The Camel Club

her bikini. “How the hell does a geek like that get a chick like that?”

“Nurturing instinct,” Peters answered promptly. “Some women love to play mother.”

Peters pulled out an electronic device that looked like a larger version of a BlackBerry and typed in the name Chastity Hayes. A minute later three possibilities came up. Restricting his search to the Washington, D.C., area, Peters found Chastity Hayes, accountant and the owner of a house in Chevy Chase, Maryland. In addition it revealed her educational, medical, employment and financial history. As Peters ran his gaze down the info pouring over his tiny screen, Reinke pointed a finger at one line. “She was in a psych hospital for a while. I bet you she’s OCD like Farb.”

“At least we know where she lives. And if Farb isn’t here” — Peters glanced once more at the photo of the lovely Chastity — “chances are he’s there. Because that’s where I’d be sleeping if I were him.”

The noise in the back of the house froze them both. They were footsteps. And then they heard a groan and a thudding sound.

They pulled their guns and moved in the direction of those noises.

When they reached the kitchen, they saw it. The man was on the floor, unconscious. They both started when they saw the uniform.

“Rental cop,” Reinke said finally. “We must’ve tripped some alarm.”

“Yeah, but who the hell knocked him out?”

They looked around nervously.

“Let’s get out of here,” Reinke whispered.

They slipped out the back of the house and soon reached their car a block over.

“Do we hit the chick tonight?” Peters asked.

“No, you don’t,” a voice said causing both of them to jump.

They turned and saw Tom Hemingway rising from the backseat. He did not look very happy.

“You’ve had a singularly unproductive night,” he began ominously.

“You followed us here?” Peters asked in a small voice that broke slightly.

“After your last report of screwing up, what exactly did you expect me to do?”

“So you did the rental cop. Is he dead?” Reinke asked.

Hemingway ignored him. “Let me impress upon both of you once more the seriousness of what we’re trying to accomplish here. I have an army working their asses off just north of here doing far more than either of you have been asked to do. And unlike them, you two are being paid very well. And they’ve made no mistakes whatsoever. ” He stared at them so intensely that both men held their breaths. “Maybe what happened tonight was just a string of bad luck. But going forward, I will make no more allowances for bad luck.”

“What do you want us to do now?” Reinke asked nervously.

“Go home and get some rest. You’ll need it.” He held out his hand. “Give me the receipt with the woman’s name on it.”

“How did you — ,” Reinke began.

However, Hemingway looked at him with such disdain that Reinke closed his mouth and passed the paper over. In a few seconds Hemingway had disappeared.

Both men sat back in their car seats and let out deep breaths.

Peters said, “That guy scares the complete and total shit out of me.”

Reinke nodded. “He was a legend at CIA. Even the drug guys in Colombia were scared to death of him. Nobody ever saw him coming in or going out.” He paused. “I’ve watched him working out at the gym at NIC. He looks like he’s carved out of granite, and he’s quick as a cat. And he’s destroyed two seventy-five-pound body bags with just his hands. They won’t even let him use his legs on the heavy bags anymore because he was breaking them with just one kick.”

“So what now?” Peters asked.

“You heard the man. We get some rest. After three close shaves tonight we don’t need a fourth. You can crash at my place.”

CHAPTER

44

AFTER WHAT HE’D SEEN AT Arlington Cemetery, Gray had gone directly to CIA headquarters at Langley. Inside this facility was a room that only current and former CIA directors were allowed to enter. Each director could access documents and other materials that pertained to missions he was involved in while at the Agency. They were held in vaults that contained large safe-deposit-style boxes. Because of the secrets housed here, it was the most heavily guarded room at Langley.

Gray put his hand on a biometric reader in front of the vault door that was labeled with his name. The door slid open and Gray entered, taking out his keys. He knew exactly the box he wanted: number 10.

He unlocked it and drew out the contents, sat down and spread the materials out on a desk kept in the vault.

The file he was perusing was officially marked “J.C.” Those two initials could stand for many things, including Jesus Christ. However, they didn’t refer to the Son of God, but were simply the initials of a remarkable flesh-and- blood man named John Carr.

As Gray read through the exploits of Carr’s career at the CIA, his head continued to shake in absolute amazement at what the man had accomplished. And survived! Although it could be argued that the world was a more dangerous place now, it was not appreciably more perilous currently than when John Carr worked for the Agency.

As Gray came to the last pages of John Carr’s career at Langley, it ended, the way it had meant to end, with burial at Arlington Cemetery with full military honors, although John Carr had not technically worked for the army for years and had not died in a uniform. After that, his entire past had been wiped clean from every record in the United States. Gray had seen to that personally based on orders from the highest level at the CIA.

And though John Carr wasn’t buried in that grave, he was still supposed to be dead. The initial hit on him killed only his wife. But there had been another attempt deemed successful, though no body had been recovered; it was presumably in the bellies of fish in the middle of the ocean. Perhaps Gray was simply jumping to conclusions. The man he’d seen was thin and seemingly frail. Could that be the mighty John Carr? The years could take their toll, but still, with a man like Carr, Gray figured age would simply bounce off him. Yet the man had been standing directly in front of the grave marked for John Carr. And hadn’t he managed to disappear, much like the legendary Carr made a career out of doing?

Gray’s pulse accelerated as he thought how close he’d possibly been to a man who’d been betrayed by his country. And not just any man, but a man who, in his time, was the perfect killing machine for the United States government. Until, that is, he became a liability, as such men often did.

Carter Gray put away the box and left the room of old secrets with a curious emotion filling his chest. Carter Gray feared a dead man who, inexplicably, might still be among the living.

Later, back at his home, Gray lit the candles in his bedroom as he kept glancing at the photos on his mantel. In a few minutes it would be midnight, and September 11 would be with him again. He sat in the chair next to his bed and opened his Bible. Carter Gray had been baptized a Catholic, had dutifully performed his first Communion at age seven and his Confirmation at age thirteen and had even been an altar boy. Since reaching adulthood, however, he had never once set foot inside a church unless it was for some political function. With his occupation, religion had never seemed to be that relevant. However, his wife had been a devout Catholic, and their daughter, Maggie, had been raised in that faith.

Now, with both of them gone, Gray had taken up reading the Bible. It wasn’t for his salvation, but as a way of picking up the banner for his fallen family, although, he had to admit, the words did give him some level of comfort. Tonight he read out loud some passages from Corinthians and another from Leviticus and then ventured into the Psalms. It was now well past midnight, and he knelt down in front of the photos and performed his prayers, although they were more akin to conversations with his dead family. He almost always broke down and cried during this ritual. The tears felt deserved and, in a sense, were healing. Yet, as he sat back in his chair with his Bible, Gray’s thoughts returned once more to a burial plot with an empty coffin. Is John Carr dead or