?
Next, he skimmed the personal background material.
MacFarlane’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly as though weighed down with a heavy load.
Still clutching the file folder, MacFarlane walked over to the sliding glass door behind his desk and pulled it open, stepping onto the balcony. Gentle snow fell upon the midday traffic that ebbed and flowed ten storeys below on Virginia Avenue, the busy thoroughfare made heavenly with the covering of pristine white flakes. To his left he could see the majestic grey spires of the National Cathedral high above the city; to his right the majestic white spire of the Washington Monument.
Words to live by.
A credo to die for.
Again, he glanced at the file folder. MI5 was Britain’s security service.
MacFarlane didn’t like having more questions than answers.
MacFarlane glanced at the beautiful grey 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 and walked over to the 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.’
17
Edie and C?dmon emerged from the ladies’ room. As they did so, an alarm blared overhead, the teeth jangling sound accompanied by a continuously repeated prerecorded 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
Intractable, C?dmon simply said, ‘I think not.’ Grabbing her by the upper arm, he pulled her towards 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.
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. 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, C?dmon took her by the arm, his grip this time noticeably more firm. ‘While 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 might be losing it, but I still have a mind of my own.’
Ignoring her last remark, C?dmon pulled her towards the staircase. As they ascended, Edie twice stumbled on the steps and he had to catch hold of her.
At the top of the steps she turned to him. ‘Now what?’
Rather than answer, C?dmon strode towards an abandoned wheelchair, 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 towards her.
‘Bum in the chair,’ he brusquely ordered.
She baulked. ‘Two fumbles does not an invalid make.’
‘The gunman will be searching for a female so high.’ Holding out his hand, C?dmon 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 boot up your Khyber!’
Edie did as ordered, it belatedly dawning on her that she was doing a first-rate job of antagonizing the 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,’ C?dmon replied, once more the courteous Brit. Releasing the brake, he shoved the wheelchair forward.
Edie removed the bag from her shoulder and clutched it to her chest. Inside its canvas depths was everything she would need to escape this madness.
As C?dmon navigated his way through the crowd, she realized that the wheelchair was an inspired idea, the hordes parting before them like the Red Sea parting before the Israelites. She’d been leery of C?dmon’s plan to take the long route through the museum. Maybe his route, like the wheelchair, would prove a good call after all.
Within seconds they had passed the American paintings gallery, George Bellows’ famous pair of boxers eclipsed in a darkly hued blur. A few seconds after that they entered the East Court Garden, the humid air in the cavernous space cloying; even more cloying, the winged cupids astride a giant scallop shell in the dead centre of the courtyard, water merrily tinkling over their chubby feet. C?dmon veered to the right, bypassing the fountain. As
