by C. M. Palov
The statrep met with a moment’s silence; Boyd braced himself for a world-class ass chewing.
“Is the Miller woman still on the premises?” the colonel asked, his calm tone of voice taking Boyd by surprise. Usually this kind of fuckup would meet with a wrath second only to that of God Almighty.
“I believe so, sir. Her Jeep is still parked out front. I found a sheet of paper with two drawings: one of the relic, the other a Jerusalem cross. And one other thing, sir”—he hesitated, knowing the colonel would break his balls but good—“she’s hooked up with somebody. A tall guy with red hair. I’m not altogether certain, but he may be a player. What do you want me to do, sir?”
Another silence ensued. In the background, Boyd heard the muffled strains of several voices, the colonel having put him on the speakerphone. Then he heard what sounded like a file folder being opened.
“Gunnery Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stand by for further instruction.”
CHAPTER 16
Colonel Stanford MacFarlane took a moment to review the dossier just handed to him. Turning his back on his chief of staff, he discreetly removed his reading glasses from his breast pocket. He despised weakness of any sort, particularly in himself. Though he was physically fit, there were days when he felt each and every one of his fifty-three years.
Adjusting the reading glasses on his nose, he glanced at the file. With his contacts inside the intelligence office of the Undersecretary of Defense, he’d managed to finagle a full dossier on one Caedmon St. John Aisquith.
He examined the photo attached to the upper right-hand corner with a paperclip. Red hair. Blue eyes. Fair complexion. He next glanced at the physical particulars. 6’3½”. 190 lbs. It stood to reason that Aisquith was the tall guy with red hair seen with the Miller woman at the National Gallery of Art.
Next, he skimmed the personal background material. DOB 2/2/67. Eton. Queen’s College, Oxford. Master’s Degree in Medieval History. Recruited MI5—1995. Formal resignation—2006.
MacFarlane’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly, as though weighed down with a heavy load.
Why now, God? Why this impediment with the prize so close at hand?
Still clutching the file folder, MacFarlane walked over to the sliding glass door behind his desk and pulled it open, stepping onto the balcony. A gentle snow fell upon the midday traffic that ebbed and flowed ten stories below on Virginia Avenue, the busy thoroughfare made heavenly with the covering of pristine white flakes. To his left he could see the majestic gray spires of the National Cathedral high atop the city; to his right, the majestic white spire of the Washington Monument.
God first. Country second.
Words to live by.
A credo to die for.
Again, he glanced at the file folder. MI5 was Britain’s elite secret service branch. As such, the agency safeguarded Britain’s national security. Regnum Defende. Defend the realm.
How did the Miller woman make the acquaintance of a former British intelligence officer?
The dead curator had been a Brit. Perhaps he’d arranged the meeting.
But why? And how was it that Aisquith and this woman knew about the Stones of Fire and the Jerusalem cross?
MacFarlane didn’t like having more questions than answers.
With Armageddon near at hand, why would God—
It was a trial, he suddenly realized, the weight lifting from his shoulders. A trial to prove his worthiness to the Almighty. To prove that he could indeed be trusted with God’s great plan. Shadrach. Meshach. Abednego. Like those holy men of old, he, too, was being tested by God.
MacFarlane glanced at the beautiful gray spires in the distance, offering up a quick prayer of heartfelt thanks, grateful for the opportunity to prove his worth unto the Lord. Closing the file folder, he stepped back into his office. He punched the big blue Speaker button on his telephone console.
“You listen up, Gunny,” he said without preamble. “I’m sending in a five-man team, one man to be posted at each museum exit. ETA two minutes. You stay with the Jeep. Edged weapons only. I want Miller and Aisquith in zippered bags before the new hour strikes. You hear me, boy?”
“Yes, sir,” Boyd Braxton replied. “But what if . . .” MacFarlane could hear the confidence leach from the other man’s voice. “What if the two of ’em manage to slip past us?”
Although gung-ho and loyal to a fault, the former gunnery sergeant lacked decision-making skills. Such men made good followers and even better fodder, but were poor leaders.
“To ensure they don’t escape, I want you to rig the Miller woman’s vehicle.”
“I hear ya, sir!” Braxton exclaimed, his confidence clearly regained.
“Keep me posted.”
CHAPTER 17
Edie and Caedmon emerged from the ladies’ room. As they did, a loud alarm blared overhead; the teeth-jangling sound was accompanied by a continuously repeated recorded message. Surreally calm, the disembodied voice stated the obvious. “The museum alarm has been activated. Immediately make your way to the nearest exit lobby. Thank you.”
“You heard the man. He said ‘the nearest exit lobby.’ That would be the one right over there.” Nudging her companion in the ribs, Edie pointed to the Fourth Street lobby on the other side of the vestibule, which was jam-packed with people clamoring and jostling as they headed toward the oversized glass doors.
Intractable, Caedmon simply said, “I think not.” Grabbing her by the upper arm, he pulled her toward the staircase on the right.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re going to take the stairs to the upper level of the museum.”
Jerking her arm free, Edie stared at him.
The main floor of the museum? Was he nuts? They’d have to navigate their way through umpteen art galleries and a couple of sculpture halls.
She shook her head, vetoing the idea. “It’ll be faster if we stay on the lower level of the museum. The main floor will be a mob scene.”
“Yes, I assume that it will be. However, a mob scene will serve us well if the beast should, again, rear his ugly head.”
Refusing to budge, Edie folded her arms over her chest. “How many times have you visited the National Gallery of Art?”
“This is my maiden voyage.” Again, Caedmon took her by the arm, his grip this time noticeably more firm. “Though you are no doubt well acquainted with the museum floor plan, you are also suffering from delayed shock. Not the best frame of mind for making a decision.”
“Look, I may be losing it, but I still have a mind of my own.”
Ignoring her last remark, Caedmon pulled her toward the staircase. As they ascended, Edie twice stumbled on the steps. Twice Caedmon had to catch hold of her before she took a nosedive.
At the top of the steps, she turned to him. “Now what?”
Rather than answer, Caedmon strode toward an abandoned wheelchair with Property of the NGA stamped across the brown leather back support. Her eyes narrowed as he took hold of it by the handles and wheeled it toward her.
“Bum in the chair,” he brusquely ordered.
She balked. “Two fumbles does not an invalid make.”
“The gunman will be searching for a female yea high.” Holding out his hand, Caedmon raised it parallel to the top of her head. “The gunman will not be looking for a wheelchair-bound woman.”
“How do I know that—”
“Seat yourself! Before I put a bloody boot up your Khyber!”
Edie did as ordered, belatedly realizing that she was doing a first-rate job of antagonizing the very man who had earlier saved her from a gunman’s bullet. At great risk to his own life.
Craning her head to peer at him, she said, “Look, I’m sorry for being a bitch. I’m just . . . really, really scared.” And unaccustomed to relying on anyone other than herself. Particularly for her safety and well-being. Over the years, too many people had let her down.
“You have every right to be frightene
d,” Caedmon replied, once more the courteous Brit. Unlocking the brake, he shoved the wheelchair forward.
Edie removed the tote bag from her shoulder and clutched it to her chest. Inside its canvas depths were cash, car keys, and passport. Everything she would need to escape this madness.
As Caedmon navigated his way through the crowd, she realized that the wheelchair was an inspired idea; the horde parted before them like the Red Sea parting before the Israelites. Admittedly, she’d been leery of Caedmon’s plan to take the long route through the museum. Maybe his plan, like the wheelchair, would prove a good call after all.
Within seconds they had passed the American painting gallery, eclipsing George Bellows’s famous pair of boxers in a darkly hued blur.
A few seconds after that, they entered the East Court Garden and the cloying, humid air inside the cavernous space. Even more cloying were the winged cupids astride a giant scallop shell dead center in the middle of the courtyard, water merrily tinkling over their chubby feet. Caedmon veered to the right, bypassing the fountain. As he wheeled the chair around the columned perimeter, Edie caught sight of a homeless man sound asleep in a wrought-iron chair, oblivious to the alarm and automated message blaring on the PA system.
Exiting the courtyard garden, Caedmon increased his speed as they traversed the long, barrel-vaulted sculpture hall. On either side of her, Edie saw familiar flashes of color in the adjoining galleries—Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, Inge—the history of nineteenth-century French art reduced to a colorful blip.
Straight ahead of them, like mighty old-growth trees in a virgin forest, loomed the huge black marble columns of the main rotunda.
“We can exit at the rotunda,” she said, turning in her seat to look at him, clasping her hands together in a beseeching gesture.
Her proposal met with a whirring silence, the wheelchair advancing full speed ahead.
It’s like entering one of Dante’s lower circles, Edie thought as they entered the domed rotunda a few seconds later. Everywhere she looked, swarms of people were haphazardly congregating in undulating lines that meandered in the direction of the main entrance. In front of the exit doors, a handful of uniformed guards quickly patted down every museum patron before permitting them to depart the premises. Edie assumed they were searching for the armed gunman.
“It would appear that all roads lead to Rome,” Caedmon remarked as he steered the wheelchair away from the disorderly crowd.
Like the courtyard garden they’d earlier passed through, the rotunda was jungle humid on account of all the potted plants. Afraid Padgham’s killer might be lurking in the vicinity, Edie tucked her chin into her chest, making herself as unobtrusive as possible.
No sooner did they clear the rotunda than Caedmon took off running.
Bronze sculptures. Flemish still lifes. Della Robbias.
Famous works of art passed at such a dizzying speed, Edie feared she would upchuck the contents of her stomach.
“Slow down, will ya? You’re giving me a bad case of motion sickness.”
If Caedmon heard her, he gave no indication, the man fast proving himself a well-spoken hard-ass.
Having covered three-fourths of the distance of the museum in less than two minutes, Caedmon wheeled her into the West Garden Court, a mirror image of the courtyard at the opposite end of the museum. Swerving sharply to the left, he somehow managed to maintain control as the chair took the turn on two rubberized wheels.
A few seconds later, Edie could see the marble wall that marked the end of the main hall.
“Quick! Put on the brakes!” she screeched, a full-length statue of St. John of the Cross standing sentry directly in front of her. She grabbed hold of the padded arms and held on tight as Caedmon brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt mere inches from the stern-faced saint.
“Bloody hell.” He turned his head from side to side. “There’s supposed to be a lift at the end of—Ah, yes, there she be, starboard bow.” Caedmon rolled the wheelchair to the elevator that was tucked away to the right of them.
Edie reached out and pushed the button; the metal doors instantly slid open. With no room to turn the wheelchair around, she sat facing the back wall of the elevator. Within moments, they’d be free of the museum, via the Seventh Street exit located on the lower level.
Readying herself for the last cavalry charge, she opened her tote bag. Quickly, she rummaged through it, her hand bumping against the now soft-sided box of melted spinach.
“What are you doing?”
Edie spared Caedmon a quick, upward glance. “I’m searching for the car keys.”
“Driving your vehicle would be ill-advised.”
Placing her arm over the back of the chair, she twisted her upper body so she could look him in the eye. “You’re kidding, right? The Jeep is our only means of escape.”
“How do you think the gunman found you? I’ll warrant it was no mean guess.”
“Maybe it was an educated guess. And let us not forget about the old lucky guess,” she retorted. Then, realizing how childish she sounded, “Okay, he followed me here. But I can promise you that he won’t be following us when we leave. I know this town like the back of my hand. Trust me, Caedmon. I can get us out of here.”
She watched as he mulled over her proposal. He was tempted; she could see it in his eyes.
“There’s a back service alley one block away at Federal Triangle. If we’re being followed, it’s the perfect place to lose a tail.”
The elevator door opened with a melodic ping. Caedmon backed the wheelchair out of the elevator and turned it toward the Seventh Street lobby, where the scene was almost identical to what they’d witnessed in the rotunda.
Seeing all the hustle and bustle, the mass confusion, the absolute chaos that reigned within the marble-walled space, Edie breathed a sigh of relief.
The end was in sight.
CHAPTER 18
Holding a museum map in front of him, Boyd Braxton rechecked the exits.
He had Sanchez on the Mall exit, Harliss at Constitution, Napier across the street at the East Wing, Agee manning the Fourth Street exit, and Riggins posted at the Seventh Street exit. Experienced war fighters, one and all, each of ’em was equipped with a Ka-Bar knife and two ID photos: one of a dark curly-haired bitch and the other of a tall redheaded bastard. And the best part? To the man, they were decked out in D.C. police uniforms. Given that the National Gallery of Art was swarming with every badge the city could rustle up, no one would give them a second glance.
The op in play, Boyd secured a communications device to his right ear, enabling him to speak to all five of his men. “You’ve got your orders: take out both targets. Edged weapons only. We want this to go down swift, silent, and deadly.”
“Copy that, Boss Man,” Riggins replied, speaking for the group. An expert at close-quarter fighting, Riggins knew how to wield a knife with lethal proficiency. Better yet, he enjoyed wielding a blade. Close-range combat appealed to a particular kind of warrior: the kind who liked to look his victim in the eye when he went in for the kill.
“Okay, boys and girls. Let’s go have some fun,” Boyd said, grinning, confident that this time there would be no more fuck-ups. “And don’t forget . . . we go with God.”
“Amen, brother.” This from Sanchez, a former Army Ranger and Afghanistan vet well experienced in slaying the godless.
As he headed toward the Fourth Street exit, Boyd glanced at the ring he wore on his right hand; the cluster of silver crosses was a constant reminder that he and his men were soldiers in God’s army. Holy warriors not unlike the crusaders of old. The colonel often spoke of the men who, a thousand years ago, went forth to conquer the Holy Land. Hugues of Payens. Godfrey of Bouillon. Yves of Faillon. Boyd felt a kindred link to those knights of old who fought with a sword in one hand and a Bible in the other. The sword he had great experience with, having spent fifteen years in the Corps. The Bible was new to him; his old man had not held the Good Book in very high regard. In fact,
Joe Don Braxton hadn’t held much of anything except a bottle of Old Crow. And he’d held that damned near every night. Rumor had it there was a half-drunk fifth of bourbon clutched between Joe Don’s thighs the night he drove his Dodge pickup into a stand of poplar trees.
Approaching the museum lobby, Boyd jutted his chin at the Rosemont man standing sentry near the coat room; Agee was a good man to have in a tight fix. The silent greeting was returned with an innocuous nod.
Not about to stand in line, Boyd slid his hand into his coat pocket and removed a leather wallet. Flipping it open, he thrust the D.C. Metropolitan Police badge at the same guard he’d tinned when he first entered the museum.
“Detective Wilson,” the guard said by way of greeting. “Hell of a mess we’ve got on our hands, huh?”
“Just another day in Sin City. Anyone get a look at the bastard who fired the shots?”
“As a matter of fact, one of the museum patrons was able to videotape some of it on his cell phone.”
Hearing that, Boyd froze.
Within hours his face would be plastered on BOLOs, You-Tube, and all of the major news outlets.
“Glad to hear it,” he replied, his facial muscles taut with a fake smile. “Keep up the good work”—he glanced at the man’s name badge—“Officer Milligan.” He had no idea if security guards were addressed as Officer, and at the moment he didn’t much care. The fake grin replaced with a grimace, he headed for the plate glass doors, shoving aside a couple of jabbering tourists.
Once outside, he came to a standstill, his booted feet planted on the cobbled stone driveway that fronted the entrance. Ignoring the two-way traffic jam of human bodies—badges heading into the museum, touristos heading out—he raised his head to the gray sky above. And prayed. Hard.
