The other men eyed him curiously.
Stone drew a long breath. So many birthdays had passed by uncelebrated that he had to actually think about how old he was. Sixty-one, he said to himself. I am sixty-one years old. He’d founded the Camel Club long ago with the purpose of scrutinizing those in power and raising the public cry when they believed things to be awry, which they very often were. He had kept vigil outside 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue watching and noting his observations and fighting for things that other people apparently didn’t believe were important anymore, like truth and accountability.
He was beginning to wonder if it was worth it.
Yet he said aloud, “Have you noticed what is going on in this country?” He stared at his friends, who didn’t answer. “They may have us believing that we’re better protected. Yet being safer doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re more free.”
“You sometimes have to sacrifice freedom for security, Oliver,” Caleb said as he fiddled with his heavy watch. “I don’t necessarily like it but what’s the alternative?”
“The alternative is not living in fear,” Stone answered. “Especially in a state of fear from exaggerated circumstances. Men like Carter Gray are quite good at that.”
“Well, Gray’s first year on the job you would’ve thought the man would have been run out on a rail, but he somehow managed to turn it around,” Reuben admitted grudgingly.
“Which proves my point,” Stone retorted, “because I don’t think anyone is that good or that lucky.” He paused, obviously choosing his words with care. “My opinion is that Carter Gray is bad for this country’s future. I open the meeting to discuss relevant possibilities.”
His three companions simply stared dully at him. Finally, Caleb found his voice.
“Uh, what exactly do you mean, Oliver?”
“I mean what can the Camel Club do to make sure that Carter Gray is relieved of his post as intelligence secretary?”
“You want us to take down Carter Gray!” Caleb exclaimed.
“Yes.”
“Oh, good,” Reuben added in mock relief. “Because I thought it might be something difficult you were wanting.”
“There is ample historical precedent for the powerless overcoming the powerful,” Stone noted.
“Yeah, but in real life, Goliath kicks the shit out of David nine times out of ten,” Reuben replied grimly.
Stone said, “Then what exactly is the purpose of continuing the club? We meet once a week and compare notes, observations and theories. To what end?”
Caleb answered, “Well, we’ve done some good. Although we never got any credit for it. Our work helped reveal the truth behind the scandal at the Pentagon. That came from a scrap of conversation the White House chef’s assistant overheard and told you about. And don’t forget about the mole at NSA who was altering transcription files, Oliver. And then there was the DIA subterfuge that Reuben stumbled onto.”
“Those events were a long time ago,” Stone replied. “So again I ask, what is the purpose of the club now?”
Reuben said, “Well, maybe it’s like lots of other clubs, except without a building, refreshments or the pleasure of female companionship. But what can you expect when you don’t pay any dues?” he added, grinning.
Before Stone could answer, all four of them had turned their heads in the direction of the sounds filtering through the woods. Stone instantly put a finger to his lips and listened. There it was again: a boat’s engine, and it sounded as though it was right at the edge of the island. They all took their bags and made their way quietly into the surrounding brush.
CHAPTER
9
OLIVER STONE EASED A BRANCH out of the way and peered through this small gap toward the paved area in front of the Roosevelt monument. His companions were also riveted on what was happening nearby.
Two men appeared on one of the gravel paths carrying something on a plastic tarp. One man was tall, lean and blond, the other short, thick and dark-haired. When they laid the tarp on the ground, Stone could see that they were carrying a man bound with straps. They slid the plastic from under him and then swept the area with their flashlights, going grid by grid. Fortunately, as soon as Stone saw the flashlights come out of their pockets, he motioned for his friends to hunker down behind the cover of bushes, with their faces hidden from the beams.
Satisfied that they were alone, the men turned back to their captive. One of them removed the cover from his mouth and placed it in his pocket.
The man made a few sounds, none of them coherent. He appeared drunk.
The short man put on a pair of rubber gloves and pulled a revolver from his coat while the other man undid their captive’s bindings. The short man took a nearly empty bottle from the duffel bag and pressed the semiconscious man’s hands around it and then splashed a bit of the remaining liquid on his clothes and around his mouth.
Reuben was about to charge out of the bushes, but Stone put a hand on his arm. The other man was also armed; a pistol was clearly visible in his belt holster. The Camel Club stood no chance. To reveal themselves now would mean a death sentence.
Meanwhile, the man holding the gun knelt down next to the captive. He took the man’s right hand and placed it around the gun. Perhaps because of the touch of the cold metal, the captive opened his eyes. As he stared up at the other man, he suddenly cried out, “I’m sorry. Please don’t. I’m sorry.”
The short man slid the pistol into the man’s mouth, pushing it against the roof of the mouth. The captive choked for an instant, and then the short man forced the trigger down. At the sound of the shot all four members of the Camel Club closed their eyes.
When they reopened them, the four men continued to stare transfixed as the gun and bottle were placed near the body. A plastic baggie was taken out of the knapsack carried by the other man, and this was laid next to the murder weapon. Finally, a piece of folded paper was placed in the pocket of the dead man’s windbreaker.
Finished, the two men looked around the area even as the Camel Club members shrank farther back in the bushes. A minute later the killers trudged off. As soon as the sounds of their footfalls disappeared, the Camel Club let out a collective sigh of relief. Holding his finger to his lips, Stone quietly led the way out of their hiding place and into the clearing.
Reuben squatted down next to the body. He shook his head and said in a very low voice, “At least he was killed instantly. As if that somehow makes up for being murdered.” He looked at the nearly empty bottle. “Dewar’s. Looks like they got the poor bastard drunk so he couldn’t fight back.”
“Is there any ID on the body?” Stone asked.
“This is a crime scene,” Caleb said shakily. “We shouldn’t touch anything.”
“He’s right,” Reuben agreed. He glanced over at Milton, who was making frantic motions with his hands as he sped silently through his OCD ritual. Reuben sighed. “We should get the hell out of here, Oliver, is what we should do.”
Stone knelt down beside him and spoke quietly but urgently. “This was an execution made to look like suicide, Reuben. Those were professional killers, and I’d like to know who the target was and what he knew that led to his death.” As he was speaking, he wrapped a handkerchief pulled from his pocket around his hand, searched the dead man’s pockets and slid out a wallet. He nimbly flipped it open, and they all gazed at the driver’s license in the see-through plastic. Reuben pulled out his lighter and flicked it on so Stone could read the information on the license.
“Patrick Johnson,” Stone read. “He lived in Bethesda.” Stone put the wallet back, searched the other pocket and pulled out the piece of paper the killer had placed there. By the flickering flame of the lighter he read the contents of the letter in a soft voice.
“‘I’m sorry. It’s all too much. I can’t live with this anymore. This is the only way. I’m sorry. So sorry.’ And it’s signed Patrick Johnson.”
Caleb slowly took his bowler hat off in respect for the dead and mouthed
a prayer.
Stone continued, “The writing is very legible. I suppose the police will assume it was written before he supposedly drank himself into a suicidal stupor.”
Reuben said, “He said he was sorry right before they killed him.”
Stone shook his head. “I think he was speaking about something else he was sorry for. The note’s words are just a subterfuge, a typical suicide’s last plea.”
Stone put the note back. As he was doing so, his hand nudged against something else in the dead man’s pocket. He pulled out a small red lapel pin and squinted at it in the darkness.
“What’s that?” Reuben asked, holding his lighter closer.
Caleb said in a hushed whisper, “What if they come back?”
Stone put the pin back and felt Johnson’s clothes. “They’re soaked through.”
Reuben pointed to the plastic baggie. “What do you make of that?”
Stone thought for a moment. “I think I understand its purpose and the soaked clothes as well. But Caleb’s right, we should leave.”
They set off and then realized that Milton wasn’t with them. They turned back and found him crouched over the dead man counting, with his hand reaching over the body.
“Uh, Milton, we really need to leave,” Caleb said urgently.
However, Milton was apparently so traumatized that he couldn’t stop counting.
“Oh, for chrissakes,” Reuben moaned. “Why don’t we all just bloody well count together until they come back and give us some bullets to suck on?”
Stone put a steadying hand on Reuben’s arm and stepped forward next to Milton. He looked down at Patrick Johnson’s face. He was young, though death had already begun to hollow him. Stone knelt and placed his hand gently on Milton’s shoulder and said quietly, “We can do nothing for him now, Milton. And the comfort you take in your counting, the safety and security that you’re striving for, can be defeated if those two men come back.” He added bluntly, “They have guns, Milton, we don’t.”
Milton halted his ritual, stifled a sob and said in a quivering voice, “I don’t like violence, Oliver.” Milton clutched his knapsack closer to his chest and then pointed at the corpse. “I don’t like that.”
“I know, Milton. None of us do.”
Stone and Milton rose together. With a sigh of relief Reuben followed them to the path leading to their boat.
Warren Peters, who’d fired the shot that killed Patrick Johnson, was walking along the trail back to their dinghy when he stopped short.
“Shit!” he whispered.
“What?” Tyler Reinke asked as he nervously looked around. “Police boat?”
“No, almost a big mistake.” Peters scooped up some dirt and pebbles in his hand. “When we dunked him, it cleaned his shoe soles off. If he walked here through the woods, his soles wouldn’t be clean. The FBI won’t miss that.”
The two men hurried back along the path and over to the body. Peters squatted down next to the murdered man’s shoes and pressed dirt and pebbles into the soles.
“Good catch,” Reinke said.
“I don’t want to even think about what would’ve happened if I’d blown that.” He finished his task and started to rise, but his gaze caught on something.
“Son of a bitch!” Peters exclaimed between clenched teeth. He pointed to the note he had pressed into the victim’s pocket: A corner of it was sticking out. “I shoved that all the way in because I didn’t want it to look too obvious. So why’s it visible now?” He pushed the note back in the pocket and looked at his partner searchingly.
“Could an animal have taken a go at the body?”
“After a few minutes? And why would an animal go after paper instead of flesh?” He rose, pulled a flashlight from his pocket and checked the stone floor.
Reinke said, “You must’ve made a mistake with the paper. You probably didn’t push it in as far as you thought.”
Peters continued to search the area and then stiffened.
“What now?” his companion asked impatiently.
“Listen, do you hear that?”
Reinke remained still and silent and then his mouth gaped.
“Somebody running. That way!” He pointed to the right, down one of the trails in the opposite direction they had come.
The two men pulled their weapons and sprinted toward the sound.
CHAPTER
10
STONE AND THE OTHERS HAD JUST jumped into their boat and pushed off. The fog was now dense enough to make navigation tricky. They were perhaps ten feet from the island in the Little Channel when the two men burst out of the trees and saw them.
“Pull as hard as you can and keep your face turned down,” Stone said to Reuben, who needed no such prompting. His broad shoulders and thick arms moved with a Herculean effort, and the little boat sprang away from the shore.
Stone turned to the others in the boat and whispered, “Don’t let them see your faces. Caleb, take off your hat!” They all immediately bent low, and Caleb swept off his bowler and jammed it between his quivering knees. Milton had started counting the minute he climbed onto the boat. The two men on shore took aim at their quarry, but the fog made their targets very elusive. They both fired, but their shots splattered harmlessly into the water a good foot from the boat.
“Pull, Reuben, pull,” a terrified Caleb gasped as he ducked even farther down.
“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” Reuben snapped, sweat trickling down his face.
The pursuers took careful aim and fired twice more. One slug found its mark, and splintered wood flew up and hit Stone in the right hand. The blood trickled down his fingers and onto the boat’s gunwale. He quickly staunched the flow with the same handkerchief he’d used to search the body of Patrick Johnson.
“Oliver!” a frantic Milton called out.
“I’m all right,” Stone answered. “Just stay down!”
The two gunmen, realizing the futility of their attack, raced away.
“They’re going to get their boat,” Stone warned.
“Well, then we have a bit of a problem, because their boat has a motor,” Reuben retorted. “I’m going as fast as I can, but there’s not much gas left in my tank.”
Stone pulled on Caleb’s sleeve. “Caleb, you take one oar and I’ll take the other.” Reuben moved out of the way, and the two men rowed with all their strength.
Ordinarily, after leaving the inlet they would have gone north on the river and returned to their original launching site. Now they simply wanted to get to the mainland as fast as possible, which meant a straight path east. They passed the western tip of the island and made their turn toward Georgetown.
“Oh, shit!” Reuben was staring back toward the island as he heard the boat engine coming. “Row like your lives depend on it,” he bellowed to Stone and Caleb. “Because they sure as hell do.”
Seeing that Caleb and Stone were growing tired, Reuben pushed them out of the way and took up the oars again, pulling with all his considerable strength.
“I think they’re gaining,” Caleb said breathlessly.
A shot hit right next to him, and Caleb joined a cowering Milton in the bottom of the boat.
Stone ducked down as another shot passed by, and then he heard Reuben cry out.
“Reuben?” He turned to look at his friend.
“It’s all right, just a glance, but I’d forgotten how much they burn.” Reuben added grimly, “They’ve got us, Oliver. It’ll be five corpses for those bastards tonight.”
Stone looked toward the wispy lights of sleeping Georgetown. Even though the river was fairly narrow here, with the fog they were still too far away for anyone on shore to see what was going on. He glanced back at the oncoming boat. He could now make out the silhouettes of the two men on board. His mind raced back to the businesslike manner in which the unfortunate Patrick Johnson had been dispatched. Stone envisioned the gun being placed inside his own mouth, the trigger pulled.
Suddenly, the motorboat
veered away from them.
“What the—” Reuben said.
“It must be the police boat. Listen,” Stone whispered, pointing south of their position and cupping his ear.
In a relieved voice Caleb cried out, “The police? Quick, get their attention.”
“No,” Stone said firmly. “I want everyone to remain as silent as possible. Reuben, stop rowing.”
Reuben looked curiously at his friend but stopped pulling at the oars and just sat there. “We’ll be damn lucky if they don’t run right into us,” he complained in a low voice.
All of them could now clearly hear the whine of the big engine. Through the fog they saw the green starboard side running lights of the patrol boat passing by less than thirty feet away. The policemen on board wouldn’t have been able to hear the engine of the other boat over their own, nor could they have seen the rowboat, which had no lights. The members of the Camel Club held their collective breath and watched as the patrol boat slowly glided along. When it was finally out of sight, Stone said, “Okay, Reuben, get us to shore.”
Caleb sat up. “Why didn’t you want us to alert the police?”
Stone waited until the sharp outline of land came into view before answering.
“We’re out on a boat we’re not supposed to have, going to a place we’re not supposed to be. A man has been killed and his body left on Roosevelt Island. If we tell the police we witnessed a murder, we’re admitting that we were there. We can tell them we saw two men who then tried to kill us, but we have no proof of that.”
Now Milton sat up. “But you and Reuben were hurt.”
“My hand is only scratched and Reuben’s was just a glance, so there’s no conclusive proof a bullet was involved. Thus, the police are left with the fact that there is a dead body that was transported by boat to the island we were on. We have a boat that could have performed that task quite easily, and there isn’t another such vessel around, since that motorboat will be long gone by the time we explain things. We are persons whom the police might not put much credibility in. So what do you think would be the most logical result of our telling them our story?” Stone looked at each of them expectantly.
Camel Club 01 - The Camel Club Page 6