Дэвид Балдаччи - Hell's Corner

The FBI director looked up at him, stunned. Across the conference table from him was seated Riley Weaver.

The director said, “What the hell is going on?”

Stone didn’t even look at him. His gaze went immediately to Weaver. “What did you tell her?”

“What?” snapped Weaver. “We’re in the middle of a meeting, in case you hadn’t noticed, Stone.”

Stone came around the table with such a threatening look that Weaver half rose out of his seat, his hands curled into fists, his body hunched into a defensive stance in case Stone attacked.

The director barked, “Ashburn, what is going on? Why did you let him in—”

Stone shouted, “What did you tell Friedman about me, Weaver?”

“I haven’t talked to the woman. I warned you before. If you start accusing me of crap—”

“I mean before I told you she was behind it all,” barked Stone. “You talked to her then, didn’t you?”

Weaver slowly sat back down in his chair. The FBI director stared over at him. Ashburn gazed at him from the doorway. Weaver looked at each of them before turning back to Stone.

“She was one of my field agents. I had every right to talk to her.”

“What did you tell her about me? That I figured it out? That I was the one who warned the Secret Service? That I was the reason the plan didn’t work?”

“So what if I did?” blustered Weaver. “I didn’t know she was a traitor then. And frankly, I still don’t know that she is. For all I know someone kidnapped her or even killed her.”

Chapman walked into the room. “They didn’t. And she is a traitor. She set us up. Diverted us while she had two of Stone’s friends kidnapped.”

“What!” exclaimed the FBI director and Ashburn in unison.

“How do you know that?” asked Weaver curiously. “We searched the train to Miami, she wasn’t on it. But something tells me you already knew that.” He glanced at the FBI director. “Holding out on us, Stone?”

“I’m no longer working for the government, in case you didn’t get the memo.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“What’s bullshit is you talking to Friedman and not telling any of us. In fact, I bet you kept her in the loop the whole time. I wondered how they always knew what we were going to do before we even did it. Now I know. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t owe you or anyone else an explanation for my actions.”

“I’ll tell that to my friends when I find their bodies,” snapped Stone.

Ashburn said, “Do you have any idea where she’s holding them?”

Stone calmed and finally looked away from Weaver. “No,” he lied. “I don’t.”

“So why’d you come here?” asked Weaver. “You want our help?”

“No. I just wanted to know who I had to thank for fingering me to Friedman.”

“Damn it, I didn’t do it intentionally,” roared Weaver.

But Stone had already left the room. They could hear him marching rapidly down the hall.

Ashburn looked at Chapman. “What is going on?”

“He told you. His friends have gone missing and Friedman has them.”

“You’re sure?” asked the director.

“Heard it from the horse’s mouth.”

Ashburn glanced down the hall. “What is he going to do?”

“What do you think he’s going to do?” replied Chapman.

“He can’t do this alone.”

The director added, “We have resources that he doesn’t.”

“That may be all well and good. But he’s John Carr. And quite frankly he’s got resources you lot don’t have either. And there’s no one on earth who has more motivation to get this woman than he does.”

“And you’re telling us he doesn’t know where they are being held?” asked Ashburn.

“If he does he hasn’t bothered to tell me.”

“Where did you find this information out?”

“In the South Bronx,” said Chapman. “The South Bronx!” yelled Ashburn. “How did you get a line on the South Bronx?”

“You’ll have to ask Sherlock Holmes that question. I’m just good old Watson.”

“Agent Chapman,” began the director.

“Sir,” she said, heading him off. “If I knew something helpful I would tell you.”

“Why don’t I believe that?” He paused, studying her. “I think I can plainly see where your loyalties lie.”

“My loyalties, sir, lie about three thousand miles from here, to a dear old lady, an ambitious PM and an old man with dandruff and a brilliant mind.”

“Are you sure?” asked the director.

“I’ve always been sure of that,” replied Chapman.

She turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” demanded Weaver.

“Holmes needs his Watson.”

“Agent Chapman, this is not your fight,” said the director.

“Perhaps not. But it would be awfully bad form to stop now.”

“I can have you detained,” said the director.

“Yes, you can. But I don’t think you will.”

Chapman turned and hurried after Stone.

“So why Annabelle and Caleb?” said Harry Finn as they all drove in Knox’s Range Rover west of Washington, D.C., on Route 29. The night was dark, though dawn was only a couple of hours away. The ambient light was limited and the mood in the vehicle matched the outside: black.

Stone, who was again riding shotgun, said grimly, “Because they helped me run a scam on her and I guess she didn’t like it.”

And I let her decoy me with a tactic a rookie should have seen through and I fell for it like the damn fool I am.

But there was something else nagging at Stone. Mere revenge didn’t seem enough motivation for someone as intelligent and ambitious as Marisa Friedman. There had to be something more. He just didn’t know what that was. And if he was afraid of anything, it was the unknown.

They’d quickly confirmed that both Annabelle and Caleb were missing and that no one had seen them for at least twenty-four hours. Stone had taken a few minutes to visit Alex Ford in the ICU. His condition hadn’t changed, but it hadn’t gotten worse either, which Stone took as a rare bit of good news. As he stared down at his friend lying on the hospital bed with thick bandages wound round his head, Stone had gripped his hand and squeezed it. “Alex, if you can hear me, it’s going to be okay. I promise that everything will be okay.” He paused, drawing a long breath that seemed to take forever to leave his body. “You’re a hero, Alex. The president is okay. No one was hurt. You’re a hero.” Stone looked down at his hand. He thought he had felt the other man squeeze it. But when he looked back up at the unconscious agent he knew that was just wishful thinking. Stone let go and walked to the doorway. Something made him look back. As he stared at his friend lying in the bed and fighting for his life, he felt a measure of guilt so powerful his knees started to buckle.

He’s lying there because of me. And now Caleb and Annabelle are probably dead. Again, because of me.

Stone had made one other stop, at a rare book store in Old Town Alexandria. The owner had been helped by Stone and Caleb and in return had allowed Stone to keep certain items there in a secret room underneath the old building. Those items were now in the back of the Rover.

“Murder Mountain?” said Chapman. “You mentioned it but didn’t really explain it.”

Knox answered when it didn’t appear Stone was going to. “Old CIA training facility. Shut down before my time. Hell of a place, from what I’ve heard. The way the Agency used to do things during the Cold War. I thought they’d demolished it.”

“No, they haven’t,” said Stone.

Knox eyed him curiously. “Have you been back recently?”

“Yes. Pretty recently.”