The Collectors (Camel Club 2)

Now Stone could feel something grasping his leg. He tried to kick out, but then realized his legs were pinned. The thing was crawling snakelike up his right leg. He took a deep breath and tried to fight the panic. It couldn’t be a snake; they were just simulating it, he reasoned. Then whatever it was started to nudge Stone’s flesh, not bite, but the pressure was growing heavier. God, it felt like a damn snake. Maybe a boa? In the total darkness even Stone’s hardened nerves began to unravel.

“DeHaven?” the voice said again.

“What do you want to know?”

The pressure eased a bit, but it was still there as not-so-subtle intimidation.

“How did he die?”

“I don’t know.”

The pressure instantly intensified. It was now wrapping itself around Stone’s belly. He was finding it hard to take a full breath. His arms and legs were aching, and his Achilles felt ready to pop from being forced to stand on tiptoe so long.

“I think he was murdered,” Stone gasped.

The pressure released a few notches. He grabbed a quick breath, his lungs expanding painfully.

“How?”

Stone desperately tried to think of what to say. He had no idea who these people were and didn’t want to give too much away. When he didn’t say anything, the pressure fell away completely. Bewildered, he relaxed. He should have known better.

He fell to the floor as his bindings were released. He felt strong, gloved hands seize him. When he instinctively swung his arm out, it struck something hard; it was glass and metal, up near where his captor’s face would be. They have night-vision equipment.

Stone was hoisted and carried somewhere. An instant later he was slammed down on a hard object, like a long board, and secured there. Then he was being tipped back and his face covered with cellophane. The water hit him hard, pushing the cellophane into his eyes, mouth and nose. He gagged. They were “water-boarding” him, a very effective torture technique. There were few things more terrifying than believing that you’re drowning; especially upside down in total darkness while bound tightly to a board.

Suddenly, the gusher stopped and the cellophane was ripped off. As soon as he let out his breath, his head was plunged completely into cold water. He gagged again and strained to break free. Stone’s heart was beating so fast he knew he would probably die of a heart attack before he did from drowning.

Then his head was pulled out from the water. He vomited, his retch covering his face.

“How?” the voice said calmly.

Yeah, the guy asking questions was always calm, Stone thought as he tried to shake the vomit out of his eyes. He was probably sitting in a nice warm room with a cup of coffee while I’m getting the shit kicked out of me.

“Suffocated,” he spat out. “Just like you’re doing to me, you prick!”

That got him another quick dunk. He’d done it on purpose, though, so the water would wash the puke off him. Stone had taken a quick breath before they plunged him in, and he came out in relatively decent shape.

“How?” the voice said.

“Not the halon 1301, something else.”

“What?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Stone felt himself being tipped back for another plunge. He frantically shouted, “But I can find out.”

The voice didn’t immediately answer. Stone took that as a good sign. Interrogators hated to be at a loss for words.

The voice said, “We looked at your journals. You were reading up on Bradley. Why?”

“Seemed too coincidental. His death and then DeHaven’s.”

“They have nothing in common.”

“You think so?”

Stone snatched a long breath, but they held him under so long this time he still almost drowned. He came out with his brain exploding from lack of oxygen, every limb quivering; his whole body was starting to shut down on him.

“What do you think they have in common?” the voice demanded.

“You’re one dunk from killing me, so if that’s your plan anyway, why don’t you just get it over with?” he said feebly. He braced for the tip but it didn’t come.

“What do you think they have in common?” the voice said again.

Stone took a shallow breath, which was all he could manage right now, and decided whether to answer or not. If it wasn’t what they wanted to hear, he was dead. But he was nearly dead as it was.

He mustered his energy and said, “Cornelius Behan.”

He braced for the last dunk. Instead, the voice said, “Why Behan?”

“Bradley was anticorruption. Behan won two major contracts under the old regime. Maybe Bradley found out something Behan didn’t want known. So he killed him, burned his house down and blamed it on a fictitious terrorist group.”

There was a long silence. All Stone could hear were the anguished smacks of his tortured heart. The sounds were terrifying, but at least he was still alive.

“DeHaven?”

“He’s Behan’s neighbor.”

“Is that it?” the voice said, clearly disappointed.

Stone felt himself being tipped back. “No, that’s not all! There was a telescope we found in DeHaven’s attic pointed at Behan’s house. DeHaven might have seen something he shouldn’t have. So he has to be killed too, but not like Bradley.”

“Why not?”

“People gunning for the Speaker wouldn’t be that surprising. But DeHaven’s a librarian and Behan’s his neighbor. It had to be made to look like an accident away from DeHaven’s and Behan’s homes. Otherwise, fingers might start pointing at Behan.”

Stone waited in silence, wondering if the answer had been the right one or not.

He lurched up as he felt the painful jab in his arm. A second later his eyes closed, and Oliver Stone let out a long breath and lay still.

From the corner of the room Roger Seagraves watched them carry Stone out. He was pretty tough for an old guy. Seagraves imagined that thirty years ago Stone might have been as good as he was. Now he at least knew that Stone suspected Cornelius Behan to be the man behind it all. And because of that, Oliver Stone would get to live another day.

CHAPTER 27

ANNABELLE’S HOTEL ROOM overlooked Central Park, and on impulse she decided to take a walk in it. Her hairstyle and color had changed once again. She was now a brunet with short hair, parted on the side, a look that matched the passport photo Freddy had made for her. Her clothes were typical New York, meaning black and stylish. She rambled through the park trails hiding behind a hat and sunglasses. Several people she passed stared at her, perhaps thinking she was someone famous. Ironically, Annabelle had never sought fame. Her whole life she had clung to the comforting shadows of obscurity where a talented con could find professional traction.

She bought a soft pretzel from a street vendor and carried it back to her room, where she sat on the bed and looked through her travel papers. Leo and she had parted company at the airport in Newark. Freddy was on his way out of the country already. She hadn’t asked either man where they were going. She didn’t want to know.

After arriving in New York she’d contacted Tony. As promised, Annabelle had made arrangements for him to fly to Paris. After that, he was on his own, but with excellent if fake identification and travel documents and millions sitting in a readily accessible account. She’d given him one final warning: “Even though he never saw you, Bagger will know I needed some con really expert with computers, and you have that reputation. So lay low for a year or so out of the country. And do not flash the money around. Get a small place, dig in, learn the language, and lose yourself.”

Tony promised her that he would do as she advised.

“I’ll call and tell you where I end up.”

“No, you won’t,” she’d told him.