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“Forgot my keys again,” he said, hurrying by us. “You’d think someone who teaches military strategy could at least remember his keys.”
“Age happens to the best of us,” I said.
Whitaker waved his hand and trotted stiffly toward the heart of the Naval Academy. He’d disappeared from sight by the time we passed a sign saying GOD BLESS AMERICA and reached Radford Terrace, a lush, green quadrangle bustling with midshipmen and plebes during this, the first real week of classes.
“Stop,” Sampson said, and he gestured across Blake Road. “Isn’t that Condon right over there?”
Chapter
59
I caught a fleeting glimpse of the sniper before he slipped inside the Naval Academy’s chapel, an imposing limestone structure with a weathered copper dome. We hurried across the street and followed Condon in.
The interior of the chapel was spectacular, with a towering arched ceiling, balconies, and brilliant stained-glass windows depicting maritime themes. There were at least fifty people inside, some plebes, others tourists taking in the sights. We didn’t spot Condon until he crossed below the dome and went through a door to the far right of the altar.
Trying to stay quiet while rushing through the hush of a famous church is no mean feat, but we managed it and followed him through the door. We found ourselves on a stair landing. There was a closed door ahead of us, and steps that led down.
We figured the door led to the sacristy and went down the stairs. We wandered around the basement hallways, not finding Condon but seeing the tomb of Admiral John Paul Jones before returning to our last point of contact.
Back on the landing, I stood for a moment wondering where he could have gone, and then I heard Condon’s distinctive voice raised in anger on the other side of the sacristy door.
“But they’re following me now, Jim,” Condon said. “This is persecution.”
That was enough for me to rap at the door, push it open, and say, “We’re not persecuting anyone.”
Condon and a chaplain stood in a well-appointed room with plush purple carpet and a clean, stark orderliness. The sniper’s face twisted in anger.
The chaplain said, “What is this? Who are you?”
“Really, Dr. Cross?” Condon said, taking a step toward us with his gloved hands clenched into fists. “You’d follow me in here? I thought better of you.”
“We just wanted to talk,” Sampson said. “And you ran. So we followed.”
“I didn’t run,” he said. “I was late for a meeting with the chaplain.”
“You saw us and played cat and mouse,” I said, dubious.
“Maybe,” Condon said. “But that was just entertainment.”
“What’s this about?” the chaplain asked, exasperated.
“You his spiritual adviser?” Sampson asked.
They glanced at each other before the chaplain said, “It’s a little more complicated than that, Detective…?”
“John Sampson,” he said, showing him his badge and credentials.
“Alex Cross,” I said, showing mine.
“Captain Jim Healey,” the chaplain said.
“What’s complicated, Captain Healey?” I asked.
“This is none of their business, Jim,” Condon said.
The chaplain put his hand on the sniper’s arm and said, “I am Nicholas’s spiritual adviser. I was also the father of his late fiancée, Paula.”
I didn’t expect that; I lost some of my confidence and stammered, “I’m—I’m sorry for your loss, Captain. For both of your losses.”
