The Camel Club

“I read about that,” Milton said. “But why do you say allegedly?”

“In each instance the dead man’s face was fully or partially obliterated, either by gunshots or explosives. They had to be identified by their fingerprints, DNA and whatever else was available.”

Reuben spoke up. “But that’s just normal procedure, Oliver. When I was at DIA, we did that too, although we didn’t have DNA tests back then.”

“And we know from Reuben that NIC now controls all terrorist-related information.” Stone added, “The same information databases which Patrick Johnson helped oversee were used to identify all these dead terrorists.” He paused. “Now, what if Mr. Johnson were rigging that database somehow?”

After a long silence Milton was the first to speak. “Do you mean he might have been manipulating data somehow?”

“Let me put it more bluntly,” Stone replied. “What if he substituted on the NIC database the prints of the men found dead in place of the fingerprints of the terrorists the authorities thought had been killed?”

Caleb looked horrified. “Are you suggesting that someone like Adnan al-Rimi isn’t actually dead, but as far as American intelligence is concerned—”

“He is dead,” Stone finished for him. “His past has been wiped clean. He could go anywhere and do anything he wanted to do.”

“Like a sterilized weapon,” Reuben interjected.

“Precisely.”

“But wait a minute, Oliver,” Reuben said. “There are safeguards in place. If I remember correctly, at DIA no file alteration was allowed unless certain steps were followed.”

Stone looked over at Caleb. “They have a similar procedure at the Library of Congress Rare Books Division. For obvious reasons the person buying the books can’t input them into the database, and the converse is also true. That’s actually what made me think of this possibility. But what if you had both people in your pocket: the gatherer of the intelligence and the one assigned to put that data in the system? And what if one of them was senior? Perhaps very senior.”

Reuben finally sputtered. “Are you suggesting that Carter Gray is involved in this? Come on, whatever else you say about Gray, I don’t think you can reasonably question his loyalty to this country.”

“I’m not saying it’s an easy answer, Reuben,” Stone replied. “But if not Gray, then perhaps someone else who’s been turned.”

“Now, that’s more likely,” Reuben conceded.

Milton spoke up. “Well, if this is all true, why was Johnson killed?”

Stone answered. “If the two men we saw kill Patrick Johnson are with NIC, then it seems to me — given his extravagant lifestyle on a modest government paycheck — that two things might have happened. One, whoever hired him to alter the files was afraid his newfound wealth would lead to an investigation, so they killed him and planted the drugs. Or else Johnson might have gotten greedy, asked for more money and they killed him instead.”

“So what do we do now?” Milton asked.

“Staying alive would be my priority,” Reuben answered. “Because if Oliver is right, there’s going to be a lot of powerful folks looking to make sure we’re dead.”

“And Milton’s identity and home have no doubt already been compromised,” Stone said. “As for the men after us, I propose that we turn the tables on them.”

“How?” Caleb asked.

Stone closed his notebook. “We have the home address of Tyler Reinke. I suggest we follow up on that.”

“You want us to go marching right into the man’s crosshairs?” Reuben exclaimed.

“No. But there’s no reason why we can’t put him in our crosshairs.”

Ice cream in hand, Alex and Kate strolled down to the Georgetown waterfront near the spot where hundreds of years ago George Mason operated a ferry. Kate pointed out three boulders that were barely visible in the center of the river north of the Key Bridge and across from Georgetown University.

She said, “That’s Three Sisters Island. Legend has it three nuns drowned at that spot when their boat overturned. And then the boulders sprung up to symbolize their deaths and warn others.”

“The Potomac’s current is deceptively calm,” Alex added. “Not that anyone would want to swim in it these days. When it rains hard, you usually get some sewer overflow.”

“When they built Interstate 66, they were also going to build a spur off it that included a bridge across the river at that point. They were going to call it the Three Sisters Bridge, but there were so many weird construction accidents they finally gave up. Some said it was the ghosts of the nuns.”

“You believe in stuff like that?” Alex asked.

“Stranger things have happened. I mean look at some of the conspiracy theorists in this town. Most are probably crazy, but some of them turn out to be right.”

“I know a guy who falls into the category. His name’s Oliver Stone. The guy’s flat-out brilliant, if a couple paces off the sidewalk of life.”

“Oliver Stone? You’re kidding.”

“Not his real name, of course. I think it’s just his little joke aimed at people who believe he’s a quack. One of the most interesting things about him is he has no past, at least that I can find.” Alex smiled. “Maybe he’s been on the run all these years.”

“Sounds like a man Lucky would like to meet.”

“So does she still throw her underwear at dangerous men?”

“What?” a surprised Kate asked.

“Never mind.” Alex ate a spoonful of ice cream and looked over at Roosevelt Island. Adams followed his gaze.

She finally said, “So would you care to talk about it? Bartenders are great listeners.”

Alex motioned her to join him on a bench near the riverfront.

He said, “Okay, here’s what’s bugging me. The guy swims to the island and shoots himself. Does that sound likely?”

“Well, it was the island where he and his fiancee went on their first date.”

“Right. But why swim to the island? Why not just drive to it or walk? There’s a footbridge that crosses over the parkway and empties right into the parking lot of the island. And so does a bike trail. Then you jump the gate, go over to the island, get stoned and blow your brains out without schlepping through the Potomac. They found his car a good ways upriver, which means it was a long swim, in street clothes and shoes and carrying a pistol in a plastic baggie. It’s not like the guy was Mark Spitz or Michael Phelps.”

“But his prints were on the gun,” Kate retorted.

“Forcing someone’s hand around a gun and pulling the trigger isn’t that easy or smart to do,” Alex conceded. “The last thing you want is to put a gun in somebody’s hand that you’re trying to kill. But what if you got him drunk first?”

Alex pointed to his feet. “And the bottoms of his shoes bothered me.”

“How so?”

“They had dirt on them as you’d expect from walking through the brush, but there wasn’t any dirt on the ground around him. You’d think that some of that red clay would’ve ended up on the stone pavers around him. And his clothes were too clean. If you’d hiked around that island, you’d have twigs and leaves stuck all over your clothes. There was nothing like that on him. And if he had swum to the island, he would’ve had to trek through that bramble to get to the main trail.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” Kate admitted.

“And the suicide note in his pocket? It was barely damp and the ink hadn’t run.”

“He probably carried it in the same plastic bag he used for the gun.”

“Then why not leave it in the baggie? Why pull it out and put it in a soaking-wet pocket that might cause the ink to run and the message to be lost? And while Johnson was wet when he was found, if he’d really swum all that way I would’ve expected him to be soggier and grimier than we found him. I mean the Potomac can get pretty foul around here.”