Leaving Ashwood

by Cynthia Kraack

  Clarissa shared dozens of speaking offers from legislators facing re-election and special interest groups, most offering generous honorariums. Heartbreaking testimonies from regular people nearly brought down the Washington, D.C., information system.

  Milan was true to his word about opening the calendars of another three Bureau directors for meetings on the direction of the ethics board. They were polite, conversant and stayed on a common script about the importance to establish a narrow definition for board activities that would focus on internal compliance with federal anti-graft laws. Analyzing the interviews, staff found a couple dozen sentences using exactly the same language in support of the efficiency of the Bureau as a labor exchange for international multi-corps as well as main street America employers.

  I waited for a summons from Milan or the White House as the week passed. Interest did not fade. In the absence of new legislative issues immediately prior to congressional recess, it became the central media story. Saturday morning Clarissa summoned me from a run with Phoebe inside Ashwood’s fenced lands to prepare to be picked up in two hours for meetings with Milan, then President Hernandez. I asked her to add one additional passenger and notify Amber of our departure time. David was in the metro for meetings, so I left him a message that I would call later that evening.

  “Let me come along.” Phoebe made her request with no fanfare. “Politicians asking uncomfortable questions can become mean dogs.”

  “There have been threats.” Lao and David knew of late-night intrusion attempts, but at my request told no one else. “Amber wants to clear some items out of our apartment so she is coming along. I’m too nervous about protection to add you.”

  “Milan plans to play you, Mom.” Phoebe stopped me from moving forward. “I don’t think he has anything to gain from this fight except to clear his conscience of how he’s contributed to the chaos.” We stood in the courtyard. I thought about her insight as a transport arrived to deliver kids for supplementary Saturday lessons. While cold, the air was dry.

  “Don’t go, Mom,” Phoebe said. “My gut says you could be in danger. Remember that as powerful as Milan is, he was almost killed in June. I don’t want you to become a martyr.”

  “Maybe I should take Lao and not Amber,” I teased while checking my communicator for the time. “I have to pack.”

  “You’re not listening to me. The multi-corps will think nothing of taking you out. Nothing.”

  Kids’ voices carried from outside the school where a playful pushing and shoving game had developed. I wondered if our grandchildren would still attend this kind of school or if remote education would once again dominate.

  “I am listening to you. I’ll tell Amber she needs to stay here. What else would you like me to do? Short of refusing to appear at the White House?”

  “Have Lao drive you to the airport and fly commercial. Don’t trust anything arranged by anyone connected to the Bureau.”

  Her recommendations made sense. “Okay, I’ll talk with Lao.”

  “And don’t cancel the arranged transport. Talk to Lao in the secured conference room.”

  I balked, thinking Phoebe might be acting more intense than necessary. She tapped her own communicator, set orders in play without my acceptance, and then took my arm to lead me to the conference room.

  Cued by Clarissa, Lao already planned flying me to Washington, D.C., on one of Hartford’s vendor’s transports. Neither of our names would appear on a passenger manifest. On Sunday I was to return on a commercial flight under an alias with a holiday shopping group. In Washington, cousins of Lao’s sister-in-law contracted to provide ground transportation and a bed. Lao and a private bodyguard with White House clearance would be at my side throughout the twenty-four hours.

  Though I understood their precautions, I felt frightened. David and I had damage control in place for our business as the national ethics debate expanded, but I had not anticipated how I would feel about such personal danger. Brown suits, now cleared for service by Lao, increased surveillance as threats mounted.

  Anne Hartford and Ashwood were so synonymous that someone with a grudge or a multi-corps with evil intention had more than one target. I contemplated staying at my in-law’s metro condo over the holidays to keep the family safe.

  “If I can’t stay at my D.C. apartment, I need to pack clothes.” I jumped to the facts and away from the painful thoughts that Milan would walk me into danger. “I don’t have a flak jacket.” It was a weak attempt at humor.

  “These folks don’t use guns, Mom.”

  “We’ll have clothes waiting.” Lao stated without emotion. “Carry just your business briefcase. Meet me in the courtyard in forty-five minutes.”

  “Did we cancel the transport?” I asked Clarissa. She looked puzzled and shook her head. “Okay. Let’s hope for the best.”

  Chapter 47

  In flight, strapped into a jumper seat in front of tons of specialty measurement equipment for an East Coast manufacturer, Lao and I spoke little. I read through encrypted messages from Milan’s office to reassure myself that he and I had common grounds in spite of the politics of his management team. Lao appeared physically to rest and monitor communications.

  Crossing Lake Michigan, not far from Phoebe’s intended lab site, news came of the crash of a Bureau land transport sent for Commissioner Hartford. The driver experienced mild injuries. A large piece of road equipment in transit from a work site crushed the passenger cab. We passed through mild turbulence, not unusual over the Great Lakes. For the first time in my life, I was sick.

  “Creating a martyr will make this all more difficult.” The sour taste of vomit lurked in my rinsed mouth.

  “While people mourn or protest, backroom negotiators can broker agree­ments,” Lao said. “You were right to leave Amber and Phoebe at home.”

  “David knows I’m safe.”

  He nodded. “Don’t worry. When we land, we’ll notify Milan that you used alternative travel plans.”

  Milan met us at the cargo transport station, a sign Lao’s careful plan had been at least partially breached. They argued inside the hangar about how we should travel into the city, each pointing at the other’s failures in this first section of the journey. Milan traveled in an armored transport with a police escort. Lao replaced the escort with his private security force and changed the route on file.

  I assumed we would meet in Milan’s offices, but he insisted we move to his private apartment within Bureau’s headquarters. As we left the sunshine-filled December afternoon to enter the Bureau’s underground garage, I saw two women pushing strollers and envied their simple freedom. Large metal doors opened ahead of the first escort vehicles. The doors closed behind us, my claustrophobia upping the tension. Milan moved from the transport into a mishmash of brown suits, federal security and private guards. Lao exited, checked with his lead person. His face resembled a warrior as he surveyed our surrounding. I hesitated. He extended a hand.

  “Washington real estate prices and security requirements have become prohibitive so Cabinet members have the option of living within remodeled fallout shelters.” Milan sounded tired, his explanation delivered like a tour guide. “This apartment was designed about six years and three secretaries ago, but it’s comfortable.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “Anne, I apologize for submitting someone with a dislike of enclosed spaces to this setting. After the Minnesota transport accident, we felt you would be safest here.”

  The morning had set me off-kilter, suspicious of everyone, uneasy surrounded by strangers, exposed to unnamed dangers. The long, sloping walk probably moved us a story below the parking garage. In an elevator I wouldn’t have noticed the lack of natural light and I wondered if Milan led us this route because of our entourage, or to keep me uncomfortable. I watched his walk, noticed the slight hitch explained away with a story of minor surgery back in June. The sid
e of his face had dark spots, wrinkles covered the back of his head between the end of his thinning hair and collar.

  “You’re quiet, Anne.” He must have sensed me watching him. “How are you doing?”

  “There are a lot of places I’d rather be.” My thoughts couldn’t move far from accepting the fact that people wanted me dead.

  A door ahead of us swung open, the sound of a water fountain gentled the beat of shoes on concrete. Milan waved us inside. “My home, please come in. Lunch is waiting.”

  At the mention of food I looked to Lao who did not provide a visual answer as we walked through a small foyer into a round room with upholstered chairs surrounding a cherry table. On a sideboard stood a soup tureen, basket of bread, a small wheel of cheese and serving utensils.

  “We’ll all eat from the same food. Please feel free to have any of it tested. I regularly do.” Milan stepped to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat. I did the same. I remembered Milan visiting my small D.C. office, pouring himself a cup of coffee, and cutting a slice of pumpkin bread from the loaf Amber baked without a single concern. Five weeks of traveling a whole lot of political territory brought me to no place good.

  “If we could have the security people wait outside this room,” he directed. “You can divide yourself between the outer perimeter and the apartment. Nothing will happen to Anne while she is with me.” Lao appeared ready to ignore Milan’s request. “We have business to discuss, Lao. Business that is best kept in the smallest circle possible. Test the food, then please protect her from outside the door for two hours.”

  The testers were quick and in a few minutes we tasted our split pea soup, buttered our bread and stayed quiet.

  “I saw Andrew a few days ago.” Milan spoke informally, as if we were dining at Ashwood. “I noticed his name on those attending a lobbying event and invited him out for a beer. Sounded as if he planned to spend Christmas with the family. Any special plans?”

  I shook my head. “The normal. What about you? Will you stay here or spend the holidays in Duluth?”

  “To be determined.” He sounded tired. “Let’s talk about ethics and the president.”

  “Before we begin tell me why you placed me in this position? I’ve trusted you as a confidante and friend for almost thirty years. I could have died in the transport sent by your staff. Friends don’t kill friends.” I kept my voice detached, struggled to speak slowly.

  “I understand this morning was traumatic.” He looked at me, compassion in his eyes. “You’re smart. You speak the truth. If anyone could get the conversation started without thought of personal gain, it would be you.” He pushed bread around his plate. “This will be the perfect jumping point for you if you’d like to be in politics.”

  “Big players interested in this topic might kill me, harm my family.” I gazed toward the door. “Have you played loose with my life to make a political point?”

  “You’ll be all right, Anne. Rough run for the near future, but this is a battle that fits you.”

  “That’s not what I asked, Milan.” An itchy feeling began in my throat. “I asked if you deliberately placed me and my family in jeopardy?”

  “Your family is closer to me than my own, Anne. I’ve watched over Phoebe, Noah, and Andrew for decades. I am very fond of them.” He sneezed. “The time I spent at Ashwood to untangle Phoebe’s issues was not easily arranged, but I was there.” He sneezed again then coughed, a tight air limiting sound.

  I drank water as the itchiness continued. “And perhaps Phoebe’s abuse helped fuel your takeover of the Chicago labs?” Under the table edge I pressed my communicator for Lao then exploded in a giant sneeze followed by another and another. “I have to get out of here. There’s something in the air.”

  He raised a hand, held captive by a stuttering cough.

  Between my own sneezing that began the quick turn into a wheeze I paged Lao again.

  Milan pushed a key across the table, crippled by long wheezes. I held my sweater in front of my nose, reached into my bag for my asthma inhaler, and pressed it to my lips while moving to the door. The key slid into its hole, I turned it. Lao pushed the door open, pulled me into the hall and eased me to the floor. From inside Milan’s wheezing had a desperate edginess.

  Two brown suits ran in to help him out. My heart raced, breathing demanded attention. I held up a hand to my throat. “I can’t . . .” was all I said before slipping into darkness.

  Chapter 48

  Lao told me I would have died if one of the brown suits had not muscled her way past him, to sink an epinephrine injection into my thigh. During their physical struggle, she tried to let him know she had serious allergy issues and carried a prophylactic injectable. Emergency medical team said she saved my life.

  Milan was not as fortunate. The allergen we inhaled raised havoc within his older, less healthy, body. Security agents took turns with CPR while waiting for the emergency technicians. The medical team revived him, stabilized him in transit, but damage was already done to his heart, lungs, and liver. Intubation made breathing possible, but he remained in shock. As the medics cared for me, I heard Lao fight with the medical respondents about choice of a small, private hospital. Hartford contracted security surrounded us through transit.

  By the time we arrived at the hospital, Lao had activated private physicians and medical professionals to be present for our intake and treatment. I had severe cramping, nausea, dizziness, and blurry vision. My heart raced. I hallucinated and fought medical staff. Nothing convinced me that the trip to the cargo transport station was a good decision. I heard Lao authorize the push of sedation.

  For our safety we were flown back to Minnesota. I remember nothing of the flight except a most awful feeling when we arrived that Milan lay dead on the next gurney. Phoebe told me later that I was not alone with that suspicion. I began crying as we landed, tears without foundation and, therefore, hard to stop. I cried even after the medical staff read his vital stats.

  I wanted to go home, to feel Ashwood in the air. I clung to David’s hand as they rolled Milan from the cargo plane, and then prepared to transfer me to an ambulance and travel to Abbott-Northwestern Hospital.

  “They say you’ll be okay, Annie.” David spoke quietly, close to my face. I felt his fingers rub away the mysterious tears. “We won’t leave your side.”

  “I want to go home, David.” My hand shook. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry about what? You were doing your duty as a citizen. You don’t have to stay in this fight.” I couldn’t see his face clearly enough to understand the steel under his words. “Put the energy into fighting for your life. Someone will pay.”

  David and Lao told me that the story of the aborted assassinations of a key U.S. Cabinet member and citizen commissioner was carried around the world. My privately hired media expert assisted the White House team in what threatened to become a story about the laxity of national security when pitted against multi-corps strength. As Congress packed up for the holiday recess, the government trembled.

  No one entered my room without permission of Lao and David, no food was delivered unless made in Ashwood’s kitchen and delivered by Terrell or Amber, and no media had access. After the first twenty-four hours, the cramps lessened, the vertigo diminished, and I stopped crying. During the second day I woke from a nap to a quiet space and the ability to see the faces of David and Phoebe.

  The third day, as weak as wet paper, I went home. My muscles hurt just sitting on the side of the bed and I needed help to walk the short distance to the toilet, but Lao insisted I would be safer at Ashwood. We were airlifted and set down in the field where the giant medical copter had landed that summer.

  The doctors said I would regain mental clarity, my vision would return to normal, and energy level increase. Specialists didn’t know about the long-term impact on my lungs. They had never encountered the use of
the massive allergen mixed with pure oxygen that was used to take us down.

  Faith served as my constant companion during the first week home. She studied at my side or spoke with me about holiday preparations and small family occurrences. I couldn’t hold on to her stories from day to day, struggled to tell David what happened a half hour earlier. Somehow he managed to prop me up for a brief appearance at the holiday pageant.

  Without Paul, Ashwood felt subdued during the week before Christmas. Amber and Phoebe assumed responsibility for the family holiday. David, working through his first fiscal year end as head of Hartford, Ltd., spent long days in the office. The seventeenth of December I woke from a nap and felt like a damper had been lifted from my mind.

  “Faith?” I was restless. “Could we move to the family room and have,” a word escaped my grasp only to be replaced by understanding that I wasn’t sure if I wanted hot chocolate or hot tea. I smiled at my daughter, tried to erase the frown marks between her eyes. “I’m not sure if I want hot chocolate or tea. Maybe both?”

  “You bet, Mom.” I noticed her use my communicator to send a request to the kitchen. “Let me help you with your sweater.”

  “Maybe it’s time I try to do this on my own.” I swung my legs to the side of the bed and pushed my arms into the sleeves. I tired, but challenged myself to claim the small independence of dressing myself. Faith offered me an arm as I stood on legs that needed a moment to steady. “Okay, now we’re making progress,” I said in an even tone.

  I pretended not to notice that Otis appeared from nowhere to gather up my oxygen tank, steroid inhaler and a small pouch of other medical supplies. When I felt strong, the door opened. The room stayed steady, my breath flowed without hitch. Faith walked by my side, pointing out holiday greeneries, a wall filled with get well wishes, the smells of fresh cookies cooling in the kitchen. My eyes teared in thanksgiving for the simple journey from bed to a sofa in our family’s room. She helped me settle against pillows.