Camel Club 05 - Hell's Corner Page 5

  “No elaborate explanation. He’d been assigned to patrol the park when the old walk-through plan was still in place. When the PM turned his ankle, we simply left him there to provide a wider berth of security.” McElroy held the three fingers up even higher. “But the bloody thing is, John—excuse me, Oliver—the bloody thing is my counterparts over here can tell me absolutely nothing about the other three.”

  “I saw the video feed. One of them is dead.”

  “Not particularly helpful. Then there’s the man and the woman. Perhaps they were just there by coincidence. But perhaps not. In either case, I need to know for certain.”

  “Why were there any people in the park last night? “I’m there at all hours, and the security detail knows me. But late at night the park doesn’t typically have visitors.”

  “Good question. Happened to have asked it myself. Have you found an answer? Because I haven’t.”

  “No, at least not a satisfactory one. No immediate threats against the PM?”

  “Nothing particularly credible.”

  “What line will you be taking, then?”

  “Remove him from the threat.” McElroy checked his watch. “The PM should be wheels down at Heathrow in twenty minutes, in fact.”

  “And after that?”

  McElroy noticed a fleck of dandruff on his shoulder and brushed it away like he might an unappealing conclusion. “We can’t leave it, Oliver. It happened on American soil, so our reach is limited, but we really can’t leave it. Awful sort of precedent if we do. Can’t have folks taking potshots at our PM without any consequences.”

  “If he was the target.”

  “Have to assume he was until facts prove otherwise.”

  Stone looked over at Chapman and then back at his old acquaintance. “Agent Chapman seems well capable.”

  “Yes, she is, otherwise she wouldn’t be here. But I believe she will be infinitely more capable with you at her side.”

  Stone was already shaking his head. “My plate is full.”

  “Yes, your little trip to NIC. I understand Riley Weaver is marking his territory at an extraordinary clip over there. He’ll make mistakes, of course, and let’s just hope not too many people die when he does. And the FBI also wants a piece of you, I understand.”

  “Popular gent,” added Chapman.

  McElroy and Stone exchanged a knowing gaze. McElroy said, “I’m not sure ‘popular’ would be my first choice as a description. Short leash, Oliver?”

  “Could be.”

  Stone gave the older man a lengthy gaze.

  I wonder if he knows about my meeting with the president, about me going back in?

  Stone had no reason to think that McElroy wished him any ill will, but in this business simply saving someone’s life did not ensure a permanent allegiance. And Stone was also quite certain that the PM and hence James McElroy would sacrifice him if requested to do so by the Americans.

  And then something else occurred to Stone. That’s why I’m here. McElroy was told to deliver the message directly to me from the president.

  He decided to verify this speculation. “I already have an assignment. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow, in fact.”

  “Yes. Well, plans are fluid aren’t they? One has to account for recent events.”

  “Does one?”

  “A new arrangement is possible because of what happened in the park,” McElroy said bluntly.

  “Why? Simply because I was there?”

  “Partly. Plus, in the circles in question, I’m not without influence. And I thought you could be better deployed here than in more southern parts of this hemisphere.”

  So he does know about the Russians and the Mexican pipeline.

  “You became my advocate? That’s dangerous.”

  “So was Iran in 1977. Didn’t stop you, did it?”

  “My job. You owe me nothing.”

  “Actually, you’re not telling the truth.”

  Stone cocked his head slightly.

  McElroy continued, “I did some investigation afterwards. You had already been authorized to return home. In fact you were technically off duty. The actual team that was supposed to come to my aid was ambushed en route. Killed to a man. Why do I think I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know?”

  With this observation Chapman eyed Stone with even deeper interest.

  “You were in trouble. I was there. You would have done the same for me.”

  “Not, I’m afraid, with the same successful results.” He added quickly, “Not for lack of will. But I could never shoot that straight.”

  “So just give me the basic outline.”

  “You investigate. You succeed. Then…” McElroy shrugged. “What you were promised before will remain unchanged.”

  “And if I don’t succeed?”

  McElroy said nothing.

  “Okay,” said Stone.

  “Okay, you’ll do it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent.”

  “So how is this all going to play out?” asked Stone. “I’ve been on the outside a long time. You don’t just jump back in.”

  “I pulled some professional strings, with the PM’s blessing. He and your president are wonderful friends. They golf, they go to war together. You know how that is.”

  “So you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying they decided it would be spot-on brilliant for you and Mary here to poke around a bit on this.”

  “Just so we’re clear, I’m not what I once was.”

  McElroy studied his old friend. “Some remember you only for your extraordinary feats of physicality, for the aim that never missed, the courage that never wavered. But I also remember you as one of the cagiest operatives that ever wore the stars and stripes. Many tried to get you, some close to home. But no one ever succeeded. I’d say you are just what the doctor ordered. And I think it would be personally beneficial for you too. And not just for the obvious reasons.”

  “So keep my enemies closer?”

  “Friends and enemies closer,” corrected McElroy.

  Stone looked at Chapman. “How do you feel about this?”

  She said flippantly, “My boss has spoken. And I play by house rules.”

  “That’s not what I asked you,” he said sharply.

  Chapman lost her playful look. “I need to find out who wanted my PM dead. And if you can help me do that I’ll go the last mile with you.”

  “Well put,” McElroy said as he rose, clutching the armchair for support. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to have seen you again. It has really done my old heart good.”

  “One thing. Weaver showed me the video feed of the park surveillance. Unfortunately, it cut off after the explosion. Went to static.”

  “Did it now?” McElroy peered at Chapman. “Mary, perhaps you can provide Oliver with the full video.”

  “I thought there might be more.”

  McElroy smiled. “There’s always more.”

  Stone’s mouth edged upward. “Been back to Iran?”

  McElroy smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of it unless you went with me. Mary will provide you with our files to date. Good luck.” A few seconds later he’d disappeared into an interior room, leaving Chapman and Stone alone.

  “I need a ride back to my place,” he said.

  “And then?” she said.

  “And then we’ll go over your files.”

  “Okay, but we may be running out of time.”

  “Oh, there’s no question about it. We are running out of time.”

  CHAPTER 12

  WHEN HE AND CHAPMAN RETURNED to the caretaker’s cottage, Stone put on a pot of hot water for tea while the MI6 agent took the files from her briefcase and spread them out over Stone’s desk. She also loaded a DVD into her laptop.

  With a frown she said, “You know I would prefer to meet in a more secure place. These files are all classified.”

  Stone looked up from the stove and said cheerfully, “Not to worry,
I don’t have any security clearances, so as soon as I look at them they’ll be immediately declassified.”

  “Bloody hell,” murmured Chapman.

  Teacups in hand, they sat at the desk and began to go over the documents and reports. Stone’s gaze flew swiftly over the papers and photos, his agile and experienced mind separating the important from the trivial.

  After he was finished Chapman said, “Would you like to see the full feed?”

  He nodded. “I’m wondering why I was shown the edited version at NIC.”

  “Don’t ask me. It’s your blokes’ doing, not mine.”

  “I’m also wondering if the edited version is the only one they have.”

  To this, Chapman simply stared stoically at the screen.

  They watched the feed. It was picture only, no audio. After the explosion happened, the feed went to static, but only for a second as though the detonation had momentarily disabled the electronic surveillance’s signals. When the video resumed, Stone saw the remainder of the feed. Flames and white smoke covered Jackson’s statue, or where it used to be. The fence and cannons had also been flung away like feathers. It was a miracle no one had been killed. Luckily, at that time of night the park had been nearly deserted, and the security teams typically kept to the perimeter of the park.

  Stone saw himself lying on the ground unconscious while the British agent slowly rose and staggered away.

  “Your man looks all right. Except for his tooth.”

  “He’s a tough chap, but he did say colliding with you was like hitting a brick wall.”

  Stone continued to focus on the feed. The suit and woman were no longer visible. He saw people running; the security bollards on Pennsylvania retracted into the street and police cars and Secret Service vans raced away. Blair House was quickly sealed off.

  “Can you show me the last thirty seconds again?”

  She hit a couple of keystrokes and Stone watched the explosion happen again. He sat back puzzled.

  “What’s the problem?” said Chapman as she stopped the video.

  “Can you slow it down even more?”

  “I’ll try.” She worked some keystrokes. “This is the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

  They watched it again with everything in ultraslow motion.

  Stone followed the path of the jogger as he passed by a pair of uniformed Secret Service officers and a canine before entering the park.

  “Fat chap to be in trainers,” noted Chapman. “Doesn’t look like a runner, does he?”

  “People who wear jogging suits aren’t always runners. He might have just been out for a walk.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Bomb could have been on that iPod.”

  Chapman nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. C-4 or Semtex. Or something even more powerful. If so, there will be evidence of that in the debris field.”

  “Yes and no. Yes, the iPod will be blown apart, but it would be regardless of whether it was part of an explosive device or not.”

  “But they’ll be able to tell,” said Chapman. “From scorching marks, from the deformity angles of the parts, outward as opposed to inward, and so on.”

  Stone turned to her. “You know about explosives?”

  “Another reason they sent for me. I spent three years chasing some nasty Irishmen who didn’t believe the IRA had actually signed a peace treaty. They liked to make things go boom. Learned a lot.”

  “I’m sure.” Stone looked back at the screen. “He dove into the planting hole.”

  “And the explosion happened a few seconds later. Maybe a suicide bomber, then.”

  Stone looked skeptical. “Who kills only himself by diving in a hole?”

  “So what do you think the lay of the land is, then?”

  He looked at her curiously. “Lay of what land?”

  “Your land of too many bloody American agencies. I’ve only been on this case less than a day and already I feel claustrophobic.”

  “Ever heard of Hell’s Corner?”

  Chapman shook her head.

  Stone leaned forward and tapped the frozen screen, which showed Lafayette Park. “This is Hell’s Corner,” he said. “Pennsylvania Avenue, the actual street, belongs to the D.C. metro cops. The sidewalks around Lafayette Park are the Secret Service’s turf and the park itself comes under the jurisdiction of the Park Police. Secret Service agents are actually taught to grab a person of interest from the street or park, carry him to the sidewalk and then arrest him there to prevent a pissing contest over jurisdiction.”

  “Okay,” Chapman said slowly.

  “Hell’s Corner,” he said again. “The Feds and cops hate it, but they all have to dance to the same song. The explosion is a case in point. The Park Police will control the scene, but the FBI, and the ATF, because an explosive was involved, will control the investigation. And Homeland Security, Secret Service, NIC and CIA will be hovering like vultures.”

  Chapman took a sip of tea. “So what now?”

  “We’ll have to go to the park, talk to the investigators and track down the jogger’s identity and that of the woman and the guy in the suit too.” He gazed at Chapman. “Your guy? Where is he?”

  “Available for questioning. But we have his full report. He saw less than you.”

  “All right.”

  She reached for her jacket. “So on to the park?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to use my car?”

  “I think we should, since I don’t happen to own one.”

  CHAPTER 13

  ANNABELLE CONROY RODE THE ELEVATOR up to the second floor, stepped off, turned and entered the Rare Book Reading Room in the Jefferson Building of the Library of Congress. She surveyed the large room and spotted Caleb Shaw at his desk in the back. She caught his eye and he quickly came forward.

  “Annabelle, what are you doing here?”

  “Can you take a break? I’ve got Reuben and Harry Finn out front. We want to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “What do you think? Oliver. Those guys took him from the hospital and we haven’t seen or heard from him since.”

  “If anyone can take care of himself it’s Oliver.”

  “But he might need our help.”

  “All right, give me a minute.”

  As they rode down in the elevator Caleb said, “This has been quite an exciting day for me.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We just got in an F. Scott. And not just any F. Scott. The F. Scott.”

  “The F. Scott what?” asked Annabelle.

  Caleb gazed at her in horror. “F. Scott Fitzgerald. One of the greatest American writers of all time.” He sputtered, “My God, Annabelle, where have you been all these years?”

  “Nowhere near a library, I guess.”

  “The book is The Great Gatsby, arguably his greatest achievement, and certainly his most well-known work. And it’s not just any Great Gatsby, of which we have several. It’s a first edition, first state, of course. But it has the very rare, scarcely obtainable dust jacket cover.” Annabelle looked at him blankly. “You know, the one with the haunting pair of female eyes? It is one of the most uniquely famous covers in classic literature. You see, the cover was actually conceived before Fitzgerald finished writing the book. He loved it so much he wrote a scene in the novel that included that image.”

  “Very interesting,” said Annabelle politely, but her tone actually showed little interest. She had once shared a van with Caleb for nearly two days, during which he had regaled her nearly nonstop with literary scuttlebutt. She had never really recovered from the onslaught.

  They got off the elevator and walked toward the exit.

  Caleb continued, “And that’s not the best part. The best part is that it’s Zelda’s copy. The provenance is absolutely certain.”

  “Who’s Zelda?”

  “Who’s Zelda?” sputtered Caleb again. “His wife, of course. Scott and Zelda. A more tragic couple you would be hard pressed t
o find. She died in an asylum and Fitzgerald drank himself to death. He inscribed the book for her. What a coup for the library. A one of one,” he added. “We love those.”

  “Totally unique?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How much did you pay for it?”

  Caleb looked taken aback. He blustered, “Well, I mean, that is not for public—”

  “Come on, just an estimate.”

  “It was well into the six figures, I’ll have to leave it at that,” he said, a bit pompously.

  Annabelle now looked interested. “My grandmother left me her personal copy of Wuthering Heights. I wonder how much it might be worth. It’s in excellent condition.”

  Caleb looked intrigued. “Wuthering Heights? First editions of those in pristine condition are rare. Where did she get it?”

  “At a bookstore eight years ago. It’s a paperback, is that a problem?”

  Caleb gazed stonily at her and said stiffly, “Funny.”

  Outside they met up with Reuben and Harry Finn. Finn was a decades-younger version of Stone, lean and lethal. Unless he needed to move fast, he never seemed to even flinch, as though storing his energy for when a crisis occurred. Reuben had changed from his loading-dock uniform into his usual garb of jeans and a sweatshirt with moccasins on his feet. They sat on the broad steps leading into the library.

  Annabelle said, “So what are we going to do?”

  “What can we do?” said Reuben.

  “Oliver may be in trouble,” she replied.

  “Oliver is often in trouble,” responded Caleb.

  “Those men who took him from the hospital,” began Annabelle.

  Finn cut in. “NIC. Riley Weaver’s boys. Heard it from a buddy of mine. It was a catch and release. I doubt Oliver gave them what they wanted.”

  “Then he is in trouble,” said Annabelle. “And we have to help him.”

  “Why don’t we wait for him to ask for that help?” said Caleb.

  “Why?” Annabelle shot back.

  “Because every time I help him I get in trouble here,” he said, looking back at the enormous library building. “I’m actually on probation, a positively horrendous situation for someone of my age and level of experience.”