Stone Cold

CHAPTER 69

DRESSED IN THE OUTFIT of a Capitol Grounds maintenance crewman, Harry Fi

Fi

The end had finally come. Fi

Fi

“Hey, Dad!”

Fi

David Fi

Fi

“Hey, Dave, what are you doing here?”

His son rolled his eyes. “You going senile on me, Pop? The school visit to the Capitol? You signed the permission slip? Mom gave me the money last night at di

Fi

David noticed his dad’s clothes. “What’s with the uniform?”

“I’m working,” he said quietly.

David’s face brightened. “Cool, you mean you’re undercover?”

“I really can’t talk about it, son. In fact, you better get going. It’s not really great that you’re here actually.” Fi

David looked disappointed. “Hey, sure. I get it. Secret stuff.”

“Sorry, Dave. Sometimes I wish I had a normal job.”

“Yeah, me too.” He jogged back to his friends.

When Fi

He stared over at David and his friends. His son glanced over at his father once and then looked away. The group of students marched down the sidewalk toward the Capitol.

Fi

After what Max Himmerling had told him the night before, Oliver Stone had come here to check out the office of Roger Simpson too, at least from a distance. Either Gray or Simpson had ordered Solomon’s death and the hit on Stone. Since he couldn’t get to Gray, Simpson was the next best thing. Now, however, there had come a detour. Stone had heard and seen enough of Fi

When Fi

Fi

Stone bought some coffee and a magazine. The flight was called. Fi

Stone was debating what to do when Fi

Keeping an eye on him, Stone stepped over to a taxi and leaned in the window. “Got a layover. Anything within walking distance of here?”

“Some residences, some shops, a nursing home,” the driver said as he idly read his newspaper.

“Nursing home?”

“Yeah, you want to go there for a little R and R during your layover?” He chuckled.

Stone slid in the backseat. “Just drive for now, slow.”

The driver shrugged, put down his paper and the taxi pulled off.

CHAPTER 70

HERB DASCHLE WAS A VETERAN employee of the CIA. He’d done years of fieldwork, seen the world, ridden a desk for the last decade and then accepted his current position. It was not all that exciting, and the public was totally unaware of it, but it was vital to the security of the CIA and thus the nation. Or so said the Agency’s internal manual.

For two months Daschle had been coming to this nursing home three times a week and sitting in a chair in the private room of a man who was lying unconscious in the bed. The man was very high up in the CIA and his head was filled with secrets that could never be revealed to the public. Unfortunately, he’d had an aneurysm and was not quite himself. He could say things without knowing, disclosing vital national secrets unintentionally.

That could not be allowed, so men like Daschle came out and stayed with incapacitated Agency employees possessing such sensitive knowledge. There had been a man in the operating room when the surgery was done to relieve the pressure on the brain. There had been an agent stationed in the post-op, and there was 24/7 surveillance here at the nursing home, where it was hoped the man would eventually recover. Even the man’s own family was never allowed to be left alone with him. This had come as quite a shock, because the family was not aware that this husband, father and grandfather even worked for the CIA.

Twelve o’clock came and Daschle rose from his seat as a fellow agent, his replacement for the next shift, sat down. The two men exchanged pleasantries and Daschle mentioned a few items from his watch, nothing of importance. He left the room, dying for a cigarette, and wandered down the hall toward the snack room to buy a can of soda and some crackers before he left. The voices coming out of one room that he passed stopped him. It seemed to be Russian. Daschle knew that language well, having been stationed in Moscow for nearly nine years. Although if what he was hearing was Russian, it was a particularly mangled version. It actually sounded like an amalgam of several Slavic languages. He’d also been stationed in Poland and Bulgaria for a time. He edged closer to the door of the room, which was open just a crack, and listened a bit more. Then he heard enough to make him hustle out of the building. And it wasn’t for a cigarette.

As soon as he was gone, Oliver Stone stepped from around the corner where he too had been listening. He watched the fleeing man.