list” of terrorist suspects, but it was still fortunate for America that they were dead.

Gray had no way of knowing that the photos of al-Rimi and others had been altered subtly. They were not the pictures of the men who’d actually died either. They were a digitized combination of the real al-Rimi, for example, and the dead man identified as al-Rimi. This was done so that any “earlier” photos of the men still floating around would not look so different as to raise suspicion. It had taken time and considerable expertise. The result had been worth it, though. It was now virtually impossible to identify any of these Arabs from their photos in the NIC database.

The other brilliant stroke had been leaving no “faces” behind on the dead men to identify. What had been substituted in their entirety, of course, were the men’s fingerprints, the forensic signature by which they’d been positively identified. Fingerprints never lied. Of course, in the digital age nothing was inviolate.

And yet with all that, Carter Gray’s gut was telling him something was not right.

Gray clicked out of the file and decided to go for a walk around the NIC grounds. He was allowed to do that, he supposed.

As Gray strolled outside, he looked at the sky, following the flight of a Lufthansa 747 as it made its way into Dulles Airport, and his mind wandered to the past.

Early on in his career at the CIA Gray had been assigned to the CIA’s ultrasecret and now abandoned training facility near Washington, Virginia, a bit over two hours west of D.C. The building, extremely well hidden within the surrounding forest, was known, in CIA parlance, as Area 51A, demonstrating that the Agency did, indeed, have a sense of humor. Unofficially, though, it had usually been referred to as Murder Mountain.

Long since closed down, NIC had recently moved to have it reopened as an interrogation facility for terrorist suspects. However, the Justice Department had gotten wind of the scheme, and the process had slowed down considerably. Then, after the cumulative effects of “Gitmo” Bay in Cuba, the disgrace of Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq, and the Salt Pit prison fiasco in Afghanistan, the plans to reopen the facility were on the verge of being nixed.

Gray was unconcerned, though. There were lots of other places outside the country that would serve the same purpose. Torture of prisoners was illegal under American and international laws. Gray had testified before many committees regarding compliance with this law by his intelligence community, lying to the Congress with virtually every word he spoke. However, did those great and pious legislators who neither knew one word of Arabic nor could even name the capitals of Oman or Turkmenistan without a staffer’s help, really think that was how the world worked?

Intelligence was a filthy business where people lied and people died all the time. The fact that the U.S. president was right now contemplating the assassination of another country’s elected officials was testament enough to how complicated the global politics were.

Gray returned to his office. He wanted to take another look at all these “dead men” who might somehow figure prominently in his future. God help America if they did.

CHAPTER

32

ALEX E-MAILED HIS UPDATED report to Jerry Sykes as soon as he got back to WFO. Unlike his first filing, however, the response this time was very swift. The phone call didn’t merely instruct him to go to Jerry Sykes’ office, or even the SAIC’s. He was ordered to report immediately to Secret Service headquarters and meet with none other than the director of the Secret Service.

Okay, Alex thought, this was probably not a good sign. It was close enough to WFO that Alex could walk, and he did. The time in the fresh air allowed him to ponder his future after the Service, which might be coming faster than he had envisioned, in fact about three years faster.

He had met the current director face-to-face only a couple times before. They’d been social occasions, and the few minutes of chitchat had been quite pleasant. Alex’s gut was telling him that this encounter wouldn’t be nearly as chummy.

A few minutes later he walked into the director’s spacious office. Jerry Sykes was there, apparently trying to disappear into the sofa he was perched on, and, much to Alex’s surprise, Jackie Simpson was sitting next to Sykes.

“You want to close the door, Ford?” Wayne Martin, the director of the Secret Service, said.

Close the door. That was definitely not a good sign. Alex obeyed this instruction and then sat and waited for Martin to start speaking. He was a large man who favored striped shirts with big cuff links. He’d worked his way up through the ranks and was one of the agents who tackled John Hinckley after his attempt to assassinate Reagan. Martin was studying a file in front of him. Shooting a quick glance at it, Alex thought it appeared to be his Service history. Okay, this was really not looking good.

Martin closed the file, sat on the edge of his desk and said, “Agent Ford, I’ll get right to it because, believe it or not, I’ve got a lot of things to do today.”

“Yes, sir,” Alex said automatically.

“I got a call from the president a little while ago. He was on Air Force One. The man was on his plane going to a string of campaign events, and he took the time to call me about you. That’s why you’re here today.”

It was as though all the blood were evaporating from Alex’s body. “The president called about me, sir?”

“Would you like to take a guess what about?”

Alex shot a glance at Sykes, who was studying the floor. Simpson was looking at him, but she didn’t appear to be in a helpful mood.

“The Patrick Johnson case?” Alex could barely hear his own voice.

“Bingo!” Martin boomed, slamming a fist down on his desk and causing everybody to jump.

“Since you’re batting a thousand, Ford, you care to take another guess as to what you did that prompted a call from the president of the United States?”

Alex had no saliva left in his mouth, but the man obviously wanted an answer. “I’ve been investigating the death of Patrick Johnson. That’s what I was ordered to do.”

Martin was shaking his head halfway through this answer. “The FBI is the lead investigative agency on the case. My understanding is that you were assigned to merely observe that investigation so as to protect the interests of this agency. And that our only connection to the deceased is that he was technically a joint employee of this agency and NIC. But in reality he was fully under NIC’s control and jurisdiction. Do you disagree with that assessment?”

Alex didn’t even bother to glance at Sykes. “No, sir.”

“Good, I’m glad that we’ve got that established. Now, the FBI found drugs at Mr. Johnson’s residence and is following up along those lines, which would tend to indicate that he was selling said drugs and generating considerable income from that endeavor. And consequently, his employment at NIC was not being considered as possibly connected to his death. Are you aware of this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good again.” Martin stood, and Alex braced for what was coming. He wasn’t disappointed.

Martin erupted, “Now, with all that said, would you care to tell me what in the living hell you were thinking when you went out to NIC and questioned none other than Carter Gray about this matter?” This was conveyed in what could only be described as one long drill sergeant scream.

When Alex finally found his voice, he said, “I thought that to cover all the angles, going out to NIC was proper. They had run an analysis on a note for us and—”

“Did you or did you not interrogate Carter Gray?”

“I did not, sir. He showed up and offered to take us to Johnson’s work space. Until then, I was merely speaking with two junior subordinates who were not being particularly cooperative.”

“Did you threaten to seek a warrant to search the NIC premises?”

Alex’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “That was just a routine jab at—”

Martin smacked his desktop again. “Did you!”

Sweat now christened Alex’s face. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you learn anything useful while you were there? Did you find a smoking gun? Did you find evidence to implicate Secretary Gray in some nefarious plot?”

Even though he well knew these were rhetorical questions, Alex felt compelled to answer the man. “We learned nothing that was particularly helpful to the investigation. But again, it was on Secretary Gray’s initiative that he showed us around, sir. And it was only for a couple of minutes.”

“Let me fill you in on the politics of our business, Ford. Secretary Gray didn’t randomly run into you at NIC. He was alerted to your presence and purpose and came down to see you. He told the president that he felt compelled to do so because if word leaked out to the media that NIC was not being cooperative in a criminal investigation, it would reflect badly on him and his agency. As you know, Secretary Gray and the president are especially close. So things that reflect badly on NIC and Secretary Gray don’t make the president happy. Are you following this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you also aware that under Secretary Gray’s initiative a full internal investigation is being conducted at NIC with regards to the Johnson matter and that the FBI will be assisting in this?”

“No, sir, I was not aware of that.”

Martin didn’t appear to be listening now. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “According to your first report, you’d concluded that Mr. Johnson was probably a drug dealer, and you were going to let the FBI track that lead down. That was it. You filed that report last night. Now this morning you showed up at NIC asking a bunch of questions that were in clear contradiction to your initial conclusions. My question to you is, what happened between the time you filed the report last night and your going to NIC this morning that made you change your mind?”

By the way Martin was looking at him, it suddenly struck Alex that the man already knew the answer. He shot a glance at Simpson, who was now looking nervously down at her thick-heeled pumps. That’s why she was here. Oh, shit!

He looked back at the director.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” Martin said.

Alex cleared his throat, buying time. “Sir, they’d analyzed the handwriting on the note, and I wanted to get the results.”

Martin gave Alex a look so scathing the agent could actually feel the swells of perspiration under his armpits.

“Don’t ever bullshit me, son,” Martin said in a very low, steady voice that was somehow far more threatening than the man’s prior tirade. The director looked over at Simpson. “Agent Simpson informed us that you told her an old friend had convinced you to get up a head of steam on this case and go for it.” He paused and said, “Who was that ‘friend’?”

Talk about a casual slip of the tongue coming back to crater your life. Alex’s mind was racing from how he was going to afford his mortgage after he was fired from the Service in disgrace, to how he could kill Jackie Simpson and not get the death penalty.

“I don’t really recall that conversation with Agent Simpson, sir.”

“It was this morning. I’m not sure the Service needs agents with memories that poor, so you want to load up and try again? Keep in mind that there are two careers in question here, and one of them is just starting out.” He again shot a glance at Simpson.

“The identity of the person isn’t important, sir. I’d already concluded that I was going to keep investigating the case because certain things didn’t add up, that’s all. It’s solely my responsibility. Agent Simpson had nothing to do with my decision to go to NIC. She was merely doing what I told her to, and reluctantly at that. I’m prepared to take the full consequences for my actions.”

“So you won’t answer my question?”

“With all due respect, sir, if I thought it had the slightest bearing on this case, I would answer it.”

“And you’re not going to let me be the judge of that?”

For a lot of reasons Alex was not going to tell the director of the Secret Service that a man calling himself Oliver Stone, who sometimes occupied a tent across from the White House, and who’d been known to harbor a few conspiracy theories, was the “old friend” who had convinced him to keep investigating. It just didn’t seem like a good idea right now.

Alex nervously licked his lips. “Again, with all due respect, it was said to me in confidence, and unlike some people, I don’t break confidences.” He didn’t look at Simpson when he said this, but then he didn’t really have to. “So you can just stop the buck right at me, sir.”

The director sat in his chair and leaned back. “You’ve had a good, solid career at the Service, Ford.”

“I’d like to think so.” Alex felt his breath quicken as he sensed the axe coming.

“But it’s the end of the career that people remember.”

Alex almost started laughing because this was exactly what Stone had told him, for an entirely different reason, of course. “That’s what I’ve heard, sir.” He paused and said, “I’m assuming I’m being transferred to another field office.” When the Service was ticked off at an agent, it usually sent that person to one of the least desirable field offices. Although, in this case, that might have been wishful thinking. Disobeying a command from the director would probably result in his immediate expulsion from the Service.

“You just take the rest of the day off. Then starting tomorrow you’re officially transferred out of WFO and back to presidential protection detail. Maybe standing post in some doorways will knock some sense into you. Quite frankly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Half of me wants to kick your ass right out of the Service this minute. But you’ve put in a lot of good years; it’d be a shame to see that go right in the crapper.” He held up a finger. “And just so there’s no miscommunication, you are not to go near the Patrick Johnson case in any way at all, even if your ‘old friend’ tells you otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Now get the hell out of here.”

CHAPTER

33

DJAMILA GAVE THE BABY HIS BATH while Lori Franklin played with the other two boys on the elaborate play set in the backyard. As she was dressing the little one afterward, Djamila watched the others from the nursery window. Lori Franklin didn’t spend enough time with her children, at least in Djamila’s estimation. Yet even the Iraqi woman had to admit that the time the mother did spend with her sons was real quality time. She read to them and drew with them and played games with them, spending patient hours with her three sons as they grew and changed every day. It was clear that Lori Franklin adored her boys. Now she was pushing the middle child on the swing while giving the oldest a piggyback ride. They all ended up chasing each other around the yard before collapsing in a pile. The peals of laughter reached all the way to Djamila, and, after a few seconds of fighting the urge, Djamila found herself laughing too at this heartwarming spectacle. Sons. She wanted many sons who would grow up tall and strong and take care of their mother when she grew old.

Djamila abruptly stopped laughing and turned away from the window. People should never take for granted what they had. Never! Especially Americans, who had everything.

Later, while Djamila and Franklin were preparing lunch, the latter closed the refrigerator door with a puzzled look.

“Djamila, there’s kosher food in here.”

Djamila wiped off her hands on a towel. “Yes, miss, I buy some at store. I use my money. It is for my meals here.”

“Djamila, I don’t care about that. We’ll pay for your food. But you must know that kosher is, well, it’s Jewish food.”

“Yes, miss, this I know.”

Franklin flashed a confused look. “Am I missing something here? A Muslim eating Jewish food?”

“Jews are people of the Book, in the Qur’an, I mean. As are Christians too, miss. And Jesus, he is recognized as a very important prophet of Islam, but he is not a god. There is only one God. And only Muhammad communicated the true word of God to the people. But David and Ibrahim, who you call Abraham, are important prophets too for Islam. We respect them for what they did. It was Ibrahim and his son Ishmael who built the Kaaba and established the practice of hajj, the pilgrimage to Mecca.”

Franklin looked impatient. “Thanks for the theology lesson, but what does all that have to do with food?”

“Muslims must eat food that is deemed lawful, or halal, and avoid what is haram, or unlawful. These rules they come from the Qur’an and fatwas and other Islamic rulings. We cannot consume alcohol or eat the meat of pigs, dogs or monkeys or other animals that haven’t died by human hand. We can only eat the meat of animals that have the cloven hoof and chew the cud and only fish that have the fin and scales, just like the Jews. The Jews, they prepare their food in ways acceptable to Muslims. As example, they drain all blood from the meat. Muslims, we cannot drink blood or have anything to do with blood in our food. And Jews do not kill the animal by boiling it or by electricity, although they do not declare three times, ‘Allahu akbar,’ that means God is great, when they slaughter the animal. But we Muslims recognize God by saying his name before we eat the food. And God will not let his people starve if they can’t find halal food. You say God’s name over the food, it is halal. Not all Muslims will eat the food of Jews, but if I cannot find halal food, I will eat the kosher.”

Lori Franklin was frowning at her nanny. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t understand that. I pick up a newspaper and pretty much can count on at least one story of Jews and Muslims killing each other somewhere. I know it’s not all that simple, but you’d think if you eat their food and they’re in your Bible, you could find some way to get along.”

Djamila stiffened. “It is not about food that we differ. I could tell you much—”

“Yes, well, I really don’t want to get into it. I have to meet George after lunch. He forgot his plane tickets for his flight tonight. Honestly, George can’t remember anything. You’d think an investment banker would have a better memory.”

After lunch was over and Lori Franklin had left, Djamila put the children into her van and drove to the park. On the ride over, her thoughts turned to her recent past.

She had known young men who’d trained with her in Pakistan that kept what they called journals of sacrifice, their sacrifice. The West, she knew, called them suicide diaries. She had read accounts in the papers of these diaries being found after the young men had died for Islam. Djamila had thought about what the last day of her life would look like. In her head she ran through what she would be thinking when the time came, how she would react. She had many questions and some doubts that troubled her. Would she be brave? She had imagined herself being noble and stoic, but was that unrealistic? Would she instantly be transported to paradise? Would anyone mourn her? And yet this also made her feel guilty, for her love of God should be enough; as it was for all Muslims.

Under normal circumstances it would have been unheard of for women to be deployed in terrorist cells with men, since there were strict rules and tribal customs forbidding unrelated men and women from being around each other. However, it had become quickly evident that Muslim men were almost always placed under heavy scrutiny in America, whereas Muslim women were given much more leeway. Thus, Muslim women were being engaged in much greater numbers now.

Djamila had grown close to one man she’d trained with. Ahmed was an Iranian, which instantly made her suspicious because there had never been harmony between Iran and her country. Yet he described a world in Tehran that was different from what she’d been told in Iraq.

“People want to be happy,” he told her. “But they cannot be happy if they are not free. You can love and worship God, without other people telling you how to live every part of life.” Then he went on to tell her that Iranian women could drive, vote and even hold seats in the Parliament. They were not forced to cover their entire face, just their hair and body, and they had started to wear cosmetics. He also told her that satellite dishes were being smuggled into the country in large numbers, and that, even more astonishing, men and women sat in cars while music played on the radio. If you knew where to go and the right things to say, you could get around the rules and the mullahs. You could have a chance to live life, if only for a little time, he had said. Djamila listened very intensely whenever he spoke of this.

He had also told Djamila that her name, which meant “beautiful” in Arabic, was most fitting to her. Most fitting, he’d said with respect and admiration, his gaze averted from hers. This comment had made her very happy. It had given her possibilities for a future that she had not thought realistic. However, he also spoke often of his coming death, even writing down in his diary the very day and hour that he planned on dying for God. But he would never show her the date he had chosen.

Djamila didn’t know if he’d fulfilled that wish or not. She didn’t know where he’d been sent. She would read the newspapers looking for his name or his picture telling of his death, but she’d never seen it. Djamila wondered if he ever read the newspapers looking for her picture and the account of her death.

He’d been a fledgling poet who had modest dreams of seeing his verses in print for other Arabs to read. His poems were filled with tragedy that Djamila knew came from years of violence and suffering in Iran. One of the last things he told her was, “When one has lost everything except one’s life, it doesn’t make that life more valuable, it only makes the sacrifice of that life more potent. To die for God, life could have no greater purpose.” She would never forget those words. They gave her strength and her life meaning.

The Qur’an said that any man or woman who has led a righteous life while believing in God enters paradise without the slightest injustice. But Djamila had learned that the only way for a Muslim to be guaranteed passage into paradise was to die as a martyr during an Islamic holy war. If that was so, and Djamila prayed every day that it was true, then she would willingly make that sacrifice. The life after must be better. God would not let it be otherwise; she was certain of this.

Sometimes Djamila would imagine her poet joining her in paradise, where they could live in eternal peace. This thought was one of the very few that could still bring a smile to her lips. Yes, Djamila would like to see him again, very much. In life or death, it did not matter to her. It did not matter at all.

CHAPTER

34

STONE WALKED BACK TO HIS cottage and cleaned himself up, putting ice on his face and resting while the swelling went down. Then he used his borrowed cell phone and contacted Reuben and Caleb. They scheduled a meeting for that night; he was unable to get hold of Milton.

After that, he tended to the cemetery and helped a couple of visitors find a grave they were looking for. Many years ago the church had documented the people interred here, but that list had been lost. Over the past two years Stone had checked every headstone and local records to re-create an accurate list. He’d also steeped himself in the history of Mt. Zion Cemetery and acted as an informal tour guide, narrating this history to groups that came by.

As he finished with the visitors and returned to work, he felt his face burn. And it wasn’t from his recent injuries, but rather from embarrassment. It had been so stupid of him to do that particularly in front of Adelphia. He could still feel the weight of the knife in his hand. So stupid.

Later he decided to take the Metro to Milton’s house. If his friend had been able to trace the car tag, Stone wanted to know. Plus, he wanted to make sure Milton was all right. The people they were dealing with could also run down a fingerprint as easily as Milton could.

He was walking down the street toward the Foggy Bottom subway station when he heard a horn sound behind him. He turned. It was Agent Ford. He pulled his Crown Vic to the curb and rolled down the window.

“Want a ride?” Alex suddenly noted his friend’s injuries. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I fell.”

“You okay?”

“My ego was bruised more than my face.” Stone climbed into the car and Alex sped off.

Waiting for what he hoped was an acceptable period of time, Stone finally said, “I was thinking about our conversation last night. How’s your investigation going?”

“It’s going so well I’ve been busted back to protection detail.”

“Agent Ford—”

“You know, Oliver, after all these years, you can probably call me Alex.”

“I hope that my advice didn’t get you in trouble, Alex.”

“I’m a big boy. And you happened to be right. Only I didn’t have all the facts straight, and now I’m paying the price.”

“What facts?”

“Afraid I can’t say. Where you heading, by the way?”

Stone told him. “I’m visiting some friends,” he added.

“I hope they’re the ones in high places. You can never have too many of those.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any of those.”

“Neither do I. But hell, it turns out my rookie partner — and I use the term ‘partner’ very loosely — it turns out she has some of those kinds of friends. In fact, she informed me today that her godfather is none other than Carter Gray.”

Stone looked at him. “Who’s your partner?”

“Jackie Simpson.”

Stone stiffened. “Roger Simpson’s daughter?”

“How’d you know that?”

“You mentioned friends in high places, and they don’t come much higher than Roger Simpson. He worked at the CIA but that was decades ago.”

“I didn’t know about that, but I guess it explains his interest in intelligence.”

Stone was staring out the window. “How old is the woman?”

“What, Jackie? Mid-thirties.”

“And she’s just starting out at the Secret Service?”

“She was a cop in Alabama before joining the Service.”

“What’s she like?”

“Well, she’s pretty high on my shit list right now. The lady basically sold me down the river this morning.”

“I mean what does she look like?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious,” Stone said.

“She’s petite, black hair, blue eyes, and has a big-time drawl when she’s real pissed. She doesn’t back down and says what’s on her mind. No shrinking violet.”

“I see. Attractive?”

“Why, you thinking about asking her out?” Alex said grinning.

“Old men are always curious about young women,” Stone replied with a smile.

Ford shrugged. “She’s pretty, if you get past the attitude.”

Mid-thirties, thought Stone. Black hair, blue eyes and an attitude.

“Have you ever met Carter Gray?” Stone asked.

“I did today,” Alex said.

“What was your opinion?”

“Pretty damn impressive.”

“So is that why you got in trouble? You ran into Gray?”

“Let’s just say I thought I’d be real smart and let the two NIC agents on the case run some analysis on the suicide note we found. That would give me an excuse to go there and poke around. Turns out I got sandbagged. I should’ve seen it coming.”

Stone had not been listening to the last part. His attention had been captured by the part about NIC having the suicide note. Were Milton’s fingerprints on it?

“Uh, were the two agents at NIC helpful?”

“Not particularly. You know, I hate spooks, I really do. I don’t give a crap if you call them the National Intelligence Center, the Central Intelligence Agency, or the Defense Intelligence Agency, they wouldn’t tell you the truth if their mother’s life depended on it.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Stone said under his breath.

Halfway to his destination, Stone instructed Alex to let him off up ahead.

“I can take you all the way to where you’re going, Oliver,” he said. “The director gave me the rest of the day off to think about my sins.”

“I really need to walk.”

“Well, you should get that jaw checked out.”

“I will.”

As soon as Alex drove off, Stone pulled out his cell phone and called Milton. In one way it was disheartening to learn that the Secret Service agent was off the case, but at least he would not be in danger. Stone could not say the same about the rest of them.

Milton’s voice interrupted these musings. “Hello?”

“Milton, where are you?”

“I’m at Chastity’s.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Since this morning, why?”

“When you left your house, did you notice anyone around?”

“No.”

“Don’t go back home. I want you to meet me somewhere else.” Stone thought quickly. “Union Station. Can you be there in the next half hour or so?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll be standing by the bookstore. Were you able to run the car tag down?”

“That was no problem. I have his name and address. It’s—”

“Tell me in person. And, Milton, I want you to listen very carefully. You need to make sure that no one is following you.”

“What did you find out?” Milton asked nervously.

“I’ll tell you when I see you. Oh, one more thing. Could you see what you can find on a Jackie Simpson, Senator Simpson’s daughter? She’s a Secret Service agent.”

Stone clicked off and then called both Reuben and Caleb and updated them. After that, he set off for the nearest Metro station and a little while later stood at the entrance to the B. Dalton bookstore that occupied a large chunk of massive Union Station. While browsing through some books, Stone periodically checked the subway exit, where he assumed Milton would be coming out.

When Milton arrived from a different part of the train station, Stone looked at him questioningly.

“Chastity drove me,” he explained. “What happened to your face?”

“It’s not important. Is Chastity here?”

“No, I told her to go back home.”

“Milton, are you absolutely certain you weren’t followed?”

“Not with the way Chastity drives.”

Stone led him over to a bagel shop located across from the bookstore. They bought coffees and then settled down at a table in the far corner.

Milton took out his cell phone and hit a button.

“Who are you calling?” Stone asked.

“No one. My cell phone has a recorder built in. I just remembered that I have to call Chastity later about something, and I’m leaving myself a reminder. The phone I gave you has the same capability. And it’s also a camera.” Milton spoke into the recorder and then put his phone away.

“What’s the man’s name?” Stone asked.

“Tyler Reinke. He lives out near Purcellville. I have the street address.”

“I know the area. Did you find out where he works?”

“I checked everywhere I could get into, and I can get into quite a few places. But I didn’t find anything on him.”

“That might mean he does work at NIC. I don’t think even you could hack them.”

“It’s possible.”

“Did you find anything on Jackie Simpson?”

“Quite a bit. I printed it out for you.” He slid a folder over to Stone.

He opened it and gazed at a laser printer picture of the woman. Alex had been right, thought Stone; the attitude was evident on her features. Her home address was in the file too. It was close to WFO. Stone wondered if she walked to work. He closed the file, put it away in his knapsack and told Milton about NIC having the suicide note and the possibility of his prints being on it.

Milton let out a deep breath. “I knew I shouldn’t have touched that paper.”

“Would you still be on the NIH database?”

“Probably. And the Secret Service printed me when I sent that stupid letter to Ronald Reagan. I was just so upset with all his budget cuts on mental health.”

Stone hunched forward. “I wanted to have a meeting tonight at Caleb’s condo to go over things, but now I’m not sure if that’s safe.”

“So where do we meet, then?”

Just then Stone’s cell phone rang. It was Reuben and he was excited.

He said, “I met an old buddy of mine for a beer. We fought together in Nam, and we joined Defense Intelligence at the same time. I heard he’d just retired from DIA, so I thought I’d have a drink with him and see if he’d open up a little about things. Well, he told me NIC had pissed everybody off by demanding that all terrorist files be turned over to NIC. Even the CIA’s files were purged. Gray knew that if he controlled the flow of information, then he controlled everything else too.”

“So all other intelligence agencies have to go to NIC for that information?”

“Yep. And that way NIC knows what everyone else is working on.”

“But by law, NIC oversees all that anyway, Reuben.”

“Hell, who cares what the law says? Do you really think the CIA’s going to be absolutely truthful about what it’s doing, Oliver?”

“No,” Stone admitted. “Telling the truth would be counterintuitive for it as well as having no historical basis. Spies always lie.”

“Is the meeting tonight still at Caleb’s?” Reuben asked.

“I’m not sure that Caleb’s . . .” Stone’s voice trailed off. “Caleb?” he said slowly.

“Oliver?” Reuben said. “Are you still there?”

“Oliver? Are you all right?” Milton asked in a worried tone.

Stone spoke quickly. “Reuben, where are you?”

“At the disgusting shack I call my castle. Why?”

“Can you pick me up at Union Station and take me to my storage place?”

“Sure, but you didn’t answer me. Is the meeting still at Caleb’s?”

“No, I think instead . . .” Stone looked around. “We’ll meet here at Union Station.”

“Union Station,” Reuben repeated. “That’s not exactly private, Oliver.”

“I didn’t say we were holding our meeting here.”

“You’re not making much sense,” Reuben said grumpily.

“I’ll explain it all later. Just get here as quickly as you can. I’ll be waiting out front.” Stone clicked off and looked at Milton.

Milton said, “What are you going to your other place for?”

“There’s something I need from there. Something that might finally make sense out of all this.”