Stone Cold

It’s going to be a wild ride. You interested?”

Annabelle could feel the guy’s gaze running down her. Okay, here we go again. She knew she shouldn’t, but with guys like this she just couldn’t seem to help herself.

She closed the newspaper. “I don’t know. When you say wild, how wild do you mean?”

“How wild do you want it to be?” She could see him forming the word “baby,” but he apparently thought better of using it, at least so soon in the conversation.

“I hate being disappointed.”

He touched her arm. “I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”

She smiled and patted his hand. “So what are we talking about here? Booze and sex?”

“A given.” He squeezed her arm. “Hey, I’m up in first class, why don’t you join me?”

“You have anything other than booze and sex going on?”

“You like to get into the details?”

“It’s all in the details, uh…”

“Steve. Steve Brinkman.” He gave a practiced little chuckle. “You know, one of those Brinkmans. My father’s the vice chairman of one of the biggest banks in the country.”

“FYI, Steve, if you’ve just got coke at this party, and I’m not talking the soft drink, that would definitely disappoint me.”

“What are you looking for? I’m sure I can get it. I’ve got connections.”

“Goofballs, Dollies, Hog, with artillery to do it right, and no lemonade, lemonade always pisses me off,” she added, referring to crap-quality drugs.

“Wow, you know your stuff,” Steve said, nervously looking around at the other people in the cafe car.

“You ever chased the dragon, Steve?” she asked.

“Uh, no.”

“It’s a funky way to inhale heroin. It’ll give you the greatest pop in the world, if it doesn’t kill you.”

He removed his hand from her arm. “Doesn’t sound very smart.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty. Why?”

“I like my men a little younger than that. I find that when a guy reaches eighteen he’s left his best ball-banging behind. So you gonna have any minors at this party?”

He rose. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“Oh, I’m not picky. It can be guys or girls. I mean, when you’re shit-faced on meth, who cares?”

“Okay, I’m leaving now,” Steve said hurriedly.

“One more thing.” Annabelle took out her wallet and flashed a fake badge at him. She said in a low voice, “You recognize the DEA insignia, Steve? For Drug Enforcement Agency?”

“Omigod!”

“And now that you’ve told me about mommy and daddy Brinkman’s estate on the Main Line, I’m sure my strike team will have no problem finding the place. That is if you’re still intending on having a wild party.”

“Please, I swear to God, I was just…” He put a hand out to steady himself. Annabelle seized it and gave his fingers a hard squeeze.

“Go back to Harvard, Stevie, and when you graduate, you can screw up your life however you want to. But in the future just be careful what you say to strange women on trains.”

She watched him hurry down the aisle and disappear safely back into first class.

Annabelle finished her beer and idly read the last couple pages of the newspaper. Now it was her turn to have the blood drain from her face.

An American tentatively identified as Anthony Wallace had been found nearly beaten to death at a Portugal seaside estate. Three other people had been found murdered at the home on a remote stretch of shoreline. Robbery was thought to be the motive. Although Wallace was still alive, he was in a coma after suffering extensive brain injuries and doctors were not hopeful for a recovery.

Annabelle tore out the story and walked unsteadily back to her seat.

Jerry Bagger had gotten to Tony, one of her partners in the con. An estate? She’d expressly told Tony to lay low and not flash the cash. He hadn’t listened and now he was brain dead. Jerry typically didn’t leave any witnesses behind.

But what had Jerry managed to beat out of Tony? She knew the answer to that question. Everything.

Milton stopped typing on his computer and gazed up at her. “You okay?”

Annabelle didn’t answer. As the train sailed back to D.C. she looked out the window but didn’t see the Jersey countryside. Her confidence evaporated, she now only saw graphic details of her coming death, courtesy of Jerry Bagger.

CHAPTER 5

OLIVER STONE MANAGED to lift the old, mossy tombstone to an upright position and packed dirt around it to keep it there. He sat back on his haunches and wiped his brow. He had a portable radio beside him on the ground turned to the local all-news station. Stone craved information like others needed oxygen. As he listened to the radio he got an unexpected jolt. There would be an awards ceremony at the White House that very afternoon where none other than Carter Gray, recently retired chief of the nation’s intelligence agencies, was scheduled to receive the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation’s highest civilian honor. Gray had served his country with distinction for nearly four decades, the announcer read, and quoted the president as saying that Carter Gray was a man that all of America should be proud of; a true patriot and public servant.

Stone didn’t exactly agree with this assessment. In fact, he’d been the reason Carter Gray had abruptly resigned from his post as the nation’s intelligence czar.

Stone thought to himself, If only the president knew that the man he’s going to be presenting that medal to is the same man who was prepared to put a bullet through his head. The country would never be ready for that truth.

He looked at his watch. The dead could certainly exist without him for a little while. An hour later, showered and dressed in his best clothes, which consisted of secondhand issue from Goodwill, he walked out of his cottage, where he was caretaker of Mt. Zion Cemetery, a stop on the Underground Railroad and the final resting place of notable African Americans from the nineteenth century. The trip from the outskirts of Georgetown to the White House was eaten up quickly by the long strides of Stone’s lean six-foot-two-inch frame.

At age sixty-one, he had lost very little of his energy and vigor. With his close-cropped white hair, he looked like a retired Marine drill sergeant. He was still a commander of sorts, though his ragtag regiment called the Camel Club was completely unofficial. It consisted of himself and three others: Caleb Shaw, Reuben Rhodes and Milton Farb.

And yet Stone might have to add another name to the roster, Annabelle Conroy. She had nearly died along with the rest of them in their last adventure. The truth was, Annabelle was as nimble, capable and nervy a person as Stone had ever met. Yet his gut told him the woman, who was attending to a piece of unfinished business with Milton Farb’s help, would be leaving them soon. Someone was after her, Stone knew, someone Annabelle actually feared. And under those circumstances sometimes the smartest move was to run. Stone understood that concept very well.

The White House was dead ahead. He would never be allowed to enter the hallowed front gates and lacked even the right to stand on that coveted side of Pennsylvania Avenue. What he could do was wait in Lafayette Park across the street. He used to have a tent there until the Secret Service recently made him take it down. Yet freedom of speech was still alive and well in America and thus his banner had remained. Unfurled between two pieces of rebar stuck in the ground, it read, “I want the truth.” So did a few other people in this town, it was rumored. To date, Stone had never heard of anyone actually finding it within the confines of the world capital of spin and deceit.