Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

“I would imagine not. Well, I’ll take a look at them, and if I can’t tell, which, without blowing my own horn too loudly, is doubtful, I can certainly put you in touch with someone who can.”

“Mr. Shaw, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Please, call me Caleb.”

Caleb grabbed a sandwich at a deli on Independence Avenue a block down from the Madison Building and then followed Seagraves to his office building.

It was located in a brownstone, Seagraves said, but they’d have to enter from the alley. “They’re doing repairs on the lobby, and it’s a mess. But there’s an elevator we can ride from the basement right to my office.”

As they walked down the alley, Seagraves kept a running conversation going about old books and his hopes of building an adequate collection.

“It takes time,” Caleb said. “I have a part ownership interest in a rare book shop in Old Town Alexandria. You should drop by sometime.”

“I’ll certainly do that.”

Seagraves stopped at a door in the alley, unlocked it and ushered Caleb inside.

He closed the door behind them. “The elevator’s just around the corner.”

“Fine. I think—”

Caleb didn’t finish what he was thinking as he slumped to the floor unconscious. Seagraves stood over him, holding the blackjack he’d earlier hidden in a crevice of the interior wall. He hadn’t lied. The brownstone’s lobby was being renovated — the entire building was, in fact — and had been recently shut down so construction work could begin in a week.

Seagraves tied and gagged Caleb and then placed him in a box that sat open against one wall after taking off a ring from Caleb’s right middle finger. He nailed the lid of the box shut and made a call. Five minutes later a van pulled into the alley. With the driver’s help Seagraves lifted the box into the van. The men climbed in and the van pulled off.

Annabelle had picked Stone up before the crack of dawn, and they’d driven out to Trent’s home and settled themselves down where they could see his driveway. They’d left Annabelle’s rental car for Reuben to use and taken his battered pickup truck for the surveillance. It fit in a lot better in horse country than her Chrysler Le Baron had the night before. Because she and Stone had been kidnapped, that car was still parked on a dirt road about five hundred yards from where they were. Annabelle had rented another car the previous night at Dulles Airport.

Stone was looking through a pair of binoculars. It was dark, chilly and damp, and with the truck’s engine off, the interior quickly became very cold. Annabelle snuggled down in her coat. Stone seemed oblivious to the elements. They had only seen one other car pass by, its headlights cutting through the fog that hovered a few feet above the ground. Stone and Annabelle had ducked down in the truck’s cab until it had gone by. The sleepy driver was on his cell phone, gulping coffee and reading snatches of a newspaper draped across the steering wheel.

An hour later, just as dawn was breaking, Stone tensed. “Okay, something’s coming.”

A car had pulled out from Trent’s driveway. As it slowed to make the turn onto the road, Stone focused his binoculars on the driver’s side.

“It’s Trent.”

Annabelle looked around at the deserted area. “It might be a little obvious if we start tailing him.”

“We’re going to have to chance it.”

Luckily, another car pulled past them, a station wagon with a mom driving and three small kids in the backseat. Trent pulled ahead of the station wagon.

Stone said, “Okay, that car’s our buffer. If he checks the mirror, he’ll see a family, nothing more. Hit it.”

Annabelle put the truck in gear and pulled into line behind the second car.

They made it to Route 7 twenty minutes later through a series of back roads. As they did so, a few other cars joined the procession, but Annabelle managed to keep behind the station wagon, which, in turn, was right behind Trent. When they reached Route 7, a main artery into Tyson’s Corner, Virginia, and Washington, D.C., the traffic picked up considerably. D.C. was an early-to-work sort of place, and major roads were routinely jammed as early as five-thirty.

“Don’t lose him,” Stone said urgently.

“I’ve got it covered.” She expertly maneuvered the truck through traffic, keeping Trent’s sedan within sight. It helped that it was getting light now.

Stone glanced at her. “You seem to have tailed people before.”

“Just like I told Milton when he asked me a similar question, beginner’s luck. So where do you think Trent’s headed?”

“I hope to work.”

Forty minutes later Stone was proved correct as Trent led them to Capitol Hill. As he turned into a restricted area, they had to break off surveillance, but they watched as an automatic security barrier lowered into the ground and a guard waved him in.

Annabelle said, “If only that guard knew the guy’s a spy and a murderer.”

“Well, we have to prove that he is; otherwise, he’s not. That’s the way it works in a democracy.”

“Almost makes you wish we were fascists in this country, doesn’t it?”

“No, it doesn’t,” Stone said firmly.

“So what now?”

“Now we wait and watch.”

Even before 9/11 undertaking surveillance near the Capitol was not easy going. Now it was nearly impossible unless one was nimble and tenacious. Annabelle continually had to move the truck, until they’d found a place close enough to see the exit Trent would have to come out of, and far enough away that the cops would not hassle them. Twice Stone had dashed across the street and bought them coffee and food. They listened to the radio and swapped a little bit more of their personal histories, along with large doses of conjecture on what their next move should be.

Milton had phoned Stone on a cell phone he’d loaned his friend. He had little to report. The police were being very tight-lipped about things, and consequently, the media kept running the same information over and over. Stone put the phone away and settled back in his seat, took a sip of coffee and glanced at his partner. “I’m surprised you’re not complaining about the monotony. Stakeouts aren’t easy.”

“The gold always comes to patient people.”

Stone looked around. “I’m assuming Trent will be working a full day, but we can’t chance that.”

“Isn’t the Library of Congress around here somewhere?”

Stone pointed up ahead. “A block that way is the Jefferson Building, where Caleb works. I wonder how he’s getting on. I’m sure the police were there today.”

“Why don’t you call him?” she suggested.

Stone phoned his friend’s cell but Caleb didn’t answer. He called the reading room next. A woman picked up and Stone asked for Caleb.

“He left a while ago to get some lunch.”

“Did he say how long he’d be gone?”

The woman said, “Can I ask what this is in reference to?”

Stone clicked off and sat back.

“Anything wrong?” Annabelle asked.

“I don’t think so. Caleb just went off to get some lunch.”

Stone’s phone rang. He recognized the number on the screen. “It’s Caleb.” He put the phone up to his ear. “Caleb, where are you?”

Stone stiffened. A minute later he put the phone down.

“What’s up?” Annabelle asked. “What did Caleb say?”

“It wasn’t Caleb. It was the people who are holding Caleb.”

“What!”

“He’s been kidnapped.”

“My God, what do they want? And why are they calling you?”

“They got the number from Milton. They want to meet to discuss things. Any sign of the police, they kill him.”