"Wait a minute!" Stone exclaimed. "Is there anything I should know about the motorcycle?"

"Yeah, if the wheel on the sidecar goes off the ground, you can start praying."

Reuben hit the kick-starter and the motor caught. He revved it a couple of times, waved good-bye to Milton, and they sailed away from Union Station.

Reuben steered the motorcycle west on Const.i.tution Avenue. They cut past the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, where war veteran Reuben gave a respectful salute to the wall, looped around the Lincoln Memorial and pa.s.sed over Memorial Bridge, which carried them into Virginia. From there they headed south on the George Washington Parkway, which was referred to locally as the GW Parkway. As they raced along, they drew curious stares from people in vehicles they pa.s.sed.

Stone found that if he angled his legs just so, he could nearly stretch them fully out. He sat back and gazed over at the Potomac River on his left, where a powerboat had just pa.s.sed two crew teams racing each other. The sun was warming, the breeze inviting and refreshing, and for a few moments Stone allowed his mind a respite from the many dangers that lay ahead for the Camel Club.

Reuben pointed to a road sign and shouted over the whine of the engine. "Remember for years that sign read 'Lady Bird Johnson Memorial Memorial Park'?" Park'?"

"Yes. Until someone informed them she wasn't dead," Stone called back. "And named it after LBJ, who is is."

"I love the efficiency of our government," Reuben cried. "Only took them about a decade or so to get it right. It's a good thing I don't pay taxes, or I'd be really ticked off."

They both watched as a jet lifted off the runway at Reagan National Airport heading north and then did a long bank and eventually turned in the southerly direction they were traveling. A few minutes later they entered the official city limits of Old Town Alexandria, one of the most historic places in the country. It boasted not one, but two boyhood homes of Confederate general Robert E. Lee, as well as Christ Church, where the posterior of none other than George Washington had graced the pews. The town was chock-full of wealth, ancient but beautifully restored homes, rumpled cobblestone streets, wonderful shopping and eclectic restaurants, a vibrant outdoor life and an inviting waterfront area. It also was home to the federal bankruptcy court.

As they pa.s.sed the court, Reuben said, "d.a.m.n place. Been through there twice."

"Caleb knows people who can help you with your money. And I'm sure Chast.i.ty could provide valuable services to you too."

"I'm certain sweet Chast.i.ty could service my needs, but then Milton would be really mad at me," Reuben called out with a roguish wink. "And I don't need help with the money I have, have, Oliver, I just need help with getting Oliver, I just need help with getting more more of it." of it."

He turned left, and they pulled down a side street heading toward the river until it dead-ended at Union Street. Reuben found a parking s.p.a.ce, and Stone extricated himself from the sidecar with some difficulty.

"What the h.e.l.l happened to your face?" asked Reuben, who'd obviously just noticed these injuries.

"I fell."

"Where?"

"In the park. I was playing chess with T.J., and then I was having coffee with Adelphia. I tripped over a tree root when we were leaving."

Reuben grabbed his friend by the shoulder. "Adelphia! Oliver, that woman is mental. You're lucky she didn't drop a lethal Mickey in your java. Mark my words, one night she's going to follow you to your cottage and slit your throat." He paused and then added in a low voice, "Or worse, try and seduce you." Reuben shivered, apparently at the thought of Adelphia as a seductress.

They walked past Union Street Pub and then crossed the street and headed toward a shop near the corner. The sign above the door read: "Libri Quattuor Sententiarum."

"Where the h.e.l.l did that come from?" Reuben asked, pointing at this plaque. "I know I haven't been here in a while, but didn't this place used to be called Doug's Books?"

"That name wasn't attracting the desired upscale clientele, so they changed it."

"Li-bri Quat-tuor Senten-tiarum? That's real catchy! What does it mean?"

"It's Latin for 'Four Books of Sentences.' It was a twelfth-century ma.n.u.script by Peter Lombard that was cut up and bound around the 1526 edition of St. Thomas Aquinas' lectures on the Epistles of Paul. Some scholars consider the Aquinas work to be the world's rarest book. An even earlier work that was bound around that one might be even more special. Hence, it's a very appropriate name for a rare book shop."

"I'm impressed, Oliver. I didn't even know you spoke Latin."

"I don't. Caleb told me about it. In fact, it was his idea to rename the shop. As you know, I introduced him to the shop's owner. I thought it would be productive, given Caleb's expertise with rare books. At first he simply advised on a few things, but now Caleb has an ownership interest in the place."

They went inside the shop accompanied by the jangle of a bell attached to the arched, solid-oak door. Inside, the walls were equal parts exposed brick and ancient stone with worm-eaten wooden beams overhead. Tasteful oil paintings hung on the walls, and ornate bookshelves and ma.s.sive armoires were bulging with ancient tomes that were all carefully labeled and housed behind gla.s.s doors.

In a separate room a pretty young woman was standing behind a small coffee bar making drinks for some thirsty customers. A sign on the wall asked customers not to enter the rare book area with their beverages.

A small, balding man came out from the back dressed in a blue blazer, slacks and a white turtleneck, his arms outstretched and a smile on his tanned face. "Welcome, welcome to Libri Quattuor Sententiarum," he announced, the words rolling adroitly off his tongue. Then he stopped and eyed Reuben and looked at Stone.

"Oliver?"

Stone put out his hand. "h.e.l.lo, Douglas. You remember Reuben Rhodes."

"Douglas," Reuben muttered under his breath. "What happened to 'Doug'?"

Douglas gave Stone a prolonged hug and shook Reuben's hand. "Oliver, you look, well, you look very different. Nice but different. I like the new style. No, I love it. Muy chic. Bellissimo! Bellissimo!"

"Thank you. Caleb says that things are going well here."

Douglas took Stone by the elbow and led them over to a quiet corner.

"Caleb is a jewel, a treasure, a miracle."

"And here I was thinking he was just a print geek," Reuben said with a smirk.

Douglas continued enthusiastically. "I can't thank you enough, Oliver, for introducing Caleb to me. Business is booming. Booming! I started out selling p.o.r.no comic books out of my car trunk, and now look at me. I have a condo in Old Town, a thirty-foot sailboat, a vacation house at Dewey Beach and even a 401(k) plan."

"All through the power of the written word," Stone said. "Remarkable."

"Do you still sell the p.o.r.n stuff?" Reuben wanted to know.

"Uh, Douglas, I need to look at my things, things, in the s.p.a.ce Caleb arranged for me to use," Stone said quietly. in the s.p.a.ce Caleb arranged for me to use," Stone said quietly.

Douglas' face paled and he swallowed nervously. "Oh, of course, of course. Go right ahead. And if you want anything, just ask. In fact, we have some very fine cappuccino and wonderful scones today. It's on the house, as always."

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

Douglas hugged Stone again and then hurried off to help a woman who'd entered the shop dressed in a full-length fur coat despite the balmy weather.

Reuben looked around at all the books. "Most of these writers probably died penniless, and he's buying condos and boats and 401(k)s off their sweat."

Stone didn't answer. He opened a small door set off to the side of the shop's entryway and led the way down a narrow staircase that emptied into the bas.e.m.e.nt area. He headed along a short corridor and through an old wooden door marked "Authorized Personnel Only." He closed the door behind them and turned left down another hall. Then Stone took an old-fashioned key from his pocket and used it to open an arched door at the end of this hall, and they entered a small room that was paneled in very old wood. He flicked on a light and went over to a large fireplace that sat against one wall. While Reuben watched, Stone knelt down, reached his hand up into the inside of the fireplace and pulled on a small piece of metal attached to a short wire hanging there. There was an audible click, and a panel of the wall next to the fireplace swung open.

"Gotta love those priest's holes," Reuben said as he gripped the exposed panel and swung it all the way open.

Inside was a room about eight feet deep and six feet wide and tall enough for even Reuben to easily stand up in. Stone pulled a small penlight from his pocket and stepped in. Bookshelves lined all three walls. On each of these shelves were neatly stacked journals and notebooks, a few locked metal boxes and numerous cardboard boxes taped shut.

While Stone looked through the journals and notebooks, Reuben had a sudden thought. "How come you don't keep all this stuff at your cottage?"

"This place has an alarm system. All I have guarding my cottage are dead people."

"Well, how can you be sure that old Douglas Douglas doesn't come down here and poke through your stuff when you're not here?" doesn't come down here and poke through your stuff when you're not here?"

Stone kept examining the journals as he talked. "I told him that I'd b.o.o.by-trapped this room and that no one other than myself could open it safely without threat of instant death."

"And you think he believed you?"

"It doesn't really matter. He has no personal courage, so he'll never find out for sure. Plus, at my suggestion Caleb let some hints drop to Douglas that I used to be a homicidal maniac before my release from a hospital for the criminally insane solely on a technicality. I think that's why he hugs me every time he sees me. Either he wants to stay on my good side or he's checking for weapons. Ah, here we are."

Stone pulled out an old leather-bound journal and opened it. The book was filled with newspaper clippings carefully glued to the pages. He read through it as Reuben waited impatiently. Finally, Stone closed the journal and then pulled out two other large books on a shelf. Behind these books was a leather case about eighteen inches square in size. Stone put this in his knapsack along with the journal.

On the way out Reuben got three scones from the attractive young lady in black.

"I'm Reuben," he said, towering over her and holding in his belly.

"Good for you," she said curtly before hurrying off.

"I think that young babe in there was rather taken with me," Reuben said proudly as they got back to the motorcycle.

"Yes, I suppose she ran off like that to tell all her friends," Stone replied.

CHAPTER 39.

IT TOOK ALEX FORD ABOUT AN hour to decide what to wear on his night out with Kate Adams. It was a humbling and embarra.s.sing sixty minutes as he realized how long it'd been since he'd gone on a real date. He finally decided on a blue blazer, white collared shirt and khaki pants with loafers on his big feet. He combed down his hair, shaved off his five o'clock shadow, dressed, chewed a couple of breath mints and decided the big, somewhat weathered lug staring back at him in the mirror would just have to do. hour to decide what to wear on his night out with Kate Adams. It was a humbling and embarra.s.sing sixty minutes as he realized how long it'd been since he'd gone on a real date. He finally decided on a blue blazer, white collared shirt and khaki pants with loafers on his big feet. He combed down his hair, shaved off his five o'clock shadow, dressed, chewed a couple of breath mints and decided the big, somewhat weathered lug staring back at him in the mirror would just have to do.

D.C. traffic had reached the critical stage where there was no good time or direction to be driving, and Alex was afraid he was going to be late. However, he lucked out after skirting an accident on Interstate 66 that left a clear field ahead. He took the Key Bridge exit, crossed the Potomac, hooked a right onto M Street and soon found himself cruising up 31st Street in posh Georgetown. It was a place named after a British king, and certain elements of the area retained that regal dignity that some might equate to outright sn.o.bbery. However, on the main shopping drag of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, the tone was decidedly funky and modern with gaggles of underdressed kids crowding the narrow sidewalks yakking on their cell phones and checking each other out. Yet in the upper regions of Georgetown where Alex was heading lived famous families with enormous financial portfolios and nary a tattoo or body piercing in sight.

As Alex pa.s.sed one stately mansion after another, he started growing more nervous. He had guarded some incredibly powerful people over the years, but the Service prided itself as being an elite agency with a blue-collar nature. Alex was solidly in that mold and much preferred the lunch counter at the local IHOP to a three-star restaurant in Paris. Well, there was no going back now, he told himself.

The road he was on dead-ended at R Street near the ma.s.sive Dumbarton Oaks mansion. Alex hung a left and continued on down R until he found the place.

"Okay, she wasn't kidding about the mansion status," Alex said as he stared up at the brick and slate-roofed behemoth. He pulled into the circular driveway, got out and looked around. The grounds were formal with the bushes all cut to the same height and shape and the late summer blooms presented in all their colorful and symmetrical glory. The moss was growing lushly around the stone slabs that led to an arched wooden door that accessed the backyard. Or with palaces such as this it was probably referred to as the rear grounds, Alex thought.

He checked his watch and found he was about ten minutes early. Maybe Kate wasn't even here yet. He was about to drive around the block to kill some time when he heard a lilting voice calling out to him.

"Yoo-hoo, are you the Secret Service man?" He turned and spotted a small, stooped woman scurrying toward him, a basket of cut flowers hooked over one arm. She had on a wide-brimmed sun hat with white cottony hair poking out, beige canvas pants and an untucked long-sleeved jeans shirt; large black sungla.s.ses covered most of her face. She seemed shrunken with time, and he put her age at around mid-eighties or so.

"Ma'am?"

"You are are tall tall and and cute. Are you armed too? With Kate you better be." cute. Are you armed too? With Kate you better be."

Alex glanced around, briefly wondering if Kate was playing a joke on him and this odd woman had been hired as part of the gag. He didn't see anyone and turned back to the woman. "I'm Alex Ford."

"Are you one of those those Fords?" Fords?"

"Sorry, afraid there's no trust fund in my future."

She took off her glove, stuck it in her pants pocket and put out her hand. He shook it but then she didn't let go. She pulled him toward the house. "Kate isn't ready yet. Come on in, have a drink and let's talk, Alex."

Alex allowed himself to be led along by the woman because, frankly, he didn't know what else to do. She smelled of strong cooking spices and even stronger hair spray.

When they reached the house and went inside, she finally let go of his hand and said, "Where are my manners, I'm Lucille Whitney-Houseman."

"Are you one of those those Whitney-Housemans?" Alex said, with a grin. Whitney-Housemans?" Alex said, with a grin.

She took off her gla.s.ses and smiled back coquettishly. "My father, Ira Whitney, didn't found the meatpacking industry, he just made a fortune off it. My dear husband, Bernie, may you rest in peace," she added, looking at the ceiling and crossing herself, "now, his family made their money in whiskey and not all of it legally. And Bernie was a prosecutor before he became a federal judge. It made for some interesting family gatherings, I can tell you."

She led him into a vast living room and motioned for him to sit down on a large sofa placed against one wall. She put the flowers in a cut crystal vase and turned to him.

"Now, speaking of whiskey, name your poison." She went over to a small cabinet and opened it. Inside was a fairly complete bar.

"Well, Mrs. . . . uh, do you go by both names?"

"Just call me Lucky. Everybody does because lucky I've been, my whole life."

"I'll have a gla.s.s of club soda, Lucky."

She turned and looked at him sternly. "I know how to make lots of c.o.c.ktails, young man, but club soda ain't one of them," she said in a scolding tone.

"Oh, uh, rum and c.o.ke, then."

"I'll make it Jack and c.o.ke, honey, with the emphasis on the Jack."

She brought him the drink and sat down next to him with her own gla.s.s. She held it up. "A Gibson. I fell in love with them after I saw Cary Grant order one on that train in North by Northwest North by Northwest. Cheers!"

They tapped gla.s.ses and Alex took a sip of his. He coughed. It tasted like she'd let the Jack run solo. He looked around the living room. It was about the size of his entire house and with far nicer furniture.

"So you've known Kate long?" he asked.

"About seven years, although she's only lived with me for three. She's wonderful. Smart as a whip, beautiful, a real pistol, but then, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. Plus, she makes the best b.u.t.tery nipples I've ever tasted."

Alex nearly choked on his drink. "Excuse me?"

"Don't get all excited, honey, it's a specialty drink. Baileys and b.u.t.terscotch schnapps. She is is a bartender, after all." a bartender, after all."

"Oh, right."

"So are you one of the agents who guard the president?"

"Actually, starting tomorrow, I am," Alex said.

"I've known every president since Harry Truman," she said wistfully. "I voted Republican for thirty years and then Democratic for about twenty, but now I'm old enough to know better, so I'm an Independent. But I loved Ronnie Reagan. What a charmer. He and I danced at one of the b.a.l.l.s. But of all the presidents I've known I have to confess that I liked Jimmy Carter best. He was a good, decent man; a real gentleman, even if he did l.u.s.t in his heart. And you can't say that about all of them, can you?"

"No, I guess you can't. So you know President Brennan, then?"

"We've met, but he wouldn't know me from Eve. I've long since pa.s.sed my usefulness in the political arena. Although in my prime I had some sway. Georgetown was the place to be for all that. Kate Graham, Evangeline Bruce, Pamela Harrington, Lorraine Cooper, I knew them all. The dinner parties we had. The national policy we came up with sitting around drinking and smoking, although the ladies were often separated from the gentlemen. But not always." She lowered her voice and looked at him with raised pencil-thin eyebrows that looked painted on. "Because the s.e.x s.e.x we had, oh, my Lord. But not any orgies or anything like that, honey. I mean you're talking about government people, public servants, and it's hard to get up early and work those long hours after s.e.x orgies. It takes it out of you, it really does." we had, oh, my Lord. But not any orgies or anything like that, honey. I mean you're talking about government people, public servants, and it's hard to get up early and work those long hours after s.e.x orgies. It takes it out of you, it really does."