The shadow war

by Glen Scott Allen

  It was then he realized that the scene was being lit by a flickering light, something that waxed and waned in intensity, a pulsating yellow glow.

  And it was then there came a knock at his door.

  He immediately looked to Wolfe's briefcase. He walked over and picked it up, looking around for somewhere to hide it. And then someone outside the door called his name.

  "Benjamin," the voice said. "Benjamin, are you awake?"

  It was Gudrun.

  He tossed the briefcase under the bed, gave the room a quick look, then went to the door and pulled it open.

  Gudrun was in jeans and a sweatshirt, slippers instead of shoes. Her hair was mussed, she wasn't wearing any makeup-and yet her face still shone with a kind of clear, confident beauty.

  But she didn't look confident; she looked frightened.

  "Benjamin," she said. She pushed past him into the room. "Close the door."

  He did so, turned around. Gudrun went to the window, looked down at the scene below.

  "Did you hear it?" she asked.

  "I heard something," he said, coming to the bed. "I thought it was thunder."

  She turned around. "It wasn't thunder," she said. "It was an explosion. In Edith's lab. There's a fire down there now. The whole building is burning." She put her hand on his shoulder. "I thought perhaps you were in there."

  "No," Benjamin said. His head was still blurry from sleep… and then he realized. "But Samuel!" He hesitated for a moment. "Sam Wolfe went to Edith's lab. To take another look at the scene."

  Gudrun didn't flinch, and Benjamin realized she wasn't surprised.

  "Gudrun," he started, "what do you know about all this?"

  "I can't-," Gudrun began. She turned her head aside, looked out the window again, then back to him. "You need to leave," she said bluntly.

  "What? I can't do that. What about Sam? Did anyone see him come out of there?" He went to the bed, began to put on his clothes. "Did anyone call the fire department?"

  She came over to him, took his arm.

  "There's nothing you can do," she said. "Not now. And not here."

  He stopped with his shirt half on. "What are you talking about?"

  She touched his cheek. "I wish-," she said.

  Benjamin shook himself free, continued to get dressed, putting on his shoes, his jacket. He moved to the doorway. "Whatever is going on here, I need to find out whether or not Sam is alive."

  Gudrun stopped him at the door.

  "No one can get near the lab now. The only thing you can do for him is get away from here. Take your things and just go. Now. The fire department will be arriving any minute. I'll go and ask the gate guard to help with the fire so you can slip out. But you'll only have a few minutes."

  She looked into his eyes, then moved into the hallway, glanced up and down its length. Then she turned back to him.

  "I'll… I'll try and get in touch with you, let you know what happened."

  She leaned in, kissed him briefly on the lips, and then turned and ran off down the hallway.

  Benjamin stood indecisive for a minute. Then he went to the bed, bent down, and retrieved Wolfe's briefcase. He looked about the room, thought about gathering up his few other clothes, but left them and went into the hallway.

  The foyer's chandelier wasn't on-in the rush outside no one had turned on the inside lights yet-so the mural passed by as indistinct, shadowed scenery as he wound his way down the spiral staircase, though it now seemed more populated with ghosts than ever.

  He reached the ground floor, still without seeing anyone. With a last glance at the darkened foyer, he stepped outside.

  Though the fire was on the other side of the manse, its pulsating glow reflected against the low, gray clouds overhead. He could hear the sounds now of breaking glass and the crackle of fire; and, rising in the background, the wail of approaching sirens.

  He stood for a moment. Then he glanced down at the briefcase in his hand.

  He quickly went to his car, opened the trunk, and tossed Wolfe's briefcase inside. He slammed the trunk closed, went around to the front, and got in. He started the car up and pulled quickly down the gravel driveway.

  Even as he approached the gate, which he saw was open to admit the fire trucks, he could see the approaching flashing red-and-white lights. He gunned his car to get out of the gate before the fire engines could block his way. Even as he turned sharply, two engines roared past him down the driveway, sirens blaring.

  A few dozen yards from the gate the darkened country lane proved too hazardous for him to drive very fast. He slowed down; even then, the hedges and trees seemed to leap out of the darkness with discomforting speed.

  Benjamin wasn't sure exactly where he was. When he saw a sign indicating a road to the Massachusetts Turnpike, he avoided it. He realized he would have to stop soon, at a gas station or a food mart, and buy a map of the local area. He needed to find a way, somehow keeping to back roads and minor highways, to get from where he was to where he wanted to be.

  Benjamin was headed, as quickly if indirectly as possible, toward N. Orlova, of the Russian Cultural Center, in Washington, D.C.

  ***

  Even as the fire trucks pulled up in the gravel driveway before the manse and disgorged a dozen bulky figures who began extracting equipment and running toward the fire, two people emerged from the shadows by the door. Both were tall, both had blond hair.

  "Nicely done," said the man, looking out through the gate where Benjamin's car had just fled. "And you're sure where he's headed?"

  "Of course," said the woman, taking a drag from a cigarette. "He's more motivated now than ever. He's on the scent, and he's got his newfound friend to avenge."

  "Um-hm," the man replied noncommittally.

  "Speaking of his friend," the woman said, her tone harsher now, "couldn't you have been a little subtler?" The man didn't reply. "And how can you be sure, in all that mess?"

  "I'm sure," he said.

  "I hope so, for your sake," she continued. "We've set one hound loose. They wouldn't like discovering the other has gone astray, too."

  She threw the cigarette to the ground, stamped it out, left without another word.

  After she left the man pulled a cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open. He dialed a special extension that would cut through the communications blanket, and then dialed long-distance. The area code was for Washington, D.C.

  CHAPTER 25

  Benjamin stood in the main concourse of Union Station in Washington, D.C. Behind and around him throngs were streaming by, all of them intent on their destination, and all of them apparently late. High overhead the immense arched roof of the station, with its frescoed inset panels and dramatic lighting, gave him the feeling he was in an enormous underground bomb shelter.

  Which matched his other mood: watchful paranoia. He was certain at any moment men in dark coats would converge on him out of the crowd, quickly flipping open wallet badges they didn't really expect him to read, and lead him away to a black van waiting outside, after which he would never be heard from again.

  He'd had that feeling of imminent danger ever since he'd driven recklessly out of the Foundation gates and barreled on down the country lanes of western Massachusetts as fast as his frayed reactions could allow.

  Soon after leaving the grounds, he'd found a small service station where he'd filled the gas tank and purchased a road map for the Mid-Atlantic Region. Sitting in the car pulled off to the side of the road a half mile away, sipping his first of many cups of coffee, he'd traced a route that bypassed 95 and the glut of cities along the coast, and which instead led through meandering connections and small towns. He'd driven a constant five to ten miles over the speed limit of the back roads. But the closer he got to Washington, the more he worried about what would happen once he entered its permanent traffic jam. If they were looking for his car, it would be easy to spot and easier to seize.

  So he'd decided to drive to Silver Spring, park his car in the MARC lot t
here, and take the train into Union Station. He figured he'd be just another anonymous commuter among the tens of thousands arriving for their Monday work. Once there, he found the saturating roar and bustle comforting, as though it made him invisible.

  Which, right now, was his deepest desire.

  He was exhausted. He needed to find somewhere to sit down and think.

  He found a coffee kiosk, bought a mug of latte and a croissant, though he doubted he could stomach yet another dose of caffeine. Making his way to a small table, he sat with Wolfe's briefcase on his lap, almost superstitiously afraid to open it. But finally he did, took out the yellow pad-the same one they'd used that first day in Fletcher's room-and the same pen he'd used to figure out those first snatches of Franklin's pyramid code.

  He thought about Samuel Wolfe, about their initial jousting in Terrill's office, and felt a wave of nostalgia-and something not quite yet grief.

  The roar of the crowds around him brought him back to his immediate situation. During his nighttime drive, he'd thought about what he would do when he got to D.C. He instinctively felt that contacting any authorities, the police or the FBI, was out of the question. Besides, with Fletcher's computer sitting like radioactive material in the briefcase, he doubted they would believe anything he had to say.

  Stuffing the remainder of the croissant into his mouth, he gathered up the briefcase and his coffee and went to the nearest bank of telephones. He fished some change from his pocket-he had avoided using credit cards for gas, and he didn't want to use one now for the phone-then dropped some into the slot and dialed Information.

  He was told there was indeed an Anton Sikorsky listed in Georgetown-the only one in the directory.

  He dropped the requisite amount of change into the phone, dialed the number provided, and listened while it rang once, twice, three times.

  "Alloa," said a voice on the other end. "This is Anton."

  The voice had a thick accent that Benjamin couldn't quite place.

  "Hello," said Benjamin. "Is this Anton Sikorsky? The Anton Sikorsky that teaches at Georgetown University?"

  "Yes," said the voice. "Who please is asking?"

  Now that he had Sikorsky on the phone, Benjamin wasn't sure what to say. As far as he knew, Wolfe hadn't contacted Anton since he'd arrived at the Foundation, perhaps hadn't spoken to him in years. How much would the mention of Wolfe's name gain either Anton's trust or his ire? After all, Benjamin had the distinct impression that Wolfe wasn't in the habit of endearing himself to people.

  "Mr. Sikorsky," he began, "my name is Benjamin Wainwright, I'm a… colleague of Samuel Wolfe. He suggested that, well, that I contact you if I had questions about… about a project he and I are working on."

  "Samuel Wolfe?" said Anton. There was a long silence, and Benjamin began to wonder if he'd made a fantastic mistake. There was a cough, and then Anton said, "And how is that son of a bitch?"

  Benjamin laughed. It sounded like Anton knew Wolfe quite well. "He's fine," he said, wincing at the lie. "He sends his regards."

  "And you're, what, colleague?"

  "Yes. Mr. Sikorsky, I have something I'd like you to look at, a computer program, that Samuel thought you might be more… familiar with than he is. It's the work of someone named Fletcher, and-"

  "Jeremy Fletcher?" Anton interrupted. "Bright young man. Genius, maybe. How the hell Sam work with him? Last time I read about Fletcher, he's at American Heritage Foundation. Samuel wouldn't go near that place again." There was a pause. "Are you government bastard?"

  This was all becoming more difficult than Benjamin had anticipated.

  "No, I'm not," he said. "I'm an historian. An academic." He didn't want to tell Anton anything more specific until he could meet him. "Mr. Sikorsky, I wonder if I could see you today. Perhaps at Georgetown?"

  "Today off," Anton said. "Thanks god. Are you in Washington?"

  "Well," Benjamin couldn't see the harm in telling him that. "Yes, yes I am."

  "Come to house, then. Show me what's so important, Sam sends you all the way to me." Anton gave him an address to write down, and Benjamin told him that he could be there in half an hour, if that was all right.

  "I'm up," said Anton. "Hardly sleep anymore anyway. I'll make coffee."

  Oh, god, Benjamin thought as he said good-bye and hung up. Please, no more coffee.

  CHAPTER 26

  Benjamin stood outside Anton's town house in Georgetown. It was typical of the neighborhood, with an undersized front door-a relic left from a time when apparently people were shorter-and the black shutters on the windows fronted by black wrought-iron fences and short hedges. He noticed there were cornstalk decorations in front of some of the doors, and a few houses had already placed pumpkins outside on their steps.

  He lifted the brass knocker, tapped it on the door three times, and waited. He heard footsteps coming, someone fumbling with a lock, then the door swung open.

  He was greeted by the sight of a short, rounded older man dressed in a thick sweater, and baggy pants drooping over well-worn slippers. His thick white hair sprouted up stiffly in a dozen different directions. The man peered at him over the rims of large square glasses.

  "Mr. Wainwright?" Anton asked.

  "Yes," he said. He extended his hand. "And you're Anton Sikorsky?"

  "Of course," he said. Anton stepped forward a little, took his hand. "Come in, don't let cold air in house. Drafty as hell. Americans know nothing about drafts."

  Benjamin stepped into the foyer and Anton shut the door behind him. The layout was as typical as the house's facade: a staircase extended upward from the foyer, with a narrow hallway running to its left, back to what Benjamin knew would be the kitchen. To the left out of the foyer was a drawing room, and it was into this room that Anton showed him.

  The first thing Benjamin noticed were the books.

  Everywhere.

  Not only on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves but also stacked on a large round table in the middle of the room. Here and there on the floor were more stacks, some of them tilting precariously, as though the slightest nudge would send them toppling over.

  Benjamin had to thread his way carefully around the towers of books, wending his way to an open spot on a large overstuffed couch. Anton sat down in an armchair to his left. He picked up a cup of coffee from a round end table next to the chair, took a long, loud slurp, and then looked again at Benjamin over the tops of his glasses. But Benjamin noticed he was looking not at him, but rather at Wolfe's briefcase perched on his lap.

  "So, Mr. Wainwright," Anton began. "How can old fart like me help smart guy like Sam Wolfe?" He smiled. Then he seemed to remember himself. "Oh, and would you like coffee? Sorry I didn't ask sooner. Afraid my manners are a little dull. Ever since my wife died, things around here," he waved his free hand at the piles of books everywhere, "go to hell."

  Benjamin shook his head. "I've had quite a long drive," he said, "and a lot of coffee."

  "Something else?" asked Anton. "Think I have prune juice. Maybe even orange juice. I will see." Anton set the coffee down, began to stand up, grunting as he did so.

  "No, no." Benjamin waved for him to sit down. "I'm fine, really."

  "Um-hm," said Anton, sitting down. He looked again at the briefcase. "You have something so important in there, you can't put it down?"

  Benjamin looked down at it. "Well…" Now that he was here, Benjamin had no idea how or where to begin. "Mr. Sikorsky-"

  "Anton."

  "Anton… I don't know how long it's been since you've spoken with Mr. Wolfe, but-"

  "Excuse me," Anton interrupted. He shifted in the chair, leaned forward. "Sam sends you to me, but doesn't mention our last conversation?" He looked directly into Benjamin's eyes. "Also, he doesn't call to say even 'boo' to this old friend, Anton, the only person can help you? And you come, I think driving maybe all night, by your red eyes?"

  Benjamin looked at him, said nothing.

  Anton leaned back, exhaled. "How bad trouble Sam in t
his time?"

  "He may be dead," Benjamin said.

  Anton nodded. "Told him many times, too fond of whiskey. Drink vodka, I told him. Enough of it, can't hurt you."

  Benjamin realized he was joking. But then he turned serious.

  "Last time I talked to Sam, almost year ago. Right after his wife died. My wife died too, three years ago now. She never tolerate this," he waved about the room. "Anyway, we commiserate. Told him was worried about him."

  "It wasn't anything like that," Benjamin said. "What happened, I mean."

  Anton nodded. "But still, you have his briefcase."

  Benjamin looked down. "But how do you know this isn't mine?" he asked.

  Anton smiled. "Two things," he said. "One, I think if it yours, you not so protective. And two," he pointed at the front, "initials are SCW. Samuel Clement Wolfe, yes? Anyway, not BW."

  Benjamin smiled. He made a decision. He was simply too exhausted to be coy with Anton any longer.

  He opened the briefcase and took out Fletcher's laptop. Carefully pushing aside some of the books on the oval coffee table in front of him, he lifted its top and pressed the On button. While the computer started up, Benjamin began talking.

  "Samuel has been working for the Foundation again, but just since last Friday. I was called out there to help him. Well, actually not him, but Jeremy Fletcher, the man who wrote this program. It took us a while to even get into the program because Dr. Fletcher had left some… security provisions…"

  "Left?" asked Anton. "Why past tense?"

  In for a penny, thought Benjamin. "Jeremy Fletcher's dead, Mr. Sikorsky. Samuel was called out to the Foundation to investigate his death. Apparently they suspected he'd leaked sensitive information to someone. Once I was there, well, Samuel sort of commandeered me to help him out."