Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

Reuben, whose knowledge of the streets of D.C. nearly equaled Stone’s, made a series of rights and lefts before he slowed the bike, eased into a dark alley and came to a stop behind a Dumpster. By this time Stone had righted himself in the sidecar. He looked up at his friend. “Your timing couldn’t have been better, Reuben. Thanks.”

“When you didn’t call, I circled back around. The van started to move and I followed it.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t spot you. This motorcycle does tend to stick out.”

“Who the hell are those guys?”

Stone told his friend about the run-in with the Secret Service.

Reuben said, “There aren’t many agencies that can make the Service turn tail on its own turf.”

“I can think of maybe two: CIA and NSA. Neither one gives me much comfort.”

“What do you think they wanted?”

“I first spotted the van outside the rare book shop. It might have been following us before then, though.”

“At DeHaven’s?” Reuben snapped his fingers. “You think this has something to do with that Cornelius Behan prick? He’s probably joined at the hip with the spy guys.”

“It might, considering the timing.” Maybe this wasn’t tied to his past, after all.

Reuben looked nervous. “Oliver, if they were following us, do you think they might have had a tail on Caleb and Milton?”

Stone was already on his phone. He reached Caleb and told him some of what had happened and put his phone away. “He just dropped Milton off at home. They didn’t see anyone, but they probably wouldn’t have.”

“But what did we do to get spooks after us? We told Behan what we were doing there. What interest could he have in DeHaven?”

“He might have an interest if he knew how DeHaven died. Or perhaps more accurately, how he was murdered. ”

“You’re saying Behan might have had his neighbor killed? Why?”

“You just said it, his neighbor. It’s possible that DeHaven saw something he shouldn’t have.”

Reuben snorted. “On Good Fellow Street, with the rich and obnoxious?”

“It’s all speculation, but the fact remains that if you hadn’t shown up, I’m not sure what would’ve happened to me.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Since it seems no one was concerned about us until we went to Jonathan DeHaven’s house, we start there. We find out whether the man was murdered or not.”

“I was afraid that’s what you were going to say.”

Stone settled himself in the sidecar, this time with his legs where they ought to be. Reuben started the motorcycle and they set off.

Just like old times, Stone thought. And that clearly wasn’t a good thing.

The men in the van reported in to a very upset Roger Seagraves.

“We could’ve taken the old guy even though his buddy showed up, but we figured it might be too dicey,” one man said over the phone.

Seagraves stared at his secure phone for a moment, thinking what his next move should be. “They were at DeHaven’s for how long?”

“Over five hours.”

“And then to a rare book shop, and then you followed them to the White House.”

“Yep. One of them has a tent in Lafayette Park. And according to the Secret Service, his name is Oliver Stone. What a joke!”

“He spotted your tail, so I don’t know how much of a joke he is,” Seagraves snapped. “And I don’t like you flashing your creds around, especially to the Service.”

“We just got in a jam and had to do it. But we are with the Agency,” the other man countered.

“But not on official duty tonight,” Seagraves shot back.

“So what do you want us to do?”

“Nothing. I want to check out Mr. Stone more thoroughly. I’ll be in touch.” Seagraves hung up.

A man calling himself Oliver Stone has a tent across from the White House, can spot expert surveillance and visited the house of a man I had killed. Seagraves could feel another thunderstorm coming on.

It was raining and chilly in Newark when the plane touched down. Annabelle now sported brown hair, cherry-red lipstick, sleek eyeglasses, funky clothes and blocky-heeled shoes. Her three companions were all dressed in two-piece suits with no ties. They didn’t leave the airport together. They drove south and rendezvoused at a rental unit in Atlantic City.

Being back in the town after so many years, Annabelle could feel her tension level rising. The last time, she had come far too close to dying. But being tense could easily get her killed this time around. She would have to trust her nerves to weather what was coming. She had prepared nearly twenty years of her life for this moment. She did not intend to waste it.

Over the last week she’d wired the funds from the altered checks out of the corporate accounts. Those sums plus the stash from the ATM scam had been put into an overseas account that did not abide by a single U.S. banking regulation. With $3 million in seed money, the men were anxious to hear Annabelle’s plan for the long con.

And yet she was clearly not ready to tell them. She spent much of the first day walking the town, scoping the casinos and in discussions with certain nameless people. The men spent the downtime playing cards and shooting the breeze. Leo and Freddy regaled young Tony with stories of old scams embellished and polished to the degree that only distant memories could inspire.

She finally called them all together.

“My plan is to turn our three million into a lot more, in a relatively short period of time,” she informed them.

“I just love your style, Annabelle,” Leo said.

“Specifically, I plan to turn our three million into at least thirty-three million. I walk away with thirteen point five, and you split the rest three ways. That’s six and a half per. Anybody have a problem with that?”

The men sat there stunned for a full minute. Leo finally answered for them. “Yeah, boy, that just sucks.”

She held up a warning hand. “If the scam doesn’t work, we could lose some of the seed, but not all. Everybody all right with rolling that dice?” Each of them nodded. “The amount of money we’re talking will necessitate taking certain risks on the back end.”

Leo said, “Translation, whoever we’re ripping off will never stop looking for us.” He lit a cigarette. “And now I think it’s time you told us who it is.”

Annabelle sat back and slid her hands in her pockets. She never took her gaze off Leo’s face, and he stared back in turn. Finally, he said nervously, “Is it really that bad?”

“We’re hitting Jerry Bagger and the Pompeii Casino,” she announced.

“Holy shit!” Leo yelled, his cigarette falling out of his mouth. It landed on his leg and burned a small hole in his pants. He angrily swiped at the burn mark and pointed a shaky finger at her. “I knew it! I knew you were gonna pull this crap.”

Tony looked at each of them. “Who’s Jerry Bagger?”

Leo said, “The meanest son of a bitch you hope you never cross paths with, sonny boy, that’s who.”

Annabelle joked, “Come on, Leo, it’s my job to get him juiced about the scam. Keep that up, he’ll want to take on Jerry all by himself.”

“I’m not taking on Jerry effing Bagger for three million, thirty-three million or three hundred and thirty-three million because I won’t live to enjoy it anyway.”

“But you came here with us. And like you said, you knew I was going for him. You knew it, Leo.” She stood, came around the table and draped a long arm around his shoulders. “And if the truth be known, you’ve been waiting for a shot to take that weasel down for the last twenty years. Admit it.”