Critical Mass

by Steve Martini

Yes, Charlie. There was a great deal of excitement here today. Police arrested a man inside the museum after he threw a container of acid on one of the displays.

  No one was hurt, but an undisclosed amount of damage was done to a replica of the first atomic bomb dropped on Japan. A reproduction of the atomic bomb known as “Little Boy,” resting under the fuselage of the famous B-29 Enola Gay was doused with acid. It had to be removed from the museum because of highly toxic fumes and damage.

  A woman inside at the time of the incident caught these pictures on videotape, moments after the man was handcuffed by police and just before he was led away.

  The image on the screen broke up in diagonal lines for a second as the videotape began to play. Joselyn was lying on the bed with her head on the pillows, her mind beginning to wander, thinking about dinner, when she saw his face on the screen. Her eyes opened wide in disbelief as she sat up on the bed.

  She only saw his face for a second on the screen before he was hustled away by police, but it was a face that was engraved on her mind’s eye. It was the same face she had seen in the house on Padget Island. The man standing in the doorway that morning telling Belden that they had to leave. She had described him to the president, and to the FBI working on a composite drawing.

  She reached for the controls and turned up the volume.

  And the mystery deepens tonight. Police have reported that the man (she looked at her notes), Scott Evan Taggart, died of an apparent heart attack shortly after being taken into custody. Police are saying nothing more about the incident, only that it is under investigation.

  They cut to the anchor:

  Charlene, do authorities have any indication as to why the man did what he did?

  Not at this point, Charlie. The matter is being handled by the Metropolitan Police as a case of vandalism. You will recall that three months ago there was a similar incident at the National Gallery of Art. They are trying to find out if the man had a medical history that might account for his sudden death. Other than that, all they will say is that it is under investigation.

  It was as if Joselyn were shell-shocked, sitting on the bed hyperventilating, her brain running at warp speed.

  “Oh, shit.” She was talking to herself. “Oh, my God.”

  She got up from the bed and began pacing, looking at the walls, frantic, trying to figure out what to do. The only calming sound filtering through the strains of the television was the constant force of the water hitting the bathtub in Gideon’s shower and the occasional sound of his voice as he sang.

  She ran to the adjoining door, into his room, and straight toward the bathroom. She didn’t bother to knock but opened the door. She crossed the steam-filled room in two strides and pulled back the shower curtain.

  Gideon stopped singing in mid-note, a bar of soap in his hands, and his head covered with suds. He looked at her bug-eyed, his Adam’s apple still bobbing in place.

  “Get out of the shower!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Get out of the shower now!” She grabbed a towel from the rod and threw it at him.

  He caught it but didn’t bother to cover himself. It was a little late.

  Joselyn walked out into his room and began pacing by the end of the bed.

  He opened the bathroom door. “Would you mind throwing me some underwear.”

  She found a package of new jockey shorts on the bed and carried them over, handing them through the sliver of an opening in the door.

  “What’s the matter?” said Gideon.

  “The man, that, that … guy. The one in the hallway outside of the room on Padget Island. I just saw him on television.”

  “Did they catch him?” said Gideon

  “They did,” said Joselyn. “Here in Washington.”

  Suddenly the door swung open, and Gideon looked at her. He was standing in his underwear toweling himself.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I just saw it on television. They arrested him someplace. The Air and Space Museum,” she said.

  “What was he doing there?”

  “Throwing acid on a replica of an atomic bomb.”

  Gideon stopped toweling and looked at her intently. “Are you sure it was him?”

  “Positive.”

  Gideon passed through the doorway and started pulling on his pants. He slipped his shoes on without socks. Rivulets of water were running out of his hairline at the temple and coursing down his neck into the sparse forest of chest hair.

  “And there’s something else,” said Joselyn. “He’s dead. They’re saying it was a heart attack. Like hell,” she told him. “Where is the Air and Space Museum?”

  “On the Mall, near the Capitol… ” Gideon didn’t finish the sentence. They simply looked at each other for a split second before he dived for the phone. He picked up the receiver and looked at her. “Who do I call?”

  “Nine-one-one. No. That’s the police. It’ll take an hour to explain it to them,” said Joselyn. She looked at the clock on the table. They were less than forty minutes from the opening of the president’s speech. “We don’t have that much time.”

  They had been watching snippets all day on the news, every fifteen minutes, political teasers about the president’s State of the Union address.

  Joselyn raced to her room and ripped open one of the shopping bags. Inside was the FBI jumpsuit she’d put in the bag when she changed to street clothes at the store. She rummaged through one pocket and didn’t find it. She tried the other and came up with a business card. It was Sy Hirshberg’s. He had given it to her when she left the Situation Room, just in case she remembered anything else.

  By now Gideon was standing in the doorway to her room with a polo shirt in one hand and a towel in the other.

  She dialed Hirshberg’s number at the White House. It rang twice. A woman answered: “NSC.”

  “Mr. Hirshberg, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “This is Joselyn Cole. I was there yesterday meeting with the president and Mr. Hirshberg. This is an emergency.”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  The line went dead. She was put on hold. Joselyn looked at the clock.

  “Is he there?” said Gideon.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell them the bomb is in Washington, D.C. Tell them we think it’s at the Air and Space Museum.”

  The woman came back on the line. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hirshberg has already left the office.”

  “I need to reach him immediately. This is an emergency,” said Joselyn.

  “What did you say your name was?”

  “Joselyn Cole. Is there anybody else there that I can talk to?”

  “Just a moment.” The line went dead again.

  “Shit,” said Joselyn. She wanted to slam the receiver against the glass surface of the nightstand.

  “Let me have it,” said Gideon.

  She handed him the phone and searched for her shoes, sat on the edge of the bed, and slipped them on.

  When the voice came back on the other end, it was a man this time. “Hello.”

  “Who is this?” said Gideon.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Gideon van Ry. I am with the Institute Against Mass Destruction in California. I was in the White House Situation Room yesterday with Mr. Hirshberg and the president. I have information that there is a nuclear bomb in Washington, D.C., somewhere near the Capitol Building.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Where is Mr. Hirshberg?” said Gideon.

  “He’s with the president. On his way to the Capitol.”

  It was too late. By the time Gideon and Joselyn got to someone in authority and explained what they knew, Washington, D.C., would be a flickering cinder.

  “Listen to me. Do you have a pencil and a piece of paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Take a note,” said Gideon. “I don’t care how you do it, but get in touch with Mr. Hirshberg immediately. Do you unders
tand?”

  There was silence at the other end of the line.

  “Tell him that Joselyn Cole and Gideon van Ry called.”

  “Give me those names again slowly,” said the man.

  Gideon spelled them for him.

  “Tell him that we are on our way to the Air and Space Museum. Listen to me and get this right. He will know who we are. Tell him that the nuclear device is not in Seattle. Tell him that we believe it is at the Air and Space Museum, and that the president should not speak tonight. Do you understand?”

  “I think so,” said the man.

  Joselyn was watching the television. The pregame show was already starting, political analysts were getting face time on the tube, and reporters were interviewing members of Congress under bright television lights. The coverage was live.

  “Did you get all of that?” asked Gideon.

  “Yes.”

  “Now do it,” he told the man. He hung up the phone and grabbed Joselyn, nearly pulling her off her feet. He opened the door to her room just as the waiter was arriving with dinner on a rolling cart.

  “Out of the way,” said Gideon. He pushed the cart and the waiter against the wall.

  “Just a minute,” said the waiter.

  They squeezed by the cart as the door to the room closed behind them.

  “Leave it by the door,” said Gideon.

  “Hey. Who’s gonna sign for this?”

  “The government,” said Joselyn. She looked over her shoulder as Gideon pulled her along down the hall.

  Gideon got his hand, all the way up to the wrist, into an elevator door just as it was closing. The doors slowly opened. An older couple dressed to the nines looked at them wide-eyed, with more than a little disapproval. Gideon’s hair looked like smoke in a windstorm, and Joselyn was winded with a wild expression in her eyes.

  “That’s a good way to lose a hand,” said the man.

  “If that is all I lose tonight I will consider myself fortunate,” said Gideon.

  There was nothing else he could do in the elevator but wait. Gideon ran the fingers of one hand through his hair in a losing effort to make himself more presentable. He reached in his pocket and found his wallet. He had thirty dollars in cash. Enough for a taxi.

  When the door opened, they nearly ran over a man and woman standing outside. They hurtled across the hotel lobby, Gideon actually jumping over a small bench. A hundred sets of eyes were drawn to them like Doppler radar to a fast-moving object.

  Receptions were forming up all over town tonight and the Hay-Adams was no exception. Gideon and Joselyn had to negotiate their way through a crowd at the door. When they got to the curb there was already a small mob waiting for cabs.

  Gideon stepped in front.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, sir.” The doorman put his hand up and tried to push him back into line.

  “We don’t have time,” said Gideon.

  “What’s your problem?”

  Gideon thought for a second. “My wife. She is very ill.” He put his arm around Joselyn and squeezed her shoulder. “I think she has food poisoning. Something from room service.”

  A look of some anguish came over the doorman’s face. The crowd began staring at Joselyn. She began to look ill, holding her stomach.

  The doorman wasn’t in the mood to perform a diagnosis, not with a crowd watching. He blew his whistle and stepped out into the street. A second later a cab pulled up, and he ushered Joselyn and Gideon into the backseat and closed the door.

  “The Air and Space Museum,” said Gideon. “And there’s an extra twenty in it for you if you get us there in under three minutes.”

  “Can’t do that, but I can get you there in five,” said the driver.

  “Let’s not negotiate. It’s yours,” said Joselyn.

  The acceleration forced them back into the seat. It was a wild ride through the downtown streets of Washington, many of which were one-way. Gideon looked for his watch, which they had returned to him with his wallet. Unfortunately he’d left it behind in the hotel room.

  “What time is it?”

  She looked at her watch. “Eight-forty. Can we get there in time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do we do when we get there?”

  “We’ll have to find some way to get into the building. If we have to, I’ll throw something through a window.”

  “That should get the attention of the cops,” said Joselyn.

  “Let’s hope we can get inside before they arrive. At least we can lead them to the device. Maybe if they see it, at least they’ll call for help. If it’s not too late,” said Gideon.

  The cab raced down H Street and took a left on Seventeenth, passed along the side of the Old Executive Office Building and the Ellipse, and headed for the Tidal Basin.

  Joselyn could see the Washington Monument off to the left, its red beacon flashing in the night sky. They swung in a wide arc around the monument, past the Sylvan Theater and onto Independence Avenue. The cab shot by art galleries and museums, passed behind the back side of the Smithsonian Castle. It was approaching the Transportation Building on Seventh Street when they ran into thickening traffic, red brake lights as far as they could see.

  “What is it?” said Gideon.

  “I don’t know, man. Something’s going on.”

  Within a hundred feet, the cab was stopped dead in traffic. Joselyn could see stretch limos and large town cars, women walking on the sidewalk in evening gowns and furs, and men in tuxedos, all walking in the same direction.

  “How far is the museum?” asked Gideon.

  “It’s only a block up.”

  Gideon looked at the meter. It showed eight dollars. He took the thirty out of his wallet and threw it over the front seat to the driver, opened the door, and got out. Joselyn followed him.

  They hustled along the sidewalk, passing women in three-inch heels with their gloved hands through the arms of formally attired men. Some of them were wearing military dress uniforms. They were all headed to the broad terrace of stairs leading to the Air and Space Museum.

  “At least we won’t need to throw anything through the window,” said Gideon.

  “How are we going to get in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The place was lit up like a church on Christmas Eve. There was a vintage searchlight on the street out in front, its beam scanning the night sky. A sign on it read: RELIC OF THE LONDON BLITZ.

  Docents were handing out programs with maps of the museum printed inside. Gideon saw a man get one and immediately drop it into a trash can. He went fishing in the can as the docent watched him with a sick expression.

  “What are you doing?” asked Joselyn.

  “Once we get inside there, we are not going to have time to go on a hunting expedition. The display that this man threw acid on. Do you remember the name?”

  She looked up at the sky and thought. “I wasn’t paying that much attention.”

  “Think,” said Gideon.

  “Boy. Boy. Something boy.”

  “Little Boy,” said Gideon.

  “That’s it.”

  Like a magnet, Gideon’s eyes found the words Enola Gay on the schematic of the museum floor plan. It was isolated in the northwest corner of the building, on the ground level. He oriented himself and the map to the front of the building as an army of formally attired guests climbed the stairs toward the gleaming glass facade.

  “What do we do now?” said Gideon. “Go up to the man at the door and tell him there’s a nuclear bomb inside?”

  “Not unless you want to spend what is left of a brief life in the back of a paddy wagon,” said Joselyn.

  Suddenly she saw it. “Follow me.” She grabbed Gideon by the hand and led him toward the stairs. They merged into the crowd, Gideon trying to be as inconspicuous as a man six-foot-five can be when he is improperly dressed and his hair is a mess.

  Several people looked at them. Joselyn didn’t pay any attention. Her focus was on
the man in front of them in the wool topcoat, the one with the large square envelope holding up the flap on the pocket on his coat.

  A woman in a flowing mink coat and wearing diamond earrings gave them a condescending look and continued to stare.

  Gideon smiled. “I see you are a fan of animal rights.”

  The woman diverted her eyes and whispered to the man whose arm she was on.

  They got to the terrace leading to the museum and the line stalled as the people piled up at the door trying to get in. They all seemed to have invitations in large envelopes, passing these to two staff members on either side of the door as a guard looked on.

  Joselyn peeked around a shoulder and through an opening in the crowd. Slowly they inched their way forward. Ten feet from the door the man in front of them stopped dead in his tracks. He began frisking himself, slipping his hand into his inside coat pocket, then unbuttoning the coat. The woman with him looked at him.

  “I swear I put them in my coat.”

  Joselyn neatly stepped around him and pulled Gideon after her. They reached the door ten seconds later, where the white-gloved attendant looked at them, then reached out and took the engraved invitation from Joselyn’s hand.

  “You know it is black-tie?” said the man.

  “We’ll sit in the back,” said Joselyn.

  Before he could say anything, they stepped through the door and into the lobby of the museum and kept walking.

  Gideon took a brief sideways glance over his shoulder and saw the attendant talking to a guard, who was now looking at them with sufficient intensity to burn a hole through their backs.

  “I’d ask you how you did that,” he told her, “but we don’t have time.”

  The man who had lost his invitation was at the door, still patting his pockets and now talking to the attendant.

  At a near run, Gideon and Joselyn headed across the lobby, dodging around guests with champagne glasses in their hands. Gideon tried to make himself ten inches shorter so that he wouldn’t be seen above the crowd.

  With his long legs, he gobbled up the sixty feet of the lobby, passing the information booth, but not before a member of the staff behind the desk saw them. The woman picked up a phone and punched a button.

  Joselyn tried to keep up with him. The leather soles on her new shoes slipped like ice on the smooth concrete floor. Now they were in full stride, left past the “Milestones of Flight” and down the main gallery past the escalators that led to the second level.