by C. M. Palov
“Like the gold boxes that I saw last year at the King Tut exhibit, right?”
“Right down to the gold rim on the lid and the winged figures which adorned the top cover. Furthermore, the Egyptian bark and the Ark of the Covenant both had the same purpose: to contain their respective deities.”
Her brow furrowed. “But I thought the Ark of the Covenant was a container for the Ten Commandments. What are you saying, that the Ark of the Covenant was some kind of magical God-in-the-box, like in that movie Raiders of the Lost Ark?”
Caedmon chuckled, amused by the question. “Just as the sacred Egyptian bark contained the might and majesty of Aten, so, too, the Ark of the Covenant contained the power and glory of Yahweh. And once contained, the only means by which to control all that cosmic power was for the high priest to shield himself with the Stones of Fire.”
Raising her steaming cup to her lips, Edie took several moments to digest what he’d just said. As she did, Caedmon surveyed the throng of museum patrons. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary; his eyes took passing note of a man pushing a wheelchair-bound octogenarian, a custodian pushing a yellow bucket, and a harried mother pushing a covered pram. Briefly he noticed two youths, one fuchsia-haired, the other a tiger-stripe, locked in a passionate embrace in front of the massive glass wall that fronted a cascading waterfall.
“Okay, we know what happened to the breastplate; it was confiscated by Nebuchadnezzar, hidden in Babylon, and recently rediscovered and smuggled out of Iraq,” Edie said, drawing his attention back to the table. “But what happened to the Ark of the Covenant?”
Ah, a woman after his own heart, the topic long a favorite of his.
“At some point after the construction of Solomon’s famous temple, the Ark of the Covenant disappeared from the pages of the Bible. Whether it was captured, destroyed, or hidden, its current whereabouts are unknown.”
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, Caedmon noticed that the custodian pushing the yellow bucket had suddenly broken ranks and was headed in their direction.
Odd that the man was wearing military-style combat boots.
Even more odd that the man was built like a Bristol rugger bugger.
He was big. Really, really big. Steroid big.
Recalling Edie’s earlier description of Padgham’s killer, Caedmon felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck.
“I am beginning to concur with your assessment,” he murmured, his eyes still trained on the custodial giant, watching as the man removed his right hand from the mop handle and reached behind his back.
In that instant, Caedmon saw the flash of a silver ring. In the next instant, he caught the dark flash of—He squinted, bringing the object into focus. Bloody hell! The man had a gun!
CHAPTER 14
There being no time to think, Caedmon shoved the bistro 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. With his female companion in tow, he scooted behind a nearby column. The second bullet went ping! as it struck a metal planter less than a meter from their huddled position.
A woman in the crowd frantically screamed.
A man gruffly shouted, “He’s got a gun!”
Yet another man yelled, “It’s a fucking terrorist!”
Several other people joined the chorus, a cacophony of fear.
Not waiting for the third bullet, Caedmon went on the offensive. Stretching his right arm, he placed his hand on the back of a wheeled busboy’s cart parked to the side of the column. With a mighty heave, he propelled the cart forward. Dirty plates, stacked in a plastic tub on top of the cart, 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 clear glass that contained the cascading water fountain; the safety glass shattered on contact. Almost immediately, water gushed into the concourse.
Chaos quickly ensued, people running pell-mell in every direction.
Armor-piercing bullets, Caedmon thought, horrified. The man was using bloody armor-piercing bullets.
Edie, flattened beneath the weight of his body, shrieked in his ear. Raising his head, Caedmon 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 but 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 concerned that he might soon have a hysterical woman on his hands, Caedmon 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 frenzied swarm, some running, many crouched on the concourse floor, had become a shouting, screaming mass of collective hysteria. A Bosch painting come to life.
Caedmon directed his gaze first one way, then the other, determining how best to navigate through the melee. To the right was a tunnel-like hallway. To the left was the adjacent gift shop. With its dimmed 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 around a museum employee who was actually attempting to direct the frenzied horde, much like a traffic cop directing motorists after a crash-up.
“We’re going as far from the madding crowd as possible,” he informed her, having to shout to be heard over the din. Spying a black trench coat hanging from a countertop, 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 easily discernible target.”
Removing her tote bag from her shoulder, somehow managing to have kept the bag on her person during the rumpus, Edie shoved her arms into the trench coat. “With your red hair, you kind of stick out yourself.”
“Point taken.” As he spoke, Caedmon plucked a knit cap from a bespectacled Asian teenager who ran past, too terrified to do anything other than keep on running. Having lived through several RIRA terrorist attacks on London, Caedmon knew that chaos had a way of making even the most truculent uncharacteristically pliant. He shoved the green cap with the gold-lettered emblem that read PATRIOTS onto his head. Cap donned, he reached over and yanked the two sides of the much-too-big trench coat across Edie’s waist, hurriedly cinching the belt around her.
Camouflaged, he led them through the gift store in a zigzag pattern, 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, Caedmon assessed their three choices: escalator, lift, or staircase.
Always execute the least likely maneuver, that being the only way to escape a determined enemy.
A lesson well learned at the hands of his MI5 masters. Caedmon
grabbed Edie by the shoulder, spinning her toward 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 being led to slaughter.
At the top of the stairs, they found themselves in a large vestibule where two matched bronze pumas stood sentry. On the far side of the vestibule the lift opened and a half dozen owl-faced patrons hurriedly spilled out. A few feet away, he sighted the public facilities marked with their respective male and female symbols. Just beyond the pumas was the Fourth Street lobby; the area was a veritable mob scene, with frantic museum goers running to and fro and harried guards attempting to corral them through the exit door.
Like doomed fish in a glass bowl.
Easy pickings for a hungry cat.
Having evaluated the situation, Caedmon grabbed Edie by the hand and dragged her toward the WC. Shoving his shoulder against the swinging door, he pulled his companion into the ladies’ loo.
“What are you doing?” she screeched, the shrill sound echoing off the stark white tiles.
“Saving your life, I daresay.”
“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, Caedmon? I said that you’re not allowed—”
“Do calm down, will you?” He shoved her inside the stall, following on her coattails. “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 the trespass. “But this is the ladies’ room.”
“Precisely why I chose it over the little boys’ loo. Mind you, it’s only a guess, but I seriously doubt our testosterone-driven assailant will think to look for us in here; the word Ladies will act 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 was barely wide enough to accommodate one person, let alone two.
After locking the stall door, Caedmon removed a visitors’ guide from his coat pocket, having picked up the map when he first arrived at the museum.
“Now what?”
“Now, we figure 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 exit is no more than fifty feet away. That being the one we just passed.” Reaching over his shoulder, she jabbed her index finger at the nearby exit. “Right there. The Fourth Street exit. My Jeep is parked outside the door. We can be out of here in seconds. As in ‘Gentlemen, start your engines.’”
Caedmon negated her suggestion with a brusque shake of the head. “I have reason to suspect you were followed to the museum. Which means the Fourth 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 toward her. “Are you crazy? You’re talking about the Seventh 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 and replaced 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 bonnet, he handed it to her.
“Here, put this on.”
“Unh-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—”
“Don the cap,” he ordered, thinking her adamancy 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 redheaded bugger 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 bonnet.
“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, refusing to budge, 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.”
CHAPTER 15
A fiddle fuck.
That’s what he had on his hands, a goddamned fiddle fuck.
Uncertain how things turned so bad so quickly, Boyd Braxton shoved his arms into his black turtleneck sweater. The unconscious Walter Jefferson was still sprawled on the floor of the janitor’s closet. Having retrieved his bundle of clothing from where he’d earlier stowed it, he’d returned to the closet, needing to reconnoiter. In a big-ass hurry, he yanked his black pants 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 janitor. Too many people had seen a janitor firing into the crowd. No way in hell would he be able to get out of the museum decked out like some numbnuts custodial worker.
He shoved the Ka-Bar and the Mark 23 into his waistband. Next he checked his cell, the phone programmed with a preset number to immediately warn him if the tracking device was activated.
He heaved a sigh of relief; the Jeep was still parked out 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 janitor’s closet, he stepped across the threshold; the museum concourse was directly across from his present position.
Quickly he scanned the area. Blown-out glass. A couple of overturned tables. Some broken plates. The concourse was all assholes and elbows as people frantically sloshed across the wet floor, water having gushed from the fountain when the plate glass shattered. A sobbing woman in a tight-fitting suit, hobbled by a pair of stiletto heels, limped past. Boyd nearly gagged in her wake; the broad was doused in more perfume than a Bangkok whore.
Through the hole in the glass, he heard the blare of at least a half dozen police sirens. Any second, the place would be swarming with cops.
No sense looking for the Miller bitch; he already knew she’d fled the concourse, having earlier caught sight of her and that redheaded bastard heading toward 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 he’d been trained. Maybe the redheaded 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 and snatched a sheet of paper off the floor.
“Shit!”
On the sheet of paper were two hand-drawn 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 his right ring finger.
As he continued to stare at the piece of paper, he caught sight of a Muslim couple; the wife wore a hijab and was hurriedly pushing a baby stroller as the kid bawled its head off. The couple stopped a few feet away from where he stood. The woman peered into the stroller, the kid bawling even louder.
The bawling baby in the back room was gonna give away t
heir position. There was a sniper in the building across the street and dozens of raghead fuckers prowling the streets of Fallujah in Toyota pickups, RPG launchers at the ready. If the brat didn’t stop bawling, he and his men were gonna end up hanging from a streetlight 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 as his head suddenly exploded in a corona 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 custodial worker gone postal. 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 cell phone vibrated against his breastbone.
Boyd shoved his piece back into his waistband. Turning his back on the Muslim couple and their screaming brat, he reached for his cell. 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 depressed the Answer button. Since the colonel hated what he referred to as circumlocution—what Boyd and everybody else with a twelfth-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.”