“We’ll find her, boss, and get the money back,” his security chief assured him.
Bagger didn’t appear to be listening. Staring down at the street far below, he said, “I see the bitch everywhere. In my dreams, in my food, when I’m shaving there she is in my mirror. Hell, even when I’m taking a leak, her face is in the toilet bowl staring at me. It’s driving me nuts!”
He sat on the couch and calmed down. “What’s the latest on our boy Tony Wallace?”
“We got somebody on the inside at the hospital in Portugal. Jerk’s still in a coma. But even if he comes out of it, there’s nothing there. Our source says the guy’s a permanent retard.”
“If you ask me he was a retard long before we got to him.”
“You know, boss, we probably should’ve just killed him like we did everybody else.”
“I gave him my word. He told me what he knew, he got to live; that was the deal. But in my book brain dead means you’re still alive. Lots of people live forty, fifty years like that. It’s like being a baby until you’re eighty. Get fed through a tube, get your ass wiped every day and you play with blocks. Granted, it’s not much of a life, but I didn’t go back on my word. People can say I’m violent and I got a bad temper and all that crap but they can never point to one time where I ever went back on my word. You know why?”
The security chief shook his head warily, obviously unsure whether his boss wanted an answer or not.
“Because I got standards, that’s why. Now get outta here.”
Alone, Bagger sat down behind his desk and put his head in his hands. He would never admit this to anyone, but mixed in with all the hatred he had for Annabelle Conroy was a sincere, if grudging, admiration. “Annabelle,” he said aloud. “You are without a doubt the greatest con artist in the world. It would’ve been a pleasure working with you. And you were probably the best piece of ass I’ve ever put my hand on. So it’s too bad you were so stupid as to take me on because now I gotta kill you. I gotta make an example of you. And it’s a waste, but that’s just the way it’s gotta be.”
It wasn’t just the loss of the forty million that had enraged Bagger. Ever since word of the successful con had leaked out, cheaters had become far more brazen in his casino. Losses had quickly risen. And his competitors and business associates were also not quite as respectful as they had once been, sensing that Bagger was no longer at the top of his game, that he was vulnerable. Calls weren’t immediately returned. Action that he could always count on getting didn’t always come through now.
“An example,” Bagger said again. “To show these assholes that not only am I still at the top, I’m getting stronger every day. And I will find you, lady. I will find you.”
CHAPTER 8
THE CONTACT OLIVER STONE proposed using was an honorary member of the Camel Club named Alex Ford, a Secret Service agent. The two men trusted each other fully and Stone knew it was the one place he could turn to for discreet intelligence.
“Does this have something to do with that woman you were working with? Her name was Susan, right?” Alex asked when Stone called and relayed his request.
“It has nothing to do with her,” Stone lied. “She’s actually leaving town soon. This has to do with something else I’m involved in.”
“For a cemetery worker you get around a lot.”
“It keeps me young.”
“The Bureau can help out too. After what you did for them last time they owe you. When do you need to know?”
“As soon as you can get something.”
“Just so you know, I’ve heard of this Jerry Bagger guy. The Justice Department has been trying to get something on him for a long time.”
“I’m sure the attention is well-deserved. Thanks, Alex.”
Later that night, Reuben Rhodes and Caleb Shaw visited Stone at his cottage. Caleb was in a high state of indecision.
“They asked me, but I don’t know if I should accept or not. I just don’t know,” he wailed.
“So the Library of Congress wants you to become the director of the Rare Books Division,” Stone said. “That sounds like a great promotion, Caleb. What’s to decide?”
Caleb said stiffly, “Well, considering the fact that the position became available only because the former director was horribly murdered on the premises and the acting director after him suffered a nervous breakdown from what happened there, it does give one pause.”
Reuben growled, “Hell, Caleb, go for it. I mean, who’s going to mess with a fine young buck like you?”
Caleb, who was in his fifties, of medium height and a bit pudgy, with not a trace of athleticism or personal courage, was not amused by this comment.
“You said it is more money,” Stone reminded him. “In fact a good deal more.”
“Yes, but if that only means I can afford a much nicer funeral, I’m not sure I’m interested.”
Reuben added gruffly, “But when you die, you die knowing that you have more to leave to your friends. Now if that’s not true comfort, I don’t know what is.”
“Why I even bother to ask for your opinion I don’t know,” Caleb said hotly.
Reuben turned his attention to Stone. “You seen Susan lately?”
Only Stone knew Annabelle’s real name.
“She came by the other day, but only for a few minutes. She successfully completed her task with Milton. The item is back where it belongs.”
“I have to admit,” Caleb said. “She did what she said she was going to do.”
Reuben said, “Now if I could just get her to go out with me. She keeps having other plans. I’m not sure if she’s trying to brush me off or not. But I don’t get it. Look at me. What’s not to love?”
Reuben was nearly sixty, with a full beard and dark curly hair mixed with gray down to his shoulders. He was six-five with the build of an NFL left tackle. A highly decorated Vietnam War vet and former military intelligence officer, he had burned many professional bridges and nearly succumbed to pills and the bottle before Oliver Stone had brought him back from the edge. He now worked on a loading dock.
“I saw where your ‘friend’ Carter Gray received the Medal of Freedom,” Caleb said after giving Reuben an incredulous look. “Talk about your ironies. If that man had his way you two would be dead and the rest of us would be getting water-dunked in some CIA-run torture chamber.”
Reuben roared, “For the hundredth time it’s water-boarding, not water-dunking.”
“Well, whatever it is, he’s a nasty man.”
“He’s actually a man who believes his way is the right way, and he’s certainly not alone in that belief,” Stone said. “I went down to the White House and saw him off after he received his award.”
“You went down to the White House?” Caleb exclaimed.
“Well, he showed me his medal and I sort of waved at him.”
“What, you two are now best buds?” Reuben added with a snort. “From a man who tried to kill you a few times?”
“He also saved someone for me,” Stone said quietly.
“Care to explain that?” Reuben asked curiously.
“No.”
Someone banged on his door. Stone rose to answer it, thinking it might be Milton or perhaps Annabelle.
The man at the door was dressed in a dark suit and had a pistol under his jacket, Stone observed. He handed Stone a piece of paper and walked off. Stone opened the note.