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.