“With the man in the suit and the woman we’re running the video feed taken at the park through facial recognition databases, although the man never looked in the direction of the surveillance cameras. No hits as of four minutes ago. We’ve also placed the images with the media, asking for the public’s help.”
“Do you see them as perhaps connected to this?” asked Stone.
“Too early to tell. Maybe they were just lucky they left the park when they did.”
“And the ganger? Was he a cop?”
“Did NIC tell you he was?”
“Not in so many words. But they didn’t deny it either.”
“I won’t deny it either, then.”
Stone said, “His tooth was sticking in my head until the doctors removed it. You can get a dental match on that, and possibly a DNA hit.” He held up his sleeve. “And this is his blood. Do you have a kit in the trunk of the Bucar? You can swab for it right now.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Chapman.
Stone turned to her. “And why is that?”
“Because the tooth belongs to one of our security people who was patrolling the park. The doctors didn’t return it to you, did they? See, my man would actually like it back.”
“And why was your man in the park last night?”
“Because before he turned his ankle after tripping on some steps at the White House, my prime minister was scheduled to walk across Lafayette Park on his way back to Blair House, at precisely two minutes past eleven. Lucky for him he didn’t, since he would have had his damn head blown off.”
CHAPTER 10
AFTER THE FBI AGENTS and MI6 Chapman left, Stone puttered in the cemetery for a half hour, righting tombstones toppled by a recent heavy rain and cleaning debris caused by the same storm. This manual labor allowed him to think clearly. And he had a lot that was puzzling him and no answers. As he was bagging some sticks and small branches, he stiffened and slowly turned around.
“I’m impressed.”
He turned to see Mary Chapman come out from behind a bush. “I never moved. What, you have eyes in the back of your head?”
“Sometimes.” Stone tied up the bag and deposited it next to a wooden storage shed. “When I need to.”
Chapman walked over to him. “This is amazing cover for an agent. A cemetery worker.”
“Caretaker, actually. This cemetery isn’t used any longer. It’s a historical site.”
She stopped, lifted one leg and rubbed some dirt off her plain black low-heeled pump. “I see. And do you enjoy taking care of the dead?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“They never argue with me.” He headed back to the cottage. She followed. They sat on the front porch. A minute of silence passed as they listened to the chirps of birds mingled with the sounds of passing cars. Stone stared straight ahead. Chapman’s gaze continued to flick at him like an erratic beam of light.
“So Oliver Stone?” she said at last, with mirth in her eyes. “I’ve enjoyed several of your movies. Are you here scouting another film?”
“Why did you come back?” he asked, finally turning to her.
She rose and surprised him by saying, “Got time for a spot of coffee? I’ll buy.”
She had a car, so they drove to lower Georgetown and found a parking spot on the street, an almost unheard-of event in the congested area.
Stone told her so.
“Right,” she said, clearly unimpressed by this. “Try parking in London.”
They carried their coffees and sat outside at a small table. Chapman took off her pumps, hiked her skirt to mid-thigh, put her feet up on an empty chair, leaned back, closed her eyes and let the sun fall fully on her pale face and bare legs. “England rarely has sun this strong,” she explained. “And when it does it’s usually immediately interrupted by clouds and then rain. Makes a lot of us seriously suicidal. Particularly if it rains in bloody August and you have no holiday abroad planned.”
“I know.”
She opened her eyes. “Do you now?”
“I lived in London for two years. It was a long time ago,” he added.
“Business?”
“You could say that, yes.”
“John Carr?”
Stone drank his coffee, said nothing.
She sipped her coffee and let the silence linger.
“John Carr?” she said again.
“I heard you the first time,” he said politely, glancing sideways at her.
She smiled. “Would you like to know where I heard that name for the first time?”
Stone didn’t answer, but his silence apparently constituted enough of an assent for her to continue.
“James McElroy. He’s a good bit older than you are.” She ran her eye over his tall, spare frame. “And not in nearly as good shape.”
Stone again said nothing.
“He’s a legend in British intelligence circles. Ran MI6 for decades. But I believe you know all that. Now he has some special title, I’m not really sure what it is. But he does what he wants. And bloody good for the country too, I can tell you that.”
“Is he well?”
“Yes. Apparently somewhat due to you. Iran, 1977? Six fanatics sent to place his head on the sharp end of a spear? Six dead men after you finished with them. He said he didn’t even have time to pull his weapon to help you. Then you were gone, just like that. Never had a chance to properly thank you.”
“I didn’t require any thanks. He was our ally. It was my job.”
“Well, irrespective, he said that for decades he wanted to buy you a pint for saving his arse, but you never turned up again. He still wants to, as a matter of fact.”
“Again, not necessary.”
Chapman stretched, put her feet back on the pavement, edged her skirt down and slipped her pumps back on. “By sheer coincidence he’s here in
town.”
“Is that why you came back?”
“Yes and no.”
He stared at her expectantly.
“Yes, in that I knew he would want to see you. No in that I had my own reasons.”
“Which are?”