Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

She left the room and Stone could hear drawers and doors opening and closing. A few minutes later she came out dressed in a skirt, blouse, no hose and no shoes. She was just finishing buttoning her blouse. He glanced away when she looked up at him.

“Feel better?” he said casually.

“Loads, thanks. I’m famished.” She picked up the phone, ordered tea and some food and joined Stone at the desk.

“Any word from your friends, the Camel Club?”

“Caleb called during his lunch hour. He faxed the list over of upcoming events at the park.” Stone picked up two sheets of paper. “Here they are. There are lots of potential targets on there, unfortunately.”

Chapman ran her eye down the list. “I see what you mean. Any of them stand out among the others?”

“A few. Two that the president was going to be attending. Other heads of state, congressmen, celebrities. But narrowing it down will be difficult.”

“But my PM isn’t in the mix.” She put down the papers and looked thoughtful. “You know, chances are very good that I’ll be pulled off this little caper.”

“Because of no proven threat against the PM?”

“That’s right. MI6 doesn’t have unlimited resources.”

“But the implications of what is being planned here could have global repercussions that reach to the UK.”

“That’s what I’ll say in my next report. Because I’d like to see this through. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you have to carry on without me.”

Stone didn’t say anything for a few moments. “I hope that’s not the case,” he said.

She looked at him closely. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one.”

When the tea and food came they ate and drank while going over the evidence once more.

“Nothing from Garchik and his mysterious debris?” Chapman asked as she took a bite of a hot scone.

“No. Weaver from NIC has cut me off. FBI too, obviously. ATF may be next.” He looked at her. “Guilt by association, I’m afraid. You won’t be too popular either.”

“I’ve dealt with worse. Got on the wrong side of the queen once.”

Stone looked intrigued. “How?”

“Misunderstanding that was more her fault than mine. But she’s the queen so there you are. But it eventually got sorted out.” She took another bite of scone. “But from what I’ve learned about you, you’re a man who’s used to rocking the boat.”

“That was never my intent,” Stone said quietly.

She leaned back in her chair. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I did my job, even when I didn’t agree with it. In that regard I was weak.”

“You were trained to follow orders. We all are.”

“It’s never that simple.”

“If it isn’t that simple our world goes to hell in a hurry.”

“Well maybe sometimes it should go to hell.”

“And I guess it did for you.”

“You ever been married?”

“No.”

“Ever want to be?”

Chapman looked down, “I guess most women want to be, don’t they?”

“I think most men do too. I did. I was married. I had a woman I loved and a little girl who meant everything to me.”

Stone grew silent.

Chapman finally broke the quiet. “And you lost them?”

“And the fault was entirely mine.”

“You didn’t pull the bloody trigger, Oliver.”

“I might as well have. You don’t voluntarily leave a job like mine. And I shouldn’t have married. I shouldn’t have had a child.”

“Sometimes you can’t control those things. You can’t control love.”

Stone looked at her. Chapman was staring directly at him.

“You can’t,” she repeated softly. “Not even people like us.”

“Well, considering how things turned out, I should have tried.”

“So you’re going to blame yourself forever?”

He looked surprised by the question. “Of course I am. Why?”

“Just asking.” She put down the rest of her scone and refocused on the reports in front of her.

Stone hit the TV remote and the news came on. They were just in time to hear a female reporter broadcasting near Lafayette Park.

“And late-breaking developments have Alfredo Padilla, originally of Mexico, dying in the blast. Apparently there was a bomb planted in a tree hole at Lafayette Park, and Mr. Padilla, unfortunately running away from the shots being fired in Lafayette, fell into the hole and accidentally detonated the bomb planted there. A memorial service is being planned for Mr. Padilla, who is being hailed as a hero, even if unwittingly. FBI special agent Thomas Gross, a veteran with the Bureau, was killed during a shootout at the tree farm where the tree with the bomb in it was procured. He will be honored at this same memorial service in what some are calling a political move to mend relations between the two countries. Another man, John Kravitz, who worked at the tree farm and was allegedly involved in the bombing conspiracy, was killed by an unknown person at his home in Pennsylvania as police closed in. We will bring you more details as they become available.”

Stone turned off the TV.

“Someone has been shooting off his mouth,” he said. “Back in the old days we never would’ve revealed that much about an ongoing investigation.”

“That was before the days of the Internet and frothing media that have to deliver content every second of every day,” remarked Chapman.

“I wonder if they’ll let me attend Gross’s memorial service.”

“I wouldn’t count on it if I were you.”

Five minutes later Chapman said, “Hold on.”

“What?” Stone said, glancing at her.

She held up a piece of paper. “Evidence listing from the crime scene at the park.”

Stone looked at it. “Okay. What do you see?”

“Read down that column,” she said, indicating a list of numbers and corresponding categories on the left side of the sheet.

Stone did. “All right. So?”

She held up another sheet. “Now read this.”

Stone did so. He flinched and looked back at the first sheet. “Why didn’t anyone put this together before?”

“Most likely because it was on two separate reports.”

Stone looked between the two documents.

“Two hundred and forty-six slugs found in the park and environs matching the TEC-9s,” he said.

“Right.”

He looked at the other piece of paper. “But the casings found at the Hay-Adams Hotel only numbered two hundred and forty,” he said.

“Right again.”

“You would expect to have more casings than slugs, because some of the slugs might never be recovered,” Stone began.

“But you would never have fewer casings than found slugs,” Chapman said, finishing his thought. “Unless the bad guys took a few with them and left the rest. Which they never would. They would either take none or all.”

Stone looked up. “You know what this means?”

Chapman nodded. “The casings were planted at the hotel and someone miscounted. The shots came from somewhere else.”

“We have company, Annabelle,” said Reuben. “

She glanced in the rearview mirror. “The black SUV with the tinted windows?”

“Yep.”

“It was parked at the bar when we pulled up,” she noted.

“I know. I think someone is interested in our conversation with the Latinos.”

She said, “So what do we do? We’re in the middle of nowhere. And I don’t want to call 911, because then we’ll have to explain things I don’t want to.”

“Keep driving. There’s a bend coming up. They’ll make their move there.”

“And what will our move be?” Annabelle asked.

“Still thinking of it. Just drive. And hit the curve fast. I want the driver focused on the road, not me.”