The Collectors

by David Baldacci

  honey. Then zip, it’s Portland for your sweet ass anyway.”

  “I just want to nail that little son of a bitch so bad.”

  Bagger looked thoughtful. “Well, maybe that can be arranged.”

  She looked up at him warily. “Jerry, you can’t put a hit on the guy, okay?”

  “I’m not thinking about that, baby. You said he might be pissed because you’re doing your job too well. How’s that?”

  “I bring in too much money, then all of a sudden people start looking at me to move up. I start moving up, then all of a sudden I’m a threat to his job. Believe it or not, Jerry, there aren’t a lot of women doing what I do. There are some who would love to see another female in a section chief slot. If I keep bringing in people like you and flood our overseas operations with ‘finessed’ cash, it hurts him and helps me.”

  “Hell, only in the government sector do you get dinged for overproducing.” He thought for a moment. “Okay, I see how we can turn the tables on this bozo.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Our next run at El Banco.”

  “Jerry, I’m being reassigned. My associate and I are on a plane tonight.”

  “Okay, okay. But here’s the deal. Until you leave you can do one last run, right?”

  Annabelle seemed to consider this. “Well, yeah, I mean, I have the authorizations. But even a million bucks in interest isn’t going to get me this guy’s corner office.”

  “I’m not talking a measly million.” He looked at her. “What’s the largest single amount you’ve ‘finessed’?”

  She thought for a moment. “Most of the wires are one to five million. But I did fifteen million in Vegas. And twenty mil from New York, but that was two years ago.”

  “Chickenshit.”

  “Chickenshit? Right!”

  “Tell me, what would really hurt this guy?”

  “Jerry, I don’t know. Thirty million.”

  “Let’s make it forty million. And let’s make it four days instead of two.” He figured quickly in his head. “So that’s twenty percent interest instead of ten. And that comes to eight million to yours truly. A nice piece of finessing.”

  “You’ve got forty million in cash?”

  “Hey, who do you think you’re talking to? And we had two championship fights here in the last week. I’m flush with green.”

  “But why are you doing this?”

  “Eight mil in four days is nothing to sneeze at, even for a guy like me.” He gave her neck a rub. “Plus, like I said, you’re growing on me, lady.”

  “But I’m still going to Oregon. I can’t disobey orders.”

  “Okay, you go to Oregon. But then you think about getting out and coming back here. I’ll even give you ten percent of the eight and set you up nice.”

  “I’m not looking to be your kept woman, Jerry. I’ve got a brain.”

  “That you do, and I’ll put it to good use. Along with the rest of you.” He ran his hand down her back. “I’ll call down to the boys.”

  “But like I said, I leave for Oregon tonight by private plane.”

  “I understand that.”

  “What I’m saying, Jerry, is there’s no way you’ll have your money back before I leave.”

  He laughed. “Oh, the hostage thing? I think we’re past that, sweetie. You’ve made me one point six million and counting, so I think you’ve proved yourself.”

  “Only if you’re sure. Forty mil is a lot of money.”

  “Hey, the gig was my idea, not yours. I’ll handle it.”

  She stood. “I’ve run a lot of these ops, Jerry, and to me it’s just a job.” She paused. “Everybody else they just wanted to know how much, how much. Greedy bastards all of them.” She paused again, seeming to search for the words, though she’d practiced them for a long time. “You’re the first one to ever do something for me. And I appreciate it. More than you’ll ever know.” This was probably the first true statement she’d uttered in Bagger’s presence.

  They looked at each other, and then Annabelle slowly put her arms out and braced herself. He immediately crushed his body against hers. She almost gagged on his heavy cologne. His strong hands quickly found their way under her skirt, and she let them stay there, enduring his brutish groping in silence. She so wanted to slam a knee into his crotch. Hold on, Annabelle, you can do this. You have to do this.

  “Oh, baby,” Bagger moaned into her ear. “Come on, let’s do it. One time before you hit the road. Right here on the couch. I’m dying here. Dying.”

  “Trust me, I can feel it against my leg, Jerry,” she said as she managed finally to pry herself away from him. Annabelle adjusted her underwear and pulled her skirt back down. “Okay, stud, I can see I’m not going to be able to resist you much longer. Tell me, you ever been to Rome?”

  He looked puzzled. “No. Why?”

  “I rent a villa there every year when I go on my rare vacation time. I’ll call you with all the details. And two weeks from today I’ll meet you there.”

  “Why two weeks, why not now?”

  “That’ll give me time to report in to my new assignment, and maybe use the forty-mil run to leverage something better than Portland.”

  “But my offer to come back stands. And I can be pretty damn persuasive.”

  She ran a finger slowly over his mouth. “Show me how persuasive you are in Rome, baby.”

  The $40-million wire left the Pompeii Casino two hours later. The e-mail that Tony had first sent to the Pompeii’s operations center had a special component to it: ultrasophisticated spyware that had allowed Tony, from a remote location, to take control of the Pompeii’s computer system. With that secret access he had written new code into their money-wiring program.

  The three other wires had gone to El Banco, but when they’d sent the $40 million out, it had instead been automatically rerouted to another foreign bank and into an account controlled by Annabelle Conroy. While it would look to Bagger’s people that the money had reached El Banco—a phony electronic receipt would be automatically sent to the Pompeii—not a dime of it would ever come back to him. Annabelle’s scheme had been mainly for one purpose: to get the spyware on Bagger’s computer system. With that done, she was golden. And then she had played her part and let Bagger’s greed and lust bury the man, because the best way to con a mark was to let the mark suggest the con.

  Four days from today to the minute, Bagger would grow a little nervous when his money didn’t show up. An hour later he would be getting a sick feeling in his gut. An hour after that he would become homicidal. And Annabelle and her crew would be long gone with over 41 million tax-free dollars to keep them company.

  Annabelle Conroy could buy her boat and sail the rest of her life away, leaving the endless cons behind. Yet it was still not enough punishment, she thought as she left Bagger’s office to pack her suitcase. First, though, she was going to take a shower to get the man’s grime off her.

  As Annabelle was bathing, she thought again that the money loss was clearly not enough pain for the man who’d murdered her mother over ten thousand bucks that Paddy Conroy had duped Bagger out of. There was never enough pain for that. Yet even Annabelle had to admit, $40 million was a nice start.

  CHAPTER 25

  ROGER SEAGRAVES HAD DISCOV-ered where Stone lived and had sent men to the cottage when it was empty. They’d searched the cottage thoroughly, leaving no sign that they had been there. And most important, they had left with Stone’s fingerprints, taken from a glass and a second off the kitchen countertop.

  Seagraves had run the fingerprints through the CIA’s general database, finding nothing. Using a password he’d stolen from a fellow employee, he tried a highly restricted database. Access was granted, and he placed the print in the hopper. A minute later this led him to Subdirectory 666, one that he was certainly well acquainted with, although his search request for Stone’s prints came back with “access denied.” Seagraves was familiar with Subdirectory 666 because it was where
his own personnel history was kept, or at least the sort of “personnel” he used to be. He had often laughed at the “666” label, thinking it rather cheeky, though accurate nonetheless.

  Seagraves exited the computer system and pondered this development. Stone had worked for the CIA, judging from his age, a long time ago. He had probably been an “eliminator” because the Triple Six classification was never given to those who pushed a pencil or pressed computer keys for the Agency. At present, Seagraves didn’t quite know how to take this discovery. He’d since learned that Stone’s librarian friend had been given the task of selling DeHaven’s book collection. Unfortunately, his men’s pursuit of Stone had raised the man’s suspicions. And a Triple Six man was born with inherent paranoia; that was just one of the many qualifications for the job.

  Should I kill him now? Or would that dig the hole even deeper? Seagraves eventually decided to forgo that lethal step. He would always have that option later. Hell, I’ll do it myself. One Triple Six to another. Young versus old, and young always won that battle. You get to live, Oliver Stone. For now.

  But he would have to do something about the man. And there was no time like the present.

  Two days after their last visit to DeHaven’s house Stone and Reuben rode on the latter’s motorcycle to a rare book shop in Old Town Alexandria. The name of the shop was in Latin, and translated meant “Book of Four Sentences.” Caleb had an ownership share in the place, which had once been named Doug’s Books, until Caleb’s brilliant idea to go completely upscale in the very affluent area. Stone was not here because he wanted to look at more old books. He kept some items at the shop that he needed to consult.

  The owner of the shop, the aforementioned Doug, who now went by the more formal “Douglas,” allowed Stone unfettered access to his hiding place. This was so because Douglas was terrified of Oliver Stone, a man who’d been described to him by Caleb (at Stone’s prompting) as a homicidal maniac walking free solely on a legal technicality.

  Stone’s secret room was in the basement behind a false wall that was opened by pulling a wire hanging in an adjacent fireplace. A former priest’s hole in the ancient building, it now contained many items from Stone’s past life, plus a collection of his journals filled with cuttings from newspapers and magazines.

  With Reuben’s help he found and pulled several of these journals and took them with him. Reuben dropped him off at his cottage in the cemetery.

  “Keep a close lookout, Oliver,” Reuben warned. “If that little dipshit Behan is involved in this, he’s got plenty of muscle and connections behind him.”

  Stone assured him that he would be careful, said good-bye and stepped inside the cottage. He brewed some strong coffee, settled at his desk and started going over the journals. The stories he’d selected dealt with the assassination of the Speaker of the House, Robert “Bob” Bradley. And also the nearly simultaneous destruction of his home, an event that only the most naive could’ve thought was a coincidence. Yet there seemed to be no connection between Bradley’s obvious murder allegedly at the hands of a domestic terrorist group calling itself Americans Against 1984 and Jonathan DeHaven’s seemingly innocent death. The FBI had received a note from the group which said that Bradley had been killed as a first step in the war against the federal government. The terrorists promised more attacks, and security in Washington had been heightened in response.

  As he turned the pages of his journal, something nagged at Stone, but he couldn’t quite pin it down. Bradley had been Speaker for a short period, after a political shake-up that had seen the incumbent Speaker and the majority leader both convicted of selling influence and laundering political campaign funds. Normally, the Speaker position would have followed party leadership lines, but with the top two men in jail, extraordinary measures were called for. And Bob Bradley, a powerful committee chairman with an impeccable reputation far removed from the tainted leadership ladder of his party, had been the political Moses buttonholed to lead his people out of this nasty thicket of impropriety.

  He’d started by promising an ethical cleanup in the House of Representatives and an end to partisan politics. Many had promised that, and few if any had delivered on that pledge, yet it was thought that if anyone could do it, Bob Bradley could.

  Stone turned to another journal and another story. This one dealt with Cornelius Behan, recounting how he had come to this country with no money in his pocket and built an international conglomerate from nothing but his own sweat and nerve. Defense contractors had the reputation, often well deserved, of playing fast and loose with ethical rules. Paying off congressmen for political favors was one of the oldest games played in Washington, and the tank and plane builders played it as well as anyone.

  Stone finished reading the story on Behan, which detailed two enormous and recent wins for his business. One was from the Pentagon for a new generation conventional missile system and the other to build a massive new bunker for the Congress outside of Washington for use in case of a cataclysmic attack. While some cynics might argue that the best thing that could happen to the country in case of such a catastrophe would be the elimination of that august body, Stone supposed the country needed some continuity of government.

  Each of these contracts was worth billions, and Behan had won them both. As the article explained, he had outflanked his opponents at every critical juncture. “It was as though he could read their minds,” the reporter had written. Stone didn’t believe in mind readers, but having been a spy as a young man, he did believe in stealing secrets.

  Stone leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. If Bradley’s predecessor had been in Behan’s pocket and Bradley had promised a crackdown on corruption, it might be worth it to take the new crusader out. There was no guarantee that Bradley’s successor would be any more cooperative to folks like Behan, but there was also the factor of intimidation. Would a new Speaker be inclined to go full bore ahead with Bradley’s pledge to bring ethics back when that same promise might have led to his colleague’s violent death? The terrorist group could simply be a smoke screen, and an unverifiable one at that.

  Stone had initially started thinking about Bradley’s death because there was only one connection he could see between the man’s murder and DeHaven’s. And that connection was Cornelius Behan, a man who’d made billions by selling myriad things that killed lots of people, all in the name of peace.

  Was it Behan’s men in the D.C. Public Works van? Could they have somehow caused the Secret Service to retreat like that? Or was it another agency, working closely with Behan, that had taken on the role of running interference for him? People had debated for decades the existence of the military-industrial complex. Stone had never wondered about it. He had participated in that complex for years. If it was anything like it was thirty years ago, it was a potent force to be reckoned with. It was also a force that would not hesitate to eliminate people who got in the way. Stone also knew this from personal experience. After all, he used to be one of the “eliminators.”

  He would have Milton find out as much as possible about Bradley and Behan. Milton could get into databases that he had no business being on; yet those were always the most interesting ones. Stone would go to Bradley’s demolished home to see if anything turned up there. And he needed to return to Jonathan DeHaven’s house because he had to look through that telescope again, and not because he was anxious to be titillated by another episode of Behan’s sex show. No, there was something very obvious that he had completely overlooked.

  A sudden chill hit him, and he rose to start a fire. Then he stopped and rubbed his skin. He was cold, very cold. What the hell had the woman said? He struggled to recall her exact words. “Your temperature is coming back up.” Yes, that’s what the nurse taking care of Caleb had said. It had struck him as odd, because in a hospital one would normally hear that you were recovering if your temperature were coming down. But she had said he was almost up to normal, he was certain of it.

  Stone grew very excit
ed. Something was finally starting to make sense. He grabbed his cell phone to call the others but then stopped as he gazed out the window. From here he had a direct line of sight onto the street that bordered the cemetery. A white D.C. Public Works van was parked there. He could see it clearly under the streetlight.

  Stone immediately drew away from the window. He called Reuben but it didn’t go through. He looked at his cell phone. He had no power bars. Yet there was always a strong signal in this area. He glanced out the window. Jammers. He tried his hard-line phone. It was dead.

  He grabbed his coat and hurried to the back door. He would clamber over the rear fence and make his way through a labyrinth of Georgetown streets to an abandoned dwelling he occasionally used as a safe house. He cautiously opened the door and stepped outside. The fence was in sight.

  The shot to his chest stopped him cold and dropped Stone to his knees. Already lapsing into unconsciousness, Stone looked over at the man standing there, wearing a black hood and holding the gun with both hands. It seemed to Stone that the man smiled even as his victim fell to the hard ground and lay still.

  CHAPTER 26

  IT WAS THE DARKNESS OF INTER-rogation. Stone recognized this as soon as he awoke. It was so black that not only could Stone not see any part of his body, but it seemed as though he had no body. He was barefoot, painfully thrust up on his tiptoes, and his hands were bound over his head. The place he was in was very cold. These places were always cold because cold wore you down faster than heat. He could sense that not only was he shoeless, he was also naked.

  The voice called out from the blackness. “Awake?”

  Stone nodded.

  “Say it,” the voice commanded.

  “Awake,” Stone answered. He would only give them the minimum, nothing more. He had been through this before, albeit three decades ago when a mission had gone awry and he had found himself a prisoner in a land where no American would ever want to be held captive.

  “Name?”

  This was exactly what he’d been dreading.

  “Oliver Stone.”

  Something hard hit him on the back of the head, momentarily stunning him.

  “Name?”

  “Oliver Stone,” he said slowly, wondering if the blow had cracked his skull.

  “Okay for now, Oliver. DeHaven?” the voice said.

  “Who?”