But for those who knew him well, he had changed. The overpowering personality, the absolute intolerance for the smallest mistake, the stunning confidence front and center all these years had diminished. He was seen sitting in his office from time to time staring at the wall, an old photo in his hands. No one had ever seen what that picture was, because he kept it locked in a safe.
In the photo Lesya, Rayfield Solomon and Carter Gray were decades younger and looked happy and full of life. They were doing exciting work, risking their lives so that billions could live in peace. In those countenances one could see the friendship, even the love that had formed among them. Sitting there staring at that photo, Carter Gray would occasionally cry.
CHAPTER 96
SIX MONTHS PASSED and no one had heard a word from Oliver Stone. Caleb returned to work at the library, but the old books that had given him so much pleasure now seemed just like, well, old books. Reuben went back to work at the loading dock and then came home and sat on his couch, beer in hand, and yet he never drank any of it. He would pour it down the sink and go to bed.
With one member dead and its leader having disappeared, the Camel Club seemed officially disbanded.
Harry Finn rejoined his red cell team and started doing work for Homeland Security again. Because of Lesya’s demand and the evidence she held, it was certain that Carter Gray would make no move against him or his family ever again. And it was also certain that Finn would never stand trial for killing three men and attempting to kill Carter Gray.
Yet Finn did not have the soul of a killer, and what he had done haunted him. He finally took a six-month leave of absence. He spent all his time with his family, shuttling his kids to school and sports, and holding his wife as she slept. He kept in contact with his mother, but she refused his pleas for her to come and live with them. He wanted to come to know her in a way that didn’t involve secrets and plotting violent deaths, but his mother apparently didn’t want this. If this wounded Finn, he did not show it.
Annabelle could have left D.C. and spent the rest of her life living on the millions she’d conned from Bagger, but she didn’t. After she and Alex finished explaining things to the FBI about Bagger and Paddy Conroy, an explanation that left out any details of Annabelle’s multimillion-dollar rip-off of Bagger, the lady worked another con. The target this time was the church that owned Stone’s cottage. She convinced them that she was Stone’s daughter and she volunteered to move in and keep the cemetery in decent shape until her father returned from what she described as a much-needed vacation.
She had the place fixed up, brought new furniture in, all while carefully preserving Stone’s things. Then she started taking care of the grounds. Alex came by to help her often. They would sit on the porch in the evening.
“Amazing stuff you’ve done to this place,” Alex said.
“It had good bones to start with,” Annabelle said.
“Most cemeteries do.” Alex gave her a sideways grin. “So you think you might hang around here for a while?”
“I’ve never really been able to call a place home before. I used to kid Oliver about living in a cemetery but I sort of like it here.”
“I can show you around town. If you want.”
“Save me, now date me? You’re quite the full-service cop.”
“All in the line of duty.”
“Right. I’m the con, remember? That’s my line.”
“Let’s make that ‘retired’ con, okay?”
“Absolutely.” For once she didn’t sound that convincing.
They sat back in their chairs and looked out over the tombstones. “Do you think he’s still alive?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I hope so, but I just don’t know.”
“Will he come back, Alex?”
He said nothing, because only Oliver Stone could make that decision. He had to want to come back. And with each passing day Alex was growing more certain that he would never see his old friend again.
CHAPTER 97
WHEN CARTER GRAY HAD INFORMED Roger Simpson of Lesya’s demand, the senator’s initial response had been predictable.
“There must be something we can do,” Simpson had wailed. “I’ve worked my whole life to make this run for the White House.” He eyed Gray hopefully.
“I don’t see what can be done,” Gray replied.
“You know where she is? If we can-”
“No, Roger. Lesya has suffered enough. This is about more than you or me. She gets to live out what’s left of her life in peace.”
It was clear from Simpson’s expression that he was not in agreement with this. Gray gave him one more warning to leave it alone and then left.
Months passed and still Simpson brooded. Solomon’s name cleared. Lesya given a medal! Gray was back in power. It was all so unjust. This all gnawed at the man, making him even more morose and insufferable than usual. Indeed, his wife started spending more time in Alabama; friends and colleagues avoided him.
In the predawn hours one morning Simpson sat moodily in his bathrobe, which he typically did, after retrieving the newspaper from outside the front door of his condo. His wife was visiting friends in Birmingham. That had been another thing that had infuriated him. No one had kidnapped his wife. That simply had been a bluff that Finn and Carr had used to get him to go quietly. Once out of his office and away from the bomb he could have had Carr arrested immediately. Only he had been too afraid. This just made him angrier.
Well, he’d really had the last laugh. Both Finn and John Carr were dead. Simpson had not bothered to check up on Finn, and Carr had vanished. Yet it was also true that he would now only be a senator, his shot at the Oval Office gone. The destruction of his lifelong dream made Simpson throw his cup of coffee against the wall.
He slumped down at the kitchen table and stared out the window into the darkness; the sun was still hours away from making its creep up the wall of the eastern seaboard.
“There must be a way, there must be,” he told himself. He could not let a former Russian spy, who by all rights should be dead, deny him the highest office in the land, an office he felt he was predestined to hold.
He sighed, opened his paper and froze.
Staring back at him was a photo that had been taped inside the front page of the newspaper he was holding.
As he stared at the picture of the woman, it suddenly occurred to him who she was.
Then her head disappeared. Left in its place was a large hole. Simpson gasped and then looked down at his chest. Blood was pouring out of it from where the bullet had entered after passing through the newspaper and neatly obliterating the identity of the woman. By any standard, it was a hell of a shot.
His eyes started to flutter as he stared out the window where the glass had been cracked by the bullet. He looked at the shell of the building across the street, the one that had never been finished. As he pitched forward, dead, onto his kitchen table, the thought did occur to Simpson of who had just killed him.
CHAPTER 98
IN QUICKLY REBUILDING Carter Gray’s cliffside house overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, great pains had been taken in ensuring that the intelligence chief would be safe and secure. This goal, obviously, included preventing someone from blowing up the place a second time. With that in mind, and taking into account some of Oliver Stone’s observations, the windows were all now made from bulletproof glass and the gas regulator was no longer accessible from the outside. The guards still slept in the cottage near the main house and the underground chamber and escape tunnel had been rebuilt as well.