Ark of Fire ca-1

by C. M. Palov

  Taking a small measure of comfort in the fact that there wasn’t a Crown Vic in sight, she threw the Jeep into first gear and continued down Eighteenth Street. Reaching over, she retrieved her BlackBerry from her tote bag. She needed to contact C. Aisquith; his or her life was in grave danger. She didn’t know if he or she was a local. Didn’t know anything about him or her. She only knew the mystery person’s e-mail address.

  God, 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 e-mail, she pushed the Send button.

  “He’ll think I’m a crazy woman,” she muttered, knowing that if the shoe were on the other foot, if she were on the receiving end of that hastily composed message, that’s exactly what she would think.

  She glanced in the rearview mirror, her line of sight blocked by an orange and white U-Haul van riding her tail.

  Startled by a shrill ring tone, 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’d found her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Caedmon Aisquith opened the door to the Starbucks and was assailed with the inviting aroma of fresh-ground coffee and cinnamon scones.

  The comforts of a civilized life.

  Such scents made him forget, at least temporarily, that he inhabited a most uncivilized world. A world where brutal acts of violence took place with chilling regularity.

  When it came his turn at the head of the queue, Caedmon ordered a hazelnut coffee, wondering who the devil thought it a clever idea to call the medium serving a grande. It always made him think of an insecure bloke discussing the size of his appendage.

  Coffee cup in hand, he glanced about the interior, which was jam-packed with small bistro tables, each customer an island unto him- or herself. Spying a favorable-looking islet, he strode in that direction, seating himself next to the window, his own porthole unto the world. This strategic move would enable him to keep an eye on the pedestrian traffic outside the window while monitoring every customer who entered the shop. Although he tried to shake off his earlier unease, he was still troubled by the anonymous phone call that 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.

  Purposefully nonchalant, he dunked his scone into his coffee cup. The rules of polite behavior were not so rigidly adhered to in the Americas, so he took a bite. Then, acting like a man totally absorbed with 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, able to see the Church of Scientology nestled in the trees beyond. Idly, he wondered how long Tom Cruise’s latest 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 took seed 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 track down her “unnamed” source. Playing the absentminded but sincere Charing Cross book dealer, Caedmon worked the case for six months. Like a pastry chef applying layers of icing to a stacked gâteau, he slowly gained Juliana’s confidence over pints at the Fox and Hound, dinner dates at Le Caprice, and evenings spent at Covent Garden.

  And thus the legend of Peter Willoughby-Jones was born; Caedmon became 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 sin of falling in love with his target.

  Except the object of his affection knew him as Peter Willoughby-Jones. 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 Jules his true identity.

  After the North African cell had been put under lock and key, Caedmon 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 prove beneficial. When the Real Irish Republican Army detonated a bomb in front of the BBC, his section chief suddenly agreed. But the bloody bastards in RIRA weren’t content to stop there. Bent on terrorizing the city of London, they detonated several more bombs that summer.

  In the end, their bombs took from him the woman he loved above all others. And because a man who has lost his heart often becomes a heartless bastard, Caedmon took it upon himself to right that horrible wrong.

  After he hunted down Timothy O’Halloran, the RIRA leader responsible for the bomb blast, he spent weeks in a pickled state, like an inebriate in a Hogarth engraving. The pain was unbearable. He discovered that killing O’Halloran had not exorcised the demons of that fateful bomb blast; it 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 sobered senses, he discovered that MI5 does not burn 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 Her Majesty’s service. Finally, a free man.

  Caedmon 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 such regrets,” he muttered, garnering a pointed glance from the horse-faced woman at the next table.

  He apologetically smiled. “Don’t mind me. I tend to rumble about when lost in thought.”

  “Glad to hear that I’m not the only one who talks to them-self.” She met his gaze and held it. An overture.

  “Yes, quite.” His mobile softly chimed, notifying him of an incoming e-mail. 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 neighbor took a sudden interest in adjusting the plastic lid on her coffee cup.

  Caedmon accessed his e-mail file. Staring at the log list, 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 his private e-mail address to someone at a book signing. Assuming that to be the case, he opened the e-mail rather than delete it outright.

  His eyes narrowed; the missive was not what he thought it to be.

  From: Edie Miller

  To: caisquith@ly
cos.com

  Date: 12/01/08 02:16:31 p.m.

  Subject: DANGER!!

  urgent I meet w u @ NGA cascade café TODAY will wait until closing your life in danger mine 2 ps im not crazy

  edie103@earthlink.net

  “Indeed,” he murmured, reading the postscript.

  CHAPTER 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 you’re t-talking about. I’m doing just fine.” Her voice noticeably warbled; bravado was slow in coming.

  “Come now, Ms. Miller. Let’s not play games with one another,” the caller replied, seeing right through her ploy. “We both know that you were at the Hopkins Museum earlier today.”

  Her hands began to shake as the Jeep swayed out of its lane.

  Surrender, Dorothy. Now. Before the little winged monkeys get to you.

  A UPS truck to the left of her laid on the horn, causing Edie to swerve back into the correct lane. Hitting the turn signal, she navigated the Jeep into the inner lane of Dupont Circle.

  Back burner. That’s where she needed to put the sudden blast of fear.

  “Of course I was at the museum,” she replied, the best lies being 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 sic the auditor on me for not clocking out when I leave the museum. I know. I know. Really bad habit. Guess you guys in auditing 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 purse? You left it on your desk. Is that also another of your bad habits?”

  Edie braked to avoid hitting a ridiculously long stretch Hummer limo that hogged two lanes of traffic. “Yeah, well, what can I say? Absentminded is my middle name.”

  “According to your driver’s license, 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 faked 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 canceling your credit cards. I’ve also cleaned out your checking and savings accounts. My, my, what a thrifty little miser you are. You’ve hoarded away nearly thirty thousand dollars.”

  They’d cleaned out her accounts. How in God’s name did they get the security codes to—

  The dirty cop. He would have access to God knows what records. Her cell phone 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 purse,” she said, scrambling for a foothold, a limb, a scraggly root, anything she could hold on to. “I’d also appreciate if you didn’t let payroll know that I cut out of my shift 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 just 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 lineup.” 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 an act of civil defense, identified you from your D.C. driver’s-license 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 he being 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 dropped a scary octave. “Perhaps at this juncture I should mention that you can run, but you cannot hide.”

  Edie looked in the rearview mirror.

  SUVs. Late-model sedans. Taxis and delivery trucks of every stripe.

  But no Crown Vic.

  And no D.C. police cruisers.

  She decided to call his bluff.

  “Word of warning, fella. When you’re trying to threaten a woman, overused 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, the victim of an unfortunate accident, slipped on a recently mopped floor at D.C. 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 of the promised blood money.

  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—” Although it was hard, she dragged out the silence for several seconds. Then, her voice at screech level, she screamed, “Go to hell!’”

  Pulling the wireless headset out of her ear, she flung it in the direction of the tote bag.

  Shaking—not like one leaf, but a whole pile—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 on Eleventh, drove a few blocks and made a left-hand turn onto Pennsylvania. In the distance loomed the U.S. Capitol.

  The snow started to fall a bit heavier. Driving on autopilot, she turned up the defrost.

  At Fourth Street, she turned right; the East Building of the National Gallery of Art was on her left, the West Building on her right. Not bothering to signal, she made a sharp turn 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 primo parking spot, mere steps from the museum entrance. It also required an NGA-issued parking decal.

  “So sue me,” she muttered. It was snowing and she didn’t have time to find a legal parking space; the Mall was crowded despite the foul weather.

  Yanking the keys out of the ignition, she tossed them into her tote 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. Not to mention there were guards
everywhere. Tons of ’em. As she rushed toward the oversized entry doors of the West Building, she tried not to think of the two dead guards back at the Hopkins.

  Opening the glass door, she glanced at her watch. Two-thirty. 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 e-mail and was on his or her way to the museum.

  At the front guard station, Edie opened her tote bag for inspection; the guard gave the contents only a cursory glance. If he noticed the box of spinach, he gave no indication. Edie slung the tote bag back on her shoulder, unimpressed with the museum’s post-9/11 security measures.

  Well acquainted with the layout, having spent hours perusing the museum’s collection since first moving to D.C. nearly twenty years ago, Edie rode the escalator down one flight to the underground concourse that connected the two wings, east to west. Passing the Henry Moore sculpture at the base of the escalator, she headed into the museum gift shop. The muffled echo inside the concourse was nonstop. People chatting. People talking on cell phones. People waxing poetic about the beautiful boxed Christmas cards. The commingling of all those voices was a comforting sound, reassuring Edie that she was finally safe.

  Reaching the Cascade Café, the museum’s version of a food court, she took up a position 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 story below ground, the protective glass wall was the only source of natural light in the concourse; Edie could see the wintry gray sky above.

  For the next fifteen minutes, she carefully scrutinized every museum patron who entered the concourse. Teens garbed in Gap. Ladies-who-lunch garbed in Gucci. Museum staff garbed in drab gray. Everyone. And then she saw him: a tall redheaded man, fortyish, who had about him a discernible air of self-assurance. From the cut of the clothes—expensive navy wool jacket, cream-colored cable-knit sweater, black leather shoes paired with blue denim jeans—she pegged him for a European.