Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

He shrugged. “I’ve known more of them than I cared to. But I didn’t know them for long.” He rose and went over to the window. “In fact, most of them I only saw for a few seconds before they died,” he added barely in a whisper.

“Is that what you were? The assassin of American traitors?” Stone’s shoulders tensed and she added hurriedly, “I’m sorry, John, I shouldn’t have said that.”

He turned to face her. “I guess I failed to mention that John Carr is dead. So why don’t you make it ‘Oliver’ from now on?” He sat back down without looking at her. “I really think you need to get some sleep.”

As she rose to leave, she glanced back. Stone sat rigid in the chair seemingly staring at Albert Trent, but Annabelle didn’t believe the man was looking at the handcuffed spy. His thoughts were probably far in the past, perhaps recollecting how to give a bad man a quick death.

Not that far away Roger Seagraves was marshaling his own team, trying to anticipate every move the other side would make. He hadn’t been back to his house because he’d suspected something had happened to Trent. He and his partner had implemented a system whereby each would call the other by a certain time in the evening if everything was okay. He obviously hadn’t gotten that call. Their capturing Trent complicated matters but didn’t make things insurmountable. He had to assume that Oliver Stone and the others had gone to the authorities by now, so there were several levels of opposition he would have to bust through to get Trent clear, if the man hadn’t already ratted him out. However, rather than fearing tomorrow, Seagraves was looking forward to it. It was such times that the man lived for. And it was only the best man that would survive. And Seagraves was certain he would be that man tomorrow. Just as certain as he was that Oliver Stone and his friends would be dead.

The next day broke clear and warm. Stone and the others left the hotel, transporting Trent in a large trunk that they loaded into a van. Inside the van, Stone squatted over Albert Trent and gave him an injection in the arm using one of the syringes. He waited ten minutes and then injected Trent with the other syringe. A minute later the man’s eyes fluttered open. As he came to, Trent looked wildly around and tried to sit up.

Stone pressed a hand against his chest and then took a knife out of a sheath on his belt. Holding the blade in front of Trent’s quivering face, he slid it between the man’s skin and the gag, severing the cloth.

Trent said in a shaky voice, “What are you doing? I’m a federal employee. You could go to jail for this.”

“Save it, Trent. We know everything. And if you don’t do anything stupid, we’re going to give you up for Caleb Shaw in a nice, easy exchange. But if you don’t cooperate, I’ll kill you myself, or would you rather spend the rest of your life in prison for treason?”

“I have no idea—”

Stone held the blade up. “That’s not what I meant by being cooperative. We have the book and the code and the evidence that you set up Bradley to be killed. And we know about Jonathan DeHaven and Cornelius Behan. And you almost added me and her to your bag, but we decided it wasn’t our time to go.” He inclined his head in Annabelle’s direction.

She said, smiling, “If you’re going to have thugs jump people at your house and then try and murder them, you shouldn’t stand in a spot where the mirror captures your reflection, Al. And if it were up to me, I’d slit your throat and toss your body in a landfill. That’s where you’re supposed to deposit garbage, right?”

Stone unlocked the handcuffs around the man’s hands and feet. “We’re doing a one-to-one exchange. We get Caleb, you go free.”

“How can I be sure of that?”

“The same way Caleb can be, you just have to trust. Now get up!”

Trent rose on shaky legs and looked at the others arrayed around him in the back of the van. “Are you the only ones who know? If you’ve called in the police—”

“Just shut up,” Stone snapped. “And I hope you have your fake passport and plane tickets ready.”

Reuben opened the van doors and they all stepped out, with Trent in the middle.

“My God,” Trent said, “what the hell is going on here?” He was looking at a sea of people.

Stone said, “Don’t you read the papers? It’s the National Book Festival on the Mall.”

“And a march against poverty,” Milton added.

“Two hundred thousand people total,” Reuben chimed in. “What a great day in the capital city. Reading books and fighting for the poor.” He gave Trent a poke in the side. “Let’s get going, ass-wipe, we don’t want to be late.”

The National Mall stretched for nearly two miles, bracketed on the west by the Lincoln Memorial and on the east by the Capitol and encircled by vast museums and imposing government buildings.

The National Book Festival, an annual event, had grown to over 100,000 attendees. Circus-size tents had been erected on the Mall emblazoned with banners reading Fiction, History, Children’s Literature, Thrillers and Poetry, among others. In these tents writers, illustrators, storytellers and others held large crowds enraptured with their readings and anecdotes.

On Constitution Avenue the March Against Poverty was ramping up, with its destination the Capitol. After that, many of the marchers would join in the book festival, which was free and open to the public.

Stone had carefully planned the exchange point with input from Alex Ford. It was near the Smithsonian Castle on Jefferson Street. With thousands of people around, it would be nearly impossible for a shooter to get off a clean shot even at a distance. In his knapsack Stone carried the one device that would allow him to complete this mission the right way, for once he had Caleb back safely, Stone had no intention of allowing Albert Trent and his fellow spies to escape.

Reuben said, “Up ahead, two o’clock, by the bike rack.”

Stone nodded, and his gaze caught Caleb standing on a small grass plot partially encircled by a waist-high hedge, with a large and elaborate fountain beyond that. It offered some privacy and a buffer from the throngs of people. Behind Caleb were two men with hoods pulled up and wearing dark sunglasses. Stone was sure they were armed, but he also knew that federal snipers were stationed on the roof of the castle, their beads no doubt already drawn on the men. Yet they would only fire if necessary. He also knew that Alex Ford was around helping to coordinate the operation.

Stone eyed Caleb, trying to get his attention, but there were so many people around, it was difficult. Caleb looked panicked, which was normal, but Stone detected something else in his friend’s eyes that he didn’t like: hopelessness.

And that’s when Stone saw the thing around Caleb’s neck.

“My God!” he muttered. “Reuben, do you see it?”

The big man looked stricken. “Those bastards!”

Stone turned to Milton and Annabelle, who were following behind. “Stay back!”

“What?” Annabelle said.

“But, Oliver,” Milton protested.

“Just do it!” Stone snapped.

The two stopped. Annabelle looked particularly stung by Stone’s order, and Milton seemed paralyzed. Reuben, Stone and Trent moved on until they came face-to-face with Caleb and his captors.

Caleb moaned over the sound of the fountain in the background and pointed to what looked like a dog collar around his neck. “Oliver?”

“I know, Caleb, I know.” He pointed to the device and said to the hooded men, “Take that off him. Now!”

Both men shook their heads. One held up a small black box with two buttons sprouting from it. “Only when we’re safely away.”