Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

Stone rose and looked out the window and assembled in his mind the topography of the area around the park. To the north and west along H Street were the United States Chamber of Commerce building and the venerable Hay-Adams Hotel. To the northeast was St. John’s Church. Behind all these locations were federal government and office buildings. He recalled that the Hay-Adams had a rooftop garden area. And it was a taller building than the church. And height was important here to explain the trajectory of the bullets.

He moved on to the next question. Why did they take me to NIC? Just for my observations? There were other people there who could have told them the same things I did. There had to be another reason. Fair winds and following seas?

Stone looked out the window and saw the black Town Car pull up to the gates. As the occupants climbed out Stone eyed the men. FBI, he thought. Bureau agents tended to spend a little more on their clothes. Stone doubted that they were here to escort him to a plane destined for Mexico. The president would not have involved the FBI in something like that. Too many legal roadblocks. The Bureau tended to follow the letter of the law. And the FBI director had the clout to tell the president no. So perhaps the equation had changed once more.

And maybe this time in my favor.

As the four people drew closer, Stone could see that his initial observation was correct. He had just spied an FBI Academy ring on one of the men’s fingers. There was also a woman with them, and Stone didn’t think she was FBI. Assessing every feature from her teeth to her facial structure to her walk, she was a Brit, he concluded. MI6 most likely. Tasked for external intelligence, security and investigations.

This certainly made sense if the British PM was the target. She was either in country traveling with him, stationed here, or she had taken a day flight over, leaving at around two and getting in at about the same time. By the looks of it Stone opted for the latter.

And it was very clear why they were here. The bullets were one thing, but that bomb had been meant to blow somebody up and Stone didn’t think it was an over-weight jogger. And they thought Stone could somehow help them find the truth.

Ironic, he thought. The truth.

He kept watching them as they approached his cottage.

The woman was indeed with MI6. Her name was Mary Chapman. Up close she turned out to be in her mid-thirties, about five-eight, with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair held back with a clasp. Her eyes were intense and shining. She had a compact jaw, thin lips and a slender, wiry build, though her bare calves were muscled. Her fingers were long and her grip was a vise. In Stone’s opinion the Brit’s features were classically attractive without being overwhelming. Chapman’s eyes were deeply green and active. She would never be described as “cute,” thought Stone. Confident, intimidating even, but never cute.

“How was the flight across the pond? Little jetlagged?” Stone said after everyone had been introduced and they’d taken up seats in front of the empty fireplace.

Chapman gazed at Stone and then made a show of smoothing out a wrinkle on her suit jacket. “No bloody beds in coach, even on dear old British Air.” Within her accent and words Stone detected a sense of humility along with a potential for broad humor.

“You must be highly thought of for them to fly you nearly three thousand miles here. MI6 has a permanent footprint in D.C., doesn’t it?”

Chapman eyed the shabby interior of the cottage before settling her eyes back on Stone’s threadbare clothes. “And I thought the Yanks paid their people better.”

One of the FBI agents cleared his throat. “Agent Chapman is here to assist the Bureau with its investigation.”

Stone turned his attention to the man. He was beefy though strongly built. A desk jockey, Stone assumed, by the size of his waist and perspiring forehead. He was clearly only the messenger and note taker. He wouldn’t be doing any of the heavy lifting on this.

“I’ve already been to NIC. They beat you to it. They came to the hospital. You were slower, if classier.”

Beefy looked chagrined by this but plunged on. “And was the meeting helpful?”

“I thought you were into cooperation and sharing these days.”

Beefy gazed stonily back at him.

Stone said, “They weren’t particularly forthcoming. I’m hoping you can do better.”

Chapman crossed her legs and said, “Sorry if I seem a bit nitpicky, but I didn’t see your credentials.”

Stone replied in a pleasant tone, “I don’t have any to show you.”

She looked at Beefy quizzically.

He said stiffly, “A formality that needn’t interrupt the progress of the investigation.”

Chapman hiked her eyebrows at this but remained silent.

“Good,” said Stone. He sat back in his desk chair and his features grew serious. “The park.” He gave them a minute-by-minute account of what had happened. When he was finished he added, “There are three people out there unaccounted for.” He gazed at Beefy. “And do we know the name of the unfortunate jogger?”

“There were human remains found. Everywhere,” Beefy added, his mouth curled up with distaste.

“Identifiable?”

“It won’t be an easy one, but it’s also not insurmountable. Clearly DNA at this point. If he’s on a database somewhere we’ll get a hit. We’ve posted his picture from the video feed on our Web sites and given it to the media to splash around. Someone will hopefully come forward or at the very least report him missing.”

“The other three?”

“With the man in the suit and the woman we’re running the video feed taken at the park through facial recognition databases, although the man never looked in the direction of the surveillance cameras. No hits as of four minutes ago. We’ve also placed the images with the media, asking for the public’s help.”

“Do you see them as perhaps connected to this?” asked Stone.

“Too early to tell. Maybe they were just lucky they left the park when they did.”

“And the ganger? Was he a cop?”

“Did NIC tell you he was?”

“Not in so many words. But they didn’t deny it either.”

“I won’t deny it either, then.”

Stone said, “His tooth was sticking in my head until the doctors removed it. You can get a dental match on that, and possibly a DNA hit.” He held up his sleeve. “And this is his blood. Do you have a kit in the trunk of the Bucar? You can swab for it right now.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Chapman.

Stone turned to her. “And why is that?”

“Because the tooth belongs to one of our security people who was patrolling the park. The doctors didn’t return it to you, did they? See, my man would actually like it back.”

“And why was your man in the park last night?”

“Because before he turned his ankle after tripping on some steps at the White House, my prime minister was scheduled to walk across Lafayette Park on his way back to Blair House, at precisely two minutes past eleven. Lucky for him he didn’t, since he would have had his damn head blown off.”

After the FBI agents and MI6 Chapman left, Stone puttered in the cemetery for a half hour, righting tombstones toppled by a recent heavy rain and cleaning debris caused by the same storm. This manual labor allowed him to think clearly. And he had a lot that was puzzling him and no answers. As he was bagging some sticks and small branches, he stiffened and slowly turned around.

“I’m impressed.”

He turned to see Mary Chapman come out from behind a bush. “I never moved. What, you have eyes in the back of your head?”