“So are you going to do what your parents want your whole life?”
“It’s not that easy. He’s a man that’s used to people obeying him.” She paused and looked up at him. “But that’s my problem. I just wanted you to know that I’m really sorry for what happened. And I hope I get a chance to make it up to you.”
She turned and walked back inside before he could reply.
When Kate rejoined him, he explained the gist of the conversation. After he’d finished, Alex added, “Just when you think you have somebody pegged and you’re justified in hating her guts, she pulls a fast one and complicates things.” He glanced across the street and his features brightened. “Please tell me you’d like to go get some ice cream.”
She looked over at the shop across the street. “Okay, but I have to warn you I’m a minimum two-scoop sort of girl and I don’t share.”
“My kind of woman.”
CHAPTER
41
AT UNION STATION STONE AND Reuben found Caleb and Milton in the B. Dalton Bookstore. Caleb was poring over a Dickens masterpiece, while Milton was firmly entrenched in the computer magazine section.
Stone and Reuben rounded up the pair, and they all boarded the Metro, taking it to the Smithsonian station, where they rode the escalator up to the Mall.
“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Stone cautioned.
They took a stroll past the major monuments as tourists flocked around taking pictures and videos of all the sights. The Camel Club eventually reached FDR Park, where the FDR Memorial, a fairly recent addition to the Mall, was located. It covered a large area of ground and was made up of various statuary depicting significant symbols from FDR’s reign as America’s only four-term president. Stone led his friends over to a secluded section that was shielded from wandering tourists by a Depression-era breadline immortalized in bronze.
After he’d glanced around for a few moments, Stone shook his head in dissatisfaction and led them back to the subway, which they rode to Foggy Bottom. They exited and started walking. At 27th and Q Streets, NW, Stone stopped. Staring back at them was the entrance for Mt. Zion Cemetery, where Stone was the caretaker.
“Oh, no, Oliver,” Reuben complained. “Not another bloody cemetery.”
“The dead don’t eavesdrop,” Stone replied curtly as he opened the gates.
Stone led them into his cottage, where the others looked at him expectantly.
“I’ve done some research that I believe is critical to our investigation into Patrick Johnson’s murder. Thus, I hereby call this special meeting of the Camel Club to order. I propose that we discuss the topic of the recent spate of terrorists killing each other. Do I have a second?”
“I second,” Caleb said automatically, though he glanced curiously at the others.
“All in favor say aye.”
The ayes carried the motion, and Stone opened the large journal he’d brought from the rare book shop.
“Over the last eighteen months there have been numerous instances where terrorists have allegedly killed each other. I found this to be so interesting that I started keeping all the articles I could find on the subject. The last such incident involved a man named Adnan al-Rimi.”
“I read about that,” Milton said. “But why do you say allegedly?”
“In each instance the dead man’s face was fully or partially obliterated, either by gunshots or explosives. They had to be identified by their fingerprints, DNA and whatever else was available.”
Reuben spoke up. “But that’s just normal procedure, Oliver. When I was at DIA, we did that too, although we didn’t have DNA tests back then.”
“And we know from Reuben that NIC now controls all terrorist-related information.” Stone added, “The same information databases which Patrick Johnson helped oversee were used to identify all these dead terrorists.” He paused. “Now, what if Mr. Johnson were rigging that database somehow?”
After a long silence Milton was the first to speak. “Do you mean he might have been manipulating data somehow?”
“Let me put it more bluntly,” Stone replied. “What if he substituted on the NIC database the prints of the men found dead in place of the fingerprints of the terrorists the authorities thought had been killed?”
Caleb looked horrified. “Are you suggesting that someone like Adnan al-Rimi isn’t actually dead, but as far as American intelligence is concerned—”
“He is dead,” Stone finished for him. “His past has been wiped clean. He could go anywhere and do anything he wanted to do.”
“Like a sterilized weapon,” Reuben interjected.
“Precisely.”
“But wait a minute, Oliver,” Reuben said. “There are safeguards in place. If I remember correctly, at DIA no file alteration was allowed unless certain steps were followed.”
Stone looked over at Caleb. “They have a similar procedure at the Library of Congress Rare Books Division. For obvious reasons the person buying the books can’t input them into the database, and the converse is also true. That’s actually what made me think of this possibility. But what if you had both people in your pocket: the gatherer of the intelligence and the one assigned to put that data in the system? And what if one of them was senior? Perhaps very senior.”
Reuben finally sputtered. “Are you suggesting that Carter Gray is involved in this? Come on, whatever else you say about Gray, I don’t think you can reasonably question his loyalty to this country.”
“I’m not saying it’s an easy answer, Reuben,” Stone replied. “But if not Gray, then perhaps someone else who’s been turned.”
“Now, that’s more likely,” Reuben conceded.
Milton spoke up. “Well, if this is all true, why was Johnson killed?”
Stone answered. “If the two men we saw kill Patrick Johnson are with NIC, then it seems to me — given his extravagant lifestyle on a modest government paycheck — that two things might have happened. One, whoever hired him to alter the files was afraid his newfound wealth would lead to an investigation, so they killed him and planted the drugs. Or else Johnson might have gotten greedy, asked for more money and they killed him instead.”
“So what do we do now?” Milton asked.
“Staying alive would be my priority,” Reuben answered. “Because if Oliver is right, there’s going to be a lot of powerful folks looking to make sure we’re dead.”
“And Milton’s identity and home have no doubt already been compromised,” Stone said. “As for the men after us, I propose that we turn the tables on them.”
“How?” Caleb asked.
Stone closed his notebook. “We have the home address of Tyler Reinke. I suggest we follow up on that.”
“You want us to go marching right into the man’s crosshairs?” Reuben exclaimed.
“No. But there’s no reason why we can’t put him in our crosshairs.”
Ice cream in hand, Alex and Kate strolled down to the Georgetown waterfront near the spot where hundreds of years ago George Mason operated a ferry. Kate pointed out three boulders that were barely visible in the center of the river north of the Key Bridge and across from Georgetown University.
She said, “That’s Three Sisters Island. Legend has it three nuns drowned at that spot when their boat overturned. And then the boulders sprung up to symbolize their deaths and warn others.”