Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

“Then you’ve bought into Weaver’s theory that the guns and the bomb were done by two separate organizations? Guns possibly by the Yemeni group and bomb by person or persons unknown?”

“I won’t go so far as to say I agree with it, but it’s intriguing enough to check out.”

“So why did they fire all those bullets and not hit a damn thing?”

“I wish I could tell you the answer to that. In my mind it’s critical.”

“This basketball thing is not so popular in my part of the world.”

“True. Though I can’t imagine a bunch of millionaire NBA players have banded together to blow someone up at Lafayette Park.”

“But the bombers might have some other connection to the game.”

Stone pulled out his phone and made a call. “Agent Gross, Stone here. I’m down at the park and I have some information for you and a question.” He told Gross about his meeting with Weaver and the NIC chief’s theory of the case. Then he told Gross about his basketball idea.

Gross said, “Okay. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes and we’ll go talk to the folks where that tree came from.”

Stone clicked off an d looked at Chapman. “He’s coming to get us. We’re going to check out where the tree came from.”

“Good. I’m getting bored doing nothing.”

Stone rose and looked around. He started pacing off in different directions in the park as Chapman watched him curiously. Some of the damage from the blast had been cleaned up. And the small-tented markers were still laid out, giving the effect that both white and orange snow had fallen on the park. Weeks from now they would probably continue to find things. Possibly even years from now. He imagined a tourist happening on a bit of ear. Nice souvenir from their visit to the capital.

He finally ended up at the crater. Chapman joined him at the edge.

“So what’s going on in that noggin of yours?” she asked.

“I’m missing something. Something obvious, but I don’t know what.”

“Didn’t know you and Riley Weaver were so tight,” said Gross as the FBI agent deftly handled the wheel of his Crown Vic on the way out of D.C.

Stone sat next to him; Chapman was in the backseat.

“Only met the man twice in my life. And neither time voluntarily. That doesn’t constitute ‘tight’ for me.”

Gross shot him a glance. “So why’d he come to you? And not me?”

“You’re his competitor. I’m just the man in the middle.”

Gross made a face. “We’ve got to cut this competitive shit out if we’re really going to protect this country.”

“Sounds good to me,” voiced Chapman. “You blokes are on the same side, after all.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, Agent Chapman,” said Gross as he glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“Just because you say it’s complicated doesn’t make it so,” she replied.

“Anyway, if NIC would cooperate with us, it would make all of our jobs easier.”

“And you don’t think every agency out there doesn’t say the same thing about the FBI?” said Stone.

Gross gave a resigned laugh. “I guess you’re right.”

“Weaver is still learning his way over there,” said Stone. “He doesn’t want the hammer to come down on his watch. He’s probably working this thing 24/7 using all conceivable methods. I was just one of them.”

“So where are we headed?” asked Chapman after a few seconds of silence as the nearly empty streets of D.C. flew by.

“Pennsylvania,” answered Gross. “That’s where the maple came from. A tree farm up near Gettysburg.”

“Do they know we’re coming?” asked Stone.

“No.”

“Good.”

“Shouldn’t you surround the place with agents?” said Chapman.

“Whoever was involved in this won’t be sticking around. We go in with heat, the people left behind might clam up. I want some answers and a bit of finesse never hurts.”

Many miles later they pulled past the gates of the Keystone Tree Farm. The paved road led them to a long one-story building painted white with a green metal roof. In the background were various outbuildings both small and large with several big enough to accommodate fifty-foot-tall trees. The parking lot held a few dusty pickup trucks, a compact car and a black Escalade SUV. The three climbed out of the Vic and headed to a door marked “Office.”

A plump woman in too-tight jeans directed them back to a small room where a large man sat behind a metal desk, a phone to his ear. He waved them in and pointed to two chairs. When Gross flashed his badge the man said into the phone, “I’ll have to call you back.”

He put down the receiver, rose, tucked in his shirt where it had ridden out and said, “Can I see that badge again?”

Gross moved closer and held his commission and badge out to the man for several long seconds. Even after the man looked away Gross held up the FBI shield as though to convey the significance of their presence.

“What can I do for you?” said the man uneasily.

Gross said, “A name would be good for starters.”

The man cleared his throat, “Lloyd, Lloyd Wilder.”

“And you run this place?”

“I’m the foreman, yeah. Ten years now. What’s this about?”

Gross perched on the edge of the man’s desk while Stone leaned against one wall and Chapman sat in a chair. All of them peered at Wilder, who swallowed nervously and nearly fell back into his chair.

“Look,” Wilder began, “those guys told me they were legal. Okay, maybe they didn’t have all the paperwork, but do you know how much red tape there is? Take me all day every day just to read through the stuff, and I can’t find anybody else willing to do this sort of work and—”

Stone, catching on to this before Gross did, said coldly, “We’re not with Immigration. The shield said FBI, not ICE.”

Wilder looked from one to the other. “FBI?”

Gross leaned down so his face was uncomfortably close to Wilder’s. “FBI. That fellow over there is with the counterterrorism folks. The lady with MI6 out of the UK.”

Wilder eyed Chapman with an incredulous look. “MI6. Like James Bond?”

“Better than Bond, actually,” said Chapman. “Like dear James on steroids.”

Gross added, “And we could give a crap about your illegal aliens, but if you don’t cooperate ICE sure will be interested.”

Wilder’s face sagged. “But if you ain’t here about them, what are you here about?”

“You watch the news?”

“Yeah, I check out ESPN every night.”

“I mean the real news.”

“Oh, I mean some days. Why?”

“Explosion at Lafayette Park?” added Gross. “You hear about that?”

“Hell yes. It’s all over the place.”

They all stared at him pointedly and he looked back, puzzled.

“But what’s that got to do with me?” he finally blurted out.

“We believe the bomb was planted in the tree that came from this place of business.”

“Come on, you got to be kidding me.” Wilder grinned weakly. “Wait a minute. You guys ain’t really Feds, right? This is some kind of joke, ain’t it?”

Gross moved closer to him. “When a bomb goes off that close to the president of the United States, I can’t find anything remotely funny about it, Mr. Wilder. Can you?”

The smile faded. “So this is the real thing? You guys really are cops?”

“We really are. And we want to know how a bomb got in one of your trees.”

As the full weight of what was happening descended on him, Wilder appeared to be hyperventilating. “Oh Jesus. Oh sweet Jesus.” The man started rocking back and forth.

Stone moved around beside him and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr. Wilder,” he said. “And from your reaction, it seems clear you don’t know anything about it. But you may be able to help us nonetheless. Now take a couple of deep breaths and try to relax.” He squeezed the man’s shoulder.