Flee The Darkness

by Grant R. Jeffrey

  A sense of foreboding descended over Daniel with a shiver. How much did Romulus know about him, and how had he learned it? Daniel had not spoken openly about his past, his politics, or his feelings. If Romulus knew anything of Daniel’s disenchantment with the government in particular and politics in general, he had either inferred it . . . or obtained information from Brad Hunter. Lauren wouldn’t tell Romulus anything; her suspicion of him had intensified to the point where she refused to be in his presence unless absolutely necessary.

  “Politics are like opinions—easily voiced and easily changed.” Daniel smiled and settled his hands into his pockets. “And I must thank each of you for this opportunity to meet and work with you. I’ll be in Europe for at least three more weeks, working with the engineers who will design the Millennium Chip. So I’ll consider your offer, then give you my answer in a few days.”

  “We’d make it worth your while.” Romulus’s smile deepened. “Trust me.”

  Daniel stood and nodded formally to Romulus, then began the laborious process of shaking hands with each councilor at the table. As he muttered polite thanks and farewells to each member, he found himself wondering if he could convince Lauren to stay in Europe if he accepted Romulus’s offer.

  Probably not.

  Lauren thought she might have enjoyed her time in Brussels if Daniel had not been living in the same hotel. His presence was a constant thorn in her flesh, a visible reminder of her own stubbornness and intractability. Brussels was a beautiful and romantic city, but she had declared it a war zone, an edict that seemed to suit Daniel far too well.

  Lauren’s days were filled with public appearances—luncheons, concerts, and day trips to historical points of interest—at which she waved, made polite speeches on behalf of America’s gracious first lady, and smiled through a blinding array of photographer’s strobing flashes. Her picture appeared on the cover of several Belgian and English tabloids, and she soon realized that the reporters were comparing her with Diana, the late Princess of Wales. “So Tall, So Elegant, So Blonde,” read one headline beneath her picture. “So Where’s Her Prince Charming?”

  Her Prince Charming, had she been willing to give Daniel that appellation, had closeted himself in his hotel suite, surrounded by schematics, computers, and European techno-wizards who drank coffee out of Styrofoam cups and looked at Lauren as if they expected her to break out in some sort of Marilyn Monroe-sings-happy-birthday-to-the-president routine whenever she visited. She thought it common courtesy that she drop in to see Daniel at the end of her day, but after a week, when it became clear that he had no intention of stopping his work for dinner or conversation, she quickly ended the practice.

  Despite her busy schedule, she was lonely. And irritated. And very, very frustrated.

  After three full weeks of soaking up the romance of Brussels alone, she ran into Brad Hunter in the hotel lobby. After her initial exclamation of surprise, she invited him to join her in the restaurant for a cup of tea. Though Brad looked a bit uneasy and seemed eager to be on his way, Lauren would not let him leave. “You wouldn’t leave the president’s executive assistant alone when she’s desperate for a little American company, would you?” She gave him her prettiest smile, then remembered that he was a newlywed and decided that flirting was a bad idea. “Please, Brad,” she begged, “it’s Saturday, and I’m bored. Just sit for a few minutes and let me complain about Daniel. Then I’ll let you go on your way.”

  Brad grinned at that, and before he knew it, they had taken a small table in the hotel cafe. She told Brad about Daniel’s workaholic habits, his success in convincing the Europeans to adopt the Millennium Code and his Millennium Chip system, and his developing relationship with Adrian Romulus. “Romulus seems like a perfectly charming man,” she confessed, stirring milk and sugar into her tea, “but he gives me the creeps. Or maybe I’m just jealous of the attention Daniel gives him.”

  “Are things getting serious between you and Danny boy?” Brad grinned. “I can’t wait for him to fill me in.”

  “There’s nothing to fill in. We’re friends—and that’s it. I made him promise that we’d behave as two professionals on this trip, and—” she felt her smile droop—“that’s exactly what he’s been. One hundred and ten percent professional. He works night and day, day and night. When he’s not with that blasted EU committee, he’s with a bunch of computer gurus in his suite. I had hoped we’d have at least some time to spend together, but I can’t get him out of that stuffy hotel room.”

  “Let me have a talk with him.” Brad pushed his coffee cup away and checked his watch. “I don’t have to be anywhere for another half hour, so let me run up to the fortress and see if I can knock some sense into him.”

  “Good luck.” Lauren shook her head. “I hope you have more success than I’ve had.” A sudden thought struck her, and she caught his arm as he stood. “By the way, Brad, you haven’t said much about what you’re doing here.”

  It was a reasonable question, but his head jerked back as if she had stabbed him with it. “I’m staying in this hotel. I was just passing through.”

  “I meant what you’re doing in Brussels.”

  “Security. You know that.”

  She regarded him with a speculative gaze. “Whose security? I’ve only seen you a couple of times, and Daniel hasn’t seen much of you, either. Something tells me that you’re not very worried about either of us being threatened, so what are you doing here?”

  A lethal calmness filled his eyes. “I’m concerned with the security of the United States, Lauren. That’s why I’m here.” He gave her a quick, almost apologetic smile, then walked away.

  Lauren fought down the frustrated scream that rose in her throat. Several times in her work she had run into roadblocks with the NSA and CIA, and each time she’d been frightened to realize that certain government agencies seemed to think they could operate independently of the White House.

  She pulled her notepad from her purse and made a note to ask the president about Brad Hunter the next time she called the White House. General Archer had already returned to Washington, so maybe the president should ask him what he and Brad Hunter had going in Brussels.

  The hotel hallway shimmered in the first tangerine tints of the rising sun, and Daniel paused in the rectangle of light from the window before knocking on Lauren’s door. Brad’s visit yesterday had been brief and his message to the point: “Danny, old boy, if you’re still serious about winning that woman, you’d better come out of hibernation.”

  Like an Old Testament prophet, Brad had breathed his warnings and dire predictions of romantic gloom and doom, and Daniel had listened. Last night he had swept the papers and laptop from his bed by midnight, and after a good night’s sleep he felt rested and refreshed. From Brad, he had learned that Lauren’s schedule was clear today, and so Daniel had decided that they would spend this Sunday together. A surprise date.

  He glanced at his watch and noted the time: precisely 7:30. She ought to be awake, and if she wasn’t, she wouldn’t mind waking.

  He rapped on the door, then waited patiently until he heard a muffled voice from the other side. “Yes?”

  “Lauren.” Daniel stooped and smiled into the peephole. “Get dressed, Miss Mitchell. I’m taking you out for a day on the town.”

  He heard a soft groan, then assorted clicks and jangles as she turned locks and undid chains. Finally, the door opened a crack, and he stared into one wide blue eye.

  “Daniel, are you crazy?” He caught sight of her mouth—and it wasn’t smiling.

  “No, I’m not.” He launched into his prepared speech. “I’ve come to my senses, Lauren, and I realize that we can be professional and still enjoy ourselves and this beautiful city. So get dressed, put on something comfortable, and let me take you to breakfast. I thought we could do some shopping in Porte de Namur, then perhaps take in some of the attractions at Bruparck.”

  Her forehead came to rest against the doorframe. “Brad visited you yesterday, d
idn’t he?”

  Daniel considered lying but thought better of it. “Yes. And, happily married man that he is, he pointed out the error of my ways. He convinced me that I have been neglecting the better half of the human race. And you, Lauren, are by far the best of the better half, so if you’ll come—”

  The door closed; the latch clicked with a definite, final sound. Daniel stood there, blank, amazed, and shaken, then he pressed both hands to the door and lowered his forehead until it rested just above the peephole.

  “I’m sorry, Lauren.” His voice was shakier than he would have liked. “I’ve been unfair. I know you wanted us to come to Brussels as business partners, but I took things too far. Even if I cared for you only as a friend, I was wrong to ignore you—and I’m terribly sorry. Please come out with me. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

  He waited, letting the silence stretch, then heard another muffled reply. “Give me half an hour.”

  “All right.” He exhaled a long sigh of contentment, then made his way back to his room.

  Lauren arrived promptly thirty minutes later, then Daniel led her from the hotel. Obeying their whims and the spirit of adventure, they caught the subway at Schuman station, then exited at De Brouckere. Wandering through the picturesque streets of Old Brussels, they stared up at the dazzling white stone of Theatre Royal de la Monnaie, the opera house and ballet theater, then stopped for brunch in a delightful restaurant on the Rue de la Fourche.

  Looking like a dream in a cream-colored cashmere jumpsuit, Lauren laughed and chattered and seemed more at ease than Daniel had ever seen her. After brunch, they walked to the Grand’Place and gazed in wonder at the buildings’ ornamental gables, medieval banners, and gilded facades. “It’s like Cinderella’s village,” Lauren breathed, her voice tinged with a little girl’s wonder. “My goodness, Daniel, I had no idea such places still existed!”

  Daniel didn’t answer but took her hand and guided her to a charming statue of a flower-bedecked boy. While Lauren snapped photos, Daniel fished a coin from his pocket and bought a bag of bread crusts from a street vendor. First Lauren laughed at his impulsiveness, then she joined him in tossing the crumbs to a flock of pigeons.

  Being Sunday, many of the shops were closed, but Lauren talked Daniel into stopping at a corner bakery where a tempting assortment of croissants filled the display window. Lauren shamelessly asked for two large chocolate-chip croissants and refused to blush when the baker pointedly asked, “So much food for such a skinny lady?”

  Daniel stood in the shadow of the baker’s doorway, enjoying the sight of Lauren clutching her treasures, then turned and lazily swept his gaze across the wide plaza. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized a familiar shadowy form—the Jew. The man stood among the crowd at the little statue, but he wasn’t facing the adorable boy. He was staring directly at Daniel.

  “Lauren,” Daniel called over his shoulder, not daring to take his eyes off the man. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Without waiting for her acknowledgment, Daniel sprinted across the cobbled plaza. He expected the man to duck and scurry away as he had before, but to his surprise the fellow just stood there, an expectant look on his face.

  Daniel was breathless when he reached the man. “You,” he gasped, raking hair from his forehead. “You were following me the other day.”

  He expected denial, but the old man nodded, his brown eyes piercing the distance between them.

  He wore the same long, black coat and dark trousers he had worn the other day. The same wide-brimmed hat sheltered his head from the bright sun, and a tangled beard flowed from his chin and over his collar. Winding, curled earlocks, the mark of truly orthodox Jews, hung from his temples. A prayer shawl peeped from beneath the coat, its fringes evident at the man’s waist. His dark, deeply wrinkled eyes and thick brows rose above a line of black beard while an aura of melancholy radiated from his seamed, tired features.

  “You must come with me.” His voice was low and controlled, with an undertone of desolation.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m with a friend.” Daniel gestured toward the bakery but kept his eyes fastened on the stranger before him.

  “You must come. Please, Mr. Prentice.” His voice wasn’t much above a whisper, but the effect was as great as if he’d shouted in Daniel’s ear.

  Daniel’s mind spun with bewilderment. “How do you know who I am? And why have you been following me?”

  The old Jew crossed his hands, then looked down the street, his expression fixed in the desperate lines of a hunted animal. “I have read about you in the papers. And you must come with me. Please.”

  “I can’t.” Daniel strengthened his voice. “Not today. Later, perhaps, you could come to my hotel.” Despite the primitive warnings ringing in his brain, the old man intrigued him. “I’m staying at the Eurovillage Brussels. Why don’t you stop by?”

  “No.” The man shook his head, as patient as an instructor with a slow pupil. “You must come to my house, Mr. Prentice. This is the address.”

  From a pocket in his massive coat he produced a card scrawled with wide, black lettering. Rabbi Yacov Witzun, the card read, 93745 Rue Blaes, Apartment 5D, Brussels.

  “Daniel?” He turned at the sound of Lauren’s voice, then lifted his hand and gestured to her. She hesitated to allow a woman and her children to pass, then gracefully made her way through the pedestrian traffic.

  Daniel turned back to the old man, but he had vanished. The space he had occupied seemed to vibrate softly, as if a remnant of his image was dissipating into the air.

  “What are you doing over here?” Lauren asked.

  Daniel stared at the empty space and asked himself the same question. Lauren obviously hadn’t seen the man. If he told her that a Jewish rabbi with earlocks and a prayer shawl was following him, she’d undoubtedly think he’d been working too hard. But he had proof—he held the rabbi’s card in his hand.

  “Nothing.” He slipped the card into his pocket, then jerked his chin toward the bag in her hand. “Get enough croissants?”

  “Yeah.” She bit her lip in a teasing smile. “Enough to last all week.”

  “Good.” He slipped his arm around her shoulder and led her away, but not before glancing over his shoulder one final time.

  Despite the easy familiarity with which Daniel held her, Lauren knew his thoughts were miles away. Something had happened on the plaza, something he didn’t want to share with her.

  They had turned onto a narrow side street, one designed more for tourists than traffic, and they wandered quietly through newsstands, flower vendors, and souvenir stands for fifteen minutes. As they neared another busy intersection, Daniel suddenly lifted his head and stared off into the distance.

  “Lauren,” he slipped his arm from her shoulder, “will you wait here? I’ll be back in a moment. I promise.”

  And just like that he was off, jogging through pedestrians and dodging cars as if he had been born to the helter-skelter patterns of European traffic.

  Well, he did live in New York.

  Bemused but not completely surprised by his erratic behavior, Lauren turned to a flower seller on the street. Her cart brimmed with forced spring bulbs of fragrant hyacinths, colorful tulips, and bright golden daffodils. Obeying an impulse, Lauren pulled her wallet from her purse and counted out a handful of Belgian franc notes.

  “How much for a hyacinth bouquet?” she asked the woman behind the cart.

  The woman smiled. “For you, mademoiselle, three hundred francs.”

  About ten dollars. Not bad. Lauren counted out the bills, then chafed her cold hands while the woman assembled the bouquet and wrapped the stems in waxed paper.

  “You have a beautiful necklace,” the woman remarked, eyeing the cross that hung from a gold chain at Lauren’s neck.

  “This?” Lauren’s fingers flew to the cross. “Thank you. It was a gift.” From Mrs. Stedman, but she didn’t want to mention that. Though it usually hung under her blouses, she always wore the gol
d cross, for it meant more to her than any other piece of jewelry. Victoria had given it to her right after Jessica died, and to Lauren it symbolized Victoria’s affection as well as her strong faith.

  The flower lady’s sparkling blue eyes sank into nets of wrinkles as she smiled. “Are you a Christian?”

  Lauren blinked. Of course she was a Christian. She was, after all, a God-fearing American. “Yes.”

  The woman lifted her chin and nodded toward a storefront behind the row of cart vendors. “Come. You will like this.”

  Puzzled, Lauren took a step forward, then turned to glance down the street for a glimpse of Daniel. He had vanished, following some random thought that had sprung into his brain, and Lauren knew it might be half an hour before he returned.

  She sighed. Developing a relationship with a genius was no piece of cake.

  The flower vendor was holding out her hand, a lovely, wide, warming smile on her face. Lauren clutched her bouquet and took the woman’s hand, then followed her toward the storefront. A sign above the wide glass windows proclaimed, in English and French, that the building was home to a bookbinder.

  What are you doing? You could be wandering into a den of thieves or a gang of kidnappers—

  The woman opened the door, and the rhythmic sound of a man’s voice reached Lauren’s ear. A moment later she had passed through the doorway and gazed in surprise at the scene before her. At least a dozen people were seated in the tiny open space at the front of the shop, some in chairs, some on the floor. Before them all, using the bookbinder’s counter as a pulpit, an auburn-haired man in shirtsleeves held an open Bible and read from the Scriptures.

  “’I write these things to you who believe in the name of the Son of God,’” he said, his voice a velvet murmur in the small space, “’so that you may know that you have eternal life. This is the assurance we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us.’”