The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(47)

“I never heard the name,” White said.

“I’m not surprised. Oxley keeps something of a low profile, but if you know where to look, you’ll find that he has his fingers in many pies.”

“What kind of pies?” White asked.

“Money laundering and international terrorism.”

White was taken aback. How could a former SAS operator entrusted with investigating corruption have ended up supporting terrorism?

“Am I missing something, sir? I just don’t see this happening.”

Hammond suddenly grew solemn. White watched him take a deep breath.

“Your father had him arrested for corruption,” Hammond said, looking straight into White’s eyes. “Oxley was kicked out of MI6, and criminal charges were brought against him.”

White’s heart skipped a beat. He had a feeling Hammond wasn’t done. He was right.

“Oxley was prosecuted in a secret military tribunal. A week into the trial, the military judge ordered the charges dropped.”

“Why?”

“Nobody knows for sure, Clay,” Hammond replied, looking away. “Nobody really knows.”

White could tell Hammond wasn’t being totally up front. “But?”

Hammond sighed. “Though I can assure you I never believed it myself, Oxley’s defense lawyer convinced the judge your dad had fabricated evidence.”

White sat back in his chair and shook his head from left to right. “Nonsense,” he said. “I don’t believe it.”

“Neither do I,” Hammond repeated. “But Oxley was released from custody nonetheless.”

Okay. So Oxley had felt betrayed and had turned against the Americans because of Maxwell. What White didn’t understand was why Hammond was telling him this. A second later, Hammond dropped his bombshell.

“I believe it was Oxley who brought your dad’s chopper down, Clay,” Hammond said.

Hammond’s statement was so far out of left field that for a moment, White didn’t react. Maxwell’s chopper had been shot down by the Taliban. Hammond had told him so himself. He remembered Hammond entering his hospital room in Germany wearing his dress blues. They had talked for a few minutes about White’s time in Iraq and about Veronica; then Hammond’s face had turned ashy white, and he had told him about his dad. White remembered Hammond’s words vividly.

“His helicopter was shot down south of Bagram by the Taliban two days ago. There were no survivors.”

But there was something else White remembered. He recalled how convinced he was that Hammond had lied to him about the Apache helicopters catching up to the Taliban. How the Apaches had mowed down all the Taliban fighters responsible.

Yes, it was all coming back to him. It all made sense now.

White looked at Hammond. “You lied to me, sir. You came to see me in Germany. And you lied right to my face.” It was a statement, not an accusation.

“I didn’t lie, Clayton,” Hammond said. “I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

“What’s the goddam truth, then?” White asked, keeping his overwhelming desire to punch Hammond in the head in check.

“The Taliban fired the RPG, but it was Oxley who told them about your dad’s routine and the routes his helicopter usually took out of Bagram. We think the Taliban had numerous teams positioned alongside these routes, waiting for the right moment to strike.”

“Why are you telling me this now, six years later?” White asked. “Why couldn’t you tell me the whole story then? What changed? I swear to God, you better have a good reason.”

Hammond slowly nodded. “If I could go back in time, Clay, I would. Trust me on this.”

“Answer the damn questions,” White warned him.

Hammond raised his hands in surrender. “I was ashamed, Clay. We knew Oxley was coming after your dad. But we didn’t do enough to protect him. I didn’t do enough. I failed him, and I failed you.”

“And you failed my mom too,” White said.

“I know,” Hammond confessed. “Poor Carolyn.”

White’s mother had never been the same after Maxwell’s death. She’d been a champion during the funeral, and White had thought she was doing okay, but a few months later, she’d fallen into a deep depression. White had sold the family house and had rented her a nice and bright apartment a few minutes’ walk away from his own in New Haven. He’d visited her several times every week, oftentimes staying for dinner. Heather, Hammond’s wife, also stopped by often, a gesture White had been grateful for. Then one day, his hands full of grocery bags, he had found his mother lying on the floor. The medical examiner had called it an overdose. White had disagreed. His mom had died of overwhelming grief.

“I should have had the courage to tell you then, Clayton. I’m sorry.”

White stared into Hammond’s eyes; they were red rimmed with regret.

“Okay,” White said. “I believe you. So why are you coming forward with this now?”

“Because Roy Oxley orchestrated the operations against Veronica. The one at the Ritz, and the one in Palo Alto,” Hammond said.

White sat straighter in his chair. That Oxley sonofabitch had stolen his mom’s happiness. And now he wanted to steal Veronica from him?

No fucking way, White thought.