The Camel Club

CHAPTER

45

TYLER REINKE’S HOME WAS VERY sparsely furnished. Reuben and Stone crawled on their bellies to each room, hoping for anything that could be useful, but came away disappointed each time. They passed the front door where another alarm code pad was mounted and slithered up the stairs after the fat tabby.

When they reached the bedroom, something caught Reuben’s eye.

“Our Mr. Reinke is a chopper pilot.” He picked up the only picture on the nightstand. In it Tyler Reinke was at the controls of a sleek black helicopter.

“Any insignias on it?” Stone asked as he searched other parts of the room.

“Nope.” Reuben put the picture back down after using a corner of the bedspread to wipe off any fingerprints.

Stone had rummaged around in the closet and came out carrying a small box.

“Financial records,” he said in response to Reuben’s questioning look.

He took out a stack and started going through them, scanning each page.

“Anything of interest?”

Stone held up one page. “It seems this account is set up under a false name, although the address matches the house we’re in. However, I’m afraid I have little experience with financial portfolios.”

“Let me take a look.” Reuben spent some time going over the statements and some handwritten notes also contained in the batch. “It looks like Reinke, if this is his account statement, has recently bought an enormous long-put option on margin.”

“Long-put option on margin? What’s that?”

“Margin means he’s borrowed money to purchase his position and he has the option to sell the position at a certain level. According to these handwritten notes, he’s essentially betting the farm that the S&P will take a dive. So it’s like sell low and buy back high. That’s not what you usually want, but in this case you can make enormous amounts of money doing that very thing. And the amount at risk is far more than someone would make off a government salary. That’s why it’s on margin.”

“I had no idea you knew so much about finances.”

“Hey, a guy likes to take a plunge every now and then. And I don’t plan on working on that damn loading dock until I croak, I can tell you that.”

“But how would he know that it’s going down? It’s one thing to have inside info on one stock, but the whole market?” Stone thought for a moment. “But then again, the financial markets almost always drop in the face of an unforeseen catastrophe.”

“What, like an earthquake?” Reuben said.

“But also with man-made catastrophes. On 9/11 I recall they had to close the stock market and calm everyone down. Left to its own devices, the market would’ve plunged. It still went down when it reopened after 9/11. Unscrupulous people with advance knowledge could’ve made a fortune.”

“So maybe Reinke knows of a coming catastrophe?” Reuben said nervously.

“Or else he’s helping create one,” Stone replied.

As soon as they saw the car approaching from their hiding place off the road, Milton got on his cell phone and called Reuben. Well, he attempted to call, but no ringing sound came. He looked at his cell phone and his heart sank.

Caleb glanced at him as the headlights crept closer.

“Call them!”

“There’s no signal strength.”

“What!”

“There’s no signal strength here. It must be a bad cell zone. I can’t get through.”

Caleb pointed at the oncoming car. “That is very likely a murderer in there.”

“Caleb, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Damn these high-tech abominations,” Caleb said angrily. “They never work when you really need them to.”

The other car turned off the road and headed to Reinke’s house.

“That’s Tyler Reinke’s car. I recognized it,” Caleb said.

“I know, I did too,” a panicked Milton added. “What are we going to do?”

Caleb started the car. “Well, I’m certainly not going to let them kill Oliver and Reuben while we just sit here with useless technology. Hold on!”

Milton braced himself as Caleb hit the gas and the Malibu sprang forward.

They squealed back onto the road, where Caleb floored it and took the turn toward Reinke’s house just barely on four wheels.

As the Malibu flew forward, Caleb hit the horn. He hadn’t been joking before to Stone. It was very loud, like a shriek and a train whistle rolled into one.

Reinke glanced over his shoulder at the Malibu as it raced by honking its horn.

He looked at Peters and muttered, “Stupid high school kids joyriding. Happens all the time around here.”

Inside Reinke’s house, both Stone and Reuben raced to the front bedroom window when they heard the car horn. That’s when they saw the headlights turn into the drive.

“Oh, shit, that’s Reinke,” Reuben said.

“And his friend,” Stone added as the two men climbed out of the car. Then he glanced at the Malibu disappearing down the street. “I told them to call us, not race around sounding like a banshee,” Stone said irritably.

They hurtled downstairs, and then in the nick of time Stone remembered and grabbed Reuben by the shirt an instant before he would’ve stepped into the infrared arc of the motion detector mounted by the front door. They crawled forward as they heard the front door being unlocked. They hit the kitchen as the front door opened and the beeps started to sound. They were getting off the floor as they heard someone punching in the code and the beeps stopped.

“Okay,” Stone whispered. “The alarm’s off, so we can open the back door.”

Reuben did so as quietly as possible, even as they heard a set of footsteps coming their way. They bolted out of the house, shutting the door behind them, and turned the corner of the house.

And ran right into Warren Peters, who was pulling a trash can back behind the house.

“What the hell—” was as far as Peters got before Reuben’s massive fist sent the NIC man flying head over heels backward. Stone and Reuben ran for the motorcycle. They were on it and Reuben had kick-started the bike to life when Reinke, hearing all the commotion, came flying out of the house.

He spotted Stone and Reuben, and his hand went inside his jacket as he ran forward. He had a clear line to shoot. What he didn’t count on was a rusted Malibu going partially airborne driven by a crazed rare book specialist with a terrified OCD genius counting madly in the copilot’s seat.

“Holy mother of God!” Milton screamed as Reinke went flying across the windshield, rolled off and landed in a heap in the grass. Then Milton resumed his ritual counting.

Peters had staggered to his feet by this time. However, Caleb, his mind and body seemingly possessed by the spirit of a youthful daredevil, rammed the Malibu into reverse, put the gas pedal to the floor and sped backward, the wheels spitting gravel like machine-gun bullets.

Peters screamed as the car bore down on him. He got off one shot and dove out of the way. He was coming up for another attempt when the motorcycle flew past him. As Reuben drove, Stone was sitting on the lip of the sidecar swinging his helmet by the strap. It caught Peters on the side of the head, and he went down for the count.

It was a full ten minutes before Peters and Reinke began to stir. By the time they had regained consciousness, the Camel Club was long gone.

CHAPTER

46

THE AUTHORITIES’ RESPONSE TO what had happened to Alex Ford and Kate Adams was not exactly encouraging. According to the police the brake line seemed to have popped all by itself. Not unusual for a vehicle that old, the police said. And there was no evidence of any shooter at Kate Adams’ home, other than what Alex had said he’d seen and heard. Two of his bullets were found embedded in the fence behind where he shot. No other slugs were recovered.

It was the next morning, and Alex was sitting in Jerry Sykes’ office listening to the official version of last night’s event.

Sykes stopped pacing and looked at him. “The people who tried to help you after your ‘accident’ reported you were acting in a bizarre manner and then you took off running. Alex, all this crap just isn’t like you. Is there something going on in your life you want to talk about?”

“Absolutely nothing other than someone wanting me dead,” Alex said stonily.

Sykes dropped into his chair and picked up a mug of coffee. “Why in the hell would anyone want you dead?”

“Some guy put a freaking gun to my head, Jerry. I didn’t take the time to ask him why.”

“And nobody saw this guy except you. So again, I’m asking you what happened between yesterday and today to make somebody want you dead?”

Alex hesitated. He wanted to tell Sykes about the discovery of the boat but figured that admitting he’d disobeyed another order from the director would be the end of his career.

“I’ve got a lot of years of damn good service behind me. Why all of a sudden would I start making this sort of crap up?”

“You put your finger on it. You’ve put in a lot of years. The director cut you a break yesterday. He could’ve canned your ass on the spot. Hell, I probably would’ve if I’d been in his shoes. Don’t blow a gift from the top, Alex. You’re not getting another one.”

“Fine, but can you at least put someone on Kate Adams’ house? I didn’t imagine that optics reflection.”

Sykes sat back. “I’ll call the D.C. police and ask them to have a car make some extra rounds. But that’s all. And consider that a gift.” Sykes looked at his watch. “I’ve got a meeting, and I think you have a post to stand.”

“Right. In the White House,” Alex said wearily.

“No, actually outside. You’ll have to work your way back inside the place.”

The Camel Club held a hasty meeting at Caleb’s condo early that morning. The first order of business was to congratulate the esteemed librarian and gutsy wheelman on his bravery. They had to wait a bit for that, however, as Caleb was in the bathroom still throwing up after realizing just how close he’d come to dying.

When Caleb finally emerged from the toilet Stone said, “I would like the official record to reflect that Caleb Shaw has earned the deepest thanks of the entire Camel Club membership for his extraordinary bravery and ingenuity.”

A pale but smiling Caleb shook each of their hands. “I’m not sure what came over me. I just knew that I had to do something. I’ve never been that scared since I was given the honor of handling Tocqueville’s De la Démocratie en Amérique in its original paper wrappers.”

Reuben gave a fake tremble. “Handling a Tocqueville! Gives me the piss shivers just thinking about it.”

“However, we have to assume that Reinke and his partner have now ‘made’ us, so to speak,” Stone warned.

“I’m not so sure. I took my license plates off while we were watching the road,” Caleb said as they all stared at him in surprise. “After Milton got their license plate and ran it so easily, I was terrified they’d do the same if they saw mine,” he explained.

Just then Milton’s cell phone buzzed.

“Yes?” he said. He listened for a bit and then clicked off and looked at the others. “Someone broke into my house and knocked out the security guard who responded to the silent alarm.”

“Was anything taken?” Stone asked.

“Doesn’t appear to be. However, I have surveillance devices disguised as track lighting throughout the place. The security company doesn’t know about that.”

“It would be very interesting to see who broke in,” Stone remarked.

“I have to go there to check it. The DVD recorder’s hidden behind my refrigerator.”

“We’ll have to chance it,” Stone said. “If it was Reinke and his colleague, it might give us the leverage we need.”

Reuben put a big arm around Caleb. “Well, if those two show up again, they’re going down for the count. Right, Killer?”

His first day back on presidential protection detail was a little awkward for Alex Ford. Everyone seemed to know that this reassignment was a demotion for the veteran agent. Still, they were cordial and professional with him. There was one good thing about being assigned to exterior White House duty: Alex could patrol Lafayette Park.

However, Stone wasn’t there, but Adelphia was. She was hovering in the middle of the park, shooting glances in the direction of Stone’s tent.

“Hello, Adelphia,” Alex said politely. “I was just looking for Oliver.”

To his surprise, Adelphia’s response was to burst into tears. That was something Alex had never seen the woman do before.

“Adelphia, what’s the matter?”

She just covered her face with her hands.

Alex moved over to her. “Adelphia, what is it? Are you hurt? Or sick?”

She shook her head, then took a deep breath and uncovered her face. “It is all right,” she said. “It is fine.”

Alex led her over to a bench. “You’re obviously not fine. Now, tell me what’s wrong. Maybe I can help.”

Adelphia took a series of replenishing breaths and then looked over at Stone’s tent again. “I no lie to you. I am fine, Agent Fort.”

“It’s Ford, but if you’re all right—” Then he followed her gaze to Stone’s tent. “Has something happened to Oliver?” he asked quickly.

“I not know that.”

“I don’t understand. Then why are you crying?”

She stared at him in a way she never had before. It wasn’t her usual distrustful and surly expression. It was one of hopelessness. “He trusts you. Oliver has said this to me, he say Agent Fort is good man.”

“I like and respect Oliver too.” He paused and then added, “His face was bruised the last time I saw him. Does it have something to do with that?”

Adelphia nodded and told him of the encounter in the park. “He took this finger,” she said, holding up her middle finger, “and he poke it in the man’s side. And this giant of a man, he fall like baby.” She drew a deep, troubled breath. “And then Oliver, he pick up the knife and he hold it in a way” — she shuddered — “he hold it like he know well the knife. And I think he will cut the man’s neck open, like this.” She made a slashing motion with her hand and then stopped. She stared at Alex with an expression of both sadness and relief. “But he did not. He no cut the man. He leave when police come. Oliver no like police.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

She shook her head, and Alex sat back against the bench letting this all sink in.

“Hey, Ford,” a voice called out. Alex looked over at his supervisor.

“You wanna come back and join the party, if it’s not too much trouble?” the man said curtly.

Alex jumped up. Before leaving he turned to Adelphia. “If you see Oliver, tell him I want to talk to him.”

Adelphia didn’t look very enthused about that.

“I won’t tell him you told me anything. I promise. I just need to see him.”

She finally nodded and he raced off.

Work in Brennan for the president’s visit had accelerated, and Captain Jack was kept very busy. The vehicle being constructed in the garage was right on schedule, and the various wheelmen were ready. He hadn’t visited the snipers’ nest again. He didn’t want to risk being seen going to the apartment too often. Captain Jack had spent time with al-Rimi and his colleague at the hospital while the two were off duty. There were no problems there.

He had met once more with Djamila late last night after she had made her nightly rounds of Brennan. He was still a bit concerned about her emotional makeup, but there was no time to substitute now. He reinforced the notion of how important her work was to the whole project. About how many men would be sacrificing their lives and how that sacrifice would be for naught if she failed.

He would hold two more meetings before game day, one tonight, before the Secret Service advance team arrived in the morning. And, as with the last group meeting, he would afterward meet with his North Korean counterpart to go over necessary details.

However, Carter Gray was on the prowl. Actually, Captain Jack was a little surprised it had taken the old man this long to become suspicious. They had used every connection they had in the Muslim world to set up this operation. But Hemingway’s plan was, in Captain Jack’s mind, an ultimately futile exercise, although Tom Hemingway simply refused to see that. To Captain Jack’s thinking, Hemingway’s chief problem was he still believed in the good in people. That logic was inherently flawed, Captain Jack knew, because the people who really mattered didn’t possess any goodness. With every mission he’d ever carried out, Captain Jack always allowed for contingencies, and this time was no exception. Following his old maxim had once again led him down the right path. It really was all about the money.

In the rental space on the outskirts of town the engineer and chemist were going over again the workings of the prosthetic hand with the ex-National Guardsman.

He had gotten the maneuverings of the device down very well. They watched as he put his new hand through a series of grips, waves and other exercises. Then he executed the water bag implement flawlessly. Before leaving he thanked them both.

Afterward, the men packed up a duffel bag and headed into town, where they ran errands at a half dozen businesses along the town’s center. At each place they left a little present. These presents would further help lay a place in history for Brennan, Pennsylvania, although certainly not one the townspeople would have wanted.

CHAPTER

47

ALEX FOUND OUT LATER THAT day he’d been assigned to the advance team for the Brennan event. This thoroughly ticked him off, because it meant time away from Kate. However, it wasn’t as if he could complain. He was barely hanging on to his Service pension as it was. Indeed, Alex sensed that he’d be sent to every bump-in-the-road campaign outpost Brennan was targeting on his reelection charge across America. He’d be a zombie by the time it was over.

He and Kate met at a restaurant in Dupont Circle. She’d rebounded well from the frightening events of the previous night and was now determined to get to the truth. That spunk drew both admiration and terror from Alex.

“I understand how you feel, Kate, but don’t get carried away. These guys have guns, and they’re obviously not afraid to use them.”

“More reason to get them off the streets,” she said determinedly. “So when do you leave for Brennan?”

“Crack of dawn. It’s a short flight but there’s a lot to do. Advance teams do the heavy lifting that keeps the president safe. But it’s killing me that I won’t be around here in case you need me.”

She put her hand over his. “Well, for what it’s worth, I thought you were pretty damn terrific last night.”

Right as she said these words, their young waiter stopped by with their meals and overheard them. Obviously misinterpreting the import of her words, he gave Alex a wink and a smile.

As they ate, Kate asked, “So any new developments?”

“Just one.” He told her about his conversation with Adelphia about Stone.

“You said Stone didn’t have a past that you could find. And yet based on what Adelphia saw, he definitely has a past, maybe a pretty interesting one.”

Alex nodded and then looked thoughtful. “What do you say after we eat we take a little stroll over to 16th and Pennsylvania?”

“I hear that’s a really nice place. Think you can get me in?’’

“Right now I’m not sure they’d let me in. But I was talking about the 16th and Pennsylvania on the other side of the street.”

Forty-five minutes later the two arrived at Lafayette Park.

“Doesn’t look like he’s there,” Alex observed as he stared at Stone’s darkened tent. This was confirmed moments later when they opened the tent and saw it was empty.

“So you have another address for the man?” Kate asked.

“Actually, I do.”

Twenty minutes later Alex pulled his car to the curb outside Mt. Zion Cemetery.

A light was on in the caretaker’s cottage.

“He lives here?” Kate asked. “At a cemetery?”

“What’d you expect? A penthouse near the MCI Center?”

The gate to the cemetery was locked, but Alex boosted Kate over and then scaled the fence, landing next to her.

When he answered their knock, Stone couldn’t hide his surprise. “Alex?” he said, and then glanced curiously at Alex’s companion.

“Hello, Oliver, this is my friend Kate Adams. She’s a lawyer at Justice and the best bartender anyone could want.”

“Ms. Adams, it’s very nice to meet you,” Stone said, shaking her hand. He looked questioningly at Alex again.

“We just thought we’d drop by to see you,” Alex said.

“I see. Well, please come in.” Stone didn’t ask how Alex knew where he lived.

He let them into the cottage and then poured out some coffee he’d made while they looked around. Kate leafed through a book she pulled from the shelf. “Have you read all these, Oliver?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “though most of them not more than twice, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, there’s never enough time to read as much as one would want.”

She eyed Alex. “Solzhenitsyn. No lightweight stuff.”

“I think I read the Cliffs Notes on him in college,” Alex said.

She held out the book. “Yeah, but in Russian?”

Stone came out of the kitchen carrying two cups of coffee.

“I like your home, Oliver,” she said. “It’s how I’d envision a college professor’s place to look.”

“Yes, untidy, dusty, rumpled and full of old books.” Stone glanced at Alex. “I understand you’re on the advance team to Brennan, Pennsylvania?”

Alex gaped. “How the hell did you know that?”

“White House detail can often be very tedious, and people pass the time by talking shop. And voices carry amazingly there, if one is actually listening, which I’m afraid that few people really do anymore.”

Kate smiled at Stone as they all sat down in chairs around the fireplace. “Alex said you were quite extraordinary, Oliver, and I’ve found I can thoroughly rely on his opinion of people.”

“Well, Ms. Adams, I can assure you that Alex is truly special.”

“Please call me Kate.”

“Yeah, and if I get any more special,” Alex said, “I’ll be pumping gas for a living.” He glanced at Stone. “Your face looks like it’s healing.”

“It was nothing to begin with. A little ice. I’ve suffered worse.”

“Really? Care to talk about it?” Alex said.

“You would find such a discussion terribly boring, I’m afraid.”

“Try me,” Alex said pointedly.

A voice reached them from the street. They all got up and went to the door. There was Adelphia standing outside the locked gates calling to Stone.

“Adelphia?” Stone quickly went and let her in.

After they had settled back around the fireplace, Stone introduced Adelphia to Kate Adams.

Kate put out her hand but Adelphia simply nodded at her. The woman had obviously not planned on Stone having any company.

“I didn’t know you knew where I lived, Adelphia,” Stone said.

“You know where I live, it work both way,” she snapped.

Suitably rebuked, Stone sat back in his chair and stared at his hands.

“Oliver was just telling us that his face is much better,” Alex said quickly, giving the woman what he hoped would be a clear segue into her concerns.

However, Adelphia said nothing, and there was another awkward silence until Kate remarked, “I actually knew one of the attorneys from the ACLU who worked on your relocation case in Lafayette Park. He said it was a tough battle.”

“I believe the Secret Service were very aggressive in not wanting us back for security purposes,” Stone agreed.

Adelphia suddenly broke in. “But then the rights of people, they win out. People here have good rights. That is why this country is great country.”

Stone nodded in agreement.

“Yes,” Adelphia continued. “My friend Oliver, he has sign. It say ‘I want truth.’”

“Don’t we all,” Kate said with a smile.

“But sometime truth, it must come from inside a person,” Adelphia said forcefully as she touched her chest. “One who asks for truth, they too must be truthful, is this not so?” She looked around the group as she said this.

Stone was clearly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. He responded slowly, “The truth comes in many different shapes. But sometimes even when the truth is staring someone in the face, he fails to see it.” He abruptly stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually have someplace I have to be.”

“It’s pretty late, Oliver,” Alex said.

“Yes, it is late, and I hadn’t anticipated visitors tonight.”

His meaning was clear. They all stood and hurriedly walked out with mumbled good-byes.

Alex and Kate gave Adelphia a lift back to her apartment.

From the backseat she said, “He is in trouble. I know that this is true.”

“What makes you so sure?” Alex asked.

“He come by the park today with his friend, the giant one. He on a motorcycle. Riding in a sidecar.” She added this last in a tone implying that doing such was a criminal act.

“A giant man? Oh, you mean Reuben,” Alex clarified.

“Yes, Reuben. I no like him much. He has, how you say, the shifty pants.”

“You mean shifty eyes,” Alex corrected.

“No, I mean the shifty pants!”

“It’s okay, Adelphia,” Kate said, “I know exactly what you mean.”

Adelphia shot her an appreciative look.

“But you still haven’t told us why you think he’s in trouble,” Alex said.

“It is everything. He is not same. Something troubles him much. I try to talk to him, but he will not speak. He will not!”

Alex looked at her, puzzled by the intensity of her response, and his suspicions were suddenly engaged. “Adelphia, is there something else you want to tell us?”

She looked terrified for an instant and then assumed an expression of deep offense. “What do you say? That I lie!”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“I am no liar. I try to do good, that is all.”

“I’m not—”

She cut him off. “I no talk any more. I no tell you more lies!”

They were stopped at a light. She jerked open the door, got out and stalked off.

“Adelphia,” Alex called after her.

Kate said, “Better let her cool off awhile. She’ll come around soon enough.”

“I don’t have time for that. I leave tomorrow morning.”

“And tomorrow is when I start my vacation.”

“What? When did that happen?”

“After last night I needed some time off, so I’m taking a week. Maybe I’ll come up to see you in Brennan. I hear it’s a real happening place.”

“It’s probably a cow pasture where a president happened to be born.”

“And maybe I’ll have some time to check out your Mr. Stone and his friends.”

He looked at her in alarm. “Kate, I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“Or I can start trying to find the people who wanted us dead. It’s your call.”

He put up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Go after Oliver Stone and company. Damn, talk about the lesser of two evils.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she said, giving him a salute.

CHAPTER

48

THE SECRET SERVICE ADVANCE team touched down in Pittsburgh at seven A.M., and the equivalent of a small army rolled off the planes and headed directly to Brennan. The president traveled hundreds of times each year. And at least several days before he got to a particular location the Secret Service sent a regiment of agents who would spend collectively thousands of hours checking every conceivable detail to ensure that the trip would be uneventful from a security standpoint.

Since the president had numerous trips planned on his campaign and would hop from one state to another, there were multiple advance teams out in the field, which had stretched the Service’s manpower. Normally, an advance team would have a full week to do its work, but because of the number of events President Brennan had booked on the campaign, the Service had had to prioritize. Events deemed lower risk were allotted less advance time. With higher-risk events the Service had its usual week to prepare. The Brennan, Pennsylvania, event had been deemed low risk for a number of factors. Of course, what that meant for Alex Ford and the rest of the advance team was that they would have to cram a week’s worth of work into a few days.

The Service set up shop at the largest hotel in Brennan, taking over an entire floor. It had been renamed the Sir James, in honor of the president’s first name. That had caused about ten minutes of funny one-liners from the field agents, until their leaders came within earshot. One room became the communications center and was consequently stripped of all furniture and completely debugged. From this point until the Service left there’d be no room service or maids allowed there.

That afternoon the Service met with members of the local police forces. As Alex watched, the lead advance agent faced the cadre of law enforcement officers while briefing books were handed out.

“Just remember,” he warned. “In another room near here there may be a group of people planning to do the exact opposite of what we’re trying to accomplish.”

Alex had heard this spiel many times, but as he looked around the room, he couldn’t believe that many of those present were buying the line. Still, Alex, with all his experience, discounted nothing. Secret Service agents were paranoid by nature. While Brennan didn’t look like a potential trouble spot, no one had expected Bobby Kennedy to be shot in the kitchen of a hotel. James Garfield bought it at a train station; William McKinley went down at a rope line after having been shot by a man who wrapped his revolver inside a “bandage”; Lincoln was gunned down in a theater and JFK in his open limo. Not on my watch, Alex kept telling himself.

Not on my watch.

Potential motorcade routes from the airport to the ceremonial grounds were discussed, and possible trouble spots with each were considered. Then the group broke into smaller units, and Alex found himself asking the usual questions of the local law enforcement. Had gun sales peaked? Were any police uniforms missing? Were there any local threats against the president? What were the locations of the nearest hospitals and potential safe houses?

After that, they drove out to the site. Alex walked the ceremonial grounds and helped establish sniper posts. He eyed the area, locating what the Service referred to as the assassin’s funnel. You had to think like a killer. Where, how and when could the person be expected to strike?

The stage was finished, and a work crew was putting the finishing touches on lighting and sound and the two giant TV screens that would allow the crowd to see the president up close, at least digitally.

To Alex’s experienced eye the place looked reasonably doable from a protection point of view. The single entry and exit for vehicular traffic was both bad and good for obvious reasons. Still, the president wouldn’t be here that long. Two hours tops.

As Alex drove back into Brennan, he looked around the small town. It had long been a Service myth that the best time to rob a bank was when the president was in town, because every cop within twenty miles would be watching him and not the townspeople’s money. Alex had a feeling that adage would be pretty accurate here. There were no cops anywhere.

Back in his hotel room Alex decided to go for a run. He’d gone through college on a track scholarship, and, despite his neck injury, he ran whenever he could. It was one of the few things keeping him from feeling totally washed up physically. He hit the main street and headed east, passed the hospital and then turned left and picked up his pace as he headed north. A van passed him. He had no reason to look over and didn’t. He wouldn’t have recognized the woman anyway. Nor did Djamila look in his direction as she drove by with the three boys in the back.

Next Alex passed an auto repair facility with its blacked-out windows. Hidden behind them was a lot of work going on as a new vehicle was fashioned. If Alex had been aware of the plot, he would’ve charged into the garage and arrested everyone there. But he wasn’t aware, so he just kept jogging. Indeed, the downtown area of Brennan held little interest for Alex because the president would never be coming here. The ceremony at the dedication grounds would constitute the entire program.

After he had showered back at his hotel room, Alex went to volunteer for another chunk of work that night. Might as well do all he could to get back into the Service’s good graces.

While Alex was working away up in Brennan, Kate was busy too. She’d risen very early that day and eaten breakfast with Lucky. She asked the older woman a favor, which Lucky quickly granted.

After that, Kate had gone to the carriage house, sat down at her small desk and planned out her attack on Oliver Stone. Alex had said that he had run Stone’s prints through all the usual databases and come up with zilch. To Kate, that could only mean one of two things: Either the man had never held a position requiring a fingerprint check or else his identity had been erased from those databases so completely that whoever Oliver Stone really was had ceased to exist. She wrote down some possible lines of inquiries and then mapped out her strategy in the same manner she would a legal case. Satisfied, she quickly showered and headed out.

A little later she parked as close to Mt. Zion Cemetery as she could and then waited. It was only seven-thirty in the morning, but as she watched, Stone emerged from his cottage and headed off down the street. Kate ducked down in her car so he couldn’t see her. When he was almost out of sight, a surprising thing happened. Adelphia came out from behind some parked cars on Q Street and started following Stone. Kate thought for a moment and then put the car in gear. She quickly caught up to Adelphia and rolled down her window.

At first Adelphia pretended not to know who she was, but Kate persisted and Adelphia finally said self-consciously, “Oh, yes, it is you I know now.” Then she cast an anxious glance in Stone’s direction. He was almost out of sight.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Kate asked, following her gaze.

“It is nowhere I have to go,” Adelphia said curtly. “I am free to do nothing.”

“Then how about I buy you a cup of coffee? Alex told me that you like coffee.”

“It is my own café I can buy. I earn living. I no need charity.”

“I was just being friendly. Friends do that, you know. Like when Oliver helped you in the park when that man attacked you.”

Adelphia looked at her suspiciously. “How is all this you know?”

“Adelphia, you’re not the only one worried about Oliver. Alex is too. And I’m trying to help him while he’s out of town. Now, please come and have a cup of coffee with me. Please.”

“Why you help Agent Fort?” she asked suspiciously.

“Woman to woman? Because I care about him. Just like I know you care about Oliver.”

At these words Adelphia looked once more in the direction of Stone, started to sniffle a little, got in the car and allowed Kate to buy her coffee at a nearby Starbucks.

“So what is it that you do?” Adelphia said.

“I work for the Department of Justice.”

“So that is what you do? Make the justice?”

“I’d like to think so. At least I try.”

“In my country, for years — no, for decades — we have no justice. We have Soviets telling us what to do. Whether we can breathe air or not, they tell us. It is hell.”

“I’m sure it was awful.”

“Then I come to this country, get job, have good life.”

Kate hesitated but then couldn’t help herself. “So how’d you end up in Lafayette Park?”

At first Adelphia got an obstinate look on her face, but that dissolved quickly. Her voice trembling, she said, “No one ask me that before. Just you now. All these years and just you now ask me this.”

“I realize you don’t know me very well, and you don’t have to answer.”

“It is good thing. I no want to talk about it. I no want to.”

They both sipped their coffees for a bit longer. Finally, Adelphia said, “You right. I worry sick about Oliver. He a troubled man. I know this.”

“And how do you know?”

Adelphia reached in her sleeve and drew out a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “I watch the TV the other night. I never watch the TV. I never read the newspapers. Do you know why I never do these things?” Kate shook her head. “Because they are lies. Filled with lies they are.”

“But you said you did see the TV.”

“Yes, the news, it is on. And then I see it.”

“What did you see?”

Adelphia suddenly looked frightened, as though she had said far too much. “No, it is not thing I can say. It is not right for me to say. You are lawyer. You work for government. I no want to get Oliver in trouble.”

“Adelphia, do you think Oliver did something wrong?”

“No! No, it is not this I think. I tell you, he is good man.”

“Okay, then he has nothing to worry about from the government. Or me.”

Still, Adelphia didn’t say anything.

“Adelphia, if you’re really concerned about Oliver, let me help. You can’t follow him everywhere to make sure he’s okay.”

Finally, Adelphia sighed and patted Kate’s hand. “It is right what you say. I will tell.” Marshaling herself, she said, “On TV I see that there is body of a man found on that island in river.”

“Roosevelt Island?” Kate said quickly.

“That is one.”

“But what does that have to do with Oliver?”

“Well, you see . . . I want to take the café with Oliver, but he has meeting to go to.”

“Meeting, what sort of meeting?”

“Ah, that is what I say. What sort of meeting in middle of night? But off he go. Now, me, I am angry with this. Meeting and no café? So I pretend to go away, but I see him get in cab. And I get in cab too. I have money, I too can take cab.”

“Of course, of course,” Kate said. “What happened next?”

“I follow him to Georgetown. He get out, so I get out. He walk to river. I walk to river. And then I see his friends he meet with. I see what they do.”

“What!” Kate said it so loudly that she startled Adelphia.

“They get in old boat and they row out to island, that is what they do.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I take cab and go back. I not wait for them. And I not swim to island. I go back in cab. I get my café, and I see Agent Fort when he come by for Oliver.” Adelphia started to tear up. “And then I see TV and dead man.”

“And you’re sure it was the same night?”

“They say on TV. It is same night.”

“Adelphia, you say you don’t believe that Oliver did anything wrong. And yet you saw them row out to that island, and then a man was killed there.”

“They say he killed by gun. Oliver no has gun.”

“You can’t be sure of that. And what about the others? His friends?”

Adelphia laughed. “I know these men. Except for the big one, they are little frightened mice. One, he work at library. He love books. He has brought me some. The other one, he checks things.”

“Checks things?”

“You know he counts and hums and whistles and grunts. I know not what it was, but Oliver say it to me. He call it OD, something like that.”

“OCD?”

“That is it.”

“Do you know their names? The friends?”

“Oh, yes, this I know. The bookman, his name is Caleb Shaw. Sometime he dress in old clothes. Oliver say it is hobby. I say little bookman he is crazy.”

“And the others?”

“The counting one, he is Milton Farb. He is smart that one. He tell me things about the world I not know.”

“And you mentioned the ‘big one’?”

“Yes. Shifty pants. His name is Reuben, Reuben Rhodes. Rhodes like in Greece is how I remember.”

“So what do you think happened on that island? If none of them killed the man?”

“Do you not know?” Adelphia said breathlessly. She lowered her voice and said, “It is they see who did it. They see killer.”

Kate sat back against the bench. Her first thought was she had to tell Alex about all this. But then she wondered if that would be wise. Doubtless his first reaction would be to come back. That would get him in even more trouble with the Service. And she didn’t know if anything Adelphia was telling her was true. She had a sudden thought.

“Adelphia, would you mind coming with me to look at something?”

“Where?” Adelphia asked suspiciously.

“It’s nearby. I promise it won’t take long.”

Adelphia reluctantly agreed, and they drove to a parking lot near the Georgetown waterfront.

Kate said, “Can you describe this boat you saw them in?”

“It was long, about twelve feet maybe. And old. It all rotted. They take it from old junkyard down that way,” she added, pointing south.

Kate led her over to the river wall. “I want you to stay here.” She slipped down some rocks located to the side of the seawall and reached the drainage port. “If you lean over a little, I think you can see it all right.” She pulled some brush out of the way, exposing the bow as Adelphia leaned over.

“Is this the boat you saw them in?”

“Yes, that is boat.”

Oh, my God.

CHAPTER

49

OLIVER STONE WAITED OUTSIDE the high-rise condo building, watching well-dressed people emerge from the building and head off, probably to work, given the number of briefcases he saw. And then she came out. Jackie Simpson carried only a small purse over her shoulder. She didn’t look at Stone as she passed by. He waited a suitable time and followed her. His strides were long and hers short, so he had to constantly slow down. A couple of times he thought about approaching her, but both times something happened which had never happened to him before: He lost his nerve. However, when she stopped to buy a newspaper from a box, she spilled her change. He rushed to help her, laying the coins in her outstretched palm. His breath quickened when he saw it, but he merely smiled when she thanked him and walked off.

When she arrived at WFO, he stopped and watched her go in the building.

Petite, olive complexion and an attitude. He’d known a woman just like that once.

He turned and headed to a Metro station. He had a very important meeting to go to. Emerging from the subway at an agreed-upon spot, he found the other members of the club waiting for him.

They had decided that the safest way for Milton to retrieve his record of the break-in was to be escorted to his house by the security firm that had responded to the silent alarm. Arrangements were made, and Milton, followed at a discreet distance by the rest of the Camel Club in Caleb’s Malibu, met two guards near his home, and the three men went in together.

About thirty minutes later Milton joined up with his friends, and they sat in Caleb’s car.

Stone said, “Did you get it?”

Milton nodded and slipped a DVD out of his knapsack. “It was activated, so presumably there’s something on it.”

He popped it in his laptop, and a minute later they were looking at the darkened interior of Milton’s house.

“There!” Stone said, pointing at a man coming around the corner.

“That’s Reinke,” Caleb exclaimed.

“And there’s his confederate,” Reuben added. “The one you nailed with the helmet, Oliver.”

They continued to watch, seeing the pair move stealthily from room to room.

“My God, Milton,” Reuben said sarcastically. “You’re quite the Messy Marvin at home, aren’t you?”

“What’s he pulling out of that bin?” Caleb asked.

Milton ran that part again. “That looks like my receipt box, but I can’t see what the paper is.”

“Look, there’s the security guard,” Stone said.

They watched as the man advanced, and then something flew out of the darkness at him and he crumpled.

“What the hell was that?” Reuben asked.

“A man in a mask,” Stone said. “At least one of them had the good sense to burglarize the place without showing his face.”

“But it wasn’t Reinke and the other guy,” Milton said.

“Which clearly means there’s someone else,” Stone said slowly. “But this tape gives us the leverage that we—” He was cut off by the buzzing of Milton’s cell phone.

Milton answered, “Oh, hi, Chastity.” Then his expression changed in a hurry. “What! Oh, my God! What are you talking abou—”

Stone ripped the phone from his friend. “Chastity!”

However, it was a man’s voice on the line.

“I think under the circumstances that we can call it even right now. So long as you don’t act, neither will we.”

The phone went dead.

Stone looked at the panicked Milton, who had tears welling into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Milton.”

Kate had spent the next morning and afternoon researching Milton Farb, Reuben Rhodes and Caleb Shaw. She’d also gone on Google and found some material on Milton and his Jeopardy! stint. However, Oliver Stone remained an enigma. Kate was certain of one thing: She believed the men had seen who killed Patrick Johnson. The bullet hole and blood on the boat seemed to indicate that they’d almost lost their lives as well.

Armed with her newfound knowledge, she went back to Mt. Zion Cemetery that afternoon and was fortunate to find Stone working in the grounds.

“Hello, Oliver. Kate Adams. We met briefly the other night.”

“I remember,” he said curtly.

“Are you okay? You look worried.”

“Nothing too important.”

“Well, as you know, Alex is out of town, and I hope you don’t think it’s too forward of me, but I’d like to invite you to dinner tonight.”

“To dinner?” Stone looked at her as though she were speaking a language he was not familiar with.

“At my house. Well, not exactly my house, I live in the carriage house. It’s actually Lucille Whitney-Houseman’s home, in Georgetown. Do you know her?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure,” he said distractedly.

“And I wanted to invite Adelphia and your other friends.”

Stone threw some weeds in a garbage bag. “That’s very nice, but I’m afraid—” He stopped and looked at her sharply. “What other friends?”

“You know. Reuben Rhodes, Caleb Shaw and Milton Farb. I’m starting to collect rare books, and I think Caleb will be fascinating to talk to. And I’m a huge fan of Jeopardy!, though I don’t think I saw Milton when he was on. And Reuben’s work at DIA all those years ago, how could that not be enthralling? And then, of course, there’s you.” She let that comment hang for a long moment. “I’m sure it’ll be a wonderfully interesting dinner. They used to have them in Georgetown all the time, or so Lucky — that’s Mrs. Whitney-Houseman — tells me.” Kate said this all in one long surge, hoping to overwhelm Stone into accepting if only because his curiosity had to be piqued by now.

He said nothing for about a minute as he knelt on the ground, apparently dissecting all she had said. “I’ve found that when one takes the time to learn that much about someone, there’s usually a reason for the interest that’s not readily apparent to everyone.”

“I wouldn’t disagree with that,” she answered.

“However, I’m not sure tonight is good for us. We’ve had, well, we’ve had some bad news very recently.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Alex and I had some bad things happen too. Some people tried to kill us. Funny, it was right after we discovered an old boat hidden in a storm drain in Georgetown that looked like it had a bullet hole in it and also some blood.”

“I see.” Stone’s calm response to what must’ve been a stunning revelation only increased her esteem for the man, along with her curiosity. “Well, then perhaps we should have dinner. I can contact my friends.”

“Around seven will be great. Do you need the address?”

“Yes. Mrs. Whitney-Houseman no doubt resides in circles where the common masses do not often tread.”

She told him the address. “Now, I’ll just pop over to invite Adelphia. I’m sure she can catch a ride with you and your friends.”

“Kate, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, I think it’s a great idea,” she said firmly.

“And why is that?” he asked.

“Because, Oliver, you strike me as someone who needs all the friends he can get right now.”

Caleb, Milton and Adelphia arrived at Lucky’s manse in the Malibu, its tailpipe smoking and its springs creaking from the strenuous activities at Reinke’s place. Reuben and Stone pulled up behind them on the Indian motorcycle.

Kate had been watching for them and opened the ornately carved front door.

“Nice bike,” she said to Reuben, who wore a frayed leather jacket, wrinkled khaki pants, collared shirt and his usual moccasins. However, for the dinner he’d wrapped a blue kerchief around his neck as a cravat.

Reuben ran his gaze appreciatively over the young woman’s figure. She was dressed in black slacks and matching pumps with a white blouse and a small string of pearls around her neck. Her blond hair was done up in a bun that showed off her long, slender neck.

“I’ll take you for a spin sometime,” he said. “That sidecar has seen some action, let me tell you.”

Adelphia nodded stiffly at her hostess as she passed into the house. Milton followed her. He was dressed in an immaculate green blazer and striped tie, his slacks perfectly creased. He held out a small bouquet of flowers he’d brought.

“It’s Milton, right? Well, thank you very much, they’re beautiful.” Even as she said this, Adams saw tears forming in the man’s eyes.

Next came Caleb, who’d decided not to wear his Abe Lincoln outfit after Stone had spoken with him, something to the effect of not wanting their hostesses to think he was dangerously insane. However, in an act of subtle defiance he had worn his fat pocket watch and chain.

“Nice to meet you, Caleb,” Kate said pleasantly. “Go right in.”

Oliver Stone brought up the rear. He was dressed in some of his new clothes and was holding his motorcycle helmet in one hand. “Would you care to give me a preview of the agenda?”

She looked at him with a twinkle. “But that would take all the fun away.”

“This isn’t a fun business we find ourselves in.”

“I agree. But I think you’ll find the evening informative.”

Lucky met them with a pitcher of sangria. As she scuttled around talking and pouring, it was clear that the old woman was in her element. Sufficiently refreshed, they passed a pleasant hour before dinner was served.

Reuben and Caleb ate heartily. Stone, Milton and Adelphia merely picked at their meals. Coffee was served in the library. Cigars were offered by Lucky but only Reuben lit up. “I like to see a man smoke,” she said as she sat next to Reuben and patted his big shoulder. “Now, you look to me to be a man who packs heat.”

As Reuben stared at her quizzically, the conversation, craftily guided by Kate, turned to intelligence circles.

“I tell you what,” Reuben said, “the best security in the world can be defeated by a rumbling stomach.”

“How’s that?” Kate asked.

“Just this. I knew before anyone else the exact time the bombings of Afghanistan and Iraq were going to start.”

“Were you with DIA back then?”

“Hell no, they’d long since kicked my butt out. I knew because I was the dispatcher for Domino’s. Each time, the pizza order for the Pentagon spiked right before the bombs started falling. So yours truly knew before the likes of Dan Rather or Tom Brokaw or probably even the president.”

While Reuben had been talking, Caleb was making the rounds of the books on the massive shelves, with Lucky as his guide.

Caleb’s face brightened with each new discovery. “Oh, that’s quite a good copy of Moby-Dick. And a Hound of the Baskervilles, first English edition. Very nice. And over there, is that Jefferson’s Notes on the State of Virginia from 1785? Yes, it is. We have one in our collection. Lucky, you really should let me get you acid-free boxes for these, computer-cut to the book’s exact dimensions.”

Lucky was hanging on Caleb’s every word. “Oh, acid-free boxes cut by computer, how terribly exciting. Would you, Caleb?”

“It would be my honor.”

Reuben helped himself to more coffee spiked with a little something from a flask he pulled from his coat pocket. “Yeah, you’ll find brother Caleb a real dynamo in the excitement department.”

“Lucky,” Kate said finally, “we’re going to head out to the carriage house. I need to talk over some things with my friends.”

“All right, dear,” she said, patting Caleb’s arm. “But first they have to promise to come back.”

Reuben immediately raised his glass. “Lucky, you couldn’t keep me away with a squad of Special Forces.”

Kate led them outside and over to the carriage house, where they settled down around a table on the large sofa and two wing chairs.

“I’m assuming you’ve told them of our discussion and the discovery of the boat?” Kate said in a businesslike tone to Stone.

“I have,” he answered, casting a glance in Adelphia’s direction. “And for some reason you believe that we were in that boat and on the island?”

“I don’t believe, I know. Now I want to know how much you saw.”

“There’s no evidence that we saw anything,” he replied evenly. “Even if Adelphia has told you that she followed us to the river and watched us head to the island, that doesn’t mean we were witness to that man’s death.”

“But I believe you saw everything. And I think whoever killed Patrick Johnson discovered your presence, and you had to make a run for it. That would explain the bullet hole in the boat and the blood. What I can’t understand is why you didn’t simply go to the police and tell them what you saw.”

“Easy enough for you to say,” Reuben interjected. “They’d believe you. But look at us, we’re a scruffy bunch with questionable pedigrees.”

“So you’re admitting you did witness the murder?”

Caleb started to speak but Stone broke in. “We’re not admitting anything.”

Kate said, “Oliver, I’m just trying to help you. And don’t forget, someone tried to kill Alex and me after we found the boat.”

Reuben shot Stone a puzzled look. “Oliver, you didn’t tell us that.”

Milton blurted out, “But what about Chastity? They’ve kidnapped Chastity!”

They all stared at him as tears fell down his twitching cheeks.

“If someone’s been kidnapped,” Kate said, “the police should be notified immediately.”

“It’s not quite that simple,” Caleb said, glancing at Stone, whose gaze was on the floor. “We really can’t go to the police.”

Kate looked at Stone. “Oliver,” she said quietly, “as a team we might be able to do something.”

“Hell yes, we could,” Reuben said. “She’s official, being with DOJ, and our sorry asses can only get things second- and third-hand.”

“It is time to work together,” Caleb chimed in.

Stone still said nothing.

Reuben put down his cigar “Okay, since our exalted leader is uncharacteristically mute, I hereby call a special meeting of the Camel Club to order. And I move that we tell Kate here everything. Do I have a second?”

“Second,” Caleb said immediately.

“All in favor,” Reuben said, his gaze on Stone.

The ayes carried.

Reuben said, “The Camel Club has spoken.”

“What is the Camel Club?” a puzzled Kate asked.

“Let me do the honors,” Stone finally said.

CHAPTER

50

“YOU DID WHAT!” ALEX YELLED into his cell phone. He had been sitting in his hotel room the next morning just strapping on his gun when Kate called.

“See, that’s why I waited until this morning to call you,” she said. “Because I knew you’d be upset.”

“What the hell did you expect me to do? Say, ‘Good job, Kate, and I’m really glad you’re not a corpse’?”

“I told you I was going to check into Oliver Stone and his friends, and you said it was okay.”

“But I didn’t know they were eyewitnesses to Johnson’s murder, which was the very thing I told you to stay away from in the first place!”

“Well, I didn’t know they were connected either. So just hear me out. I’ve got a lot to tell you.” She spoke for several minutes, relaying what Stone had told her last night.

When she finished, Alex shook his head incredulously. “Okay, okay. Let me get this straight. They saw the murder and didn’t go to the police because they were afraid the police would think they were involved?”

“I don’t believe Oliver likes the police very much. Maybe it’s to do with his past.”

“And on top of that, they traced one of the murderers, went to his house and were almost killed?”

“Yes.”

“And while they were ‘burglarizing’ the killer’s house, Milton Farb’s home was broken into by these same guys, and they got them on film doing it?”

“But Milton’s girlfriend’s been kidnapped by these people, and so they can’t go to the police about that either.”

“But they didn’t tell you the names of the murderers?”

“I think they only know one of their names.”

“But they have them on film. Did you recognize them?”

“They haven’t shown me the film.”

“Why the hell not?”

“They want to show it to you first.”

“Great, but I’m a four-hour drive away with work out the gazoo, and the president will be here tomorrow.”

“They won’t budge on that, Alex. I tried. They’ll only show it to you. I mean come on. I work for the Justice Department, and they don’t know me. It was a real effort for them to tell me as much as they have. Oliver trusts you, not me.”

Alex rubbed his hair, cupped the phone under his chin and finished putting on his holster. “Okay, so do you have a plan?”

“Well, I was thinking we could come up to see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow! Tomorrow POTUS is here. And he takes precedence over everything, Kate, you know that.”

“I know. But I wanted you to meet with the Camel Club—”

“The what?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. That’s what Oliver and his friends refer to themselves as, the Camel Club. It’s sort of a conspiracy watchdog organization they’ve been running for years. Do you know they were the ones who first got on to the scandal with the defense secretary years ago? You remember, right? He was taking kickbacks for directing government contracts to certain vendors? The Camel Club discovered that through a scrap of information they got from an assistant chef at the White House. It’s really amazing stuff, Alex.”

Alex lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. “An assistant White House chef is spying on the secretary of defense for something called the Camel Club? This is a joke, right? Please tell me this is a joke, Kate.”

“Forget that. It’s not important.”

Alex jumped up. “Not important!”

“Alex, will you please listen to me? They’ve done some incredible investigative work on this case. They really have.”

Alex managed to calm down. “Okay, you all come up here and then what?”

“We attend the ceremony, and after that we all sit down, and they can show you the film and tell you the man’s name. Then we can go from there.”

“Meaning I take all this to the Secret Service?”

“Right. With a name and these guys on film, we have solid stuff. And we have to get Chastity back. Milton is heartbroken.”

“Who the hell is Chastity?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s Milton’s girlfriend. She’s the one who was kidnapped.”

“The FBI handles kidnappings. And every second that goes by the odds are she won’t be found alive.”

“These aren’t ordinary kidnappers. They have a lot more at stake. They’ve called and let Milton talk to her for a few seconds every couple of hours, to show she’s alive. I don’t think they’ll harm Chastity, for now anyway. Things are at a stalemate.”

“And how exactly does Patrick Johnson tie into all this?”

“Well, they were sort of vague on that. I’m sure they’ll explain it more fully to you. From the little they’ve told me, I think they actually have it figured out.”

Alex let out a long breath. He had a day crammed with final preparations ahead of him. He should be totally focused on his work as a Secret Service agent. And yet now he knew the main thing occupying his mind would be the Camel Club. God help me.

“Alex, are you there?”

“I’m here,” he snapped.

“So what do you think? Can we come up?”

Alex actually glanced at his gun, wondering for a fleeting second if it wouldn’t just be easier to end it right now.

“Alex!”

“Yeah, okay. Come on up.”

“And can we bring Adelphia? She’s been really worried about Oliver.”

Alex finally exploded. “Oh, sure, Kate, bring Adelphia. And bring the freaking Monkey and Giraffe Club too. And while you’re at it, why the hell don’t you pop over to the White House and snatch the president. I bet he’d get a real kick out of all this. And he’ll probably give you a ride up here on Air Force One. And be sure and give him my name so he knows exactly whose ass he’ll be reaming out when he gets here!”

Kate’s voice was irritatingly calm. “Okay, I’m hanging up now. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

The phone went dead, and Alex plopped back on the bed just as someone knocked on his door.

“Ford, time to hit it. Let’s go.” It was his squad leader. “Ford, you ready?” he said again more loudly.

Alex jumped up and opened the door. His squad leader stared back at him. “You okay?”

“Never better,” Alex said.

Darkness was gathering as Tom Hemingway walked through the streets of a small town an hour outside of Frankfurt, Germany. He passed through the charming shopping district, alongside a Gothic-style cathedral, ducked down a side street and entered an apartment building. He took the lift three flights up, rapped on the door of the fourth flat down the hall and was told to enter.

There were no lights on, and yet Hemingway almost instantly focused on one corner of the room that was almost completely dark.

“I see your sixth sense has not failed you, Tom,” the man said as he stepped forward with a smile. An Arab, he was not dressed in a djellaba but in a two-piece business suit, although he wore a turban around his head. He motioned for Hemingway to sit in a chair next to a small table. The man sat across from him. Hemingway sensed the presence of others but said nothing about this.

The Arab sat back and rested his hands on the arms of his chair. “Your father was an excellent man and a great friend of mine for nearly thirty years. He knew us; he took the time to learn our language, religion and cultures. No one does that today unfortunately.”

“He was special,” Hemingway agreed. “Very special.”

The man took a small cup of water off the table between them and drank from it. He offered one to Hemingway but he declined. The Arab handed a piece of paper over to Hemingway. “As agreed,” the Arab said. Hemingway put the document away in his pocket without looking at it.

“I’m sure you put a great deal of thought into it,” Hemingway said.

“I have been thinking about these things my whole life.”

“You will ensure that no one claims responsibility?”

The Arab nodded. “It is done. I take it that my people have been satisfactory to work with?”

“It is a testament to their loyalty to you that they have done everything asked of them without question.”

“What happened was not solely for your benefit. Al-Zawahiri, and others like him, they’d been seduced by your country. They had lost their ties to Islam.” He paused. “You are confident about tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Attacking a superpower, that is something never to be done lightly.”

“Superpowers are still made up of people.”

The Arab shook his head. “We are very different people, different in ways your country refuses to recognize.”

“The more we’re different, perhaps the more we’re the same. We all want peace.”

“Excuse me for saying so, but that is your Buddhist bullshit talking.” The man took another sip of water. “America spends more on its military than all other countries in the world combined. No country does this for protection, for peace, only aggression. Your president can push one button, and the Arab world disappears in a mushroom cloud.”

“We have no reason to do that. Great strides have been made in the Middle East. Democracies are replacing dictatorships.”

“Yes, replacing dictatorships that America helped foster and support. And yet, in most cases, the democracies coming to power hate America more than the dictators they replaced. You went into Iraq not understanding its history or its culture. America seemed amazed that Great Britain took a land called Mesopotamia and artificially created a country it called Iraq. And that its population is composed of Shiites and Sunnis and Kurds and dozens of other groups that are not known to get along with one another. Did you really think you would waltz in and save the Iraqis and everything would be peaceful?” He held up his hand. “And one cannot ‘bomb’ people into a democracy. That comes from the ground up, not the sky down. Muslims going to the voting booths pass the bomb craters that took their families. Do you think the possibility of having an American-style democracy will ever make them forget who killed their husbands, wives and children?”

“My country needs to recognize that there are many ways to be free. I fear that we still see the only way to resolve things is our way.”

The Arab took another sip of water. “It is a nice sentiment, Tom, but not one, I think, that is shared by your leaders. Mighty God could vanquish your army with one sweep of his hand. Yet we mortal Arabs simply cannot beat you militarily with all your money and weapons. And we see American businesses and American pipelines marching behind the great American armies. You say your goal is a free world. Well, Africa has more dictators than the Middle East, and the genocide there is far worse. Yet I see no American tanks blasting their way through that land. But, of course, the Middle East has far more oil. Do not think we poor desert savages aren’t aware that America’s goals are less than altruistic, Tom. At least allow us that courtesy.”

“Freedom is a good thing, my friend. And America is the world’s most free country.”

“Really? A country that had slaves for two hundred and fifty years and kept the black man de facto enslaved for a hundred more? But I have also seen your style of freedom personally. Over fifty years ago Iran had a democratically elected prime minister who had the effrontery to nationalize the petroleum industry. American oil companies were hardly pleased. So your CIA helped overthrow the government and reinstall the puppet shah. His pathetic love of Western ways led to the Iranian revolution, and all hope for real democracy ended there. America has played these games all over the globe, from Chile to Pakistan. The Western world’s policies have led directly to the slaughter of countless millions across the world.” He paused and studied Hemingway closely. “So if the new government in Iraq is not to America’s liking?”

“And yet I know that you believe in freedom,” Hemingway said quietly. “As a young boy I sat and listened to you and my father discuss such things.”

“It is true that I have fought my whole life for certain freedoms that are in keeping with the word of God. I see clearly the benefits of people having a strong voice in their lives. I do not agree with how Muslim women are treated in some Arab countries. And it sickens me to see grand palaces rising next to mud huts. The Muslim world has many problems, and we need to address them. Yet is it really freedom when someone else tells you what you should be seeking? And why doesn’t it work both ways, Tom? America represents less than five percent of the earth’s population yet consumes one-quarter of its energy. Poor nations cannot get the energy they need, and their citizens suffer and die because America takes so much. So should these countries invade the great energy dictator America and make it use less oil and gas? Would the U.S. like that?”

“If you feel that way, can I ask why you’re helping me?”

The man shrugged. “It is simple. For every American killed, hundreds of Arabs die. Arab suicide bombers are now slaughtering their brethren by the thousands. We are weakening ourselves with every new explosion and playing right into the hands of the United States.” He paused and took another sip of water. “The Western press is fixated on suicide bombers killing themselves so that they can enter paradise. But God says that to save lives is a great thing. To save one life is to save many. Do we have to be slaughtered to enter paradise? Why can’t Muslims enjoy a peaceful life on earth, believe in God and serve him and enter paradise that way? In the Western world the young ones grow up in peace. Do our children not deserve that right?”

“Of course they do,” Hemingway said.

“Your country is asking the impossible, you know this. Before the 1970s energy crisis America did not care about the Middle East, other than the Arab versus Israeli issue. Then 9/11 happened and you attacked the Taliban. I have no issue with that. In your place I would have done the same thing. Yet the goal you seek now, turning the entire Middle East into a democracy overnight, is madness. You ask us to do in years what it took you centuries to accomplish.” He paused. “And it is not simply a question of Islam against the West. For thousands of years Arab nations developed customs and cultures inextricably tied to a desert climate with few natural resources, often with the law of the tribe as their base, and the men as their leaders. For a very long time America had no problem with that. And now they do, of course and thus, according to you, we must change. Immediately. So far a hundred thousand Iraqis have died and the country is in chaos. I cannot applaud the progress, Tom. I really can’t.”

“I can only do my best. If it doesn’t work, what will have been lost?”

“Many good lives, that is what will be lost, Tom,” the Arab said sternly.

“And that is no different than what’s happening right now,” Hemingway replied.

“You have an answer for everything. Just like your father. It was in Beijing that he was killed?”

Hemingway nodded.

“Surely not the Chinese, though. They’re vicious but hardly stupid.”

Hemingway shrugged. “I have my suspicions. Officially, it was never solved.”

“It is interesting about the Chinese, Tom. They will one day replace America as the world’s largest economy. They have an army ten times the size of yours, and it is growing stronger and more technologically advanced every day. They have the capability to hit the United States with nuclear weapons. They kill and enslave millions of their own people, and yet you call them friends, while America crushes the Arab world under the pretense of freeing us. Do you know what we Arabs say? We say, go and ‘free’ your friends, the Chinese. But America does not do this. Why? Because the Chinese will not fight back with rifles and car bombs as we Muslims are forced to. Thus, you leave them alone. And you call them friends.”

“My father didn’t think of them as all that friendly actually.”

“A wise man. He has gone on to a better world now.”

“I’m an atheist. So I’m not sure where he’s gone on to.”

The Arab stared at him in sadness. “It is an insult to yourself not to believe in God, Tom.”

“I believe in myself.”

“But when your physical being ceases to exist, where does that leave you?” The Arab paused and said, “With nothing.”

“It is my freedom to make that choice,” Hemingway said firmly.

The Arab rose from his chair. “Good-bye, Tom, and good luck. We will not see each other again.”

A few minutes later Hemingway was walking along the sidewalk back to his rental car. He looked at the sheet of paper his friend had given him, translating the Arabic in his head. The man had thought things out very carefully.

Hemingway was on a flight out of Frankfurt that night and would be in New York eight hours later. He looked at the clear sky and wondered if there were as many gods as there were stars. According to some religions, there might be. The answers really didn’t matter to him. No god had ever answered his prayers. To Hemingway that was more than adequate proof that there was no such being.

Several thousand miles away across the Atlantic, Captain Jack gazed up at the same sky and also pondered the events of the next day. Everything was done and only awaited the arrival of James Brennan and company. As a last measure all laptops used by the members of his operation had been destroyed. There would be no more movie chat room discussions. He would actually miss them.

Later that evening Captain Jack drove into the parking lot of Pittsburgh International Airport. He dropped off his car and headed for the terminal. His official itinerary was fairly straightforward: Pittsburgh to Chicago O’Hare; O’Hare to Honolulu; and Honolulu to American Samoa, where a puddle jumper would take him to his precious island.

His work in Brennan was done. He would not stay for the actual mission. That would be a little too tight even for him. And yet while his work here was finished, in other respects it was just beginning. And now it was time to activate his contingency plan. His partnership with Tom Hemingway was officially over, though the latter didn’t know it. It was fun while it lasted, Tom. He now worked for the North Koreans.

Captain Jack checked in for his flight but kept his bag, which was small enough to carry on. He went to a bar to have a drink. Afterward, he hit the restroom. From there he wandered the airport and then headed to the security lines. Yet instead of going through security he exited the airport, went to a different parking lot and picked up a car waiting for him there. He headed south.

Djamila sat at the kitchen table in her apartment and wrote the date and time of her death in her journal. She wondered how accurate she would be. If she did die tomorrow, her journal would be found. Perhaps they would publish it in the paper, along with her full name, which she wrote next to her time of death. Then, for some reason, she erased it. Would there be a possibility that she would survive tomorrow?

She stood by the open window and looked out, letting the gentle breeze wash over her, and smelled air that held the fragrance of cut grass, a relatively new sensation for her. It was quiet, peaceful here. No bombs or gunfire. She could see people walking together, talking. An old man sat on the front steps of the building smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. She could hear the peals of laughter of children from the small playground nearby. Djamila was young with her whole life ahead of her. Yet she slowly closed the window and drew herself back into the dark shadows of her apartment.

“Do not let me fail you,” she quietly asked God. “Do not let me fail you.”

Barely twenty minutes from Djamila’s apartment, Adnan al-Rimi had just completed his last prayer of the day. As Djamila had, he’d lingered over his words with God too.

He rolled up his prayer rug and put it away. Adnan only performed his prayers twice a day, at dawn and in the evening. He was a reluctant follower of Ramadan, his belly had been empty for too many years to starve it. Over the years he’d had the occasional cigarette and alcoholic drink. He had never made the pilgrimage to Mecca because he couldn’t afford the trip. And yet he considered himself a faithful Muslim because he worked hard, helped others in need, never cheated, never lied. But he had killed. He had killed in the name of God, to defend Islam, to protect his way of life. Sometimes it seemed his entire existence consisted of three elements: working, praying and fighting. He had worked hard to ensure that his children would not have to fight, would not have to blow themselves and others up to prove a point. But his children were all dead. The violence had reached them despite their father’s attempt to keep them safe.

Now Adnan had only one more task ahead of him.

With his eyes shut, Adnan paced off the dimensions of the hospital corridor in his apartment. He went down the hall, turned right, went fourteen paces down and moved right, opened the door and simulated going down eight steps, hitting a landing, turning and going down eight more, down the hall and reaching the exit door. Then he did it again. And again.

Afterward, Adnan removed his shirt and looked at his body in the bathroom mirror. Though his physique was still impressive, there was a frailty beneath the muscle that more resembled an old man than someone in the prime of life. The numerous external injuries he’d suffered over the years had healed. Inside, though, the scars were permanent.

He sat on his bed and withdrew from his wallet ten photos that he arranged in front of him. They were crumpled, faded reminders of his family. He lingered over each, recalling moments of peace and love. And horror. As when his father had been beheaded by the Saudis, for what amounted to a misdemeanor. It usually took two whacks with the sword to behead someone. Yet Adnan’s father had a very thick neck, and it had taken three strokes to sever it, an event eight-year-old Adnan had been forced to watch. Few people could have gone through these memories without shedding at least a few tears; however, Adnan’s eyes remained dry. And yet his fingers trembled as he kissed the fading images of his dead children.

A few minutes later Adnan put on his coat and left his apartment. The bike ride into downtown Brennan went quickly. He chained his bicycle to a rack and started walking. His path took him in front of Mercy Hospital, where he briefly glanced at his place of employment, at least until tomorrow. Then his gaze darted to the apartment building across the street where he knew the two Afghans were checking and rechecking their weapons, because they were methodical and obsessive men, as all good snipers had to be.

Adnan continued walking, turned down one street and then another and finally slipped into an alley. He rapped twice on the door. He heard nothing. Then he called out in Farsi. Footsteps approached, and he heard Ahmed’s voice answer in Farsi.

“What is it you want, Adnan?”

“To talk.”

“I am busy.”

“Everything should be done, Ahmed. Is there a problem?”

The door opened and Ahmed scowled at him. “I have no problems,” Ahmed said, but he stepped back for Adnan to enter the garage.

“I thought it wise to go over things one more time,” Adnan said as he sat on a stool next to the workbench. His gaze took in the vehicle that would play such an important role the next day. He nodded at it. “It looks good, Ahmed. You have done well.”

“Tomorrow will see whether we have done well or not,” Ahmed answered.

He and Adnan spent twenty minutes going over their assigned tasks.

“I am not worried about us,” Ahmed said sullenly. “It is this woman who troubles me. Who is she? What is her training?”

“That is not your concern,” Adnan answered. “If she was picked for this, she will do her job well.”

“Women are only good for having babies and to cook and clean.”

“You are living in the past, my friend,” Adnan said.

“The Muslim past was glorious. We had the best of everything.”

“The world has moved past us, Ahmed. For Muslims to be truly great again we must move with it. Show the world what we can do. And we can do much.”

Ahmed spat on the floor. “That is what I think of the world. They can just leave us alone.”

“We will see after tomorrow who is right.”

Ahmed slowly shook his head. “You trust in things too much. You trust the American who leads us too much.”

“He may be an American, but he is brave and knows what he is doing.” He gazed sternly at the Iranian.

“I will do my job,” Ahmed finally said.

“Yes, you will,” Adnan answered as he rose to leave. “Because I will be right there to ensure that you do.”

“You think I need an Iraqi babysitting me,” Ahmed said fiercely.

“Tomorrow we are not Iraqi or Iranian or Afghani,” Adnan replied. “We are all Muslims, following God.”

“Do not question my faith, Adnan,” Ahmed said in a dangerous tone.

“I question nothing. Only God has the right to question the souls of his people.” Adnan went to the door but then turned back. “I will see you tomorrow, Ahmed.”

“I will see you in paradise,” Ahmed answered.

CHAPTER

51

AT ONE O’CLOCK IN THE afternoon Air Force One touched down at Pittsburgh International Airport. All other air traffic had been diverted from the area, as it would be when Air Force One took off again later. The long line of cars was ready to go. In a presidential motorcade there was a basic rule that one risked ignoring at his peril: When the president’s behind touched his seat in the Beast, the motorcade left. And if you didn’t have your ride yet in one of the other vehicles when this occurred, you weren’t going to the party.

The road the presidential motorcade took had long since been closed off by the Secret Service, and motorists sat in foul moods staring at the Beast and the other twenty-six cars sailing by. In the presidential limo with Brennan was his wife, his chief of staff, the governor of Pennsylvania and Carter Gray.

When the motorcade pulled into the dedication grounds, they were already filled with more than ten thousand people waving banners and signs to show their support for the town and its namesake. National media trucks were parked outside the fence, and perfectly coiffed anchormen and -women stood next to far younger and hipper but equally well coiffed news candy types from the cooler cable networks. Collectively, they would broadcast the event to the nation and the world, although with various spins of their own; the younger voices were predictably far more cynical about the entire proceedings.

Alex Ford was positioned near the stage but then moved behind a roped-off area and toward the motorcade as it pulled into the fenced grounds. He stiffened for an instant as he saw Kate, Adelphia and the Camel Club in the crowd, about midway back but working their way forward. Kate waved to show she’d seen him. He didn’t wave back but did nod his head a bare inch at her, and then he returned to trying to spot potential trouble. In a crowd this large and boisterous that was nearly impossible. However, the magnetometers had been set up at all pedestrian entrance points, which had given the Service some comfort. Alex took a moment to gaze at the tree line where he knew the snipers were positioned, although he couldn’t see them. If it comes to it, don’t miss, guys, he said under his breath.

When the president appeared, he was boxed in on all sides by the A-team protection detail that formed a wall of Kevlar and flesh around him. Alex knew these agents; they were a rock-solid crew.

The president stepped onto the stage and shook some important hands while his wife, the governor, the chief of staff and Gray took their seats behind the podium. Brennan joined them a minute later.

The event started off right on schedule. The mayor and some local dignitaries spoke and attempted to outdo one another when it came to extolling their president and their town. Then the governor rambled on a bit longer than the schedule had dictated, which caused the chief of staff to start frowning and tapping her high heel. Air Force One’s next stop was a fund-raiser in Los Angeles that was far more important — at least in her mind — than the renaming of this small if ambitious Pennsylvania town in her boss’s honor.

Alex continued scanning the crowds. He noted a number of military personnel in the front row, near the rope line. He could see from their uniforms that most were regular army. A number of them were missing arms and legs, probably from their tours of duty in the Middle East. There were a couple of National Guardsmen, including one with a hook for a left hand. Alex shook his head in commiseration for their sacrifice. Brennan would certainly go down and see these soldiers after he had spoken. He’d always been good about that.

As Alex’s gaze swept across the thousands of faces, he noted quite a few Middle Easterners. They were dressed much like everyone else around them. They carried signs and sported “Reelect Brennan” buttons and appeared to be just like the rest of the happy, proud and patriotic crowd. However, Alex had no way of knowing that some of these people were not happy or proud or patriotic.

Captain Jack’s men were organized in various pockets throughout the crowd so that their fire would cover maximum ground in front of the podium area. They’d all already keyed on the hook-handed National Guardsman. It had been easy after that, since the man stayed planted at the rope line waiting his turn with the president.

Indeed, they were all waiting for James Brennan.

At about the time Air Force One had been making its final approach into Pittsburgh a sleek black chopper was taking off from a helipad in downtown New York City and heading south. Next to the pilot sat another man dressed in a flight suit. In one of the seats in back was Tom Hemingway. In his hand he held a portable television set that he was watching intently. The crowds in Brennan were very large, and the grounds were already packed. That was what worried Hemingway most of all. The crowd.

He checked his watch and told the pilot to hit it. The chopper shot across the Manhattan cityscape.

For the past two hours Djamila had been on an outing with the children. As she pulled the van into the Franklins’ driveway, her plan was to make them all a quick lunch and then it would be time to go. As she opened the door, carrying the baby on her hip with the two toddlers in her wake, she received a shock so paralyzing that she almost dropped the baby.

Lori Franklin was talking on the phone in the foyer, still dressed in her tennis outfit, although she was barefoot. She smiled at Djamila and motioned that she would be done with the call in a minute.

When she clicked off, Djamila immediately said, “Miss, I not expect you home. You say you at club for tennis and then lunch there.”

Franklin dropped to her knees and gave her sons big hugs as they rushed to her. Then she took the baby from Djamila.

“I know, Djamila, but I changed my mind. I was talking with some of my friends from the club, and they’re going to the dedication today. So I decided to go too.” She bent down and said to her two oldest boys, “And you’re going too.”

Djamila drew in a sharp breath. “You take them?”

Franklin stood and waved the baby’s dimpled fist with her hand. “And this little guy.” She cooed to the baby. “You wanna see the president? You wanna?” She looked at Djamila. “It’ll be fun. And it’s not like the president comes to town every day.”

“You go to dedication?” Djamila said in a soft, disbelieving voice.

“Well, I voted for him, even if George thinks he’s an idiot. That’s between you and me,” she added.

“But, miss, there will be large crowd there. I read in papers. Do you think it good to take the boys? They are so small and—”

“I know, I thought that too. But then I realized it would be such a wonderful experience for them, even if they don’t remember it. When they grow up, the boys can say they were there. Now I’m going to grab a quick shower. I thought we could get lunch beforehand—”

“We?” Djamila said. “You want me to come?”

“Well, of course, I’ll need help with the strollers and the rest of their stuff. And you’re right about the crowds, so I’ll need an extra pair of eyes and hands to make sure the boys don’t get lost.”

“But I have much to do here,” Djamila said dully, as if this moment she cared about housework.

“Don’t be silly. This will be a wonderful experience for you too, Djamila. You’ll see firsthand what really makes this country so great. You know, we might even get to meet the president. George will eat his heart out even if he says he doesn’t like Brennan.”

Franklin went upstairs to shower and change. Djamila sat down in a chair to steady herself. The oldest boy tugged on her shirt, asking her to come to the playroom with them. At first Djamila resisted but finally she went. As she heard the shower start in Franklin’s bathroom, she knew that she needed some time to think.

She put the baby in the playpen and spent some time with the older boys. Then she went to the bathroom and ran some cold water over her face. The shower was still running upstairs. Djamila knew that Franklin didn’t take quick showers.

Finally, Djamila knew there was no way around it. She went to get her purse.

“A storm is coming,” she said to herself, practicing it before she had to say it for real on her cell phone. It was four simple words and then her problem would be over, and still her skin tingled. It would perhaps not be such a good resolution for Lori Franklin, who had picked today of all days to do something with her sons.

When she saw it, her heart nearly stopped. Her purse was turned upside down on the floor. She’d stupidly left it on the chair and forgotten to move it to higher ground. She dropped to her knees and searched through the objects strewn there. Her cell phone! Where was her cell phone?

She raced to the playroom and found the oldest boy, Timmy, the one who had made a habit of taking things from her purse until she started putting it out of reach. She grabbed up the boy and tried to say in as calm a voice as she could manage, “Where is Nana’s phone, Timmy, you naughty boy. You take Nana’s phone again?”

The boy nodded and smiled, obviously pleased with himself.

“Okay, you naughty boy, you take Nana to her phone. Nana needs her phone. You show me, okay?”

Only he clearly didn’t remember where he’d put it. They searched for ten minutes as the boy led her to one spot and then another. With each failure Djamila’s spirits dropped lower and lower. And then she heard it: The shower stopped. She looked at her watch. She had to leave very soon, or she would be off schedule. Her mind raced. Then she had the solution: She could use the Franklins’ phone to call her cell phone and the ringing sound would tell her where it was. She punched in the number as she walked around the house. However, she heard nothing. Timmy must have hit the silent button on her phone when he’d taken it. She had another thought. She would simply make the calls using the Franklins’ telephone. She started to dial and then realized that would not work. The man on the other end of the phone would not answer. This person, she had been told, would only take the call if Djamila’s name and number came up on the caller ID screen. She ran to the front window and looked out. Could she see him? Could she signal to him? But she saw no one. No one. She was all alone.

She heard feet moving around upstairs. She ran back into the kitchen and opened one of the drawers. Djamila slid out a steak knife and quietly made her way upstairs, where she knocked softly on Franklin’s door.

“Yes?”

“Miss?”

“You can come in.”

She opened the door, closed and locked it behind her. Then she saw that Franklin was wrapped in a towel and was putting an assortment of clothes on her bed.

She glanced up at Djamila. “I should’ve given myself more time to pick out something. Are the boys ready?”

“Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Miss, I really think it better that you go alone. The boys, they stay with me.”

“Nonsense, Djamila,” Franklin replied. “We’ll all go. Now, do you think the green or the blue?” She held up each outfit.

“The blue,” Djamila said distractedly.

“I thought so too. Now for the shoes.”

Franklin stepped into her closet and looked through her shoes.

“Miss, I really think it better you go alone.”

Franklin stepped out of the closet, a look of mild annoyance on her face. “Djamila, I can’t force you to go, but the boys and I are going.” She crossed her arms and eyed her nanny harshly. “Tell me, do you have a problem seeing our president, is that it?”

“No, that is not—”

“I know there’s a lot of tension between America and your part of the world, but that doesn’t mean you can’t show respect for our leader. After all, you came here. You have a lot of opportunity here. And what really gets me upset are people coming to this country, making money and then complaining and whining about how bad we are. If people hate us so much, they can go back where they came from!”

“Miss, I no hate this country, even with all it has done to my people, I do not hate.” Djamila instantly knew she had made a mistake.

“What the hell have we done to Saudi Arabia? My country has spent a lot of time and money on the Middle East, trying to make it free, and what do we have to show for it? Just more pain, misery and tax increases.” Franklin took a deep, calming breath. “Listen, I don’t like to argue like this, Djamila. I really don’t. I just thought it would be fun to have a nice lunch and go to this event. When we get there, if the crowd’s too big and it feels too uncomfortable, then we’ll just leave, okay? Now, would you please make sure the boys are ready? I’ll be down in about twenty minutes.” Franklin turned and went back into her closet.

Djamila withdrew the steak knife from her pocket, summoning the courage to do what she had to. She took a step forward and then froze. Franklin had abruptly come back out of the closet and was staring at Djamila openmouthed.

“Djamila?” she said fearfully as she glanced from the knife to her nanny.

The expression on the other woman’s face revealed to Franklin all she needed to know.

“Oh, my God.” Franklin tried to close the closet doors so Djamila could not reach her, but Djamila was too quick. She grabbed Franklin’s hair and pressed the knife against her neck.

Lori Franklin started sobbing hysterically. “Why are you doing this?” she shrieked. “You’re going to hurt my babies. I’ll kill you if you touch them!”

“I no hurt your sons, I swear this!”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“You not going to see president!” Djamila snarled back. “Get on the floor. Now, or you will not live to see your sons grow up.” She pushed the blade edge against Franklin’s neck.

Trembling, Franklin lay on the floor on her stomach. “Don’t you touch my babies!”

Djamila reached over and ripped the phone line out of the wall and used it to tie up Franklin, binding her hands to her feet such that she could not even move. Then she tore a piece of the sheet from the bed and gagged her with it.

Just as she completed this, there was a tapping on the bedroom door, and she heard Timmy’s voice asking quietly, “Mama? Nana?”

As Franklin tried to call out through her gag, Djamila said as calmly as she could, “It is all right, Timmy. I be right there. You go back with your brothers.”

She waited until she heard the patter of his retreating feet and then looked down at Franklin. Djamila pulled a small vial from her pocket, poured some of the liquid from the vial onto a corner of the towel and pressed it flush against Franklin’s nose and mouth.

The American thrashed and gagged and then slipped into unconsciousness.

Djamila dragged the sedated woman into the closet and shut the door behind her.

She went downstairs, readied the boys and loaded them into her van. Now that events had started, Djamila didn’t think. She simply did exactly as she had practiced.

A minute after she’d driven away, the Franklins’ downstairs phone rang. And rang.

George Franklin hung up the phone in his office. He tried his wife’s cell phone. When there was no answer there, he tried Djamila’s number. Inside one of the pot drawers in the kitchen Djamila’s phone flashed but made no noise. Timmy had accidentally hit the silent key when he’d hidden it in there.

George Franklin put his phone back down. He wasn’t worried; he was just annoyed. This wasn’t the first time he’d been unable to track down his wife, although Djamila usually answered her phone. He had wanted his wife to bring him something he needed and that he’d left at the house. If he didn’t get ahold of someone soon, he’d just have to go get it himself. He turned his attention back to some papers on his desk.

CHAPTER

52

BRENNAN FINISHED HIS SPEECH and accepted a symbolic town key from the mayor while the crowd cheered. A couple of minutes later, waving and smiling, the president made his way down the steps, where he was enclosed immediately by a wall of agents.

About twenty yards away Alex stood near the Beast and scanned the crowd, which was certainly the largest this area had ever seen.

Before the president hit the first members of the rope line, the senior agent posted there said, “All right, folks, just like we talked about earlier, all hands out where we can see them.”

Brennan headed to the soldiers first: some disabled regular army men, a couple of marines, a young woman in dress blues and some National Guardsmen. He shook hands, said thank you to the soldiers, smiled and kept walking while photos were taken. He bent down to shake the hand of the soldier in a wheelchair even as his Secret Service agents held on to his jacket, their gazes moving at whipsaw speed to each person within touching or shooting distance of the man. And then the president stepped in front of the disabled National Guardsman.

Brennan put out his hand, and the man shook it firmly with his prosthetic. The feel of the artificial hand caused Brennan, who’d obviously not noted it wasn’t a real hand, to look slightly puzzled, but only for a second. He felt the moisture on his hand and subtly rubbed it against his other to wipe it off. He thanked the man for his service to his country, and the guardsman saluted his commander in chief with his other hand, or hook, rather. The president looked mildly surprised at this too, but then moved on, saying his sound bites to the fans on the rope line and shaking hands with another National Guardsman, two older men, a young woman and then an elderly lady who gave him a kiss.

While this was going on, the First Lady, accompanied by the governor and the chief of staff, was making her way slowly down the steps of the stage, stopping to wave and chat along the way. Gray had also risen from his seat and was absently scanning the crowd. He looked like a man who would rather have been anywhere except here. And then he abruptly stopped his random gazing as his eyes locked on Oliver Stone in the crowd, although Stone wasn’t aware of this.

Gray started to say something, but the words never got out of his mouth.

The agent to the left of the president noted it first. Brennan was not looking well. Sweat had appeared on his forehead. Then he clutched his head, and next he ominously pressed the palm of his hand to his chest.

“Sir?” the agent said.

“I’m . . . ,” Brennan said, and then stopped, his breath coming quickly. He looked panicked.

The agent immediately spoke into his wrist mike and, using Brennan’s code name, said, “Ravensclaw’s ill. Repeat, Raven—”

The agent didn’t get any further because he was suddenly on the ground. Six other agents and five policemen around the president were also falling as the first wave of shots started.

“Guns!” screamed a dozen different agents, and the Secret Service switched directly to emergency response mode.

The crowd panicked and started to run in all directions trying to get away from the violence exploding all around them.

Four of the Arab shooters were killed seconds after they had fired by the countersnipers at the tree lines. They were miraculous shots considering the pandemonium that had flashed in front of their long-range scopes.

Next three fedayeen rushed forward with the crowd toward the motorcade, each lighting a match and pressing it against a small pack concealed under their coats. An instant later the trio was fully ablaze. One threw himself under the ambulance, and it became engulfed in flames. People raced away fearing an imminent explosion as the fire neared the gas tank.

A dozen agents sprinted forward and hurled themselves against the wall of the crowd, forming a protective perimeter around the president, who’d slumped to the ground, looking very pale. Five more of these agents went down with the second wave of fire. The remaining agents grabbed the president and carried him to the Beast, moving so fast and in synchronization that it appeared they were bound together as some elaborate mechanical insect. Yet two more agents were hit as the second firing sequence continued. They fell next to the prostrate form of Edward Bellamy, the president’s personal physician, who’d been hit in the first volley of fire.

By the time the agents reached the Beast with the president, there were only two left standing. A cadre of police went to reinforce them. But a third wave of fire dropped almost all of them. The rest of the police were trying to control the crowd, which was climbing fences, rushing out of all the exits and screaming in terror as husbands grabbed wives and parents carried children as fast as they could from the nightmare scene.

Three more shooters dropped, their heads punctured by the federal countersnipers, who were now moving toward the president, but their progress was greatly impeded by the turbulent mob of citizens who only wanted to get away.

The second wave of fedayeen had commenced their attack, and more of the vehicles in the motorcade were now ablaze.

Carter Gray stood transfixed on the stage. Gone was his momentary astonishment at seeing Oliver Stone in the crowd, replaced by the horror he was witnessing right now. The president’s wife was screaming to her husband, but her cries were lost in the noise of the crowd. Surrounding her, Gray and the chief of staff were three Secret Service agents, guns out. The unfortunate governor had stepped off the stage and gotten swept away by a crowd that was now almost as dangerous as the shooters or men on fire. Thousands of people were pushing against the stage in their panic to escape, and the supports holding it up were starting to groan under their collective pressure.

During the course of the speech Kate, Adelphia and the Camel Club had kept edging forward so that at the conclusion of Brennan’s remarks they were only two rows back from the rope line. It was here that Reuben Rhodes was standing next to one of the first shooters. Yet he hadn’t noted anything until the shot went off because his attention was on the giant TV screens showing the president shaking hands. When he did see what was happening, Reuben instinctively yelled, “Gun.” And then he grabbed the man’s arm and wrestled the weapon away. A moment later the man was killed as a supersonic round smashed into his head. Reuben dropped the gun and grabbed Adelphia’s and Kate’s hands and pulled them away. They and the rest of the Camel Club started to frantically push their way to the fence.

“Come on,” Stone cried. “Just a little farther.”

Kate looked behind her, up near the Beast. She was trying to spot Alex, to make sure he was all right. And then she was being shoved forward and had to turn back around.

Alex had reacted with the first wave of shots, his body operating on muscle memory. Pistol out, he pushed through to the small knot of agents now carrying the limp form of the president to the Beast. Alex instantly took the place of one agent who was hit. They reached the Beast and thrust the president inside. Two agents followed. The agent assigned to drive the Beast opened the driver’s door and was about to jump in when he took a round and slumped to the grass.

Alex instinctively raced to the driver side, grabbed the keys from the front seat, started the car and hit the gas and horn simultaneously. Fortunately, much of the crowd had fled away from the motorcade and toward the other side of the grounds where there were more exits. Yet there were still people running everywhere. For an instant Alex had a sliver of an opening and he darted through it. Through the exit the enormous engine of the Beast responded when Alex smashed his size 13 shoe to the floor, and the limo hit the parking lot and tore across it toward the road. Alex weaved in and out of streams of people running for their cars. He clipped the front end of a truck but kept going.

Back at the dedication grounds other cars in the motorcade started up and began to race after the Beast. An instant before the first car in the line, a state trooper vehicle, reached the exit, the last fedayeen set himself ablaze and threw himself onto the windshield. The troopers jumped from their cruiser before it totally ignited in flames. Wedged right against the narrow entry and exit point to the dedication grounds, the fireball effectively blocked the rest of the motorcade from getting out. Normally, the remaining cars would have smashed through the fenced-in area, but they were stopped from doing so by the thousands of fleeing people.

At least the Beast had gotten away. At least the president was safe, thought one struck agent before he lapsed into unconsciousness.

The two agents in the back of the limo were examining Brennan.

“Get the hell to the hospital. I think he’s having a damn heart attack,” one cried out.

Brennan was writhing in pain, clutching his chest and his arm.

“Dr. Bellamy?” Alex asked.

“Shot.”

And the ambulance has been blown up. Alex eyed the rearview mirror. There was no one back there. The twenty-seven-car motorcade had been reduced to one. He concentrated on the road ahead. Mercy Hospital was only ten minutes from here. Alex planned to make it in five. He prayed the president could hang on.

CHAPTER

53

THE BLACK CHOPPER SOARED over the Pennsylvania landscape. Tom Hemingway gave precise landing coordinates to the pilot even as he watched what was happening at the dedication on his satellite TV. Even though everything was going just as he had planned it, Hemingway still felt an immense pressure in his chest as the events unfolded in real time. Even with all the thought he had given this, all the planning, all the thousands of times he had visualized these very same events happening in his mind, the reality was far more powerful, far more overwhelming. He finally turned off the TV. He simply couldn’t watch any more.

Djamila raced through the streets of downtown Brennan, turned left and then hung an immediate right. She then eased into the narrow alley as the kids chortled and laughed in the backseat. She eyed them quickly, then stopped and hit her brakes. She’d almost missed it.

The overhead doors flew up and the man motioned her in. Djamila swung the van into the garage and the doors were pulled back down.

A half-block up the street from Mercy Hospital a tractor-trailer pulled out from an alleyway, tried to make a turn heading west, and the engine mysteriously died. The driver got out and opened the hood. The truck was effectively blocking the street in both directions.

A few blocks away on the same street in the other direction, the Beast made the turn onto the road on two wheels, and then Alex floored it. He could’ve used at least one damn police cruiser to clear his way, but apparently, there weren’t any left. However, Alex presumed roadblocks were being set up on all streets leading in and out of Brennan as no doubt an entire army of law enforcement descended on the area.

The Beast flashed by a street corner behind which rose the antique Brennan water tower emblazoned with the Stars and Stripes. At this section of the street a work zone had been set up only a half hour before by a pair of men dressed in the brown uniforms worn by town workers. The orange cones and tape effectively cordoned off the sidewalks and directed pedestrians to a detour down another side street. No one knew what work was to be performed, but the few people left in town followed the directive. As soon as the Beast cleared the area, two explosive charges set into the water tower’s front supporting legs detonated. The tower buckled and then fell directly across the street and burst open, disgorging about twelve thousand gallons of filthy water that still remained in it. Now this end of the street was as effectively walled off as the other.

Ten seconds later, up and down the avenue, smoke started pouring out of businesses, causing people to flee and fire alarms to be pulled. This was the result of the smoke bombs hidden in these establishments earlier by the Arab chemist and engineer. The few souls who had chosen not to attend the dedication were soon out in the streets wandering around in a panic.

Alex skidded the Beast to a stop directly in front of Mercy Hospital. The rear passenger doors flew open, and the two agents burst out carrying the president. They had barely reached the first step leading to the hospital when they were both hit and went down. The president collapsed to the sidewalk and lay there next to the Beast.

“Son of a bitch!” Alex screamed into his mike as he scrambled out of the car on the passenger side. “Snipers at the hospital! Snipers at the hospital! We’ve been set up. Repeat, we have been set up! Agents down! Agents down. Ravensclaw—” He paused. “Ravensclaw’s . . . ,” he began again, but didn’t finish because he didn’t know what the hell to say about Ravensclaw.

He was frantically trying to spot the muzzle flashes. Alex knew he had to get Brennan inside the hospital. His gaze surveyed the street level and then darted upward. That’s when he saw it: six flights up, apartment building directly across the street. No optics signature, but twin muzzle flashes, a deuce of snipers.

Alex pulled his gun even as he felt slugs slam into the tires of the Beast. As soon as the holes were formed, however, the punctures closed up again as the self-healing tires did their thing. Rounds hit the limo front, back and on the side. One hit the glass but did not damage it. The Beast could survive a lot more than they were throwing at it. But the president of the United States was lying on the sidewalk, apparently dying. Protect the man, the symbol, the office. And Alex Ford was the only agent still standing who could uphold that mantra of the Secret Service. Yet as soon as Alex started up the hospital steps with the president, they’d be an easy target for the snipers who’d taken the high ground. Yet Brennan was breathing, his heart was still beating. That’s all Alex cared about right now. Not on my watch, sir. Not on my watch.

He gripped the man under the shoulders, braced himself and then pulled. The president was now fully protected behind the steel and polycarbonate wall of the Beast.

“You’re gonna be okay, sir,” he said as calmly as he could.

“I’m . . . dying . . . ,” the president managed to mutter back between moans.

Even with the Beast shielding them, Alex instinctively put his body between Brennan and the snipers. Millimeter by millimeter he edged his head over the rear of the Beast. He ducked back down when a shot sailed his way. He immediately sent back a few rounds with his SIG, but he wasn’t going to waste ammo; it’d take a miracle shot to even nick one of the bastards at this distance and trajectory.

When he glanced toward the hospital, he saw a security guard and shouted, “Get down! Get down! Snipers across the street.”

The man immediately ducked back inside. Then two seconds later he burst out firing at the upper floors of the apartment building, hurtled down the steps and rolled to a landing next to Alex as gunfire hit all around them.

“Damn!” Alex said. “You got some kind of death wish?”

“Is this the president?” Adnan al-Rimi asked breathlessly, nodding at the prostrate Brennan.

“Yeah. And we need to get him in there fast,” Alex said, pointing with his gun at the hospital. “Because the next closest hospital’s in Pittsburgh and he needs help now.”

“Are you the only security?” Adnan asked in an incredulous tone.

Alex nodded grimly. “Looks that way.”

“We saw on TV what happened.”

Alex glanced at the man. “You the only security here?” Adnan nodded. “What kind of gun you have?”

“Piece-of-shit .38.”

“Great.” The president moaned loudly and Alex quickly said, “What’s your name?”

Adnan answered, “Farid Shah.”

“Okay, Farid, I’m hereby deputizing you.”

Alex opened the rear door of the Beast, pressed a button on the panel on the back of the passenger chair, and it came down. Behind it was a cache of weapons, including a shotgun, an MP-5 machine gun and a sniper rifle. Alex pulled out the MP-5 and grabbed an extra mag for it. He turned back to his newly deputized colleague.

“Farid, you look like a pretty strong guy.”

“I am very strong.”

“Good. You think you can lift the president and carry him up those steps and into the hospital?”

Adnan nodded. “Easily.”

“Okay, when I count to three, you’re gonna do just that. I’m gonna put this gun here on two-shot bursts. That’ll give you maybe ten seconds to get up those steps. And, Farid?”

“Yes?”

“You gotta do one thing for me, man.”

“What?”

“I’m going to be between you and the president and the snipers. To get to you, they gotta kill me first.” Alex paused and swallowed hard. “But if I go down, and I probably will, they’re gonna have to go through you to get him. That means you gotta carry him in front of you so that at all times there is a body between the president and the snipers, you got that?” Adnan said nothing. “You got it!” Alex snapped.

“Yes!”

“Good luck.” Alex waited for him to pick the president up. Then he turned and said, “Okay, one . . . two . . . three!”

Alex jumped up and opened fire, sweeping the two windows where he’d seen the muzzle flashes with his MP-5.

He wanted desperately to glance back and see the rental cop’s progress, but that wasn’t an option. Finally, his mag empty, he pulled his pistol and emptied that too. As shots rained at him, he dropped back down, reloaded and turned. He expected to see that the pair was safely in the hospital. But they weren’t. In fact, the rental cop seemed to be taking his time getting up the steps, as though he were in no need of . . .

“Shit!” Alex screamed. He lined up the man’s broad back in his gun sight.

“Hold it!”

The man instantly turned, and Brennan was now between him and Alex. Adnan backed slowly toward the hospital as Alex tried desperately to find an opening for a kill shot that had absolutely no chance of hitting the president. Unfortunately, there was no such opening, and the pair disappeared into the hospital.

Alex screamed into his wrist mic. “They’ve got the president. Repeat, they have abducted Ravensclaw at the hospital. We need to shut the whole damn town down.”

Alex was just about to sprint up the steps, fully expecting to be gunned down, when good luck finally landed on his side. Police reinforcements appeared on the scene. Alex waited another minute as the lawmen engaged the snipers and then raced up the steps to Mercy Hospital. With gunshots splattering all around him he launched himself through the glass doors, shattering them in the process.

A split second later he heard a bomb go off inside the hospital.