The Camel Club

then, I was merely speaking with two junior subordinates who were not being particularly cooperative.”

“Did you threaten to seek a warrant to search the NIC premises?”

Alex’s heart seemed to skip a beat. “That was just a routine jab at—”

Martin smacked his desktop again. “Did you!”

Sweat now christened Alex’s face. “Yes, sir.”

“Did you learn anything useful while you were there? Did you find a smoking gun? Did you find evidence to implicate Secretary Gray in some nefarious plot?”

Even though he well knew these were rhetorical questions, Alex felt compelled to answer the man. “We learned nothing that was particularly helpful to the investigation. But again, it was on Secretary Gray’s initiative that he showed us around, sir. And it was only for a couple of minutes.”

“Let me fill you in on the politics of our business, Ford. Secretary Gray didn’t randomly run into you at NIC. He was alerted to your presence and purpose and came down to see you. He told the president that he felt compelled to do so because if word leaked out to the media that NIC was not being cooperative in a criminal investigation, it would reflect badly on him and his agency. As you know, Secretary Gray and the president are especially close. So things that reflect badly on NIC and Secretary Gray don’t make the president happy. Are you following this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you also aware that under Secretary Gray’s initiative a full internal investigation is being conducted at NIC with regards to the Johnson matter and that the FBI will be assisting in this?”

“No, sir, I was not aware of that.”

Martin didn’t appear to be listening now. He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. “According to your first report, you’d concluded that Mr. Johnson was probably a drug dealer, and you were going to let the FBI track that lead down. That was it. You filed that report last night. Now this morning you showed up at NIC asking a bunch of questions that were in clear contradiction to your initial conclusions. My question to you is, what happened between the time you filed the report last night and your going to NIC this morning that made you change your mind?”

By the way Martin was looking at him, it suddenly struck Alex that the man already knew the answer. He shot a glance at Simpson, who was now looking nervously down at her thick-heeled pumps. That’s why she was here. Oh, shit!

He looked back at the director.

“I’m waiting for your answer,” Martin said.

Alex cleared his throat, buying time. “Sir, they’d analyzed the handwriting on the note, and I wanted to get the results.”

Martin gave Alex a look so scathing the agent could actually feel the swells of perspiration under his armpits.

“Don’t ever bullshit me, son,” Martin said in a very low, steady voice that was somehow far more threatening than the man’s prior tirade. The director looked over at Simpson. “Agent Simpson informed us that you told her an old friend had convinced you to get up a head of steam on this case and go for it.” He paused and said, “Who was that ‘friend’?”

Talk about a casual slip of the tongue coming back to crater your life. Alex’s mind was racing from how he was going to afford his mortgage after he was fired from the Service in disgrace, to how he could kill Jackie Simpson and not get the death penalty.

“I don’t really recall that conversation with Agent Simpson, sir.”

“It was this morning. I’m not sure the Service needs agents with memories that poor, so you want to load up and try again? Keep in mind that there are two careers in question here, and one of them is just starting out.” He again shot a glance at Simpson.

“The identity of the person isn’t important, sir. I’d already concluded that I was going to keep investigating the case because certain things didn’t add up, that’s all. It’s solely my responsibility. Agent Simpson had nothing to do with my decision to go to NIC. She was merely doing what I told her to, and reluctantly at that. I’m prepared to take the full consequences for my actions.”

“So you won’t answer my question?”

“With all due respect, sir, if I thought it had the slightest bearing on this case, I would answer it.”

“And you’re not going to let me be the judge of that?”

For a lot of reasons Alex was not going to tell the director of the Secret Service that a man calling himself Oliver Stone, who sometimes occupied a tent across from the White House, and who’d been known to harbor a few conspiracy theories, was the “old friend” who had convinced him to keep investigating. It just didn’t seem like a good idea right now.

Alex nervously licked his lips. “Again, with all due respect, it was said to me in confidence, and unlike some people, I don’t break confidences.” He didn’t look at Simpson when he said this, but then he didn’t really have to. “So you can just stop the buck right at me, sir.”

The director sat in his chair and leaned back. “You’ve had a good, solid career at the Service, Ford.”

“I’d like to think so.” Alex felt his breath quicken as he sensed the axe coming.

“But it’s the end of the career that people remember.”

Alex almost started laughing because this was exactly what Stone had told him, for an entirely different reason, of course. “That’s what I’ve heard, sir.” He paused and said, “I’m assuming I’m being transferred to another field office.” When the Service was ticked off at an agent, it usually sent that person to one of the least desirable field offices. Although, in this case, that might have been wishful thinking. Disobeying a command from the director would probably result in his immediate expulsion from the Service.

“You just take the rest of the day off. Then starting tomorrow you’re officially transferred out of WFO and back to presidential protection detail. Maybe standing post in some doorways will knock some sense into you. Quite frankly, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Half of me wants to kick your ass right out of the Service this minute. But you’ve put in a lot of good years; it’d be a shame to see that go right in the crapper.” He held up a finger. “And just so there’s no miscommunication, you are not to go near the Patrick Johnson case in any way at all, even if your ‘old friend’ tells you otherwise. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Now get the hell out of here.”

CHAPTER

33

DJAMILA GAVE THE BABY HIS BATH while Lori Franklin played with the other two boys on the elaborate play set in the backyard. As she was dressing the little one afterward, Djamila watched the others from the nursery window. Lori Franklin didn’t spend enough time with her children, at least in Djamila’s estimation. Yet even the Iraqi woman had to admit that the time the mother did spend with her sons was real quality time. She read to them and drew with them and played games with them, spending patient hours with her three sons as they grew and changed every day. It was clear that Lori Franklin adored her boys. Now she was pushing the middle child on the swing while giving the oldest a piggyback ride. They all ended up chasing each other around the yard before collapsing in a pile. The peals of laughter reached all the way to Djamila, and, after a few seconds of fighting the urge, Djamila found herself laughing too at this heartwarming spectacle. Sons. She wanted many sons who would grow up tall and strong and take care of their mother when she grew old.

Djamila abruptly stopped laughing and turned away from the window. People should never take for granted what they had. Never! Especially Americans, who had everything.

Later, while Djamila and Franklin were preparing lunch, the latter closed the refrigerator door with a puzzled look.

“Djamila, there’s kosher food in here.”

Djamila wiped off her hands on a towel. “Yes, miss, I buy some at store. I use my money. It is for my meals here.”

“Djamila, I don’t care about that. We’ll pay for your food. But you must know that kosher is, well, it’s Jewish food.”

“Yes, miss, this I know.”