“It was a long time ago,” she said vaguely.
“Long friendships are becoming rarer these days.”
“Yes, they are. Excuse me.” She stepped past them and started to walk off.
“It’s so curious, the medical examiner couldn’t find a cause of death,” Stone said loud enough for her to hear. The comment had the desired effect. She stopped and turned.
“The newspaper said he died of a heart attack,” the woman said.
Caleb shook his head. “He died because his heart stopped, but he didn’t have a heart attack. The papers just assumed, I guess.”
She took a few steps toward them. “I didn’t get your names.”
“Caleb Shaw. I work in the Rare Books reading room at the Library of Congress. This is my friend—”
Stone put out his hand. “Sam Billings, nice to meet you.” He motioned to the other two Camel Club members. “The big fellow is Reuben and that’s Milton. And you are?”
She ignored Stone and focused on Caleb. “If you work at the library, you must love books as much as Jonathan did.”
Caleb brightened as the subject changed to his specialty. “Oh, absolutely. In fact, in his will Jonathan named me his literary executor. I’m in the process right now of inventorying his collection, having it appraised and then sold, with the proceeds going to charity.”
He stopped talking when he saw Stone motioning him to shut up.
She said, “That certainly sounds like Jonathan. I’m assuming his father and mother are dead?”
“Oh, yes, his father’s been dead for years. His mother passed two years ago. Jonathan inherited their home.”
It seemed to Stone that the woman was working hard not to smile at this last piece of information. What had the lawyer told Caleb? That the marriage had been annulled? Perhaps not by the wife, but by the groom at the insistence of his parents?
She said to Caleb, “It would be nice to see the house. And his collection. I’m sure it’s very extensive by now.”
“You knew about his collection?” Caleb asked.
“Jonathan and I shared a lot of things. I’m not going to be in town very long, so would tonight be okay?”
“As it happens, we were going over there this evening,” Stone answered. “If you’re staying at a hotel, we can pick you up.”
The woman shook her head. “I’ll meet you on Good Fellow Street.” She quickly walked to a waiting cab.
“Do you think it wise to ask this woman to Jonathan’s house?” Milton asked. “We really don’t even know her.”
Stone pulled the photo out of his pocket and held it up. “I think maybe we do. Or at least we will soon enough. On Good Fellow Street,” he added thoughtfully.
Chapter 29
After closed-door testimony was completed before the House Intelligence Committee, Seagraves and Trent had a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and later headed outside to stroll around the Capitol grounds. Since their official duties dictated that they spend a great deal of time together, this would raise no suspicions.
Seagraves paused to unwrap a stick of gum while Trent bent down to tie his shoe.
“So you really think this guy is ex-Agency?” Trent asked.
Seagraves nodded. “Triple Six, you know about that bunch, Albert?”
“Only vaguely. My clearance didn’t go that high. The Agency recruited me for my analytical skills, not my ability in the field. And after ten years of their bullshit I’d had enough.”
Seagraves smiled. “Jumping to the politico side really that much better?”
“It has been for us.”
Seagraves watched as his colleague carefully combed his dozen strands back into place, somehow aligning each one perfectly against its neighbor without benefit of a mirror. “Why don’t you just get a buzz cut?” Seagraves said. “A lot of ladies are into that macho look. And while you’re at it get yourself in decent shape.”
“After we finish our careers I’ll have so much money that whatever foreign country I end up in the ladies there will take me any way I want.”
“Suit yourself.”
“This Triple Six guy might be a complication. We might be talking thunderstorm status.”
Seagraves shook his head. “We do that, things will really heat up. For all I know he’s still got connections. And if I did him, I’d have to do his friends. That’s a lot of room to make a mistake and get the wrong people suspicious. For now he thinks Behan’s the guy. If that changes, then the weather forecast might read differently.”
“Are you really sure that’s a good strategy?”
Seagraves’ features turned a notch darker. “Let’s do a reality check, Trent. While you sat safely behind your little wonk desk in nice, comfortable Washington, I was putting my ass on the line in places you’re too scared to even watch on TV. You keep doing what you do, and let me worry about the strategic planning. Unless you think you can do it better than I can.”
Trent tried to smile, but his fear didn’t allow for it. “I wasn’t questioning you.”
“It sure as hell sounded like it.” He suddenly grinned and clamped an arm around Trent’s narrow shoulders. “No time to fight now, Albert. It’s going way too well. Right?” He squeezed tightly and only released his grip when he felt the pain in the other man’s body. It felt good, to feel another man’s suffering up close like that. “I said, right?”
“Absolutely.” Trent rubbed his shoulders and actually looked like he might start crying.
You must’ve had the crap kicked out of you on the playground every day.
Seagraves changed the subject. “Four State Department liaisons dead. That was some original spin.” He’d actually known one of the murdered men; in fact, he’d served with him. A good agent, but millions of dollars easily trumped any friendship he’d ever had.
Trent said, “You expect the government to be creative? So what’s next on the list?”
Seagraves tossed his cigarette down and glanced at his companion. “You’ll see it when you see it, Albert.” He was actually getting a little tired of his junior partner. That was partially what this little jam session was about, making it clear to Trent that he was and would always be a subordinate. And if things got dicey and it looked like the house of cards might tumble down, Trent would be the first person he’d kill for one simple reason: Mice always break under pressure.
He parted company with the staffer and walked to his car in a restricted area. He waved to the guard there who knew him by sight.
“Keeping my wheels safe?” Seagraves said with a grin.
“Yours and everybody else’s,” the guard said as he chewed on a toothpick. “You keeping the country safe?”
“Doing all I can.” Actually, the next thing Seagraves would pass Trent would be key elements of the NSA’s brand-new strategic surveillance plan for foreign terrorists. The media always assumed the NSA was doing things outside the law. They didn’t know the half of it, and neither did the myopic folk up on Capitol Hill. But some well-heeled haters of America living seven thousand miles away and at least eight centuries in the past were willing to pay millions of dollars to know all about it. And money, man, money always carried the day; screw being a patriot. To Seagraves’ mind, the only thing patriots got were a trifolded flag for their troubles. And the major problem with that was you had to be dead to get one.
Seagraves drove back to his office, finished up a bit of work and headed home, which consisted of a thirty-year-old split-level rancher with three bedrooms and two baths, on a quarter acre of drainage-challenged dirt, that cost him nearly half his salary in mortgage and property taxes. He did a quick but intense workout and then opened the door of a small closet in the basement that he kept locked and protected by an alarm system.