Stone Cold

who worked the logistics of the hit on me out on your nice, neat paper.”

“I had nothing to do with that. I only learned about it after the fact.”

“But you didn’t go running to the authorities about it, did you?”

“What the hell did you expect me to do? They would have killed me too.”

Stone pressed the blade harder against the man’s flesh. “For a genius you sometimes say stupid things. Tell me about Rayfield Solomon before I lose my patience. Because this is all about Solomon, isn’t it?”

“He was a traitor and you killed him, on orders.”

“We did kill him, as ordered. Roger Simpson said it came right from the top. But there’s obviously more to it. A lot more. Was Solomon innocent? And if he was, why were we ordered to kill him?”

“Damn it, John, just let it go! The past is dead.”

Stone’s knife cut into Max’s skin a millimeter beside the artery, and a drop of blood appeared. “Was Solomon innocent?” Himmerling said nothing. He just sat there with his eyes closed, his chest heaving.

“Max, if I sever this artery, you will bleed to death in less than five minutes. And I will stand here and watch while you do.”

Himmerling finally opened his eyes. “I’ve kept secrets for nearly forty years, and I’m not going to start talking now.”

Stone swung his gaze around the room and stopped at the pictures on the mantel. A young boy and girl.

“Grandkids?” he asked with an edge to his voice. “Must be nice.”

A trembling Max followed the man’s gaze. “You… you wouldn’t dare!”

“You people killed everyone I loved. Why should you get any better treatment? I’ll kill you first.” He pointed at the pictures. “And them next. And it won’t be painless.”

“You bastard!”

“That’s right. I am a bastard. CIA-built, owned and operated. You know that as well as anyone, don’t you?” Stone looked once more at the photos. “Your last chance, Max. I won’t ask again.”

And so for the first time in four decades, Max Himmerling let a secret slip out. “Solomon wasn’t a traitor. He knew some things, but he didn’t know all of it. People were afraid if he found out the truth, he’d talk.”

“People like who? Gray? Simpson?”

“I don’t know.”

Stone made another nick on Himmerling’s skin. “Max, I’m losing my patience.”

“It was Gray or Simpson. I never knew which.”

“And the secret?”

“Not even I knew that. It involved a mission Solomon and the Russian Lesya handled against the Soviet Union. The whole thing’s on the front burner now. I don’t know why.”

“One more question. Should be an easy one. Who ordered the hit on me?”

“John, please-”

Stone violently seized the man around the throat. “Who?”

“All I can say is you have the same choice as with the last answer,” Himmerling gasped.

So Gray or Simpson. Not that he was surprised.

Stone put the knife away and said, “If you try and tell anyone I’ve been here, you know what will happen. Gray will find out and he’ll suspect you told me things. And you can’t lie to him. He knows ways to get the truth out of the toughest people, much less someone like you. And when he finds out what you told me, guess what, Max?” Stone placed an imaginary pistol against the man’s head and pantomimed pulling the trigger. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“Would you have really killed my grandkids?” Himmerling asked in a quavering voice.

“Just be glad they don’t have to find out.”

CHAPTER 64

AFTER STONE LEFT, Max Himmerling breathed a sigh of relief; it caught in his throat. The guards. They’ll know someone came. They’ll contact... He ran to pack a bag. He had long ago worked out a doomsday scenario of having to flee. Ten minutes later he was on his way out the door, boarding pass printed out, fake ID in his pocket. The ringing phone made him stop. Should he answer it? Something told him to. He picked it up. The voice on the other end was very familiar to him.

“Hello, Max. What did you tell him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Max, you’re a brilliant man, but a very bad liar. I don’t blame you. I’m sure he threatened you, and we both know what a dangerous man he is. So what did you tell him?”

Once more Himmerling spilled his guts.

“Thank you, Max, you did the right thing.” The line went dead.

Himmerling dropped the phone as the back door opened.

“Please,” he said. “Please.”

The silenced gun fired and the bullet hit him in the forehead. The body was placed into a black bag. In a minute the truck had carried it away. Officially Himmerling would be reassigned to a foreign post on short notice. When the next American chopper went down anywhere in the world, it would be recorded that Max Himmerling had been on it, his body burned beyond recognition. Thus would end the man’s near forty years of service to his country.

At least he would no longer have to worry about outliving his pension.

In his bunker Carter Gray smacked his fist into his palm. The loss of Himmerling was a heavy if unavoidable one. Gray knew he should have anticipated it, but he hadn’t.

He looked back at the computer screen in front of him. He had received the birth records from hospitals in major Canadian cities for the year in question. Even electronically they were voluminous. He had to separate the wheat from the chaff. Fortunately, he had known Rayfield Solomon well. They had been good friends, and friendly rivals. Indeed, it could be said that Solomon was the only man of his generation who could match Carter Gray in ability. Gray had to concede that in the field, Solomon might well have been his superior. So uncovering the man’s tracks wouldn’t be easy, but he did have the advantage of knowing him intimately.

He had focused his efforts on the name of the father listed in the birth records. Lesya would not have used her own name, of course. The name of the son would not help either, since Gray was sure that it would be different today. So it came down to the father. Rayfield Solomon was very proud of his Jewish heritage. Though the demands of his work did not allow him to practice his religion in a traditional fashion-critical missions could not be interrupted even for the exercise of his faith-Solomon had been an ardent scholar of his religion. He and Gray had had numerous discussions about theology. Gray’s wife had been a devout Catholic. Gray had not been particularly religious until his wife and daughter had been killed on 9/11. Solomon had often told him, “Find something to believe in, Carter, other than your work. Because when you leave this life, you leave work behind. If that’s all you have, then you have nothing. And eternity is a long time for nothing.”

Wise words the man had uttered, though Gray had not necessarily believed them back then.

His fingers skimmed over the computer keys, trying this and that search combination. The list of names was further and further reduced. He continued to scan the names until he came to rest on one proud father.

David P. Jedidiah, II.

He smiled. You blundered there, Ray. You let personal trump professional. Over the years since his family’s death Gray had also become a keen reader of the Bible, so the name of this father had particular relevance for him.

Solomon was the second son of David, his first legitimate child with Bathsheba. Jedidiah was the name that Nathan, the future King Solomon’s teacher, called him. And in Hebrew Solomon means “Peace,” hence the middle initial, P. Rayfield Solomon had used the name David P. Jedidiah, II, in the birth records. Carter Gray looked at the mother’s name, and then at the son’s. He picked up the phone and relayed this information. “Trace the son,” he ordered.