The Camel Club (Camel Club 1)

Alex took another drink and his look became somber. “I saw the Zapruder film clip of Kennedy’s assassination when I was twelve years old. I remembered thinking that something like that should never happen again. I’ll never forget the image of Agent Clint Hill jumping on the limo, pushing Mrs. Kennedy back into her seat. A lot of people at the time thought she was part of the conspiracy to kill the president, or else condemned her because they thought she was just trying to get away from all the blood on her, even if it was her husband’s. What she was actually doing was trying to retrieve the piece of her husband’s head that had gotten blown off.”

He finished his drink before continuing. “I met Clint Hill at a Secret Service function. He was an old guy by then. Everybody wanted to shake his hand. I told him how honored I was to meet him. He was the only guy to react when it happened. He helped Mrs. Kennedy, and he put his body between her and whoever was shooting at them. I told him if the time came, I hoped I did as well as he’d done. You know what he said to me?”

He looked up to see her gaze directly on him; Kate Adams seemed to be holding her breath. “What did he say?” she prompted.

“He said, ‘Son, you don’t want to be like me. Because I lost my president.’”

There was a long silence and finally Alex broke it. “I can’t believe that I’m sitting here dishing out this depressing crap. I’m not really like that.”

“With the day you had I’m surprised you didn’t bag tonight.”

“Kate, the thought of going out with you tonight was the only thing that got me through today.”

Alex looked a little surprised at the frankness of his words and quickly looked down, studying the exterior of his remaining martini olive.

Kate reached out and touched his hand. “I’m going to further embarrass you,” she said, “by telling you that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

The conversation turned to more innocuous subjects, and time sped by. As they were leaving, Alex muttered an expletive under his breath.

Coming in the door were Senator and Mrs. Roger Simpson and their daughter, Jackie.

Alex tried to duck by but Jackie spotted him.

“Hello, Alex,” she said.

“Agent Simpson,” Alex replied curtly.

“These are my parents.”

Roger Simpson and his wife looked like twins: very tall and fair-haired. They towered over their petite, dark-haired daughter.

“Senator. Mrs. Simpson,” Alex said, nodding at them both. Roger Simpson glared back at him so menacingly that Alex was convinced Jackie must have told him the whole story in her own biased way.

“This is Kate Adams.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” Kate said.

“Well, take care, Agent Simpson. I doubt I’ll be seeing you around.”

He walked out with Adams trailing him.

As soon as they were outside, Alex blurted out, “Can you believe, of all the restaurants in this damn town—”

He broke off when Jackie Simpson popped out of Nathan’s.

“Alex, can we talk for just a minute?” She glanced anxiously at Kate. “Privately?”

“I’m pretty damn certain we have nothing to say to each other,” he shot back.

“It’ll just take a minute. Please?”

Alex looked at Kate, who shrugged and moved down the street a bit, studying the clothing in a shop window.

Simpson drew closer. “Look, I know you’re upset as hell at me. And you think I ratted you out.”

“Well, you’re batting a thousand so far.”

“It didn’t happen like that. As soon as Carter Gray left us, he must’ve called my dad. Even before he called the president. My father called and gave it to me up one side and down the other. He said I couldn’t let some maverick wreck my career before it even got started.”

“How did the director find out about my ‘old friend’?”

Simpson looked miserable. “I know, that was stupid. My father can be overwhelming. He ground it out of me.” She sighed. “My dad’s one of the most accomplished people you’ll ever meet. And my mother was a Miss Alabama, which makes her a saint down there. So being a simple detective didn’t cut it with them. They wanted me to go into business or politics. I put my foot down and said I was a cop. But they kept pushing for me to go on to a bigger pond. Just to get them off my back, I joined the Service. Dad pulled strings so I got assigned to WFO. His dream is for me to be the first female director of the Service. All I ever wanted to be was a good cop. But for them that wasn’t enough.”

“So are you going to do what your parents want your whole life?”

“It’s not that easy. He’s a man that’s used to people obeying him.” She paused and looked up at him. “But that’s my problem. I just wanted you to know that I’m really sorry for what happened. And I hope I get a chance to make it up to you.”

She turned and walked back inside before he could reply.

When Kate rejoined him, he explained the gist of the conversation. After he’d finished, Alex added, “Just when you think you have somebody pegged and you’re justified in hating her guts, she pulls a fast one and complicates things.” He glanced across the street and his features brightened. “Please tell me you’d like to go get some ice cream.”

She looked over at the shop across the street. “Okay, but I have to warn you I’m a minimum two-scoop sort of girl and I don’t share.”

“My kind of woman.”

CHAPTER

41

AT UNION STATION STONE AND Reuben found Caleb and Milton in the B. Dalton Bookstore. Caleb was poring over a Dickens masterpiece, while Milton was firmly entrenched in the computer magazine section.

Stone and Reuben rounded up the pair, and they all boarded the Metro, taking it to the Smithsonian station, where they rode the escalator up to the Mall.

“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Stone cautioned.

They took a stroll past the major monuments as tourists flocked around taking pictures and videos of all the sights. The Camel Club eventually reached FDR Park, where the FDR Memorial, a fairly recent addition to the Mall, was located. It covered a large area of ground and was made up of various statuary depicting significant symbols from FDR’s reign as America’s only four-term president. Stone led his friends over to a secluded section that was shielded from wandering tourists by a Depression-era breadline immortalized in bronze.

After he’d glanced around for a few moments, Stone shook his head in dissatisfaction and led them back

to the subway, which they rode to Foggy Bottom. They exited and started walking. At 27th and Q Streets, NW, Stone stopped. Staring back at them was the entrance for Mt. Zion Cemetery, where Stone was the caretaker.

“Oh, no, Oliver,” Reuben complained. “Not another bloody cemetery.”

“The dead don’t eavesdrop,” Stone replied curtly as he opened the gates.

Stone led them into his cottage, where the others looked at him expectantly.

“I’ve done some research that I believe is critical to our investigation into Patrick Johnson’s murder. Thus, I hereby call this special meeting of the Camel Club to order. I propose that we discuss the topic of the recent spate of terrorists killing each other. Do I have a second?”

“I second,” Caleb said automatically, though he glanced curiously at the others.

“All in favor say aye.”

The ayes carried the motion, and Stone opened the large journal he’d brought from the rare book shop.

“Over the last eighteen months there have been numerous instances where terrorists have allegedly killed each other. I found this to be so interesting that I started keeping all the articles I could find on the subject. The last such incident involved a man named Adnan al-Rimi.”

“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