Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

“Most men your age are fat and bowed. You look like you could do the Marine obstacle course at Quantico without breaking a sweat.”

Friedman continued to stare at Stone. “Without breaking a sweat,” she said again.

In the rearview mirror Chapman gazed anxiously between the pair. “So getting back to the matter at hand,” she said quickly as the two continued to stare at each other.

Friedman ignored her and said, “Did I mention that I checked out John Carr’s military and CIA career? The most unbelievable parts I found the most believable for some reason.”

“I did my job. Just like you are.”

“Few people did their job like you did. You’re more than a legend, John Carr. You’re more like a myth.”

“I’m actually flesh and blood. That’s been very apparent to me from the start.” He touched the bandage on his head. “And never more apparent than right now.”

“Your missions and methods were actually taught in the classroom at CIA, did you know that?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Not by name, of course, or else I would’ve heard of John Carr much earlier. But I did some digging. Triple Six. Always got a kick out of that name. You never failed.”

“Sure I did.”

“Modesty.”

“Truth.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Chapman blurted out, “Okay, we bloody well need to get back to the matter at hand, if you two don’t mind.”

Stone asked, “Will you work with us? I need that commitment before I explain my plan.”

“You’re basically asking me to risk my career over this. If it backfires I’m gone. With nothing left.”

“But if we don’t stop this, there’ll be a lot more gone, won’t there? Not just people, maybe a city or two?” He paused. “Nanobots? The Russians back on the global warpath. And if my plan works then your goal may be realized too. This entire mess laid at the doorstep of Moscow.”

She said coolly, “I’m fully aware of the situation.”

“Then you know the stakes. And I do need your help.”

“Turkekul spent time in Afghanistan. They like to carve their enemies up there, one slice of skin at a time. And then he’ll turn me over to the Russians. And I can’t believe they’re any better.”

“I’ll protect your life with mine.”

She looked out the window again. Stone watched as the woman’s expression changed continually until he could tell her mind had been made up. She turned back to him.

“I’ll help you.”

“Thank you.”

“But for the record, you could’ve just come to me directly and not stooped to a snatch operation. I think I deserve better than that.”

“You do,” said Stone. “You actually do.”

A day later Stone sat in a restaurant overlooking Fourteenth Street. He was dressed in a black jacket, white shirt and jeans. He had his gun but not his badge. In his mind, right now the former was critical and the latter was worthless. In a far corner of the restaurant with a clear view of the front door sat Harry Finn sipping on a glass of ginger ale and casually studying the menu. His 9mm rode in a shoulder holster against his chest.

Mary Chapman had the other end of the restaurant. Perched on a barstool, she sipped on a Coke. Her Walther was in her handbag.

Three guns awaiting their quarry.

Stone rose when they entered. Fuat Turkekul looked somewhat inconsequential next to the glamorous Friedman. The woman wore a dark pantsuit and her hair fell flawlessly around her shoulders. She was a beautiful lady, thought Stone. Which in her profession was a good thing. It attracted certain men and also made such men focus on the woman’s physical assets as opposed to what could really hurt them, which was her brain.

Stone shook hands with Turkekul and they all sat down. The Turk’s gaze roamed the room before falling back on Stone. He took a moment to slide the napkin in his lap before speaking.

“I was most surprised when Ms. Friedman asked me to meet with you. I did not presume that you would be in the... how do you say...?”

“The loop?” suggested Stone.

“Yes.”

“I get around,” Stone said vaguely. His gaze pinged off all corners of the restaurant and he came away satisfied. Two guards in suits had followed Turkekul and Friedman in and were waiting near the coat check. Friedman had told Stone that the security detail had standing orders that when she was with the man they were to keep a respectful distance. Riley Weaver’s men looked alert but relaxed. Stone kept out of their line of sight just in case they recognized him.

“And what did you wish to meet about?” asked Turkekul.

“How are things going with Adelphia?”

“We work well together. I am getting my feet wet, so to speak. And Ms. Friedman is a good partner as well.”

“Fuat hopes to make some progress in the next several months,” volunteered Friedman. She stared at Stone perhaps a beat too long before breaking off and picking up the menu the waiter had just dropped off.

Turkekul put up a hand. “These things take time. Americans want everything done yesterday.” He chuckled.

“We have that reputation, yes,” agreed Stone. “But recent events are troubling.”

Turkekul broke off a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table and bit into it. He brushed the crumbs off the cloth and onto the floor. “You speak of the bomb and such?”

“The death of an FBI agent. The second bombing. The murder of the Park Service man. We have to stop it.”

“Yes, yes, but what does that have to do with me?”

“A group in Yemen with known ties to Al-Qaeda has claimed responsibility, so I think it has a lot to do with you. You are tasked with finding the head of that organization.”

Turkekul was already shaking his head. “I told you before that the Yemeni group is unreliable. I do not believe that they are behind the bombing or any of the other criminal acts.”

“Why?” asked Stone evenly.

Turkekul held up one finger. “First, they are not sophisticated enough. This sort of long-term planning and execution is not their forte. They will put a bomb in a car and blow it up, but that is all.” He held up another finger. “And second, they simply do not have the assets required to do such a mission here. You speak of many deaths but all through separate incidents. No, it is not them.”

“Okay, then who do you think it is?” Stone paused and glanced at Friedman. “Your old friend Osama? He certainly has the long-term planning skills. And the assets.”

Turkekul smiled and shook his head. “I think not.”

“And your reasons?”

“He has other, how do you say, fish to fry.”

“And what are those fish?”

“I am not prepared to say at the moment.”

Stone sat forward. “I wanted to meet with you to make a deal of sorts.”

Turkekul looked surprised. He glanced at Friedman before staring back at Stone. “I already have a deal with your government.”

“I didn’t say it was with my government.”

Turkekul looked taken aback. “I do not understand.” He gazed again at Friedman when he said this.

“We need to step things up a bit,” said Friedman. “And I think we now have the intel to do it.” She nodded at Stone.

Stone picked up this choreographed “tag” from the woman and said, “We’ve discovered that there’s a mole.”

Turkekul gazed in surprise at him. “A mole?” He shot Friedman another anxious look. “Where exactly?”

“Very close,” answered Stone. “We don’t have the person’s exact identity, but we do know that a significant event is being planned.”

“But how can you do anything about it if you don’t know the person’s identity?” Turkekul said with deliberate calm.