Tales From the Black Chamber (6 page)

Anne nodded, though she wasn't sure there weren't a few pages on the far side of the table. John pointed at a door on their side of the conference room. “Go left to the ‘employees only' door.” He stood and fired a shot. “Then turn right and run to the end of the hall. There's a freight elevator.” He fired again. “If I'm not there in two minutes, take it all the way to the garage and head for the subway.” He fired again. “Ride to the end of a line and call the Foundation's number and tell them what happened.” He fired again. “Go!” he ordered.

Anne crouched and ran for the door, following his directions exactly. A small part of her brain posed the interesting question,
How did he know an escape route
? but Anne was in no mood to ponder. She got to the elevator and had started punching the down button repeatedly when she heard footsteps. John was sprinting down the hall behind her, gun in hand. The doors opened. She slipped inside into a front corner next to the control panel, and held the
button until she saw John, a blur, leap through the door, and land flat on the floor.

Anne jabbed at the
button for what seemed like an eternity as John rolled to the far side of the elevator. She heard the faint whistling sounds again, the dull cracks of bullets ripping through the wall padding and striking the back of the elevator, and sharper reports as others struck the wall out front. Finally the doors closed in what seemed like slow motion and the elevator began to descend.

Anne was still breathing hard, but she was pleased at how calm and rational her voice sounded when she said, “What was
that
?”

“I don't know,” said John, his eyes slightly wild and darting hyperactively with adrenaline.

Cold fear flooded her. She hugged herself. “Those men are trying to
kill us
.”

“Yep.”

“Who
are
they?!”

“I swear to you, I have no idea.” His eyes looked right into hers, wide, honest, and a little frightened.

“But how did you know to …” she waved her finger around to indicate their flight.

“Contingency planning. We knew there was a chance someone was looking for you.”

“But not a
big
chance!” Anne felt tears stinging the corners of her eyes, and it made her mad. “And what's with the
gun
?!” She pointed at his weapon. “And you said
Mrs. Garrett
had a gun and could shoot. What the hell kind of foundation are you people running?!”

“Long story. A very strange one, as I think I mentioned.”

The elevator chimed and the display read G.

“Our stop,” said John. “Ready?”

Anne bit her lip, drew a deep breath, and nodded, feeling a bit of steel in her spine. She gripped the manuscript box to her chest. Her eyes narrowed and as the doors began to move, she said, “You'd better have a hell of an explanation ready when we stop running, Mr. Ashton.”

They ran.

After an incredibly nerve-racking trip around the subway system, doubling back, switching cars, crossing platforms to slip between closing doors, they ended up on the Long Island Rail Road out of Grand Central en route to MacArthur Airport. Anne wanted desperately to interrogate John on what in God's name was going on, but he'd indicated early on that they couldn't talk in public, and she just didn't have the heart to chat. John made a few cryptic cell-phone calls, but otherwise just scanned everyone in sight watchfully. They passed almost the entire time in silence. Occasionally Anne caught John staring off into space for a second with a haggard look on his face.
God, I'm dead on my feet after just running
, she thought.
He was in a
gunfight.

They walked up to the US Airways counter at MacArthur Airport, and John said to the agent, “We're John Ashton and Anne Wilkinson. I'm told you're expecting us.” After he showed a piece of identification, Anne was surprised when the gate agent led them through an unmarked doorway next to the security turnstile. Down a long hall was a small, but comfortable lounge. “Someone will come get you when your plane is ready,” the agent said and left, after they thanked her.

“Where are we?”

“VIP lounge,” he said, collapsing, exhausted into a chair. She stood, arms crossed over the manuscript box.

“We didn't have to go through security?”

“A lot of law enforcement use this lounge.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No. I work for the Coolidge Foundation. And I can't really say more than that. I'm sorry. I really am. I
really
am after today.”

“I appreciate that. But, you know, it's time for me to go. Obviously, I don't know you anywhere near as well as I thought I did—and that wasn't very well to begin with—but there's no way on God's green earth that I'm hopping off on some airplane with you to who knows where—”

“Washington.”

“It doesn't matter. But, look, John, from my perspective, you've gone from being an interesting colleague to Some Crazy Guy With a Gun. Look, here, keep the manuscript.” She dropped it on the seat next to his with a little vehemence. “Do whatever you want with it. Just leave me out of it.”

“You're not safe, Anne.”

“No shit, Sherlock. I'm going to take a couple flights and maybe visit my parents in Albuquerque or some friends in Jackson Hole. Someplace far, far away. If you need me, call my cell phone. Or better yet, don't.”

“Anne, I don't mean to alarm you, and I realize you're being asked to take an awful lot on faith here, but I swear to God I'm just trying to keep you safe at this point. This—” he waved at the box, “this is secondary. I mean, honestly, I don't know if we're going to be able to figure it out without you, so I have a selfish reason for keeping you around. I mean, other than that I like you a lot.”

“I
liked
you too. But, look, you're not telling me crap, you're acting like some library foundation is the freaking CIA, and you've got a gun. I know you were never a teenage girl, but when we get our first training bra, they give us a booklet that says
never cross state lines with a stranger with a gun
. So I'm done. Goodbye.”

“Anne, wait. Do you have your cell phone?”

She stopped, halfway to the door. “Yes.”

“Do you have that FBI agent's number?”

“Yes.”

“Call him.”

Moments later, Anne's head spun even more when, having explained the situation to Agent Hunter, he said, “Go with Mr. Ashton, Ms. Wilkinson. We know him. He's trustworthy. Let me make a few calls to the New York field office to find out what the state of the investigation of the shooting is, and I'll be in touch with you later tonight or tomorrow. But for now, come down here to Washington. You'll be much safer. And Mr. Ashton is no threat to you. I promise.”

After hanging up, Anne grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and plopped angrily into a chair. She tried to formulate a fierce accusation. “You're not a librarian.”

“No, I'm not. Mildred was our Librarian. I'm the Historian.”

“For the Coolidge Foundation, about which you can tell me nothing—but that arms its librarians and historians.”

He shrugged helplessly.

“Okay, fine. We won't talk about you. But we're awfully alone here. You
owe
me the benefit of your knowledge about what happened at the hotel,” she said angrily, hoping she wouldn't burst into tears and ruin the effect.

“Absolutely. But I swear to you, I really don't know. I'm guessing those are the guys who killed Mildred and, like we thought, they're trying to kill you because they think you know something about the book. And, if we left any pages behind, they'll know we have it. Which can't be good. But, look, all I know is that I thought Milton had brought the coffee and chocolate mousse, so I raise my eyes and there are two guys in the doorway holding H&K MP5SDs.”

“Those are guns, I assume?” she asked, a little abashed at the sarcasm leaking into her words.

“Yes. German-made nine-millimeter submachine guns with integral silencers. Extremely accurate and the weapon of choice of hostage-rescue and commando teams—”

“Not interested. So, they had guns. What did they look like?”

“White guys in suits. That's all I got.”

“I wonder if one of them was Creepy Guy from my office.”

“Could be,” said John, taking a deep breath. “Okay, so, thank God they didn't have their guns aimed or we'd both be dead. So I'm guessing that they're not ex-commandos or the like. Anyway, I turned over the table, trying to dump all the pages towards us, pulled my gun and fired as much as I could to try and keep them out. That seemed to work. They looked surprised as hell. Then they hid behind the doorframes, shooting at me every so often. I think I winged one guy in his arm, but it must have just been a graze, because it didn't faze him. And this,” he drew his gun, “is a Glock 37 chambered in .45 GAP.” John popped out the magazine and unloaded a bullet onto the side table, then pulled the slide back and placed the bullet's ejected twin next to it. “If you get hit solidly with one of these, you drop your gun and go down.”

“You're not going to take that on the plane,” Anne said, incredulous, as he reloaded the two bullets, chambered one, and holstered the weapon.

“I am. We're not going through security. And if those guys can ambush us with automatic weapons in midtown Manhattan, they could jump us on a plane with a plastic shiv or garrote just as easily.”

“But they don't know we're here; and, how…?” Her voice trailed off.

“I hope they don't know we're here. But hey, what if they put a transmitter in your wallet or shoe? It's awfully hard to know. And as to how I can get on a plane with a gun, again, I'm going to have to tell you I can't tell you how.” He raised his hands in helpless apology.

Anne was amazed as they were led onto the plane, the door closed behind them, and they were seated in the first row of first class. John spent most of the flight standing with his back to the cockpit door, ostensibly reading a magazine, having pled a bad back to the flight crew (who treated them with solicitous gingerliness, as if they were celebrities or spies).

When the plane set down at National Airport, the passengers were told there would be a brief delay before deplaning, and that they were requested to stay in their seats. Anne and John, however, were led right off, through another series of restricted-access corridors until they were met by a tall blond man in a dark suit. Anne did a double take.

“Oh, Agent Hunter! Thank you so much for helping us out.”

“Glad to see you're well, Ms. Wilkinson.” He turned to Ashton. “John.”

“Agent
Hunter
. Yes, thank you.”

“You're welcome, sir. Now, please come with me,” the FBI man said flatly.

They walked out an inconspicuous side entrance where a black SUV with tinted windows sat at the curb. Agent Hunter opened the back door and they both climbed in. Anne didn't know whether to be comforted or alarmed to see an M16 and a shotgun on the front passenger seat.