by Chloe Palov
She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Yeah, well, I seem to recall you saying the same thing about the Stones of Fire, but the breastplate managed to mysteriously turn up. And because of it, you and I are now in serious danger.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Cædmon noticed that the cleaner pushing the yellow bucket had suddenly turned in their direction.
Odd that the man was wearing military-style boots.
The man was also a muscular behemoth. ‘He was big. Really, really big. Steroid big.’
Recalling Edie’s earlier description of Padgham’s killer, Cædmon felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck.
‘I am beginning to concur with your assessment,’ he murmured, his eyes still trained on the giant. The man removed his right hand from the mop handle and reached behind his back.
In that instant Cædmon saw the flash of a silver ring.
In the next instant he caught the dark flash of…
He squinted, the object coming into focus.
Bloody hell! The man had a gun!
14
There being no time to think, Cædmon shoved the table aside and hurled himself at Edie Miller, flinging both of them to the floor in one strong-armed motion.
The bullet struck the upturned table and ricocheted off the stone top. Female companion in tow, Cædmon scooted behind a nearby column. The second bullet struck a metal planter – ping! – less than a metre from their huddled position.
A woman in the crowd frantically screamed.
A man gruffly shouted, ‘He’s got a gun!’
Yet another yelled, ‘It’s a fucking terrorist!’
Several other people joined the cacophony of fear.
Not waiting for the third bullet, Cædmon went on the offensive. Stretching out his right arm, he grabbed a trolley stacked with dirty crockery parked beside the column. With a mighty heave, he propelled the cart forward. Plates crashed to the floor. A smashing diversion.
Catching sight of the motion, the gunman spun on his heel, reflexively firing a third round. The bullet hit the sheet of glass that contained the cascading fountain, the glass shattering on impact. Water gushed into the concourse.
The chaos increased, people running pell-mell in every direction.
Armour-piercing bullets, Cædmon thought, horrified. That would have been safety glass. The man was using bloody armour-piecing bullets.
Edie, flattened beneath the weight of his body, shrieked in his ear. Raising his head, Cædmon scanned the panic-stricken crowd, searching for the armed behemoth.
The gunman was nowhere in sight. All that remained was the yellow bucket, a wooden mop handle protruding from its murky depths. He’d fled the scene. Or he’d moved to a different firing position. Either way, they had mere seconds to escape the concourse.
He pushed himself to his knees, yanking Edie off the floor as he did so.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked in a strangled voice.
‘Padgham’s murderer has just paid his respects.’
‘Oh, God! We’re not going to get out of here alive!’
Suddenly realizing he might soon have a hysterical woman on his hands, Cædmon roughly grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘We will escape. But only if you remain calm and do exactly as I say. Understood?’ When he received no answer, he shook her. Hard. ‘Understood?’
She nodded. Satisfied with the mute reply – her input unnecessary and unwanted – he surveyed the damage. The crowd, some running, many crouched on the concourse floor, had become a shouting, screaming mass of collective hysteria. A Bosch painting come to life.
Cædmon directed his gaze first one way then the other, determining how best to navigate through the mêlée. To the right was a tunnel-like hall. To the left was the gift shop. With its dim recessed lighting and numerous display counters, the gift shop offered the best cover. Grabbing Edie by the hand, he ran in that direction.
‘Where are we going?’ she demanded, huffing as she kept pace with him.
He sidestepped a museum employee, the man actually attempting to direct the frenzied horde, much like a traffic cop directing cars after a pile-up.
‘We’re going as far from the maddening crowd as possible,’ he informed her, having to shout to be heard over the din. Espying a black trench coat draped over a counter, the owner having abandoned it in the rush to escape, he grabbed it as they ran past. He then dodged behind an oversized column. Out of sight, he came to a halt.
‘Quickly! Put this on!’ Unceremoniously, he shoved the coat at his companion’s chest.
‘Why would I want to –’
‘Your outfit is preposterous. As such, it makes an easy target.’
Removing her bag from her shoulder, Edie shoved her arms into the trench coat. ‘With your red hair, you kind of stick out yourself.’
‘Point taken.’ As he spoke, Cædmon plucked a beanie from the head of a bespectacled Asian teenager as he shot past, the youth too terrified to do anything other than keep on running. Having lived through several RIRA terrorist attacks on London, Cædmon knew that chaos had a way of making even the most truculent uncharacteristically pliant. He shoved the green hat with its gold-lettered PATRIOTS logo onto his head. Then he reached over and yanked the two sides of the much-too-big trench coat across Edie’s waist, hurriedly tying the belt around her waist.
Camouflaged, he led them through the gift store in a zigzag pattern, that being the most difficult for the human eye to follow. Hand in hand they darted from sales counter to column to yet another sales counter. A few seconds later they emerged into a well-lit antechamber that housed a Henry Moore sculpture. Quickly, Cædmon assessed their three choices: escalator, lift or staircase.
‘Always execute the least likely manoeuvre, that being the only way to escape a determined enemy.’
His MI5 instructors’ lesson well-learned, Cædmon grabbed Edie by the shoulder, spinning her towards the stairs.
‘But it’s quicker to take the escalator.’
‘Quicker, perhaps, but far more dangerous.’
Side by side, they ascended the steps, the staircase deserted, unlike the crowded escalator on the opposite side of the antechamber, people packed onto it like frantic sheep.
At the top of the stairs they found themselves in a large vestibule, two matched bronze pumas standing sentry. On the far side of the vestibule the lift opened, half a dozen owl-faced visitors spilling out. A few feet away, he sighted the public conveniences, the WCs marked with male and female symbols. Just beyond the pumas was the 4th Street lobby, the area a veritable mob scene, frantic museum goers running to and fro, harried guards attempting to corral them through the exit.
Like doomed fish in a glass bowl.
Easy pickings for a hungry cat.
The situation evaluated, Cædmon grabbed Edie by the hand and dragged her towards the WCs. Shoving his shoulder against the swinging door, he pulled his companion into the ladies’ loo.
‘What are you doing?’ she screeched, the sound echoing off the stark white tiles.
‘Saving your life, I dare say.’
‘But you’re a man! You’re not allowed in here!’
Ignoring her, he scanned the facilities.
Six stalls. Five sinks. No occupants.
He pushed open one of the middle stall doors.
‘Did you hear me, Cædmon? I said that you’re not allowed –’
‘Do calm down, will you?’ He shoved her inside the stall, following her. ‘And while you’re at it, lower your voice. Getting into a dither will only make things worse than they already are.’
An adamant look on her face, she continued to protest, ‘But this is the ladies’ room.’
‘Precisely why I chose it over the little boys’ loo. It’s only a guess, but I seriously doubt our testosterone-driven assailant will think to look for us in here, the word “ladies” acting as a natural deterrent. For the moment at least, we’re safe.’
‘Not to mention cramped like peas in a porcelain pod,�
�� she muttered, awkwardly twisting her upper body as she straddled the toilet, the stall barely wide enough to accommodate one person, let alone two.
Stall door locked, Cædmon removed a visitors’ guide from his coat pocket, having picked up the map when he arrived at the museum.
‘Now what?’
‘Now, we work out how best to outwit our nemesis.’ Unfolding the map, he held it in front of his chest. Edie, forced to stand on tiptoe, peered over his shoulder. ‘According to the map, there are five possible exits from the museum.’
‘The nearest is no more than fifty feet away. That one we just passed.’ Reaching over his shoulder, she jabbed her index finger at the nearby exit. ‘Right there. The 4th Street exit. My Jeep is parked outside the door. We can be out of here in seconds. As in “Gentlemen, start your engines.”’
Cædmon rejected her suggestion with a brusque shake of his head. ‘I have reason to suspect you were followed to the museum. Which means the 4th Street exit will undoubtedly be manned by either the gunman or an accomplice. Our point of egress should be the most distant exit from our current position.’
She grabbed him by the upper arm, awkwardly turning him towards her. ‘Are you crazy? You’re talking about the 7th Street exit!’ she hissed in a highly agitated whisper. ‘That’s all the way on the other side of the National Gallery of Art. It’s three city blocks from where we’re at right now. If you think that’s a good plan, you’re totally insane!’
‘Ah, I see my reputation precedes me.’
His mind made up, he refolded the map, replacing it in his breast pocket. Not bothering to ask permission, he searched the pockets of Edie’s pilfered trench coat. Discovering a black canvas rain hat, he handed it to her.
‘Here, put this on.’
‘Uh uh.’ She shook her head, brown curls buoyantly bouncing about her shoulders. ‘You might not care if you get a case of head lice, but I –’
‘Put it on,’ he ordered, thinking her adamance, yet again, misplaced. ‘Head lice can be cured with a bit of medicated shampoo. Resurrection is trickier to manage. As I speak, the gunman is searching the museum for two targets: a red-headed chap and a curly-haired maiden. Trust me. We have danger in spades.’
‘Not to mention hearts, clubs and diamonds,’ she muttered, stuffing her curls into the canvas hat.
‘Much better,’ he said, nodding his approval. ‘Come. We’ve tarried long enough.’ He unlocked the stall and swung it open.
Edie stared at him, her obstinacy now replaced with a look of fearful dread.
‘Do you think we’ve got a chance of getting out of here alive?’ she whispered.
Rather than make an empty promise he might not be able to keep, he said, ‘We shall find out soon enough.’
15
A fiddle fuck.
That’s what he had on his hands, a goddamned fiddle fuck.
Uncertain how things had turned so bad so quick, Boyd Braxton shoved his arms into his black turtleneck sweater, the unconscious Walter Jefferson still sprawled on the floor of the storeroom. Having retrieved his bundle of clothing from where he’d stowed it, Boyd had returned to the store, needing to reconnoitre. In a big-ass hurry, he yanked his black trousers over the top of the blue pair he already wore. He didn’t give a rat’s ass how he looked. He just needed to not look like a cleaner. Too many people had seen a cleaner firing into the crowd. No way in hell would he be able to get out of the museum decked out like some numb-nuts service worker.
He shoved the Ka-Bar and Mark 23 into his waistband. Next he checked his mobile, which was programmed with a preset number to immediately warn him if Edie Miller’s Jeep was moved.
He heaved a sigh of relief; the Jeep was still parked out the front.
The bitch was in the museum. He could make this right. Wherever the bitch went, he would follow.
Yanking open the door of the store, he stepped across the threshold, the museum concourse directly across from his present position.
Quickly he scanned the area. Blown-out glass. A couple of overturned tables. Some broken plates. People frantically sloshed through the water from the shattered fountain. A sobbing woman in a tight-fitting suit, hobbled by a pair of stilettos heels, limped past, Boyd nearly gagging in her wake, the broad doused in more perfume than a Bangkok whore.
He heard the blare of at least half a dozen police sirens. Any second the place would be swarming with cops.
No sense looking for the Miller bitch here; he already knew she’d fled the concourse, having earlier caught sight of her and that red-headed bastard heading towards the gift shop.
Just who the fuck was he, anyway?
Obviously, the guy was a player. He had to be. Nobody had reflexes that quick unless they’d been trained. Maybe the bastard worked for a law enforcement agency. Whoever he worked for, it meant trouble.
Boyd strode over to where the Miller woman had been sitting, snatching a sheet of paper off the floor.
‘Shit!’
On the sodden paper were two sketches, one a drawing of the relic he’d earlier stolen from the Hopkins, the other the Jerusalem cross that he and every other man at Rosemont Security Consultants wore on their right ring finger.
As he continued to stare at the piece of paper, he caught sight of a Muslim couple, the wife’s head wrapped in a hijab, propelling a pushchair, the kid bawling its head off. The couple stopped a few feet away from where he stood. The woman peered into the pushchair, the kid bawling even louder.
The bawling baby in the back room was gonna give away their position. There was a sniper in the building across the street and dozens of raghead fuckers prowling the streets of Fallujah in Toyota pickups. If the brat didn’t stop bawling, he and his men were gonna end up hanging from a street light with no head and no balls. Burnt toast.
Boyd strode into the back bedroom. ‘Hey, Fatima, shut the fucking brat the hell up!’ he hissed.
Wrapped in a big black chador, she stared at him. Like he was a freakin’ Martian or something.
‘Well, fuck that shit!’ He was sick and tired of getting his ass shot at for these ungrateful, godless people.
Lunging forward, he slashed the black-swathed woman’s throat. Then he grabbed a pillow off the bed and shoved it over the bawling brat’s face.
The piece of paper in Boyd’s hand began to shake, his head suddenly exploding in a corolla of pain.
Babies crying. Women crying. Everybody and their fucking Uncle Tom crying. Christ, you’d think he’d killed somebody. Like this was a goddamned war zone or something. This was nothing. A minor public disturbance. A cleaner gone nuts. Except this time around nobody got killed.
And that was the problem. Somebody was supposed to have ended up dead.
‘Kill ’em. Kill ’em all. God will know his own.’ Isn’t that what the colonel always said?
Still staring at the Muslim couple and their screaming baby, Boyd reached behind his back, his hand curling around the gun grip. Slowly he slid the Mark 23 from his waistband. Papa, Mama and Baby Bear. One, two, three.
No sooner did he pull the gun free than his mobile vibrated against his breastbone.
Boyd shoved his piece back into his waistband. Turning his back on the couple and their screaming brat, he reached for his phone. The digital display read ‘RSC’. Rosemont Security Consultants.
‘Fuck.’
It was the colonel calling for a status report.
Feeling like Joe Shit the Ragman, he pressed ‘Answer’. Since the colonel hated what he referred to as circumlocution – what Boyd and everybody else with a 12th-grade education called beating around the bush – he didn’t bother with the pleasantries. Instead, he simply said, ‘We’ve got a problem, sir. The target escaped. The place has turned into a three-ring circus, and the cops have just arrived.’
The statrep met with a moment’s silence, Boyd bracing himself for a world-class ass-chewing.
‘Is the Miller woman still on the premises?’ the colonel asked, his calm tone of voi
ce taking Boyd by surprise. Usually this kind of fuck-up would meet with wrath second only to God Almighty’s.
‘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, then in the background Boyd heard the muffled sounds of several voices. The colonel had 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.’
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 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 obtain a full dossier on one Cædmon St John Aisquith.
He examined the photo attached to the upper right-hand corner with a paper clip. Red hair. Blue eyes. Fair complexion. He next glanced at the physical particulars. 6′3′′ 190 lbs. It stood to reason that Aisquith was the ‘tall guy with red hair’ 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. Masters in medieval studies. Recruited MI5 – 1995. Formal resignation – 2006.
MacFarlane’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly as though weighed down with a heavy load.
