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Annabelle said, “So what are we going to do??
??
“What can we do?” said Reuben.
“Oliver may be in trouble,” she replied.
“Oliver is often in trouble,” responded Caleb.
“Those men who took him from the hospital,” began Annabelle.
Finn cut in. “NIC. Riley Weaver’s boys. Heard it from a buddy of mine. It was a catch and release. I doubt Oliver gave them what they wanted.”
“Then he is in trouble,” said Annabelle. “And we have to help him.”
“Why don’t we wait for him to ask for that help?” said Caleb.
“Why?” Annabelle shot back.
“Because every time I help him I get in trouble here,” he said, looking back at the enormous library building. “I’m actually on probation, a positively horrendous situation for someone of my age and level of experience.”
“No one’s asking you to risk your job, Caleb. But I did find something out. In fact, it’s why I wanted to meet with all of you today.”
“What did you find out?” asked Reuben.
“That Oliver was leaving to go somewhere.”
“How do you know that?”
“I found a packed bag in his cottage. Along with several books written in what I think is Russian.”
“You mean you broke in his cottage and found it,” said Caleb heatedly. “You have absolutely no respect for property rights, Annabelle Conroy. None. It’s outrageous. It really is.”
She slipped a book from her pocket and showed it to the librarian.
“Yes, it is Russian,” said Caleb as he glanced at the title. He looked more closely at the title. “It’s a book on Russian politics, but it’s decades old. Why in the world would he be taking that with him?”
“Maybe he was going to Russia and he needed to bone up on his language skills,” suggested Finn. “One way to do that is read the language.”
“Why would Oliver be going to Russia?” asked Reuben. “Wait a minute, how would he even get there? He doesn’t have a passport. He doesn’t have any ID at all. Not to mention money for the trip.”
“There could only be one way he could go,” said Annabelle.
“You mean on behalf of the U.S. government?” replied Finn.
“Yes.”
“On behalf of the government!” exclaimed Caleb. “He doesn’t work for the government. At least not anymore.”
“Maybe that status has changed,” said Annabelle. “I mean, they offered the man the Medal of Honor.”
Reuben mused, “Oliver going back inside. After all these years, I can’t believe it.”
“And after all they did to him,” added Finn quietly.
“Why would he do that?” asked Caleb. “If there’s one thing we know about Oliver, it’s that he really doesn’t trust the government.”
“Maybe he really didn’t have a choice,” said Finn.
“But it’s not like he’s twenty anymore,” retorted Annabelle. “He was almost killed last night. If he goes to Russia, he may never come back.”
Reuben said, “He may be older but he’s also wiser. I wouldn’t discount how much he has left in the tank.”
“He almost died in that prison in Divine, Reuben,” she reminded him. “And Milton did die,” she added with brutal frankness.
Reuben, who’d been very close to Milton Farb, glanced down at his hands. “Maybe we’re all too old for this shit anymore.”
Finn said, “So how do you want to play this with Oliver? We all know he won’t ask for our help. Not after what happened in Divine.”
Caleb said, “That’s right. He’ll do nothing that puts us in any danger.”
“Then maybe we don’t wait for him to ask for our help,” said Annabelle. “Maybe we just become proactive.”
“Meaning what exactly?” asked Reuben. “Not spy on him?”
“No, but we can show a united front and tell him what we think.”
“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Reuben said.
Annabelle stood. “Fine. If you guys want to wait for his death notice, great. I’m not.” She turned and walked off.
“Annabelle!” Reuben called after her.
She never turned around.
“She’s very stubborn,” grumbled Caleb. “Like most women. It’s probably why I never got married.”
Reuben glowered at him. “Oh, I think there were a few other reasons for that, Caleb.”
CHAPTER 14
TRAFFIC IN D.C. WAS MUCH WORSE than normal, and all because someone had detonated a bomb across from the White House. At least that’s probably what some frustrated commuters were thinking. For blocks in all directions the street barriers had been thrown up, making the nation’s capital resemble a hodgepodge of corrals. Metro police cars and black Secret Service SUVs were dovetailed in front and behind these barriers to further discourage anyone from approaching.
Stone and Chapman, despite her credentials, were forced to abandon her car and walk. Phone calls were made at every checkpoint as the MI6 agent’s documents were scrutinized and her incremental passage authorized by off-site higher-ups. Stone could understand that none of the street cops or agents were willing to fall on the sword because they’d passed them through in error. This was why supervisors cashed the larger paychecks and had the slightly bigger offices. Their asses would be fried if someone further up the food chain decided to throw his weight around.
They finally cleared the last hurdle and approached ground zero, Lafayette Park. To Stone, who knew it perhaps better than anyone else, it was nearly unrecognizable. The center of the park was a blackened mass, trees and plants destroyed, the grass burned, the dirt piled up in mounds. The Jackson statue lay in ruins. A cannon wheel had nearly reached the sidewalk on the Pennsylvania Avenue side. A section of fence was embedded in a tree a good seventy feet away.
The ATF had set up its mobile command post in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. The FBI’s counterpart unit was set up in Jackson Place to the west of the park. Dogs and armed security were everywhere. All the businesses and government offices located on Jackson Place and across the park on Madison Place had been shut down.
While the park looked like a cop’s convention, the people in uniform were still outnumbered by the swarm of suits. Stone and Chapman passed by a large Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms National Response Team, or NRT, truck. Stone knew that there were only three NRT vehicles in existence. The NRT members constituted the best bomb experts in the country and could go into any scenario and within a couple days tell what had gone boom and how.
Stone caught sight of some techs in hazmat suits parsing through the explosion site. He also eyed people in hermetic gear who looked like surgeons preparing for the OR. They were scrounging the area, looking for trace evidence. Small colored tents were scattered everywhere. He assumed each one marked a bit of evidence that had been found.
The men in some of the suits clearly represented the FBI. This was not a guess, since they were also wearing their FBI windbreakers. Other jacket and ties beyond that inner circle were members of the Secret Service, this given away by their ear buds and dour expressions as these “outsiders” trod their turf.
Stone and Chapman walked toward the group of FBI agents. However, before they reached the circle of investigators a tall man intercepted them.
“Mr. Stone?”
Stone eyed him. “Yes?”
“I need you to come with me, sir.”
“Where?”
The man pointed directly across the street.
“The White House? Why?”
