The Camel Club

by David Baldacci

  “Since this morning, why?”

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

  “No.”

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

  “I think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No, I told her to go back home.”

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

  “Not with the way Chastity drives.”

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

  Milton took out his cell phone and hit a button.

  “Who are you calling?” Stone asked.

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

  “What’s the man’s name?” Stone asked.

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

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

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

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

  “It’s possible.”

  “Did you find anything on Jackie Simpson?”

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

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

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

  “Would you still be on the NIH database?”

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

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

  “So where do we meet, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER

  35

  “NO ONE SEEMS TO BE HOME,” Tyler Reinke said as he watched the front of Milton’s home from the car outside. He glanced at a file on Milton Farb. “Threatening to poison President Reagan’s jelly beans sort of tanks your career opportunities,” Reinke added wryly. “That may be why they didn’t come forward. Because of his record.”

  Peters said, “What I want to know is, what was he doing on Roosevelt Island in the middle of the night?”

  “I say we wait until later and then go exploring. If he’s in hiding, chances are he left something behind at his house to show us where he is.”

  “In the meantime I think we should take another trip to Georgetown. Somebody might have seen something that night that could be helpful,” Peters said.

  “And it might not hurt to take another look at the boat while we’re there,” Reinke added.

  Captain Jack adjusted his hat and rubbed a finger against the yellow rose sticking out of his lapel as he surveyed the inside of his new property. The garage was large with three expansive work bays. However, the place was empty now except for one vehicle that was receiving the complete attention of his “mechanics.” Ahmed, the Iranian, wiped his brow as he came up out of the oil pit cut into the floor of the garage.

  “How’s it coming?” Captain Jack asked.

  “We’re on schedule. Have you talked to the woman?”

  “That piece is in place and ready,” Captain Jack said. “And don’t ask again, Ahmed,” he added, looking stonily at the man. The Iranian nodded curtly and swung himself back down into the pit. Soon the sounds of power wrenches filled the space, and Captain Jack stepped out into the sunshine.

  Ahmed waited a few more minutes, and then he reemerged from the pit, walked quickly to the worktable and slid out a long-bladed knife from an oily cloth that he’d hidden under some tools. He placed the knife under a piece of carpeting in the back of the vehicle and then popped the carpet back into place.

  Outside, Captain Jack climbed into his Audi and drove
to the apartment across from Mercy Hospital. One of the Afghans let him in.

  “Are the weapons here?” Captain Jack asked.

  “Carried them up piece by piece in paper grocery bags like you said to.”

  “Show me.”

  The man led him over to the large-screen TV set up in one corner of the room. Together they moved the TV out of the way, and the Afghan used a screwdriver to pry up the carpet, exposing the padding and subfloor. Here the subfloor had been cut away and replaced with plywood. Under the plywood Captain Jack could see that short lengths of rope had been attached to the floor joists in six-inch intervals. Lying on top of the ropes were two assembled sniper rifles with high-powered scopes.

  “I’ve heard of the M-50s but I’ve never used one,” Captain Jack said.

  “It’s got digital optics so no visible signature; it chambers the twenty-one-millimeter cartridge with environmental sensors built in, together with multithermal detection.” The Afghan knelt down and pointed to one part of the rifle. “It’s also got a neural feedback system that cancels muscle twitch.”

  “I never needed that to do the job,” Captain Jack said matter-of-factly.

  “And it’s coated with advanced Camoflex so it blends in with its surroundings with a push of this button. Its barrel is nanotechnology-refined and can place a round at less than .00001 minute of angle at one thousand meters. Overkill for this job, but so what. We’ve also got a couple of MP-5s with about two thousand rounds. ”

  Early in his career Captain Jack had made the inexcusable error of inputting the barometric pressure after the adjustment for altitude had been made, the number typically given by weather forecasters. However, shooters needed the actual barometric pressure without regard to altitude adjustment. It had been a huge mistake because cold air was denser than warm, and the speed of sound was also lower in cold air, which was critical when one was chambering supersonic ammo. That mistake had caused his bullet to wound instead of kill, not an acceptable result when one was attempting to assassinate a head of state.

  “Where have you hidden the ordnance?” he asked.

  The Afghan went around to the back of the big-screen TV and unscrewed the rear panel. Neatly stacked inside were dozens of fully loaded MP-5 mags and boxes of M-50 rounds. “As you can see, we don’t watch much TV,” the Afghan said unnecessarily.

  “How about the other two rifles and ordnance you’ll be using? They’re the most important of all.”

  “They’re under the other floorboards. They’re ready to go. We’ve practiced over fifty hours with them. Don’t worry, we won’t miss.”

  “The weather looks good for game day, but it can change quickly around here.”

  The Afghan shrugged. “It’s not that difficult a shot at this distance. I’ve easily hit the target at three times this range at night with people shooting back.”

  Captain Jack knew this was not mere bravado on his part, which was one of the reasons the man was here in the first place.

  “But you’ve never done it quite this way before,” he said. “The range and flight path are a little different.”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  Captain Jack went into the bathroom and looked at his disguise in the mirror. He took off the hat and examined his thick hair shot through with gray and a mustache and short beard of the same coloring. He took off his tinted glasses, and blue eyes looked back at him. A small scar rested on the side of his nose, which was long and thick. In reality the beard and hair were fake. He was actually bald and clean-shaven with brown eyes and no scar, although his nose was long, but thin.

  He put the hat and glasses back on. He’d disappeared many times in his life, sometimes while in the employ of others, including the government of the United States. Other times he’d been on his own, his shooting skill and nerve purchased by the highest bidder. But as he’d told Hemingway, his next disappearing act would be his last.

  He drove out of town to the ceremonial grounds, barely ten minutes from downtown, and yet a lot could happen in ten minutes.

  Captain Jack didn’t stop at the grounds but instead drove past them slowly, eyeing certain landmarks he’d long since committed to memory. The ceremonial grounds were framed by white rail farm fencing with only one vehicle entry point and numerous pedestrian entrances. Six-foot-high brick columns framed the car entrance, and the motorcade would have to pass through there going in and out. The Beast would find it a tight squeeze.

  He eyeballed the surrounding tree lines, guessing at the placement of the American countersnipers that would be posted along this perimeter. How many would there be? A dozen? Two dozen? It was hard to tell these days, even with the best intelligence. They would be wrapped in their camouflage suits, blending in with their surroundings so perfectly you would step on them before you ever saw them. Yes, his men would most certainly die on these hallowed grounds. At least it would be quick and painless. Supersonic long-range ordnance, particularly to the head, killed you faster than your brain could react. The fedayeen’s death, however, would not be nearly as painless.

  Captain Jack envisioned the motorcade coming in and the president exiting the Beast. He would wave, shake hands, pat some backs, give some hugs and then be escorted to the bullet- and bombproof podium as “Hail to the Chief” was played.

  The reason the song was used when a U.S. president entered a room originated with President James Polk’s wife, who was furious that her diminutive, homely husband was often totally ignored when making an entrance. Thus, Sarah Polk ordered that the song be played whenever her husband came into a room. All presidents since had followed this imperious woman’s lead.

  However, the origin of the song itself was even more amusing, at least to Captain Jack’s thinking. Set to the words of Sir Walter Scott’s epic poem The Lady of the Lake, it described the demise of a Scottish chieftain who was betrayed and then put to death by his archenemy, King James V. Ironically enough, the song that was used to herald the coming of the president of the United States actually chronicled the assassination of a head of state. In the last part of Canto Five, the poem summed up, in Captain Jack’s opinion, a query that all would-be politicians should give serious thought to: “O who would wish to be thy king?”

  “Not me,” he muttered to himself. “Not me.”

  The ex-National Guardsman settled himself in the chair and looked at his new hand while the two men watched him carefully.

  “Now that we’ve added the pouch, let’s begin practicing the movements,” the engineer said.

  The American moved his hand and wrist as he had been shown, but nothing happened.

  “It takes practice. Soon you will be an expert.”

  Two hours later they had made considerable progress. Taking a break, the men sat and talked. “So you were a truck driver?” the chemist asked.

  The former soldier nodded, holding up his hook and fake hand. “Not an occupation you can really do with these because I also had to help unload the cargo.”

  “How long were you in Iraq before it happened?”

  “Eighteen months. I only had four more months to pull, at least I thought. Then we got orders extending our tour another twenty-two months. Four years! Before all this happened I was married with a wife and family and holding my own in Detroit. The next thing I know, I’m scrambling to get the money to buy my own body armor and GPS because Uncle Sam didn’t have the cash. Then a land mine outside of Mosul takes both my hands and a chunk of my chest. Four months in Walter Reed Hospital, and I get back home to find my wife’s divorcing me, my job’s long gone and I’m basically homeless.” He paused and shook his head. “I did my tour during Persian Gulf One and sucked in all the shit Saddam was chucking at us. After my discharge from the army I joined the National Guard so I could at least have some income until I got back on my feet. I did my Guard duty and then resigned and started driving trucks. Then after all those years the army knocks on my door and tells me my Guard resignation was never ‘officially’ accepted. I told
them not so politely to go to hell. But they literally hauled me kicking and screaming away. Then a year and a half later boom, there go my hands and my life. My own country did that to me!”

  “Now it’s your turn to repay them,” the engineer said.

  “Yes. It is,” the very ex-National Guardsman agreed as he flexed his hand.

  Adnan al-Rimi strode through the hallways of Mercy Hospital, his observant gaze methodically taking in all details of his surroundings. A minute later he returned to the hospital’s front entrance just as an elderly patient was wheeled in, a portable IV hooked to her arm.

  Adnan stepped outside and breathed in the warm air. To the left of the hospital’s front steps was a ramp for gurneys and wheelchair-bound patients. Al-Rimi walked down the steps to the sidewalk that ran in front of the hospital. There were fourteen steps. He turned and walked back up them, silently counting time as he did so. Seven seconds at a normal pace, perhaps half that if someone was running.

  He went back inside the hospital, his hand sliding down to his sidearm. It was an old .38 revolver, a piece of American crap, as far as he was concerned. Yet that was the only weapon the security firm he worked for had to offer. It didn’t really matter, he knew, but still, weapons were of paramount importance to Adnan. He had required them virtually his whole life simply to survive.