by Cara Charles
The President made his way to the Renwick Museum’s service entrance.
He was looking for the night security.
How would he explain who he was if he was arrested? Sweating, he wiped his forehead, hoping his sweat wouldn’t drip on anything the guard would notice when he made rounds. He pushed open the door, bracing for the alarm, none sounded.
The 17th Street lights were peeking through sparse foliage up ahead. He closed the door. He had to be back in less than sixty minutes.
The night vision goggles turned everything green.
The President clung to the shadows cast by the leafless trees and ran south.
He ran along 17th Street, through the parks, making his way across the Mall to Madison Drive to the Natural History Museum, listening to his footsteps, listening for others. He increased his old running rhythm. It felt good, as his lungs cooperated now. He had time to make up.
The smell of fireplaces and the wet molding leaves filled his lungs. The cold air hurt a bit, rushing in. He pulled his scarf around his nose to keep the air warm.
Keeping in the shadows, running with his night goggles on, listening for footsteps, and patrol cars, mingled with his heavy breathing, which he was sure would give him away, was really tough. His adrenalin was high.
Lafayette Park is where they’d said to walk to recover.
He checked his watch as he caught his breath. He was still behind schedule.
The President froze. A car.
He stepped into the shadows, as a D.C. Police patrol car passed by.
The still night air was pierced by the wail of an ambulance, it’s dome lights lit up the dark street. It screamed by, following the patrol car.
The fire department paramedics would be next.
The President didn’t waste any more time, and continued his jog. They’d given him time to catch his breath, not really knowing what shape he was in.
Behind him, he heard another patrol car.
He stayed still as it drove slowly by him, the policeman turned on his searchlight, searching in the bushes where the President had hidden.
The President pushed through the bushes, and sprinted toward the Old Smithsonian, a block away. He had to make the side door before the curious patrol saw him.
Finally, he was across from the side entrance of the old Smithsonian, bushes in front of him. He glanced at the door from his hiding place. Guards should be on their rounds elsewhere, but this patrolman was diligent, convinced his perp was close by.
The President muffled his labored breathing. His watch said twenty seconds!
He pushed through the bushes, tiptoed toward his destination, not wasting time.
At the door, he’d be exposed. He hesitated.
The arc of the patrolman’s light was coming closer, foot by foot. Timing was everything.
He listened. He had to go, now.
The President ran for the doorway, just as the faintest noise reached him. He was committed. He couldn’t place it. He couldn’t go back.
It was a shopping cart.
Someone was coming humming the hymn, “How Great Thou Art.”
He flattened himself inside the recessed doorway, and entered the code in the keypad. He pushed down on the thumb latch. Nothing.
The adrenalin was surging through him, his hands shaking.
Again, the President punched in the code. Nothing. Was he making a mistake?
Someone with a cart was closing in on him.
So was the searchlight.
He bent down to look at the keypad and removed his glove.
He keyed in the code, the latch clicked, he rubbed the keys with the glove.
The searchlight was only ten feet away.
He heard a small click.
He’d locked himself out!
He keyed in the code again. The lock clicked.
He put his glove back on. Hastily rubbed out his fingerprints.
The thumb latch gave.
Inside, he pushed hard on the door to shut for two seconds. It resisted him. He had to move. He quickly wiped his feet. Taking huge strides, the President ran down the long hallway, his heart in his throat.
“Oh my Lord in Heaven!” an older, African-American woman said.
“Alva? Is that you?” the policeman from the patrol car asked.
The President heard them both, clearly.
“Oh shit, boy. Not you, Eric. Did you see him?” Alva nearly seventy, said.
“No. Where did he go?”
“Inside. Lord, have mercy. I’ve seen him!”
Alva pointed at the door.
The President ran down the hall, scanning the hundred foot long hallway for a hiding place, trying every door. All locked. He looked back at the door. His wet footprints were on the linoleum, and the damn door would not close before the patrolman got there.
Then he heard it click, but they could hear it too.
A flashlight shot over to the doorway.
The light showed the patrolman was running toward the door. He now tried the door. He shook the door and forced the door.
Still locked.
The President pressed flat inside the recessed doorway to a locked classroom, trying to slow his pounding heart and his nervous breathing. He turned his feet outward to fit inside the door jam, as the patrolman shined his flashlight down the hall, one hand cupped around his eyes to see inside.
The beam clipped the tops of the President’s toes. The beam hesitated out in the hall, as the President spread them further outward.
The beam came back over to his doorway.
The patrolman was methodical, re-directing the beam over the same area twice.
The President flattened his toes out even more.
“You’re dreaming, Alva. Why aren’t you at the shelter, old woman?”
“The President is in there, I tell ya. I’d know him anywhere! You’re just too slow! Besides in this weather, shelters are full and you know it. I’ve got my warm spots. So I’m good. Got some of my money on you? Enough to be out of this weather for the holidays? I’d even settle for a hearty breakfast or two. Now that would be right nice.”
“None of my money is spare, Alva. Get your breakfast at the soup kitchen, like everyone else. Move along, or I’ll arrest you for vagrancy.”
“Eric Langley? You know they are only open for dinner. You’re a heartless son of a bitch like your Mama. You and your greedy Mama is the reason I’m on the street! And you know it!”
“Stealing and alcoholism are the reasons you’re homeless, Alva.”
“Says you. Lying thieves. The both of ya!”
“Don’t want to see you here again, bothering the tourists. Are we clear?”
“Your lawyer just told a bigger, better lie. What was his cut? We both know if your Daddy were alive he’d take you two down and keep you down. He meant to cut you out of the will he said many a time, to me. Cheating on your bar exam. A monumental disappointment you were to him. Broke his heart, you did!”
“Let’s remember even though he was far too fond of the help, it was you who wasn’t mentioned in his will after all those years of faithful service, and it’s because of that, you’ve been homeless for five years now. Good night, Alva. Hope you catch pneumonia soon.”
“Sarge?” His rookie had come looking for him.
Eric didn’t know how much he’d heard. Eric Langley snapped off his light.
“Aren’t you pretty without your teeth.”
Eric walked toward the rookie. “Don’t ever leave the cruiser, Rookie.”
“Came to back you up, Sarge.”
“Someday Eric, I hope you catch a bullet and Aids,” Alva mumbled to herself, “you thieving little bastard. Somedays do have a way of turning up. Ha!” Alva laughed to herself, then returned to humming “How Great Thou Art” for its comfort.
His rookie asked, “She knows you? What’s that all about, Sarge?”
“Just another looney, homeless wreck. Forget it. Dime a dozen.”
The President heard everything. He knew she’d seen him. He would call an old friend from law school and ask him to look into Alva’s claim.
‘Eric Langley, you’ve got some payback coming.’
The President stood in his doorway looking at his watch, listening as Alva hummed back around the building, the squeaking of her shopping cart disappeared into the cold night. He walked on down the Hall.
“Wait. Please…” he heard her say.
Alva’s shadow fell over the door’s window as he was running down the hall.
The President heard her say, “Shit. I knew it! I knew it! Mr. President, that was you! Let me in to get warm, I won’t stay long. Come on, now. I see you standing there.”
Alva tried the door. She pushed and pushed, then gave up, “Alva, honey? It was just wishful thinking. Just wishful thinking.”
POTUS FELT DEEPLY FOR HER. But he had to focus on his objective, the Vertebrate Library, his second to last destination. He was looking forward to being home in his warm bed with his prize, his Mission accomplished.
His watch said less than three minutes to find it and get out. He’d have to discuss their tight time frame. It was too stressful getting to these destinations and back. He was not Superman. Maybe this would be his one and only treasure hunt.
The signs at the end of the stacks to the Vertebrate Library were clearly displayed, like the libraries of his youth. He easily made his way to the Mammal section, found his volume 345, opened to page 80.
There inside a plastic evidence envelope, was a plain white No. 10 envelope.
Something inside was soft, long, and lumpy. Hair?
Just then, a barely audible noise came from one stack over. Someone was in the library. The President stuffed the envelope in his inside pocket. He’d soaked through his layers.
He looked for a place to hide as a gray, and white-stripped tabby cat walked around the corner and meowed at him.
‘Oh my God! I’m going to be busted by a cat.’ The President thought.
Stumped now he petted it, and backed down the aisle. That kept it quiet.
‘That’s all he’d need. His blood here, too. Maybe it was just the building’s cat to keep the mice out of the paper. Or what if it’s a professor’s cat and he was somewhere in the stacks?’
The cat was lonely. It purred, meowed again, as he picked it up. It pushed against him and jumped down with a loud thud.
The President’s heart rate and blood pressure shot through the roof. Any minute now someone would be calling the cat. The President walked away. The gray and white tabby cat ran around in front of him and meowed again. The cat rubbed on him, knowing if he were nice, he’d get a nice scratch or a little food.
The President stroked him then, noticed his collar. It said, ‘Mr. P. Follow Indy, the cat.’
The cat took off around the corner. The President ran to keep up.
Indy, the cat ran to a broom closet, jumped up on a bench. Empty dishes were waiting.
“Mr. P. Please feed Indy, the cat,’ the note hanging on the shelf said.
The cat meowed as the President sprinkled out the dry cat food. A small bottle with a message inside, fell into the cat bowl. He poured her water from a gallon jug, opened the bottle, dipped his finger in the water, and rubbed the plain paper with the water while the cat munched nosily.
A message appeared then quickly evaporated word by word.
‘If exit blocked by Alva, follow staff exit. Chew this. Go now.’
He chewed the rice paper and it dissolved, he felt energized, something in the paper.
He rubbed Indy, who arched his back purring.
The President jogged through the building, goggles on, listening for the guard, followed the staff exit, and left the building.
As he rounded the corner, he looked at his watch and nearly fell over Alva laying on the warm grate. Her body braced his fall. He had to vault over her cart.
He sprinted into the shadows.
She rose up on her elbows. He knew she’d felt him.
She caught a glimpse of him, disappearing into the shadows.
“I sleep with you every night Mr. President. Merry Christmas!”
Alva opened her coat. She’d lined her coat with newspaper and magazine clippings of him. With his night vision goggles on, he could see the lining. He waved and she waved back.
“Ain’t fame a bitch? Can’t blame the President for needing some private time.”
The President chuckled. In the morning, he’d have an old friend look into her case. He hoped for a bit more energy as he jogged west, toward his last destination.
An hour earlier, Sean Rooney’s cell phone had rung next to his head, where he was sleeping on the couch. He’d answered quickly, so it wouldn’t wake the Erskines.
“Hello?” Sean whispered a bit irritated.
“Sean Rooney? Don’t hang up. This is not a phone solicitor. Listen very closely, Sean. This is very important,” the modulated British female computer voice said.
Yes?” Sean couldn’t place it, no. It sounded like Shirley. “Shirley?”
“No, Sean. This is the METAPHOR Ultra Project. We’re untraceable. On 17 December you released secret and vital information on the FOIA that was snared in a capture program, by very evil and powerful private interests. We were able to retrieve two from known computers programmed to capture these dates you released. There are more. We’ve set about covering our endangered assets. The most vulnerable, we can’t find.”
“I don’t make typos.”
“Well, Sean. Does this ring a bell? Some very sensitive Berlin archive information dated 10/01/45 to 10/11/1945 reached several enemies who now have the information this country has kept secret for over seventy years. We put you in that position because you were so consistently reliable and accurate. How in God’s name, did this happen?”
“I don’t believe it was me. Like I said, ma’am. I never make typos.”
“Never is a land that can’t exist, except in Peter Pan. Recall December 17th?
“Those dates were assigned. Someone else made this mistake. Entry time?”
“1955.”
‘I’m the only one on the Berlin Archives. Did they have a hacker?’ “Could there be a breach at College Park? Maybe a hacker, and not me at all,” Sean said. ‘Oh God.’ His brain was awake. ‘D-day. Firing day. The day he became a new man. Shirley would kill him if she didn’t know already.’ “Yes, ma’am. I remember now. It was me. I was crying when I was on the Berlin docs. I thought I was going to be fired, not because of any breach, but because I’d extended another weekend.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN -- RENDEZVOUS WITH DESTINY
“FOR ILLNESS reasons but miraculously, I was given another chance. I was crying because I was grateful. I’d just come back from serving at the Mission and having dinner with my supervisor, Shirley Cronkite. I did make typos but I got the alarm because the year was so wrong. I promptly corrected them. I verified the end date was 10/11/1945, because as you must know I never make typos, except that once. Sorry I’ve caused this trouble. But the dates were on the log. Can I make this up to you?” Sean was scared. Tears were welling in his eyes.
“Well then, young Sean. I believe you. Get yourself to the Jefferson Memorial by 3 a.m. and meet your connection, or you else you’ll leave me no choice. You will be fired. Understood? You and that nice Erskine family staying with you will end up homeless. You have to make this right. You have no idea what you’ve set in motion. Speak to no one about this, ever. Speak only to the man who will be waiting for you. He will give you something that will help you forget our conversation. Forgetting this conversation and what you have to delete and re-enter into the October 11 1945 data set in the archives, will protect you, the Erskines and those you put in jeopardy. Understood? You don’t want foreigners waiting for Shirley, or that little boy one night?”
“No ma’am. Will I know this man?”
“Yes. Guaranteed. Your password for him and the file is Balderdash. Understood?”<
br />
“Yes ma’am. B-A-L-D-E-R-D-A-S-H? My grandfather used to say that.”
“That’s right. Balderdash. You know it. Good. Do as he instructs you. Good-bye.”
“Wait. The Erskines. They desperately need a job. Please help them?”
“Yes. I’ll see to it. Take the pills he offers. It will save your lives.”
“Thank you so much. And I’m sorry. I never meant...”
“All right, then. We know that. Don’t ever make this mistake again, Sean.
Promise… there will never, ever be a next time. Crying in gratitude is a noble thing. You are a noble young man. Just next time, please keep you hands off the damn keyboard. God’s speed, Sean Rooney.”
“Thank you. I swear never to be careless, again. Good-bye.”
Mike Erskine was snoring in the bedroom. Sarah or Little Sean could be awake.
Sean threw on his clothes, heavy hooded coat, grabbed his cell, and keys when Little Sean walked in.
“Where are you going?” the little guy asked.
Sean jumped, then put his finger to his lips.
“Scared me. Can’t sleep. Going for ice cream.”
“Get chocolate, and snoring strips for Dad. Wake me when you get back?”
“Maybe. You’ve got school in the morning. Go potty, wait in bed, and don’t wake up your mom and dad. Vamoose, young Luke!”
Little Sean went back into the hallway until Sean closed the door, gently.
Little Sean tiptoed back into the front room, turned on Cartoon Network, keeping the sound low. He pulled cushions and Sean’s blankets off the couch, made a bed close to the screen.
The President was jogging, staying in the shadows. He had to find an old Ford SUV in the lot near the National Museum. He was getting a little tired, soaked with sweat, and chilled. The cold air was seeping in.
There it was. A green Explorer, D.C. plates, license UTE 678. The key safe was under the right rear bumper. The car was warm inside, and started right up. A GPS gave him directions. “Jefferson Memorial, one point two miles…”
The Jefferson Memorial was a tough place to access, unless you knew how. Thank God for the GPS. President had less than ten minutes to get there, park, run to the structure, hide from the attendant and wait for his connection.