CHAPTER 10
After the FBI agents and MI6 Chapman left, Stone puttered in the cemetery for a half hour, righting tombstones toppled by a recent heavy rain and cleaning debris caused by the same storm. This manual labor allowed him to think clearly. And he had a lot that was puzzling him and no answers. As he was bagging some sticks and small branches, he stiffened and slowly turned around.
“I’m impressed.”
He turned to see Mary Chapman come out from behind a bush. “I never moved. What, you have eyes in the back of your head?”
“Sometimes.” Stone tied up the bag and deposited it next to a wooden storage shed. “When I need to.”
Chapman walked over to him. “This is amazing cover for an agent. A cemetery worker.”
“Caretaker, actually. This cemetery isn’t used any longer. It’s a historical site.”
She stopped, lifted one leg and rubbed some dirt off her plain black low-heeled pump. “I see. And do you enjoy taking care of the dead?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“They never argue with me.” He headed back to the cottage. She followed. They sat on the front porch. A minute of silence passed as they listened to the chirps of birds mingled with the sounds of passing cars. Stone stared straight ahead. Chapman’s gaze continued to flick at him like an erratic beam of light.
“So Oliver Stone?” she said at last, with mirth in her eyes. “I’ve enjoyed several of your movies. Are you here scouting another film?”
“Why did you come back?” he asked, finally turning to her.
She rose and surprised him by saying, “Got time for a spot of coffee? I’ll buy.”
She had a car, so they drove to lower Georgetown and found a parking spot on the street, an almost unheard-of event in the congested area.
Stone told her so.
“Right,” she said, clearly unimpressed by this. “Try parking in London.”
They carried their coffees and sat outside at a small table. Chapman took off her pumps, hiked her skirt to mid-thigh, put her feet up on an empty chair, leaned back, closed her eyes and let the sun fall fully on her pale face and bare legs. “England rarely has sun this strong,” she explained. “And when it does it’s usually immediately interrupted by clouds and then rain. Makes a lot of us seriously suicidal. Particularly if it rains in bloody August and you have no holiday abroad planned.”
“I know.”
She opened her eyes. “Do you now?”
“I lived in London for two years. It was a long time ago,” he added.
“Business?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“John Carr?”
Stone drank his coffee, said nothing.
She sipped her coffee and let the silence linger.
“John Carr?” she said again.
“I heard you the first time,” he said politely, glancing sideways at her.
She smiled. “Would you like to know where I heard that name for the first time?”
Stone didn’t answer, but his silence apparently constituted enough of an assent for her to continue.
“James McElroy. He’s a good bit older than you are.” She ran her eye over his tall, spare frame. “And not in nearly as good shape.”
Stone again said nothing.
“He’s a legend in British intelligence circles. Ran MI6 for decades. But I believe you know all that. Now he has some special title, I’m not really sure what it is. But he does what he wants. And bloody good for the country too, I can tell you that.”
“Is he well?”
“Yes. Apparently somewhat due to you. Iran, 1977? Six fanatics sent to place his head on the sharp end of a spear? Six dead men after you finished with them. He said he didn’t even have time to pull his weapon to help you. Then you were gone, just like that. Never had a chance to properly thank you.”
“I didn’t require any thanks. He was our ally. It was my job.”
“Well, irrespective, he said that for decades he wanted to buy you a pint for saving his arse, but you never turned up again. He still wants to, as a matter of fact.”
“Again, not necessary.”
Chapman stretched, put her feet back on the pavement, edged her skirt down and slipped her pumps back on. “By sheer coincidence he’s here in town.”
“Is that why you came back?”
“Yes and no.”
He stared at her expectantly.
“Yes, in that I knew he would want to see you. No in that I had my own reasons.”
“Which are?”
She leaned forward and Stone saw the Walther PPK pistol hanging from her black leather shoulder holster revealed through the gap between her jacket and shirt.
He inclined his head at the pistol. “Tough trigger pull, isn’t it?”
“You get used to it.” She paused, swirling her remaining coffee with a wooden stirrer. “Let’s face it, this has been a cock-up from start to finish. The Americans have so many agencies I can’t get a straight answer from any of them. My boss feels the same way. However, America is our chief ally and we intend to do nothing to disrupt that relationship, of course. But it was our PM put at risk and we have an obligation to see it through.”
“And you’ve come to me? Why?”
“James McElroy trusts you. Ergo, I trust you. And you were there last night. That makes you valuable.”
“Maybe. But Iran was a long time ago, Agent Chapman.”
“Some things don’t change. McElroy said you were one of them.”
“That’s assuming that I really am John Carr.”
“Oh, you are, I have no doubt of that.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“When I was here earlier I lifted a set of your prints from a glass in your loo when I went to take a pee. With my boss’s weight behind me, I was able to get a priority search on NIC’s database. Still, it took passing through eight levels of security, a few burned-out computers and two high-level authorizations before the hit came back.” She hiked her eyebrows. “John Carr. Of the CIA’s late and lamented Triple Six Division.”
“Which officially never existed,” he said quietly.
“No matter to me. I was just a nipper when it pulled its last trigger, official or not.” She stood. “Ready to go see the man whose life you saved? He really does want to buy you that pint, Mr. Carr.”
CHAPTER 11
James McElroy was sitting in his suite at the Willard Hotel when Stone and Chapman were ushered in. The Brit spymaster was now seventy-four years old, gray and bowed. His substantial belly poked through the front of his jacket. When he rose from the chair, his arthritic knees quivered a bit, yet the man’s roaming and intelligent eyes clearly showed that while age had decimated him physically, his mental agility remained completely intact. Though he was once over six-two, gravity and infirmity had shaved a couple of inches from his frame. His hair was thinning and slicked back, revealing lines of pink flesh underneath. Flecks of dandruff clung to the shoulders of his blue jacket.
When he saw Stone, his eyes lit up. “You haven’t changed a jot,” said McElroy. “Except your hair is white.” He lightly smacked Stone’s flat, hard belly before extending his hand and then gripping Stone in a bear hug. “And I’m fat and you’re not.”
When they separated, McElroy waved them both into chairs. “How the hell have you been, John?”
“I’ve been,” said Stone simply.
The Brit nodded in understanding, his expression growing somber. “Yes, I actually have some knowledge of what you mean by that. Events became particularly trying for you.”