Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

“Unless it’s been authorized by appropriate parties,” Stone pointed out. “By people who have sat in the chair in which you now sit.”

Brennan snatched a glance at his desk chair and then looked away. “This is a dangerous mission, Stone. You will be given every asset you require to succeed. But there are no guarantees.”

“There are never any guarantees.”

The president sat back down, made a steeple with his hands, possibly an impromptu shield between himself and the other man.

When Brennan didn’t say anything, Stone did. “This is my penance, isn’t it?”

The president lowered his hands.

“This is my penance,” Stone said again. “In lieu of a trial that no one wants because too many unpleasant truths will come out for the government, and the reputations of certain dead public servants will be tarnished. And you’re not the sort to order my execution because, as you said, that’s not how a civilized people resolve their differences.”

“You don’t mince words,” Brennan said quietly.

“Are they true words or not?”

“I think you understand my dilemma.”

“Don’t apologize for having a conscience, sir. I’ve served other men who held your office who had none at all.”

“If you fail, you fail. The Russians are as ruthless as they come. You know that better than most.”

“And if I succeed?”

“Then you will never have to worry about your government knocking on your door again.” He leaned forward. “Do you accept?”

Stone nodded and rose. “I accept.” He paused at the door. “If I don’t make it back, I would appreciate it if my friends were told that I died serving my country.”

The president nodded.

“Thank you,” said Oliver Stone.

The next night Stone stood where he had for decades, in seven-acre Lafayette Park across from the White House. It had originally been called President’s Park, but now that title encompassed the White House grounds, Lafayette Park and the Ellipse, a fifty-two-acre parcel of land on the south side of the White House. Once part of the White House grounds proper, Lafayette Park had been separated from that august property when President Thomas Jefferson had Pennsylvania Avenue plowed through.

The park had been used for many purposes over two centuries, including as a graveyard, a slave market and even a racetrack. And it was also notable for having more squirrels per square inch than any other place on earth. To this day, no one knew why. The place had changed dramatically since Stone first planted his sign in the ground, the one that read I Want the Truth. Gone were the permanent protestors like Stone, their ragged tents and their boisterous banners. Majestic Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House was closed to vehicular traffic and had been ever since the Oklahoma City bombing.

People, institutions and countries were scared, and Stone couldn’t blame them. If Franklin Roosevelt had been alive and occupying the White House once more he might have invoked his most famous line: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” But even those words might not have been enough. The bogeymen appeared to be winning the war of perception in the hearts and minds of the citizenry.

Stone glanced to the center of the park, at the equestrian statue of Andrew Jackson, the hero of the Battle of New Orleans and America’s seventh chief executive. Jackson sat on a pediment of majestic Tennessee marble. It was the first statue of a man on horseback ever cast in the United States. The monument was surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence, with a scattering of ancient cannons inside this space. Four other statues memorializing foreign Revolutionary War heroes anchored each corner of the green space.

North of Jackson were rows of colorful flowers and a large newly placed maple. Yellow tape was wound around flex poles set in the ground ten feet out from this tree because of the open hole several feet deep and three feet wider than the huge root ball. Next to the hole were blue tarps with the displaced dirt piled up on them.

Stone’s gaze rose to elevated points where he knew the countersnipers were stationed, although he couldn’t see them. He assumed that many of them were probably drawing practice beads on his head.

No trigger slips please, gentlemen. I like my brain right where it is.

The state dinner at the White House was winding down and well-fed VIPs trickled out of the “People’s House.” One such guest was the British prime minister. His waiting motorcade would carry him on the brief trip to Blair House, the residence for visiting dignitaries, which was located on the west side of the park. It was a short walk, yet Stone supposed government leaders could not safely walk anywhere anymore. The world had long since changed for them too.

Stone turned his head and saw a woman sitting on a bench near the oval-shaped fountain on the east side of the park midway between Jackson and the statue of Polish general Tadeusz Kościuszko, who’d helped the fledgling English colonies free themselves from British rule. The irony that the leader of that same monarchy was now staying at a place overlooking this monument was not lost on Stone.

The woman was dressed in black slacks and a thin white coat. She had a large bag next to her. She appeared to be dozing.

That’s odd, thought Stone. People did not doze in Lafayette at this time of night.

She wasn’t the only person in the park. As Stone looked toward the trees on the northwest side of the park he spied a man in a suit carrying a briefcase. His back was to Stone. He’d stopped to examine the statue of German army officer Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben, who’d also helped the colonists kick Mad King George’s royal behind more than two centuries ago.

And then Stone noticed a short man with a large belly entering the park from the northern end where St. John’s Church was located. He was in jogging attire, though he looked incapable of even walking quickly without collapsing from a coronary. What looked to be an iPod was strapped to a belt around his ample middle, and he had on earphones.

And there was a fourth inhabitant of the park. He looked like a street gang foot soldier, dressed in prison shuffle jeans, dark bandanna, muscle shirt, camouflage jacket and stomp boots. The ganger was walking slowly right through the middle of the park. This too was odd since gangers almost never came to Lafayette Park because of the heavy police presence. And that presence was strengthened and even more vigilant tonight for a very simple reason.

State dinners put everyone on edge. A spring in the step of a patrolling sentry. A lawman’s hand a smidge closer to the trigger. A heightened tendency to shoot and pick up the pieces later. If a leader went down, no one escaped responsibility. Heads and pensions rolled.

But Stone had not come here to think about those things. He had come here to see Lafayette Park for the last time. In two days he would be leaving for his month-long training session. And then it was off to Mexico. He had already made up his mind. He would not tell his friends, the members of the Camel Club. If he did they might sense the truth, and nothing good could possibly come out of that. He deserved to be sacrificed. They didn’t.

He drew one more long breath and looked around. He smiled as he saw the gingko tree near the Jackson statue. It was across from the maple that had just been installed. The first time he’d come to this park it had been fall and the gingko leaves were a gloriously bright yellow. It was magnificent. There were gingko trees all over the city, but this was the only one in the park. Gingkoes could live well over a thousand years. Stone wondered what this place would look like in ten centuries. Would the gingko still be here? Would the big white building across the street?