“Right. I’m the con, remember? That’s my line.”
“Let’s make that ‘retired’ con, okay?”
“Absolutely.” For once she didn’t sound that convincing.
They sat back in their chairs and looked out over the tombstones. “Do you think he’s still alive?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I hope so, but I just don’t know.”
“Will he come back, Alex?”
He said nothing, because only Oliver Stone could make that decision. He had to want to come back. And with each passing day Alex was growing more certain that he would never see his old friend again.
CHAPTER 97
WHEN CARTER GRAY HAD INFORMED Roger Simpson of Lesya’s demand, the senator’s initial response had been predictable.
“There must be something we can do,” Simpson had wailed. “I’ve worked my whole life to make this run for the White House.” He eyed Gray hopefully.
“I don’t see what can be done,” Gray replied.
“You know where she is? If we can-”
“No, Roger. Lesya has suffered enough. This is about more than you or me. She gets to live out what’s left of her life in peace.”
It was clear from Simpson’s expression that he was not in agreement with this. Gray gave him one more warning to leave it alone and then left.
Months passed and still Simpson brooded. Solomon’s name cleared. Lesya given a medal! Gray was back in power. It was all so unjust. This all gnawed at the man, making him even more morose and insufferable than usual. Indeed, his wife started spending more time in Alabama; friends and colleagues avoided him.
In the predawn hours one morning Simpson sat moodily in his bathrobe, which he typically did, after retrieving the newspaper from outside the front door of his condo. His wife was visiting friends in Birmingham. That had been another thing that had infuriated him. No one had kidnapped his wife. That simply had been a bluff that Finn and Carr had used to get him to go quietly. Once out of his office and away from the bomb he could have had Carr arrested immediately. Only he had been too afraid. This just made him angrier.
Well, he’d really had the last laugh. Both Finn and John Carr were dead. Simpson had not bothered to check up on Finn, and Carr
He slumped down at the kitchen table and stared out the window into the darkness; the sun was still hours away from making its creep up the wall of the eastern seaboard.
“There must be a way, there must be,” he told himself. He could not let a former Russian spy, who by all rights should be dead, deny him the highest office in the land, an office he felt he was predestined to hold.
He sighed, opened his paper and froze.
Staring back at him was a photo that had been taped inside the front page of the newspaper he was holding.
As he stared at the picture of the woman, it suddenly occurred to him who she was.
Then her head disappeared. Left in its place was a large hole. Simpson gasped and then looked down at his chest. Blood was pouring out of it from where the bullet had entered after passing through the newspaper and neatly obliterating the identity of the woman. By any standard, it was a hell of a shot.
His eyes started to flutter as he stared out the window where the glass had been cracked by the bullet. He looked at the shell of the building across the street, the one that had never been finished. As he pitched forward, dead, onto his kitchen table, the thought did occur to Simpson of who had just killed him.
CHAPTER 98
IN QUICKLY REBUILDING Carter Gray’s cliffside house overlooking the Chesapeake Bay, great pains had been taken in ensuring that the intelligence chief would be safe and secure. This goal, obviously, included preventing someone from blowing up the place a second time. With that in mind, and taking into account some of Oliver Stone’s observations, the windows were all now made from bulletproof glass and the gas regulator was no longer accessible from the outside. The guards still slept in the cottage near the main house and the underground chamber and escape tunnel had been rebuilt as well.
Gray rose early and went to bed late every day. He put many miles on his personal chopper that landed in the rear grounds at all hours. He had a private jet at his disposal that carried him to hot spots all over the world. He knew that he would retire in a few years with his reputation intact as one of his country’s greatest public servants, and that meant a lot to the man.
The storm was fast approaching from the bay; the rumbles of thunder reached Gray’s ears as he dressed in his bedroom. He checked his watch; it was six o’clock in the morning. He would have to hurry a bit. There would be no chopper ride today; the winds were too strong and unpredictable and lightning was already starting to flash across the sky.
He climbed into a three-SUV motorcade; his vehicle was in the middle. A driver and guard were in his Escalade; the other two SUVs carried six armed men total.
As the cars pulled out of the estate and onto the road, the rain began to sprinkle lightly. Gray studied a briefing book open on his lap in preparation for his first meeting this morning, but his thoughts truly were elsewhere.
John Carr was still out there.
The motorcade slowed to round a curve and that’s when Gray saw it. He rolled down the window to get a better look.
Set into the grass next to the road was a tombstone with a small American flag stuck into the ground in front of the white grave marker. They were exactly like the ones used at Arlington National Cemetery.
An instant later, Gray realized what he had just done. Before he could even scream, the round from the long- range rifle slammed into the side of his head, ending his life.
The armed men exploded out of the truck, guns drawn and swinging in all directions. Yet there was nothing to see, no shooter to kill.
As several guards sprinted in the direction of where the shot probably had come from, another one opened the passenger-side door and a bloodied Carter Gray slumped out, still encased in his seat belt.
“Son of a bitch,” muttered the guard, before punching in a number on his cell phone.
CHAPTER 99
OLIVER STONE HAD SHOT GRAY from such a long distance away that he did not need to sprint away from the man’s bodyguards. In truth, he had made even more difficult shots in his career, but none that meant more to him. He made his way slowly back through the woods to the dead man’s home. As he walked along the rain started coming down harder, and the flashes of lightning and accompanying cracks of thunder picked up their pace.
He’d killed Simpson from the unfinished building across the street, his sniper rifle perched on an oil drum. The photo Stone had taped inside the newspaper was of his wife, Claire. He wanted Simpson to know. He’d placed the photo at a precise spot on the page, gauged his shot accordingly, leaving behind no evidence of who was in the picture.
