by J. B. Turner
“I can see that.”
“Don’t be so cynical.”
Amy got a faraway look in her eyes. “Do you think Edward will find anyone? Someone younger. Prettier.”
“I think you need to think of yourself, Amy. Let’s focus on what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want. And that’s the goddamn honest truth. How sad is that?”
When they’d finished their lunch, Jessica leaned closer. “We need to meet up more often. I miss you.”
Amy began to dab her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh God, look at me. What a wreck.”
Jessica walked to the other side of the table and put her arm around Amy. “Hey, you had some great years together. And you’ve got two beautiful kids. Edward is still a good guy.”
Amy nodded, tears streaming down her face. “Look, I’m sorry about bringing you down. You’re happy. And I’m glad for you. Thanks for feeling you could confide in me. I do say inappropriate things. I know that. Edward kept on reminding me of that.”
“You have every right to say whatever the hell you want. This is America, right?”
“Goddamn straight.”
Jessica sat down in her seat, picked up her glass, and clinked it against Amy’s. “To friends.”
Fourteen
It was dark outside, and the rain was pouring down as Nathan Stone waited in the cottage, a mug of strong coffee in hand. It reminded him of winter storms lashing New York when he was growing up. Staring out through the scratched glass and the gray mold as the weather tore up his city. The wilder it was, the more he loved it. His sister was always afraid. Huddled under a blanket, crying, thinking of their father coming back.
The more he thought of those days, the more he wished he’d stuck up for his sister. But he was too young, he rationalized. Far too young. A child. His father was a fearsome man. Six foot plus. With a drink inside him, he was the devil.
Stone’s cell phone rang, snapping him out of his reverie.
“GPS shows you’re at the base camp,” his handler said.
“Safe and sound.”
“It’s pretty basic.”
“Pretty basic is good. I don’t like fancy.”
“Got a bit of news for you.”
“Shoot.”
“We’ve got an advance camp ready for you.”
“You want me to go right now?”
“Leave at midnight.”
“Copy that.”
“Your car out front has the details uploaded to it.”
Stone absorbed the information.
“How you feeling?”
“Ready.”
Fifteen
It was nearly midnight and Clayton Wilson was in the study of his home in an upscale gated community in Great Falls, Virginia, checking all the reports on Nathan Stone: medical, physical, psychological. The more he read, the more satisfied he was that Stone was an impeccable choice to carry out this particular assignment. He had known through his connections in the CIA that Stone had been resurrected and undergone a long rehabilitation period.
Officially, Stone was now an American student in Scotland. A new identity. A new face. A new name. But, crucially, no connection to American intelligence. A mature student. In his thirties. A loner. The background briefing was thorough.
It had been compiled by various people at the secure facility in Scotland. Away from prying eyes. Owned by a billionaire American. Isolated.
Those who got too close to the island, like nosy fishermen—which had happened twice—were disposed of at sea. A fishing accident in rough weather. And the body would wash up a few weeks later on a neighboring island.
Wilson had been paid a nice seven-figure sum each year to oversee the program since its inception three years earlier. Eight successes so far. Tragic accidents. Car accidents. Skiing accidents. Falls from balconies.
And each time the hit was carried out by a different operative.
Suddenly, his cell phone rang.
“Clayton, good time to talk?” It was Richard Stanton, his deputy at the Commission.
“You on a secure line?”
“Of course.”
“Go ahead.”
“I just wanted to find out how the meeting with your Pentagon guy went.”
Wilson leaned back in his seat. “It went well. I told him how we were progressing and gave him the finalized date.”
“What did he say?”
“Two things. ‘Good.’ And ‘keep me in the loop.’”
“Did he have any concerns about the date and the choice?”
“None whatsoever.”
“So they’re happy?”
“Yeah. Richard, what can you tell me about Mr. C since his arrival?”
“Typical politician. Meeting and greeting mostly. Pressing the flesh.”
“Anything of note?”
“Not surprisingly, Mr. C is well briefed. I hear he’s congenial and charming. The usual horseshit. You get the reports on our deliveryman?”
Wilson sighed. “I’ve just finished reading them all. He’s perfect. Being moved into position to await instruction.”
“Good.”
Wilson sensed Stanton was holding something back.
“I’ve . . . I’ve got some news of my own.”
“What kind of news?”
“Clayton, we might have a problem. We believe we’ve pinpointed a leak from a CIA analyst.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly. A briefing note of our first meeting wound its way onto a CIA server. Supposed to have been deleted.”
Clayton felt his stomach knot as his ulcer began to burn. “How long have you known about this?”
“Couple days.”
“A couple days?”
“My sources have been firming up what happened.”
“So what’s happened to this guy?”
“He’s been taken care of.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“We think the guy made contact with an NSA contractor, and there are numerous encrypted searches for a guy called Jeff Patterson.”
“Name rings a bell.”
“He’s a conspiracy nut. Writes for some libertarian journals.”
“I see.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve drawn up a plan to put out this fire.”
“This is not the sort of stuff I want to hear at the eleventh hour, Richard.”
“This crept up on us. But we’re on top of it.”
Wilson felt his ulcer burn again and he winced at the pain. “I don’t want any fuck-ups. Do what has to be done. Am I clear?”
“Leave it to me.”
“Goddamn!” Wilson yelled as he ended the call, slamming the phone on the table.
Sixteen
Five days out
Senator Brad Crichton was enjoying an early-morning walk alone in the grounds of the isolated Scottish country estate. His head was swimming with facts and figures after he’d risen early and digested a classified NATO intelligence briefing on security threats around the world.
But it felt good to get out in the open. He breathed in the cool, pine-scented air as he walked, his mind drifting back to discussions he’d had the previous evening. Most of the talk was about Syria. And Iran. And then back to Syria. What he found unbelievable was that there was unanimity in wanting to free the Syrian people through regime change. The talk was emotional hogwash. It had nothing to do with the Syrian people. No one around the table gave a rat’s ass about Syria, its people, or the wretched state the country was in. Assad and his regime were vile, sure. But everyone was either unwilling or unable to talk about how America and the West had allowed the destruction of the country by jihadists, financed by Saudi Arabia.
When he had raised the thorny question of whether America was planning any moves against the House of Saud, you could have heard a pin drop. They didn’t like it. He was pointing out their double standards. Their games. America needed to uphold democratic values, not cozy up to a vile regime like Sa
udi Arabia. He wanted nothing to do with it.
He walked deeper into the woods, fringing the venue.
His cell phone rang, interrupting his train of thought.
“Senator Crichton?” a man’s voice asked.
Crichton wondered who it was. The man sounded educated. “Who’s this? I don’t recognize your number.”
“Sir, you don’t know me.”
“If I don’t know you, how the hell did you get my number?”
“Don’t worry about that. I need two minutes of your time.”
“Who is this? Is this some sort of joke?”
“Sir, I believe your life might be in danger.”
Crichton stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“My name is Jeff Patterson. I’ve been trying to contact you.”
Crichton suddenly remembered. “My office told me about you.”
“Sir, listen to me. I’m a bone fide journalist, investigative journalist—”
“You’re a conspiracy theorist, and I don’t have time for your crazy theories.”
“I’m deadly serious. I’m a big fan of yours. Listen to me, I’ve seen documentation detailing names.”
“Names? What the hell are you talking about?”
“People have died in suspicious circumstances in the last six months.”
“Listen, I’m going to hang up because—”
“Edward Francis Molloy, a wealthy conservative in the Hamptons, collapsed and drowned in his bath. Debbie Falconer drowned on vacation in Hawaii.”
Crichton sighed, phone pressed tight to his ear. He wondered whether he should just hang up. But something about the journalist’s tone of voice kept him on the line. “I’m listening.”
“Both were on this list. Molloy funded a think tank advocating small government. Falconer investigated the military-industrial complex and the hundreds of thousands of government jobs in and around DC and Virginia. Put a few noses out of joint. She criticized the stupendous spending levels of the American military. The NSA. The Pentagon. The contractors. Consultancies. Multibillion-dollar businesses reliant on government military spending. Very damning.”
Crichton sighed. “Look, I have no doubt you’re sincere, but I’ve never been one for believing in conspiracy theories, and—”
“Sir, yours is the third name on a list of ten. I’ve spoken to Jessica Friel about it. But I don’t know if she appreciates the nature of this threat.”
“Listen to me. If you have information, you take it to the police. The FBI. Whatever you think. That’s the correct course of action. If you’re in DC, take it straight to the FBI.”
“Senator Crichton, do you want me to spell it out? I think they’re going to kill you next. They don’t like what you have to say. And they are going to neutralize you.”
“That’s enough!”
“Sir, please listen to me. I have proof. I have the names of the men behind this. This is treason, sir. They’re going to bring you down. You need to believe me.”
“I think I’ve heard enough.”
“For the love of God, why aren’t you listening to me?”
“I’m hanging up now. I think you need help.”
Seventeen
Nathan Stone had only spent a day in the cottage before he was on the move again. It was dark when he locked up and slung his gear into the trunk. He turned on the ignition and the engine purred to life. Then he flicked a switch and the car’s headlights illuminated the front of the isolated stone cottage.
The young woman’s voice on the GPS said, “Drive for one hundred yards, turn right, and head northeast on the A85.”
He pulled away, negotiating the narrow lanes until he got onto the main road to his destination.
The windshield wipers whisked the rain away as he pressed on into the night. He drove for a couple of hours solid. He stopped off at a roadside food truck for fish and chips washed down with a Coke. When he finished, he drove the last twenty-five miles to his destination, along winding roads, climbing higher into the mountains, past isolated villages and hamlets and farms, huge electricity transmission towers illuminated as lightning tore across the sky.
Stone yawned as he drove the last few miles along a single-track road to another cottage. A light was on inside. This was it. He pulled up, switched off the headlights, and turned off the engine. He pulled his bag out of the trunk and opened the front door.
A lamp was on in the hall. He locked the front door and scoped out the rest of the house. It was neat. Functional.
He checked the windows and made sure the house was secure.
Then he put his bag in his room.
He saw a floor hatch in the kitchen and pulled it up, the cellar light coming on as he did. He climbed down and spotted the old fireplace. He pulled back the iron grate. Behind the fireplace was a black leather overnight bag. He unzipped it. Inside was a 9mm Glock, a silencer, parts of a military-grade scope rifle, $1,000 in cash, a couple of credit cards under his false name, and a pack of amphetamine-laced steroid pills.
Stone grinned. He opened up the pack, popped a couple of capsules, and swallowed. They’d kick in before long.
He carefully put the iron grate back in place.
Then he grabbed the bag and headed up the cellar stairway and locked the hatch.
Stone shut the curtains and sat down. He pulled out his iPad and opened up his encrypted emails. There was only one. From a man called Jacob, his handler’s code name. He double-clicked on the email and a screen asked for his place of birth (New York), his favorite city (Miami), and third question, what is your least favorite sport? The answer, bowling.
The email opened up with a color photo of a beaming white man in a dark suit signing autographs. The same face he’d been shown at the facility.
Stone studied the photograph for a few minutes. His cell rang.
“You settled in yet?”
“Just arrived ten minutes ago.”
“You got the email?”
“Looking at it now. Is this him?”
“Yes, it is.”
“What else do I need to know about him?”
“Just that he’s a real and present threat to American national security. Any further questions?”
“How long?”
“Still to be finalized. But assume a matter of days. Not long now, Nathan.”
Brigadier Jack Sands put down the phone in his office and leaned back in his seat. He closed his eyes for a few moments as the monotone voice of Stone lingered in his mind. He sounded wired. Uptight. Coiled. But he knew that was good. That was very good.
He was chomping at the bit.
His cell rang and it was a number he didn’t recognize. “Jack, you OK to talk?”
The voice was that of the project chair and his former boss, Clayton Wilson. A man he admired and feared in equal measure. A man who should not be crossed. “Go right ahead, sir.”
“This is a secure line, just in case you’re wondering.”
“Very wise.”
“Jack, me and you go way back, right?”
“Sir?”
“I mean, all the way back. Nineteen seventies. And before. Before it got a little too complicated.”
Sands knew he was talking about the Church Committee, which spilled the beans on how the CIA was operating above and beyond the law. It hadn’t stopped them from being part of the fallout from the Contragate debacle. But they’d both been moved sideways in the agency, until Wilson had left and set up his own consultancy. “Go on, sir.”
“Jack, I’m hearing from a senior psychologist at the facility where Stone’s sister is—he does consultancy work for us—and he’s reported back that Stone’s sister mentioned to him in confidence that Nathan is still alive. This came straight out of the blue a couple hours ago during a one-on-one session. And I’ve only now been told about it.”
“That’s impossible. She was told he was dead.”
“She said her brother spoke to her.”
Sands shook his head and
leaned back in his seat. “She must’ve been imagining it. He has no phone access.”
Wilson said, “He told her he just wanted to hear her voice.”
“That would mean he had access to a phone. He doesn’t have that. We check his unit twice a day when he’s in the gym or jogging in the grounds.”
“Whatever. It concerns me.”
“Sir, I’m telling you, it must be in her head.”
“What if it’s not?”
Sands stared at the photos again. “Are you saying we should abort?”
“No.”
“What are you saying, sir, if I can be blunt?”
“You believe he can do this again?”
“No question. The guy’s a machine.”
“I agree. But this information concerns me. I like certainty.”
“In this business, sir, as you know, certainty is a luxury we don’t have. Wing and a prayer, and a high probability of success, are the best we can do.”
A silence stretched over the line.
“Sir, tell you what, let me think about this and I’ll get back to you.”
Eighteen
Jeff Patterson was staring out of his apartment window onto the dark streets below when his cell phone vibrated in his shirt pocket. He pulled it out.
“Jeff?” It was his source.
“Yeah, where the hell you been?”
“Forget about that. Got something more for you.”
“About?”
“Listen to me. I want you to go to the Colonial Garage at 1818 North Street NW. You know it?”
“Sure I know it. Used it many times.”
“Good. Go to Level 2, and you’ll see a crappy yellow Mazda. In the passenger seat is a teddy bear. The keys are under the carpet in the rear seat, behind the passenger seat.”
Patterson wondered why on earth his source was going to such extraordinary lengths. “Mazda?”
“Right. Then head across to Arlington. The Quincy Street parking lot.”
Patterson made a mental note of the instructions. “Go on. I’m with you so far.”
“Level D, the fourth level. Park, and I’ll find you.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Now? Right this second?”