Part 43 (1/2)
Gray had had the databases checked thoroughly. There were no electronic tracks showing who might have altered the files. That was not surprising, considering Johnson's expertise and the fact that he helped create the database and spent his days troubleshooting the system. He well knew how to hide what he'd done. Yet who got him to do it in the first place and paid him well, judging by his expensive home and cars? And Gray pondered something else. Where was the president? It had to be somewhere relatively close by. Despite what he'd said to Hamilton on the subject, Gray did not believe for one moment that James Brennan was in Medina, Saudi Arabia. No Muslim would take a Christian there. It had to be somewhere relatively close by. Despite what he'd said to Hamilton on the subject, Gray did not believe for one moment that James Brennan was in Medina, Saudi Arabia. No Muslim would take a Christian there.
He thought back to the day Jackie Simpson and that other agent came to NIC. They were accompanied by two of his men. Reynolds? No, Reinke. The tall, lean one. The other one was shorter and thicker. Peters. That's right. Hemingway told him that they'd been a.s.signed to look into the Johnson homicide. Gray picked up a phone and asked for the whereabouts of these two agents. The answer was surprising. They had not reported for duty tonight. He made another query. This surprised him even more, and then he wondered why he hadn't asked that particular question before now.
Gray was told that Tom Hemingway had a.s.signed the pair to investigate the death of Patrick Johnson. At least Gray knew where Hemingway was. He'd been dispatched to the Middle East under deep cover soon after the kidnapping to see what he could find out. Hemingway had volunteered for the mission. Yet, there was no way to communicate with him. They had to wait for him to contact them. Wait for him to contact them. Wait for him to contact them.
Gray put his hand in the biometric reader on Johnson's desk, instantly giving him access to the dead man's computer. Gray typed in a command and the result was very swift. Tom Hemingway had accessed Johnson's computer. When Gray looked at the time stamp of when this occurred, he concluded it was when Hemingway met with Simpson and Alex. And yet something puzzled Gray greatly. Hemingway was not supposed to have access to Johnson's computer, or any of the other data supervisors'.
Gray slowly rose from the chair. He was too old for this job. He was not up to it anymore. The truth had been dancing in front of his eyes this whole time. Gray's next question was an obvious one. Where? Where? The answer to that query came almost immediately. The answer to that query came almost immediately.
Gray picked up the phone again and ordered his chopper readied immediately and then called up a team of his most loyal field operatives. He bolted from Johnson's office and jogged down the halls of NIC.
Gray didn't need fancy databases to guide him to the truth. His gut was screaming the answer at him, and his gut had rarely led him down the wrong path.
CHAPTER 64.
THEY WERE IN ALEX'S CROWN Vic heading southwest on Route 29. Alex and Stone were in the front while Simpson and Reuben rode in the back. Alex glanced sideways at his companion. Here the Secret Service agent was, heading toward a possible showdown with a man who masterminded the kidnapping of a United States president. His ”rescue team” consisted of a rookie Secret Service agent and a big guy pus.h.i.+ng sixty whom Adelphia called s.h.i.+fty Pants. And then there was the man named Oliver Stone, who worked in a cemetery, leading them all to a place called Murder Mountain. And to top it off, if they failed, the world might very well be toast. Alex sighed. Vic heading southwest on Route 29. Alex and Stone were in the front while Simpson and Reuben rode in the back. Alex glanced sideways at his companion. Here the Secret Service agent was, heading toward a possible showdown with a man who masterminded the kidnapping of a United States president. His ”rescue team” consisted of a rookie Secret Service agent and a big guy pus.h.i.+ng sixty whom Adelphia called s.h.i.+fty Pants. And then there was the man named Oliver Stone, who worked in a cemetery, leading them all to a place called Murder Mountain. And to top it off, if they failed, the world might very well be toast. Alex sighed. We're all dead. We're all dead.
About thirty-five minutes after they'd branched off from Route 29 onto Highway 211, they entered the small town of Was.h.i.+ngton, Virginia, the seat of Rappahannock County. From there, Stone gave intricate instructions and they rose into the mountains, soon leaving any semblance of civilization behind as asphalt roads turned to gravel and then to dirt. It was difficult to believe they were a little over two hours away from the nation's capital and not that far east of the confluence of busy Interstates 81 and 66.
Simpson said from the backseat, ”So what is this Murder Mountain place?”
Stone glanced at her with a bemused expression and then looked out the winds.h.i.+eld. ”Take the next right, Alex, and then pull off the road.”
”Road!” Alex said in frustration. ”What road? I haven't seen a real road for about twenty miles. My suspension's shot.”
They were in the midst of the mountains now, and the only thing that looked back at them from out of the darkness was thick forest.
Stone glanced back at Simpson. ”As I said before, Murder Mountain was a training facility for special operatives of the CIA.”
”I know that's what you said. What I want to know is, why do you call it Murder Mountain?”
”Well, the short answer to that is they weren't being trained to be nice to people.”
Simpson snorted. ”So you're saying a U.S. government agency was training murderers? Is that what you're saying?”
Stone pointed up ahead. ”Pull the car over there, Alex. We're going to have to walk now.”
Alex obeyed this instruction, unclipped his magnetized flashlight from the doorpost of the Crown Vic, went around to the trunk and started pa.s.sing out equipment. This included guns and night-vision gear.
Reuben and Stone both handled their weapons expertly.
”Nam, three tours and then DIA,” Reuben said in response to a curious look from Alex. ”I know my way around a pistol.”
”Good,” Alex said. He looked at Stone, who was checking his weapon.
”You all right with that, Oliver?”
”I'm fine,” Stone said quietly. Actually, he was terrified to have a gun in his hand after all these years.
”In case we get split up for any reason, everybody got a cell phone?” Alex asked.
”The signal probably won't work well up here,” Reuben commented.
”And once we get inside the building, there won't be any transmission possible,” Stone said. ”The building was constructed with copper and lead s.h.i.+elding.”
”Great,” Alex said. ”Okay, Oliver, lead the way.”
They headed into the woods.
”Does anyone have a problem with caves?” Stone asked as he halted the group at an entrance into the side of the mountain.
”I have a real real problem with getting lost and dying in one,” Alex said. problem with getting lost and dying in one,” Alex said.
”That won't happen, but it does get a little snug in places.”
”How snug?” Reuben asked anxiously. ”I'm not exactly a little guy.”
”You'll be fine,” Stone rea.s.sured his friend.
Alex stared into the pitch-black hole. ”Is this the entrance to the building?”
”It's not one of the official entrances, but they'd be watching the official entrances, wouldn't they?” Stone replied. ”Okay, stay close to me.” He shone his light ahead and stepped inside.
Simpson was the last to enter, and she clearly wasn't very happy about this turn of events. She glanced around behind her, s.h.i.+vered and followed the others inside.
It took them some time to navigate the curving pa.s.sageways. In two spots they had to clear debris that had fallen down and blocked the way, and in several other locations they had to crawl through. Above them the ceiling creaked and groaned, prompting them to hurry along faster.
They reached a shaft that had rough foot- and handholds carved into the rock. Stone went first. When he reached the top, he shone his light on a wall of black rock. However, when he tapped it, the wall was hollow. He felt along the wall, then carefully pushed on it until the section started giving way. Alex clambered up and helped him, and soon the wall had been pushed back.
They all scrambled through the opening.
The wall they had pushed out was wooden, but painted on the back side to look like rock. The other side of the wall, the one inside the building, had a shelf attached to it. Stone popped the wall back into place.
Stone whispered, ”Now, I think it would be wise for everyone to have their guns ready. We don't know how close we might be to someone.”
As they walked along, they looked around at the immensity of the place. And it was as though they had stepped back in time forty years. There were even ashtrays built into the stainless-steel walls.
A few moments later loud noises echoed from somewhere, causing all except Stone to point their weapons in all directions.
”It's only birds that have gotten in,” he explained. ”That happened in the old days too.”
With those words Stone felt himself freeze. The old days. The old days. It sounded so innocuous, as though he were returning to his cherished alma mater for a reunion. This place had been his home for twelve months. A year of his life devoted 24/7 to learning the most precise and intricate ways to kill people. As a young man Oliver Stone had excelled in these surroundings and at that task. A Special Forces soldier, the transition to the CIA team had not been that difficult. He had traded one weapon for another, and his enemies became civilians who didn't even know they were under attack. As a young man his successes in the field had made him a legend in the special ops world. As an older man he found it all too horrible to contemplate. He couldn't believe that two such different men could inhabit the same body. It sounded so innocuous, as though he were returning to his cherished alma mater for a reunion. This place had been his home for twelve months. A year of his life devoted 24/7 to learning the most precise and intricate ways to kill people. As a young man Oliver Stone had excelled in these surroundings and at that task. A Special Forces soldier, the transition to the CIA team had not been that difficult. He had traded one weapon for another, and his enemies became civilians who didn't even know they were under attack. As a young man his successes in the field had made him a legend in the special ops world. As an older man he found it all too horrible to contemplate. He couldn't believe that two such different men could inhabit the same body.
As they walked along, memories kept flooding back to Stone. Every new sighting, every fresh smell or distant sound, brought with it a recollection of past horrors. The others would all be looking to him to lead them, perhaps to save them. And yet he had never been trained to save save anyone. The sweat broke over Stone's forehead. He had brought three people he cared much about to die here. On Murder Mountain. anyone. The sweat broke over Stone's forehead. He had brought three people he cared much about to die here. On Murder Mountain.