Ark of Fire

by C. M. Palov

  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 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, 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.”

  The statrep met with a moment’s silence; Boyd braced himself for a world-class ass chewing.

  “Is the Miller woman still on the premises?” the colonel asked, his calm tone of voice taking Boyd by surprise. Usually this kind of fuckup would meet with a wrath second only to that of God Almighty.

  “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. In the background, Boyd heard the muffled strains of several voices, the colonel having 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.”

  CHAPTER 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 he was 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 finagle a full dossier on one Caedmon St. John Aisquith.

  He examined the photo attached to the upper right-hand corner with a paperclip. Red hair. Blue eyes. Fair complexion. He next glanced at the physical particulars. 6’3½”. 190 lbs. It stood to reason that Aisquith was the tall guy with red hair seen 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. Master’s Degree in Medieval History. Recruited MI5—1995. Formal resignation—2006.

  MacFarlane’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly, as though weighed down with a heavy load.

  Why now, God? Why this impediment with the prize so close at hand?

  Still clutching the file folder, MacFarlane walked over to the sliding glass door behind his desk and pulled it open, stepping onto the balcony. A gentle snow fell upon the midday traffic that ebbed and flowed ten stories below on Virginia Avenue, the busy thoroughfare made heavenly with the covering of pristine white flakes. To his left he could see the majestic gray spires of the National Cathedral high atop the city; to his right, the majestic white spire of the Washington Monument.

  God first. Country second.

  Words to live by.

  A credo to die for.

>   Again, he glanced at the file folder. MI5 was Britain’s elite secret service branch. As such, the agency safeguarded Britain’s national security. Regnum Defende. Defend the realm.

  How did the Miller woman make the acquaintance of a former British intelligence officer?

  The dead curator had been a Brit. Perhaps he’d arranged the meeting.

  But why? And how was it that Aisquith and this woman knew about the Stones of Fire and the Jerusalem cross?

  MacFarlane didn’t like having more questions than answers.

  With Armageddon near at hand, why would God—

  It was a trial, he suddenly realized, the weight lifting from his shoulders. A trial to prove his worthiness to the Almighty. To prove that he could indeed be trusted with God’s great plan. Shadrach. Meshach. Abednego. Like those holy men of old, he, too, was being tested by God.

  MacFarlane glanced at the beautiful gray spires in the distance, offering up a quick prayer of heartfelt thanks, grateful for the opportunity to prove his worth unto the Lord. Closing the file folder, he stepped back into his office. He punched the big blue Speaker button on his telephone console.

  “You listen up, Gunny,” he said without preamble. “I’m sending in a five-man team, one man to be posted at each museum exit. ETA two minutes. You stay with the Jeep. Edged weapons only. I want Miller and Aisquith in zippered bags before the new hour strikes. You hear me, boy?”

  “Yes, sir,” Boyd Braxton replied. “But what if . . .” MacFarlane could hear the confidence leach from the other man’s voice. “What if the two of ’em manage to slip past us?”

  Although gung-ho and loyal to a fault, the former gunnery sergeant lacked decision-making skills. Such men made good followers and even better fodder, but were poor leaders.

  “To ensure they don’t escape, I want you to rig the Miller woman’s vehicle.”

  “I hear ya, sir!” Braxton exclaimed, his confidence clearly regained.

  “Keep me posted.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Edie and Caedmon emerged from the ladies’ room. As they did, a loud alarm blared overhead; the teeth-jangling sound was accompanied by a continuously repeated recorded message. Surreally calm, the disembodied voice stated the obvious. “The museum alarm has been activated. Immediately make your way to the nearest exit lobby. Thank you.”

  “You heard the man. He said ‘the nearest exit lobby.’ That would be the one right over there.” Nudging her companion in the ribs, Edie pointed to the Fourth Street lobby on the other side of the vestibule, which was jam-packed with people clamoring and jostling as they headed toward the oversized glass doors.

  Intractable, Caedmon simply said, “I think not.” Grabbing her by the upper arm, he pulled her toward the staircase on the right.

  “What are you doing?”

  “We’re going to take the stairs to the upper level of the museum.”

  Jerking her arm free, Edie stared at him.

  The main floor of the museum? Was he nuts? They’d have to navigate their way through umpteen art galleries and a couple of sculpture halls.

  She shook her head, vetoing the idea. “It’ll be faster if we stay on the lower level of the museum. The main floor will be a mob scene.”

  “Yes, I assume that it will be. However, a mob scene will serve us well if the beast should, again, rear his ugly head.”

  Refusing to budge, Edie folded her arms over her chest. “How many times have you visited the National Gallery of Art?”

  “This is my maiden voyage.” Again, Caedmon took her by the arm, his grip this time noticeably more firm. “Though you are no doubt well acquainted with the museum floor plan, you are also suffering from delayed shock. Not the best frame of mind for making a decision.”

  “Look, I may be losing it, but I still have a mind of my own.”

  Ignoring her last remark, Caedmon pulled her toward the staircase. As they ascended, Edie twice stumbled on the steps. Twice Caedmon had to catch hold of her before she took a nosedive.

  At the top of the steps, she turned to him. “Now what?”

  Rather than answer, Caedmon strode toward an abandoned wheelchair with Property of the NGA stamped across the brown leather back support. Her eyes narrowed as he took hold of it by the handles and wheeled it toward her.

  “Bum in the chair,” he brusquely ordered.

  She balked. “Two fumbles does not an invalid make.”

  “The gunman will be searching for a female yea high.” Holding out his hand, Caedmon raised it parallel to the top of her head. “The gunman will not be looking for a wheelchair-bound woman.”

  “How do I know that—”

  “Seat yourself! Before I put a bloody boot up your Khyber!”

  Edie did as ordered, belatedly realizing that she was doing a first-rate job of antagonizing the very man who had earlier saved her from a gunman’s bullet. At great risk to his own life.

  Craning her head to peer at him, she said, “Look, I’m sorry for being a bitch. I’m just . . . really, really scared.” And unaccustomed to relying on anyone other than herself. Particularly for her safety and well-being. Over the years, too many people had let her down.

  “You have every right to be frightened,” Caedmon replied, once more the courteous Brit. Unlocking the brake, he shoved the wheelchair forward.

  Edie removed the tote bag from her shoulder and clutched it to her chest. Inside its canvas depths were cash, car keys, and passport. Everything she would need to escape this madness.

  As Caedmon navigated his way through the crowd, she realized that the wheelchair was an inspired idea; the horde parted before them like the Red Sea parting before the Israelites. Admittedly, she’d been leery of Caedmon’s plan to take the long route through the museum. Maybe his plan, like the wheelchair, would prove a good call after all.

  Within seconds they had passed the American painting gallery, eclipsing George Bellows’s famous pair of boxers in a darkly hued blur.

  A few seconds after that, they entered the East Court Garden and the cloying, humid air inside the cavernous space. Even more cloying were the winged cupids astride a giant scallop shell dead center in the middle of the courtyard, water merrily tinkling over their chubby feet. Caedmon veered to the right, bypassing the fountain. As he wheeled the chair around the columned perimeter, Edie caught sight of a homeless man sound asleep in a wrought-iron chair, oblivious to the alarm and automated message blaring on the PA system.

  Exiting the courtyard garden, Caedmon increased his speed as they traversed the long, barrel-vaulted sculpture hall. On either side of her, Edie saw familiar flashes of color in the adjoining galleries—Toulouse-Lautrec, Renoir, Inge—the history of nineteenth-century French art reduced to a colorful blip.

  Straight ahead of them, like mighty old-growth trees in a virgin forest, loomed the huge black marble columns of the main rotunda.

  “We can exit at the rotunda,” she said, turning in her seat to look at him, clasping her hands together in a beseeching gesture.

  Her proposal met with a whirring silence, the wheelchair advancing full speed ahead.

  It’s like entering one of Dante’s lower circles, Edie thought as they entered the domed rotunda a few seconds later. Everywhere she looked, swarms of people were haphazardly congregating in undulating lines that meandered in the direction of the main entrance. In front of the exit doors, a handful of uniformed guards quickly patted down every museum patron before permitting them to depart the premises. Edie assumed they were searching for the armed gunman.

  “It would appear that all roads lead to Rome,” Caedmon remarked as he steered the wheelchair away from the disorderly crowd.

  Like the courtyard garden they’d earlier passed through, the rotunda was jungle humid on account of all the potted plants. Afraid Padgham’s killer might be lurking in the vicinity, Edie tucked her chin into her chest, making herself as unobtrusive as possible.

  No sooner did they clear the rotunda than Caedmon took off running.
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br />   Bronze sculptures. Flemish still lifes. Della Robbias.

  Famous works of art passed at such a dizzying speed, Edie feared she would upchuck the contents of her stomach.

  “Slow down, will ya? You’re giving me a bad case of motion sickness.”

  If Caedmon heard her, he gave no indication, the man fast proving himself a well-spoken hard-ass.

  Having covered three-fourths of the distance of the museum in less than two minutes, Caedmon wheeled her into the West Garden Court, a mirror image of the courtyard at the opposite end of the museum. Swerving sharply to the left, he somehow managed to maintain control as the chair took the turn on two rubberized wheels.

  A few seconds later, Edie could see the marble wall that marked the end of the main hall.

  “Quick! Put on the brakes!” she screeched, a full-length statue of St. John of the Cross standing sentry directly in front of her. She grabbed hold of the padded arms and held on tight as Caedmon brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt mere inches from the stern-faced saint.

  “Bloody hell.” He turned his head from side to side. “There’s supposed to be a lift at the end of—Ah, yes, there she be, starboard bow.” Caedmon rolled the wheelchair to the elevator that was tucked away to the right of them.

  Edie reached out and pushed the button; the metal doors instantly slid open. With no room to turn the wheelchair around, she sat facing the back wall of the elevator. Within moments, they’d be free of the museum, via the Seventh Street exit located on the lower level.

  Readying herself for the last cavalry charge, she opened her tote bag. Quickly, she rummaged through it, her hand bumping against the now soft-sided box of melted spinach.

  “What are you doing?”

  Edie spared Caedmon a quick, upward glance. “I’m searching for the car keys.”

  “Driving your vehicle would be ill-advised.”

  Placing her arm over the back of the chair, she twisted her upper body so she could look him in the eye. “You’re kidding, right? The Jeep is our only means of escape.”

  “How do you think the gunman found you? I’ll warrant it was no mean guess.”