National security trumps all, Knox.”
“Of course. Can I inquire as to what the chain of command is on this, sir?”
“You report to me, no one else,” he said sharply.
“No, I mean who do
you
report to, General?”
Hayes finished off his drink and carefully put the glass down on an antique side table. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Good luck. Regular reports.”
“Absolutely,” Knox said, with more edge to his voice than he would have liked. One could push Macklin Hayes only so far, but Knox was getting sorely tempted to push as hard as possible. Like off a cliff.
“One more thing. John Carr is probably the best assassin this country has ever produced. The fact that he was able to single-handedly kill a dozen of our best paramilitary field agents thirty years after he left Triple Six speaks volumes. God, he must have been something else indeed in his prime. What an honor to have commanded such a killing machine. Gray was lucky in that regard. The meteoric rise of his career was tied, in no small way, to Carr’s ability to hit the bull’s-eye time after time.”
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“Just want you to understand the playing field. We need him alive, Knox. We need to know what he has before the sword falls. Never forget that. There may need to be sacrifices, of course.”
As Hayes left the room Knox did indeed understand the playing field. They clearly needed Carr alive.
Sacrifices?
But they didn’t necessarily need Joe Knox still breathing when the dust settled, did they?
Knox left the brownstone, climbed back in his Rover, and drove off in pursuit of apparently the greatest assassin his country had ever produced, while a cagey former general who had no problem allowing his foot soldiers to die to achieve his goals was crowding his rear flank.
Whoopie.
CHAPTER 21
V ERY EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Knox started with the caretaker’s cottage at Mt. Zion Cemetery. He went over every square inch of it, pulling up loose floorboards, emptying every drawer, checking inside the fireplace, and poring over the books Stone kept there, many in different languages.
“If the guy can speak all these languages, he might have already left the country,” Knox told himself. Other than that, the cottage was a bust. The guy had obviously cleaned it out before fleeing. He next set about searching the cemetery. Here he was a bit more fortunate, though it ultimately turned out to be nothing. His sharp eye discerned that one tombstone had been recently moved. He yanked it over and found the small compartment carved in the earth. Whatever had been there, though, was now gone.
The “dirt” Macklin Hayes had hinted at?
Two hours later found him standing in the rear grounds of Carter Gray’s former home. Knox had decided not to go by Simpson’s murder scene. The vacant construction site had not given up any clues on the first go-round and he’d wisely decided that it was probably not going to give up any simply because he went back.
He stared out at the bay. Stone had told the FBI agents that the person who’d blown up Gray’s house might have escaped by jumping off the cliff. He walked to the edge and peered down. Hell of a long dive, but probably easy for someone like Oliver Stone/John Carr.
Okay, he tosses his rifle into the water and jumps. Then where did he go?
He did not for a second believe that Stone had committed suicide. One did not plan hits so meticulously to merely end it all with a plunge off a cliff. He had lived. Knox was sure of that.
Carrying a knapsack over his shoulder, Knox walked along the cliff’s edge, following on land what might have been Stone’s journey in the water. He passed through woods, open fields, and then more woods, all the while keeping his eye on the shore below. Finally, he stopped. There was a bit of a beach down there. Stone had shot Gray before seven a.m. Knox had checked the tide charts. That time of morning would largely mirror the tide he was
“Of course. Can I inquire as to what the chain of command is on this, sir?”
“You report to me, no one else,” he said sharply.
“No, I mean who do
you
report to, General?”
Hayes finished off his drink and carefully put the glass down on an antique side table. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Good luck. Regular reports.”
“Absolutely,” Knox said, with more edge to his voice than he would have liked. One could push Macklin Hayes only so far, but Knox was getting sorely tempted to push as hard as possible. Like off a cliff.
“One more thing. John Carr is probably the best assassin this country has ever produced. The fact that he was able to single-handedly kill a dozen of our best paramilitary field agents thirty years after he left Triple Six speaks volumes. God, he must have been something else indeed in his prime. What an honor to have commanded such a killing machine. Gray was lucky in that regard. The meteoric rise of his career was tied, in no small way, to Carr’s ability to hit the bull’s-eye time after time.”
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“Just want you to understand the playing field. We need him alive, Knox. We need to know what he has before the sword falls. Never forget that. There may need to be sacrifices, of course.”
As Hayes left the room Knox did indeed understand the playing field. They clearly needed Carr alive.
Sacrifices?
But they didn’t necessarily need Joe Knox still breathing when the dust settled, did they?
Knox left the brownstone, climbed back in his Rover, and drove off in pursuit of apparently the greatest assassin his country had ever produced, while a cagey former general who had no problem allowing his foot soldiers to die to achieve his goals was crowding his rear flank.
Whoopie.
CHAPTER 21
V ERY EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, Knox started with the caretaker’s cottage at Mt. Zion Cemetery. He went over every square inch of it, pulling up loose floorboards, emptying every drawer, checking inside the fireplace, and poring over the books Stone kept there, many in different languages.
“If the guy can speak all these languages, he might have already left the country,” Knox told himself. Other than that, the cottage was a bust. The guy had obviously cleaned it out before fleeing. He next set about searching the cemetery. Here he was a bit more fortunate, though it ultimately turned out to be nothing. His sharp eye discerned that one tombstone had been recently moved. He yanked it over and found the small compartment carved in the earth. Whatever had been there, though, was now gone.
The “dirt” Macklin Hayes had hinted at?
Two hours later found him standing in the rear grounds of Carter Gray’s former home. Knox had decided not to go by Simpson’s murder scene. The vacant construction site had not given up any clues on the first go-round and he’d wisely decided that it was probably not going to give up any simply because he went back.
He stared out at the bay. Stone had told the FBI agents that the person who’d blown up Gray’s house might have escaped by jumping off the cliff. He walked to the edge and peered down. Hell of a long dive, but probably easy for someone like Oliver Stone/John Carr.
Okay, he tosses his rifle into the water and jumps. Then where did he go?
He did not for a second believe that Stone had committed suicide. One did not plan hits so meticulously to merely end it all with a plunge off a cliff. He had lived. Knox was sure of that.
Carrying a knapsack over his shoulder, Knox walked along the cliff’s edge, following on land what might have been Stone’s journey in the water. He passed through woods, open fields, and then more woods, all the while keeping his eye on the shore below. Finally, he stopped. There was a bit of a beach down there. Stone had shot Gray before seven a.m. Knox had checked the tide charts. That time of morning would largely mirror the tide he was
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