Daredevil Riders

33

FBI has always gone its own way. I keep my ears to the ground, though. And I think what they’ll continue to find on that end is a big zip.”

“Why? Tracks too well covered?”

Weaver gazed over at Herbert through the darkness. “They didn’t X-ray that root ball. It’s going in the park, in the dirt. It’s not the Christmas tree for the White House.”

“Canine sweep?”

“Not sure. But don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“No definitive answer on that.”

“ATF thinks it was a remote detonation setup.”

“Hmmph.”

“You disagree?”

“Let me put it to you this way. No bomb is foolproof. I almost got my hand blown off once dealing with a ‘foolproof’ explosive when I was in the Corps.”

“So what’s your theory?”

“Can we turn on some lights? I feel like I’m back in high school sneaking some of my old man’s hooch.”

“I prefer the dark.”

“Okay, suit yourself. The bomb goes in with a remote detonator. Probably a cell phone. Tree hole gets covered up. Then it’s detonated at the precise time they want. But instead we got a guy running from gunfire who jumps in a hole to save his a*s, and boom.”

“But how did the bomb detonate?”

“Like I said, bombs are tricky things. Fat guy jumps and lands right on it, or maybe one of the slugs hits it. Detonates.”

“So I’m here wasting your time?”

“No, I hadn’t thought of the tree being killed on purpose. That’s one for you.”

“It only occurred to me tonight.”

“ATF thinks the bomb was in a basketball and then placed inside the root ball.”

“Doesn’t matter, still could have gone off accidentally.”

“But that makes no sense. The only reason the guy jumped in the hole and, according to your theory, prematurely detonated the bomb was because he was running from the gunfire. Why go to all the trouble to get a bomb there and then screw it up by shooting off the guns?”

“It makes perfect sense if you look at it in a different way.”

A few seconds later Herbert said slowly, “You mean if the gunners and bombers were different.”

“Exactly. And if so, the bombers are pretty pissed off right now at whoever started shooting.”

Herbert said, “The Yemeni group?”

“Those guys claim credit for lots of s**t they had nothing to do with. Maybe they did the guns, okay. But then the bomb goes off and they figure, ‘Hell, let’s take credit for that too.’ Raises their profile with other terrorists. More street cred equals more funding. That’s how it works. Sort of like turf and budget wars in D.C.”

“Then that means the bomb was meant to kill someone else at the park at a completely different time.”

“That’s right. Only the question is who?”

TWO HOURS AFTER WEAVER AND HIS MEN LEFT, Herbert could still not fall asleep. Weaver was obtaining a list of events to be held at Lafayette Park in the upcoming months and told Herbert that he would share that information with him. For his part, Herbert told Weaver all that they had uncovered about the jogger’s background and the other information he had learned from ATF and the FBI’s inquiries. He did not tell Weaver about Fuat Turkekul. If the NIC chief was meant to know about the operation to catch Osama bin Laden, people other than Herbert would have to so inform him.

Herbert lay on his cot thinking all of this through while the night burned onward to dawn. Finally his thoughts turned to the Camel Club. Caleb and Reuben had been friends of his for years. They had literally been through hell and back together. Alex Ford had been a more recent arrival to the ranks of the club, but he had twice saved Herbert’s life and risked his career on at least five other occasions to help him and the others. Mirabel had blown into their lives only a short time ago but had quickly proved her loyalty to Herbert. And Harry Finn had stood shoulder to shoulder with Herbert in a firefight with a team of trained assassins even though Herbert had killed Finn’s father more than three decades ago.

And I basically told all of them that I didn’t trust them. That I didn’t need their help. But that’s not the whole story.

Only a handful of people knew that Herbert had taken his old rifle and killed two prominent Americans who had destroyed his life, costing him his wife and child. Herbert had killed many people on behalf of his country. He had dutifully followed orders. Yet these two men he’d killed on his own. Judge, jury and executioner. He felt he was justified for what he’d done. He felt no remorse for ending their lives.

But still. He had a conscience. All those years of killing had never managed to totally rid him of one. And with his strong sense of justice, Herbert knew that he would have to make payment one day. It was only right. But he was not going to take his friends down too. They didn’t deserve that. He was living on borrowed time. His friends were not. The Camel Club, he knew, was coming to the end of its run. At least with him as its de facto leader.

He showered, combed his smooth dark hair, dressed and headed out as the sun was just starting to creep upward. He stopped at the front door when he saw Anthony sitting on the hood of her rental just outside the wrought-iron gates sipping on a Starbucks coffee.