Stone said, “Keep an eye out. If the van follows you, I’ll call you on your cell phone.”

“Shouldn’t you call Alex Ford for some backup? After all, we did make him an honorary member of the Camel Club.”

“Alex is no longer assigned to the White House. And I don’t want to call him out on what might be nothing. But there are other Secret Service personnel here that can help me.”

When Reuben pulled away, Stone slowly passed his tent, with the sign “I want the truth” next to it. No other protesters were here tonight, including his friend Adelphia. Then he made his way quickly toward a statue in the park of a Polish general who’d aided the Americans in the Revolutionary War. His reward for this good service had been a large memorial on which hundreds of birds crapped daily. Climbing up on the statue’s pedestal, he saw that the van remained parked on 15th Street, outside the 1600 block of Pennsylvania Avenue closed to traffic.

Stone climbed back down and approached one of the uniformed guards who protected the White House perimeter.

“What’s up tonight, Oliver?” the man said. He’d been guarding the White House for almost ten years and was well acquainted with Stone. For his part Stone was always polite and adhered strictly to the rules of the protest permit that he carried in his pocket.

“Hello, Joe, I wanted to give you the heads–up on something. It might not be anything, but I know the Service doesn’t like to take chances.” He quickly explained about the van, but without pointing toward it. “I thought you should know in case you wanted to check it out.”

“Thanks, Oliver. I owe you.”

As Stone had learned in all his years here, there was no detail too small for the Secret Service when it came to guarding the president. Thus, a couple minutes later he watched from nearby as Joe, joined by another armed guard, approached the D.C. Public Works van. Stone wished he had thought to bring his binoculars tonight, but they sat on his desk back at the cottage. He tensed when the driver’s window of the van came down.

The next thing that happened was stunning. The two uniformed guards whirled around and walked quickly away from the van as the driver’s window slid back up. The men did not come near Oliver Stone; they headed in the exact opposite direction as fast as they could go without running while the van remained where it was.

“Damn,” Stone muttered under his breath.

Now he knew. The people in the van were members of a government agency with enough clout to send the Secret Service scurrying away like frightened children. Now was the time to run. But how? Should he call Reuben? Yet he didn’t really want to involve his friend in this. A thought struck him.

Was his past finally catching up to him?

He quickly made up his mind and strode off across the park, reached H Street and turned left. The Farragut West Metro stop was only a couple blocks away. He checked his watch. Damn! The subway was closed. He changed direction, constantly looking over his shoulder for signs of the van. He decided to keep hoofing it down the street; he might catch a late–running bus.

When he reached the next intersection, the public works van screeched to a stop directly in front of him and the slide door started opening.

Then Stone heard the voice shouting at him.

“Oliver!”

He looked to his right. Reuben had driven his motorcycle up on the sidewalk and was speeding directly at him. He slowed just enough to allow Stone to dive into the sidecar. Reuben flew over the curb, back onto the street and gunned the motorcycle with Stone’s long legs sticking straight up out of the sidecar.

Reuben, whose knowledge of the streets of D.C. nearly equaled Stone’s, made a series of rights and lefts before he slowed the bike, eased into a dark alley and came to a stop behind a Dumpster. By this time Stone had righted himself in the sidecar. He looked up at his friend. “Your timing couldn’t have been better, Reuben. Thanks.”

“When you didn’t call, I circled back around. The van started to move and I followed it.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t spot you. This motorcycle does tend to stick out.”

“Who the hell are those guys?”

Stone told his friend about the run–in with the Secret Service.

Reuben said, “There aren’t many agencies that can make the Service turn tail on its own turf.”

“I can think of maybe two: CIA and NSA. Neither one gives me much comfort.”

“What do you think they wanted?”

“I first spotted the van outside the rare book shop. It might have been following us before then, though.”

“At DeHaven’s?” Reuben snapped his fingers. “You think this has something to do with that Cornelius Behan prick? He’s probably joined at the hip with the spy guys.”

“It might, considering the timing.” Maybe this wasn’t tied to his past, after all.

Reuben looked nervous. “Oliver, if they were following us, do you think they might have had a tail on Caleb and Milton?”

Stone was already on his phone. He reached Caleb and told him some of what had happened and put his phone away. “He just dropped Milton off at home. They didn’t see anyone, but they probably wouldn’t have.”

“But what did we do to get spooks after us? We told Behan what we were doing there. What interest could he have in DeHaven?”

“He might have an interest if he knew how DeHaven died. Or perhaps more accurately, how he was murdered.”

“You’re saying Behan might have had his neighbor killed? Why?”

“You just said it, his neighbor. It’s possible that DeHaven saw something he shouldn’t have.”

Reuben snorted. “On Good Fellow Street, with the rich and obnoxious?”

“It’s all speculation, but the fact remains that if you hadn’t shown up, I’m not sure what would’ve happened to me.”

“So what do we do now?”

“Since it seems no one was concerned about us until we went to Jonathan DeHaven’s house, we start there. We find out whether the man was murdered or not.”

“I was afraid that’s what you were going to say.”

Stone settled himself in the sidecar, this time with his legs where they ought to be. Reuben started the motorcycle and they set off.

Just like old times, Stone thought. And that clearly wasn’t a good thing.

• • •

The men in the van reported in to a very upset Roger Seagraves.

“We could’ve taken the old guy even though his buddy showed up, but we figured it might be too dicey,” one man said over the phone.

Seagraves stared at his secure phone for a moment, thinking what his next move should be. “They were at DeHaven’s for how long?”

“Over five hours.”

“And then to a rare book shop, and then you followed them to the White House.”

“Yep. One of them has a tent in Lafayette Park. And according to the Secret Service, his name is Oliver Stone. What a joke!”

“He spotted your tail, so I don’t know how much of a joke he is,” Seagraves snapped. “And I don’t like you flashing your creds around, especially to the Service.”

“We just got in a jam and had to do it. But we are with the Agency,” the other man countered.

“But not on official duty tonight,” Seagraves shot back.

“So what do you want us to do?”

“Nothing. I want to check out Mr. Stone more thoroughly. I’ll be in touch.” Seagraves hung up.

A man calling himself Oliver Stone has a tent across from the White House, can spot expert surveillance and visited the house of a man I had killed. Seagraves could feel another thunderstorm coming on.

Chapter 16

It was raining and chilly in Newark when the plane touched down. Annabelle now sported brown hair, cherry–red lipstick, sleek eyeglasses, funky clothes and blocky–heeled shoes. Her three companions were all dressed in two–piece suits with no ties. They didn’t leave the airport together. They drove south and rendezvoused at a rental unit in Atlantic City.