The Camel Club

very witty people.”

Stone looked at Caleb. “Anything interesting on your end?”

Caleb thought for a moment. “Well, we had a real scare when we couldn’t find our Dutch Bible.”

They all looked at him expectantly.

Caleb exclaimed, “Our Dutch Bible! It has hand-colored illustrations by Romeyn de Hooghe. He’s generally thought to be the most important Dutch illustrator of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries. But it turned out all right. It was there the whole time, simply a clerical error.”

“Thank God,” Reuben said sarcastically. “We wouldn’t want a de Hoose on the loose.”

Disappointed, Stone turned back to Reuben. “Other than your lascivious congressman, do you have anything of real interest?”

Reuben shrugged. “I’ve been out of the loop too long, Oliver. People forget you.”

“Then why don’t we move on to something a little more concrete?”

The other men eyed him curiously.

Stone drew a long breath. So many birthdays had passed by uncelebrated that he had to actually think about how old he was. Sixty-one, he said to himself. I am sixty-one years old. He’d founded the Camel Club long ago with the purpose of scrutinizing those in power and raising the public cry when they believed things to be awry, which they very often were. He had kept vigil outside 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue watching and noting his observations and fighting for things that other people apparently didn’t believe were important anymore, like truth and accountability.

He was beginning to wonder if it was worth it.

Yet he said aloud, “Have you noticed what is going on in this country?” He stared at his friends, who didn’t answer. “They may have us believing that we’re better protected. Yet being safer doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re more free.”

“You sometimes have to sacrifice freedom for security, Oliver,” Caleb said as he fiddled with his heavy watch. “I don’t necessarily like it but what’s the alternative?”

“The alternative is not living in fear,” Stone answered. “Especially in a state of fear from exaggerated circumstances. Men like Carter Gray are quite good at that.”

“Well, Gray’s first year on the job you would’ve thought the man would have been run out on a rail, but he somehow managed to turn it around,” Reuben admitted grudgingly.

“Which proves my point,” Stone retorted, “because I don’t think anyone is that good or that lucky.” He paused, obviously choosing his words with care. “My opinion is that Carter Gray is bad for this country’s future. I open the meeting to discuss relevant possibilities.”

His three companions simply stared dully at him. Finally, Caleb found his voice.

“Uh, what exactly do you mean, Oliver?”

“I mean what can the Camel Club do to make sure that Carter Gray is relieved of his post as intelligence secretary?”

“You want us to take down Carter Gray!” Caleb exclaimed.

“Yes.”

“Oh, good,” Reuben added in mock relief. “Because I thought it might be something difficult you were wanting.”

“There is ample historical precedent for the powerless overcoming the powerful,” Stone noted.

“Yeah, but in real life, Goliath kicks the shit out of David nine times out of ten,” Reuben replied grimly.

Stone said, “Then what exactly is the purpose of continuing the club? We meet once a week and compare notes, observations and theories. To what end?”

Caleb answered, “Well, we’ve done some good. Although we never got any credit for it. Our work helped reveal the truth behind the scandal at the Pentagon. That came from a scrap of conversation the White House chef’s assistant overheard and told you about. And don’t forget about the mole at NSA who was altering transcription files, Oliver. And then there was the DIA subterfuge that Reuben stumbled onto.”

“Those events were a long time ago,” Stone replied. “So again I ask, what is the purpose of the club now?”

Reuben said, “Well, maybe it’s like lots of other clubs, except without a building, refreshments or the pleasure of female companionship. But what can you expect when you don’t pay any dues?” he added, grinning.

Before Stone could answer, all four of them had turned their heads in the direction of the sounds filtering through the woods. Stone instantly put a finger to his lips and listened. There it was again: a boat’s engine, and it sounded as though it was right at the edge of the island. They all took their bags and made their way quietly into the surrounding brush.

CHAPTER

9

OLIVER STONE EASED A BRANCH out of the way and peered through this small gap toward the paved area in front of the Roosevelt monument. His companions were also riveted on what was happening nearby.

Two men appeared on one of the gravel paths carrying something on a plastic tarp. One man was tall, lean and blond, the other short, thick and dark-haired. When they laid the tarp on the ground, Stone could see that they were carrying a man bound with straps. They slid the plastic from under him and then swept the area with their flashlights, going grid by grid. Fortunately, as soon as Stone saw the flashlights come out of their pockets, he motioned for his friends to hunker down behind the cover of bushes, with their faces hidden from the beams.

Satisfied that they were alone, the men turned back to their captive. One of them removed the cover from his mouth and placed it in his pocket.

The man made a few sounds, none of them coherent. He appeared drunk.

The short man put on a pair of rubber gloves and pulled a revolver from his coat while the other man undid their captive’s bindings. The short man took a nearly empty bottle from the duffel bag and pressed the semiconscious man’s hands around it and then splashed a bit of the remaining liquid on his clothes and around his mouth.

Reuben was about to charge out of the bushes, but Stone put a hand on his arm. The other man was also armed; a pistol was clearly visible in his belt holster. The Camel Club stood no chance. To reveal themselves now would mean a death sentence.

Meanwhile, the man holding the gun knelt down next to the captive. He took the man’s right hand and placed it around the gun. Perhaps because of the touch of the cold metal, the captive opened his eyes. As he stared up at the other man, he suddenly cried out, “I’m sorry. Please don’t. I’m sorry.”

The short man slid the pistol into the man’s mouth, pushing it against the roof of the mouth. The captive choked for an instant, and then the short man forced the trigger down. At the sound of the shot all four members of the Camel Club closed their eyes.

When they reopened them, the four men continued to stare transfixed as the gun and bottle were placed near the body. A plastic baggie was taken out of the knapsack carried by the other man, and this was laid next to the murder weapon. Finally, a piece of folded paper was placed in the pocket of the dead man’s windbreaker.

Finished, the two men looked around the area even as the Camel Club members shrank farther back in the bushes. A minute later the killers trudged off. As soon as the sounds of their footfalls disappeared, the Camel Club let out a collective sigh of relief. Holding his finger to his lips, Stone quietly led the way out of their hiding place and into the clearing.

Reuben squatted down next to the body. He shook his head and said in a very low voice, “At least he was killed instantly. As if that somehow makes up for being murdered.” He looked at the nearly empty bottle. “Dewar’s. Looks like they got the poor bastard drunk so he couldn’t fight back.”

“Is there any ID on the body?” Stone asked.

“This is a crime scene,” Caleb said shakily. “We shouldn’t touch anything.”

“He’s right,” Reuben agreed. He glanced over at Milton, who was making frantic motions with his hands as he