by Chloe Palov
Catching her eye, Eduardo raised his hand in greeting.
Edie reluctantly returned the wave, hoping, praying, that if the police canvassed the neighbourhood, they steered clear of La Flora.
Taking a small measure of comfort in the fact that there wasn’t a dark blue Ford in sight, she put the Jeep into first gear and continued down 18th Street. Reaching over, she retrieved her BlackBerry from the bag. She needed to contact C.Aisquith. His or her life was in grave danger. She didn’t know if he/she was a local. Didn’t know anything about him/her. She only knew the mystery person’s email address. She hoped C.Aisquith was at a computer. And that said computer was in the near vicinity. Otherwise, what she was about to do would be a colossal waste of time. Something that at the moment she didn’t have a particularly big supply of.
Like most city dwellers forced to use their vehicle as an office on wheels, Edie was able to drive, text and chew gum all at the same time. Her arms draped over the steering wheel, she quickly moved her thumbs over the keypad.
Finished with the email, she hit ‘Send’.
‘He’ll think I’m a crazy woman,’ she muttered, knowing that if the shoe were on the other foot, if she was on the receiving end of that hastily composed message, that’s exactly what she would think.
She glanced in the rear-view mirror, her line of sight blocked by an orange and white U-Haul-It van on her tail.
Startled by its shrill ringtone, she glanced at the BlackBerry in her lap, hesitating, the words BLOCKED CALL sending an ominous chill down her spine. Shaking off what she hoped would prove an unfounded fear, she reached for her wireless headset.
‘H-hello.’
‘Ms Miller, so glad to have reached you,’ a masculine voice purred in her ear.
Edie didn’t recognize the silky-smooth southern accent.
‘Who is this?’
‘I mean you no harm, Ms Miller. I’m merely someone who’s very interested in your safety and well-being.’
Edie yanked the headset away from her ear.
Oh God.
They had found her.
7
Cædmon Aisquith opened the door to Starbucks, assailed by the inviting aroma of fresh-ground coffee and cinnamon scones.
The comforts of a civilized life.
Such scents made one forget, at least temporarily, that one inhabited a most uncivilized world. A world where brutal acts of violence took place with chilling regularity.
When he reached the head of the queue, Cædmon ordered a hazelnut coffee, wondering who the devil had thought it a clever idea to call the small size a Grande. It made him think of an insecure bloke describing the length of his appendage.
Cup in hand, he glanced about the interior jam-packed with small bistro tables, each customer an island unto him- or herself. Espying a favourable looking islet he strode in that direction, seating himself next to the window, his own porthole onto the world. His position would enable him to simultaneously keep an eye on the pedestrian traffic outside the window while monitoring each and every customer who entered the shop. Although he tried to shake off his earlier unease, he was still troubled by the anonymous phone call he had received at the bookshop.
Knowing the Irish to be a persistent bunch, he removed his mobile and placed it in clear view on the tabletop. If they made contact again, he would be ready for them.
Christ! To think he was still fighting the old battles after so many years.
The rules of polite behaviour not so rigidly adhered to in the Americas, he dunked his scone into his coffee. Purposefully nonchalant, he took a bite. Then, acting like a man totally absorbed in scone and coffee, he surreptitiously glanced out the window. From his vantage point, he had a view clear across all four lanes of Connecticut Avenue to the Church of Scientology nestled in the trees beyond. Idly, he wondered how long Tom Cruise’s marriage to Katie –
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered, catching himself pondering the inane.
Although pondering the inane was better by far than pondering old memories.
The memory in question had been named Juliana Howe. A reporter for the BBC, Jules had been a media darling, having acquired a well-earned reputation for edgy reporting.
As fate would have it, their relationship began as a routine undercover operation. When MI5 caught wind of the fact that Juliana Howe was in contact with a North African terrorist cell, they sent him in to assess the situation and uncover her source. Playing the absent-minded but sincere Charing Cross book dealer, Cædmon worked the case for six months. Like a pastry chef applying layers of icing to a wedding cake, he slowly gained Juliana’s confidence over drinks at the Fox and Hounds, dinner dates at Le Caprice and evenings spent at Covent Garden. Thus the legend of Peter Willoughby-Jones was born, Cædmon becoming the man that an MI5 background check had indicated would most appeal to the gently bred and well-educated Juliana Howe.
He also became the intelligence officer who committed the unpardonable and tragic sin of falling in love with his target. Tragic because the object of his affection would always know him as Peter Willoughby-Jones. Because of the nature of her work, the background investigators at Thames House deemed Juliana Howe a high-level security risk. Meaning he could never reveal to her his true identity.
After the North African cell had been put under lock and key, Cædmon continued his relationship with Juliana, unable to give her up. He assured his superiors that there was still more intelligence to be gleaned, that being in daily contact with an investigative reporter at the BBC would pay dividends. When the Real Irish Republican Army detonated a bomb in front of the BBC, his section chief suddenly agreed. But the bloody bastards in the RIRA weren’t content to stop there. Bent on terrorizing London, they detonated several more bombs that summer, including another at the BBC.
This bomb took from him the woman he loved above all others. And because a man who has lost his heart becomes a heartless bastard, Cædmon took it upon himself to right that horrible wrong. After he hunted down Timothy O’Halloran, the RIRA leader responsible for the bombing campaign, he spent weeks in a pickled state, like an inebriate in a Hogarth engraving. The pain unbearable, he discovered that killing O’Halloran had not exorcised the demons of that fateful explosion. It had merely satisfied his need for revenge. But revenge did not bring solace. Nor redemption. It only taught him that he had the capacity to kill.
Not an easy revelation for any man.
When he finally came to his sober senses, he discovered that MI5 does not abandon its own, no matter the transgression. But it does punish them. Demoted to maintaining a safe house in Paris, it was five years before he was discharged from the service. Finally, a free man.
Cædmon glanced at the mobile on the table, recollecting the earlier call. Maybe he’d been too quick to cut the old ties.
‘Rather late, old boy, for that,’ he muttered, garnering a pointed glance from a horse-faced woman at the next table. He smiled apologetically. ‘Don’t mind me. I tend to ramble on when lost in thought.’
‘Glad to hear I’m not the only one who talks to themselves.’ She met his gaze and held it. An overture.
‘Yes, quite.’ His mobile softly chimed, notifying him of an incoming email. Relieved to have a graceful exit, he picked up the device. ‘I apologize, but I must attend to business.’
‘Oh, sure.’ Blushing all the way to her widow’s peak, his neighbour took a sudden interest in adjusting the plastic lid on her coffee cup.
Cædmon accessed his email file. Staring at the log, he drummed his fingers on the tabletop, having no recollection of giving his email address to anyone named Edie Miller. Although that didn’t mean his publicist hadn’t given it to someone at a book signing. Assuming that to be the case, he opened the email rather than delete it outright.
His eyes narrowed, the missive not what he expected.
‘Indeed,’ he murmured, reading the postscript.
8
Edie Miller replaced the wireless headset in her ear.
> She wasn’t going to run. She wasn’t going to hide.
She was going to play dumb.
‘My safety and well-being? Um, gee, I have no idea what your t-talking about. I’m doing just fine.’ Her voice noticeably warbled, bravado slow in coming.
‘Come now, Ms Miller. Let’s not play games with one another,’ the caller replied, seeing right through her. ‘We both know that you were at the Hopkins Museum earlier today.’
Her hands began to shake, the Jeep straying out of its lane. A UPS truck to the left of her laid on the horn causing Edie to swerve back. Hitting the turn signal, she navigated the Jeep into the inner lane of Dupont Circle.
Back-burner. That’s where you need to put the fear.
‘Of course I was at the museum,’ she replied, the best lies those fashioned from the truth. ‘I’m at the museum every Monday. It’s the only day of the week that I can take photos of the collection. But you already know that.’ She dramatically sighed, hoping she sounded like a whipped and defeated cog. ‘Linda in payroll has been threatening for weeks to tell on me for not clocking out when I leave the museum. I know. I know. Really bad habit. Guess you guys in audit finally caught up to me, huh?’
‘Is it also your habit to exit the museum via the fire escape?’
‘Oh, gosh… bus-ted.’ She nervously laughed, the lies fast mounting. ‘All these smoke-free buildings make it hard for us addicts to get our nicotine fix.’
‘And what of your satchel? You left it on your desk. Is that also another of your bad habits?’
Edie braked to avoid a ridiculously long stretch Hummer. ‘Yeah, well, what can I say? Absentminded is my middle name.’
‘According to your driver’s licence, your middle name is Darlene. Lovely picture, I might add. But then I’ve always had a weakness for curly-haired maidens.’
Edie racked her brain for a response, fast running out of lies.
Determined not to end up like Jonathan Padgham, she injected a big dose of fake incredulity into her voice. ‘You have my wallet? Thank God. I was wondering who – You will be a dear and return it, won’t you? It’d be such a pain to have to cancel all my cards.’
‘No need to worry. I’ve already taken the liberty of cancelling your credit cards. I’ve also cleaned out your chequing and savings accounts. My, my, what a thrifty little miser you are. You’ve hoarded away nearly thirty thousand dollars.’
They cleaned out my accounts. How in God’s name did they get the security codes to – The bent cop. He would have access to God knows what records. Her mobile number. Her social security number. Every Big Brother computerized database under the sun.
‘I’d be happy to give you a reward for returning my wallet,’ she said, scrambling for a foothold, a limb, a root, anything she could hold on to. ‘I’d also appreciate if you didn’t let payroll know that I left a couple of hours early. I had a killer headache and –’
‘Thou shall not lie!’ the caller barked into her ear. A half-second later, as though he had reined in his runaway temper, he calmly said, ‘Entertaining though they are, I’m beginning to grow weary of your lies, Ms Miller.’
‘Lies? What lies?’ When that met with silence, she said, ‘Look, you’ve got me confused with another woman in the line-up.’ When the silence lengthened, she said, ‘That was a joke.’ As in people with something to hide are not capable of cracking a joke.
‘A mailman in the apartment building behind the museum, believing he was performing his civic duty, identified you from your DC driver’s licence photo. You see? We know everything about you, Ms Miller. We also know that you were at the museum, on the fourth floor, when Dr Padgham met his unfortunate end.’
Unfortunate end? Was this guy for real? Jonathan Padgham’s brains were blown clear out of his head. Talk about wiping the toilet bowl clean.
‘Who are you?’
‘Who I am is unimportant.’ Then, the caller’s voice dropping a scary octave, ‘Perhaps at this juncture I should mention that you can run but you cannot hide.’
Edie looked in the rear-view mirror.
SUVs. Cars, taxis and delivery trucks of every stripe.
But no dark blue Ford.
And no DC police cruisers.
She decided to call his bluff.
‘Word of warning, fella. When trying to threaten a woman, clichés usually don’t inspire a whole lot of fear. As for threats, here’s one right back at you… Call me again and I will not hesitate to go to the FBI. Normally, I’d call the cops, but I figure I wouldn’t get out of the precinct alive. I can just hear the news broadcast now. “Edie Miller, victim of an unfortunate accident, slipped on a recently mopped floor at DC police headquarters, cracking her skull.” What do you think? Does that sound about right?’
‘I’m certain that the FBI is much too busy tracking jihadist terror cells to take your call let alone give you the time of day.’
‘Ah, but like you said, I’m the sole surviving witness to a brutal execution. One that involves a well-organized art ring,’ she added, laying all her cards on the table. ‘I think the suits at the FBI will be only too happy to spare me a few minutes of their time.’
‘How do you know we haven’t infiltrated the FBI?’
She didn’t. And the cocky bastard knew it.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Merely to talk. To clarify the situation so as to alleviate your unwarranted fears. I have very deep pockets, Ms Miller, and would be only too happy to triple the balance in your two bank accounts.’
Yeah, right. Something told her she’d never see a dime.
Accelerating, she jerked the Jeep over one lane. Then another, exiting the traffic circle at Mass Avenue.
‘You want to talk? Fine. Here’s the only thing I have to say to you –’ She dragged out the silence for several seconds then screeched, ‘Go to hell!’’
Pulling the wireless headset out of her ear, she flung it in the direction of her bag.
Shaking – not like one leaf, but like a whole pile of wind-whipped leaves – she kept her eyes glued to the road, the familiar equestrian monuments passing in a blur as she drove around Scott Circle and under Thomas Circle. She then turned right at 11th, drove a few blocks and made a left turn onto Pennsylvania. In the distance loomed the US Capitol.
The snow started to fall more heavily. Driving on autopilot, she turned up the heater.
At 4th Street, she turned right, the East Building of the National Gallery of Art on her left, the West Building on her right. Not bothering to signal, she made a sharp right into the circular drive next to the museum, pulling the Jeep into the first available parking spot she could find, right behind a snow-covered Lexus. It was a prime parking spot, mere steps from the West Building entrance. It also required a NGA parking sticker.
‘So, sue me,’ she muttered. It was snowing and she didn’t have time to find a legal parking space, the Mall crowded despite the foul weather.
Yanking the keys out of the ignition, she tossed them into her bag and got out of the Jeep. The National Gallery of Art was the most public place she could think of to hide. One of the largest marble buildings in the world, it exuded a sense of strength and security. And there were guards everywhere. Tons of them. As she rushed towards the oversized entry doors, she tried not to think of the two dead guards back at the Hopkins.
Opening a door, she glanced at her watch: 2:30. The museum would be open for another two and a half hours. Enough time to figure out her next move. Hopefully, C.Aisquith had received her email and was on his or her way to the museum.
At the front desk, Edie opened her bag for inspection, the guard giving the contents only a cursory glance. If he noticed the box of spinach, he gave no indication. Edie slung the bag back on her shoulder, unimpressed with the museum’s post-9/11 security measures.
Well acquainted with the layout – she had spent many hours perusing the museum’s collection since first moving to DC nearly twenty years ago – Edie took the escalator down one f
loor to the underground concourse that connected the two wings. Passing the Henry Moore sculpture at the base of the escalator, she headed into the gift shop. The muffled hubbub was non-stop. People chatting. People talking on mobiles. People waxing poetic about the beautiful boxed Christmas cards. The mingling of all those voices was a comforting sound, reassuring Edie that she was finally safe.
Reaching the Cascade Café, she stood next to the gushing waterfall that gave the café its name. Enclosed behind a giant screen of glass, pumped water continuously flowed over a wall of corrugated granite. One storey below ground, the protective glass wall was the only source of natural light in the concourse. Edie was able to see the wintry grey sky above.
For the next fifteen minutes, she carefully scrutinized each and every museum patron who entered the concourse. Teens garbed in Gap. Ladies who lunch garbed in Gucci. Museum staff garbed in drab grey. And then she saw him, a tall red-headed man, fortyish, who had about him a discernible air of self-assurance. From the cut of his clothes – expensive navy-blue wool jacket, cream-coloured cable-knit sweater, black leather shoes paired with blue denim jeans – she pegged him for a European.
The red-headed man came to a stop in the middle of the crowded concourse. Turning his head, he glanced at her, held her gaze, then looked away.
Edie purposefully strode towards him. Having spent a summer selling timeshares in Florida, she wasn’t afraid of approaching strangers.
The red-headed man’s gaze swerved back in her direction, a questioning look on his face.
‘C.Aisquith at lycos.com?’
He nodded, blue eyes narrowing. ‘And you must be Edie103 at earthlink.com. I would normally say “Pleased to make your acquaintance” but given the dire content of your electronic missive that may be a bit premature.’
