family. What did you mean by that?”
Stone sat down behind his desk and fiddled with some papers lying there. “Let’s just say that I thought I’d finished my ‘duties’ for my country, but apparently, my country believed that my job was not one you ever walked away from.” He paused. “It’s the greatest regret of my life that my family suffered because of me.”
“Your daughter’s name was Beth?” Alex said cautiously. “And she was born in Atlanta?”
Stone stared at him. “How did you know that?”
Alex was thinking of the mistake on the NIC database as to Simpson’s birthplace that she’d pointed out to Hemingway. Yet the database was right. She was born in Atlanta, not Birmingham, where the Simpsons were from. And then he thought of the two tall, fair-haired Simpsons and their petite, dark-haired daughter. Now Alex had a good idea what Oliver Stone’s dead wife looked like. It was clear to him that Jackie Simpson and Beth Carr were the same person.
“It was on her official file,” Alex answered.
Stone nodded absently.
Alex put his hand on Stone’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”
“Don’t pity me, Alex. I’ve done many things in my life that I hate myself for. I could excuse them by saying I was serving my country, but that’s not really much of an excuse, is it?”
Carter Gray had just finished his briefing with the president and was heading back to his chopper on the lawn of the White House. It had been a good meeting, although Brennan was making some curious—and to Gray’s thinking, disturbing—noises about a decided shift in America’s policies toward the Middle East. However, Gray stopped pondering this when he saw the man standing at the fence looking at him. Oliver Stone motioned over to where Reuben sat astride his Indian motorcycle. Then Stone pointed to the west. As Gray followed this gesture, it was clear what the man intended.
A few minutes later Gray was in a limo following the motorcycle. As he’d expected, it turned into Arlington National Cemetery. A few minutes later, with his security detail at a discreet distance, Gray stood across from Stone in front of John Carr’s grave.
“I can give you ten minutes at most, John,” Gray said.
“My name is Oliver Stone.”
“Whatever,” Gray said impatiently.
“And five minutes will be more than enough.”
“Then get on with it.”
“How did my daughter end up with the Simpsons?”
Gray looked a little put out by the question but said, “As you know, Roger Simpson worked at the CIA with me. We were very good friends. They couldn’t have children. It seemed like a good solution. You and your wife had no family, and I couldn’t just abandon the child, although there were some at the Agency who thought she should’ve just been shot too. I had no idea you were even alive, John.”
“I don’t believe you looked very hard.”
“I had no involvement in what happened to you. I didn’t order it and I didn’t condone it. In fact, I saved your daughter from being killed.”
“But you did nothing to stop the attack on me and my family, did you?”
“Did you really just expect to walk away from it all?”
“I never would’ve betrayed my country.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That is precisely the point!”
Gray threw up a hand. “This is ancient history.”
He stopped as Stone held up his cell phone. “A friend gave me this phone that’s also a recorder. And being an old spy, I put it to good use.” He handed Gray the tape. “I’ll be delighted to hear of your resignation tomorrow morning.” He started to walk off and then turned around. “We both served our country capably, Carter. But the way we did it just doesn’t have a place anymore. And thank God for that.”
Gray just stood there, his face red and his chest heaving. “I’m not a zealot, damn you. I’m a patriot!”
“Actually, you’re neither one, Carter.”
“Then what am I? Tell me,” he said tauntingly. “What the hell am I?”
“You’re wrong.”