Ark of Fire (3 page)

Edie had watched enough crime dramas on TV to know she’d been made.

She had to find a hiding place. Now. This very instant.

Terrified that the Neanderthal in the gray coveralls would somehow home in on her, Edie slowly eased away from the corner. She then ran down the hall, past the office with the sprawled corpse on the floor, grateful for the hideous maroon carpet that muffled her footfalls.

Turning right, she headed down another hall, this one dead-ending at the supply room. Lined with shelving units that were, in turn, stacked with boxes, it would make an excellent hiding place.

Or it would have made an excellent hiding place, had the door been unlocked.

Stymied, she stared at the locked door.

If she could get downstairs to the exhibition galleries, she could yank an artifact off the wall, instantly triggering the museum alarm system. The D.C. Metropolitan Police would arrive within minutes. Maybe even seconds, if there happened to be a squad car in the area. But to do that, she’d have to first sneak past Dr. Padgham’s killer.

Too faint of heart to give the idea further consideration, Edie spun on her booted heel. As she did, she caught sight of a bright red sign with bold white lettering.

The fire escape.

With renewed hope at seeing the word
EXIT
, Edie rushed down the hall toward that welcoming red light. When she reached the door, she grabbed the bar handle and pushed, bracing herself for what she assumed would be a very loud alarm.

“I think Isis is like the total embodiment of the wise woman. That’s why my magick circle practices a devotional ritual to invoke the power of Isis at each full moon.”

Caedmon Aisquith glanced at the pierced and tattooed reception attendee, an autographed copy of
Isis Revealed
clutched to her breast.

“Do you by any chance mention the Rites of Isis in your book?”

About to answer in the terse negative, Caedmon caught himself. His American readers tended to fall into two categories: the erudite and the asinine. Not that it mattered, as he’d been ordered by his publicist—who looked on with the stern prerogative of an English headmistress—to treat all questions, no matter how inane or idiotic, with due consideration. Particularly if the questioner had already purchased a copy of his book.

Caedmon schooled his features into an attentive expression. “Er, no, I am afraid there are no magical rituals detailed in the text. However, you are quite correct in that Isis, like her Greek counterpart, Sophia, represents wisdom in all its myriad forms.”

Apple polished, Caedmon thanked the young woman for her interest in ancient mysteries and cordially took his leave of her. A private man, he was uncomfortable in the role of public author, finding the meet-and-greet segment of the book signings a tiresome exercise in the fine art of chin wagging—an art form he’d never quite mastered.

His belly ached from the cheap champagne, and his facial muscles ached from the fool’s grin he’d been forced to wear since entering the bookshop, so he was actually relieved when his mobile began to softly vibrate; the incoming call was a perfect excuse to turn his back on the nattering group crowded into the diminutive confines of Dupont Books. To lessen his publicist’s displeasure, he made a big to-do of raising his mobile to his left ear, silently signaling that he needed to take the call. This being the last leg of a twelve-city tour, they’d had their fill of one another, Caedmon anxious to return to the quiet monotony of pen and ink.

“Yes, hello,” he said, always feeling like a bit of an ass speaking into, essentially, thin air.

“Caedmon Aisquith?”

Politely correcting the man’s butchered pronunciation of his name, he said, “Who’s calling, please?”

The question met with a long, static silence, followed by a distinctive click as the call was abruptly disconnected.

“Bloody hell,” Caedmon muttered, yanking the mobile from his ear.. The hair on the back of his neck suddenly bristled. He didn’t give out his number. Hit with the unnerving sensation that he was being watched by someone who had no interest in discussing ancient lore or swilling free bubbly, he turned on his heel. Slowly. Calmly. A man with nothing to fear.

Only he knew such posturing was an outright lie.

With training ingrained from the eleven years he’d spent indentured in Her Majesty’s Secret Service, he calmly glanced about the bookshop, searching for the face that did not belong in the crowd, the telltale flush, the quick breakaway glance of the guilty. Seeing no suspect characters prowling about, he next glanced out the plate glass windows that opened onto Connecticut Avenue, at the city pavement teeming with holiday shoppers.

Nothing appearing out of the ordinary, he quietly released a pent-up breath.

All quiet on the western front.

Like most men with a price on his head, he didn’t know how it would end, if the day just lived would be his last. All he knew was that when the thugs of the Real Irish Republican Army did finally catch up to him, they would see to it that he died a barbaric death, indeed. An eye for an eye, and all that.

Five years ago he had avenged the death of his lover by tracking down an RIRA chieftain and killing the bastard in the streets of Belfast. Such deeds did not go unpunished. Forced to go to ground, he’d spent the last several years living in Paris. He’d spent the time wisely, writing his first book, a treatise on the esoteric traditions of the ancient world. Lulled into a false sense of security, he’d decided against using a pseudonym, foolishly thinking he’d fallen off the RIRA radar screen.

Only now did it dawn on him that that bit of arrogance might cost him dearly.

He rechecked the digital readout on his mobile, on which the words
BLOCKED CALL
were prominently displayed.

“Why am I not surprised?” he murmured. Again, he scanned the bookstore, certain he was being stalked.

His gaze fell on a volume of Byron propped on a nearby book shelf.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast
.

As the long-forgotten line popped into his head, he bit back a caustic laugh, knowing he’d been that same dark angel. Once. A long time ago.

Still holding the mobile in his hand, he strolled over to his publicist. “My hotel just rang me,” he blithely lied, falling back on the lessons learned at MI5. “A bit of a sticky wicket with the billing. Something about my credit card being denied.” He pointedly glanced around the bookshop, the tops of the shelves littered with abandoned champagne flutes. “Seeing as how the festivities are winding down, you won’t mind if I dash out and take care of it?”

His publicist, a touchy woman with the ironic surname of Huffman, stared at him from behind the frames of her ruby-red spectacles. “Do you need me to call the front desk for you?”

“No bother,” he replied with a shake of the head. “I’m a big boy. Although perhaps I should fortify myself before battling the dragon.” He picked up a full champagne flute from a nearby tray, ignoring the fact that it had long since gone flat. “Cheers.”

Taking his leave of her, the champagne flute still clutched in his right hand, he headed to the back of the bookshop, veering down a hall marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
. Blatantly ignoring the admonition, he continued until he came to a room stacked with cardboard boxes, the sole inhabitant a lank-haired young man unpacking a shipping crate with the desultory air of an underpaid cog who didn’t much care if or when the wheel turned.

Caedmon nodded, acting as though he had every right to be there. “The exit, if you please.”

The young man jerked his head at the door opposite.

On the other side of the service exit, Caedmon found himself standing on a cigarette-strewn pavement behind the bookshop, the concrete walls covered in ribald graffiti.

No sooner did the exit door close behind him than he smashed his champagne flute against the wall.

Weapon in hand, he waited.

Come out, come out, wherever you are,
he silently taunted, readying himself to do combat with his unseen nemesis.

A full minute passed in tense silence.

Realizing he’d given in to his fears, he derisively snorted.

“The ghosts of Irishmen past,” he murmured, tossing the jagged-edged flute to the pavement.

The moment of lunacy having passed, he flipped up the collar of his wool jacket, warding off the cold. He recalled having seen a coffeehouse several blocks away. In dire need of caffeine, he headed in that direction.

Although he knew he was being paranoid, Caedmon couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that an Irish militant who refused to accept the peace had tracked him to the far side of the Atlantic.

Where he intended to settle a very old, yet still outstanding score.

To Edie’s surprise, no fire alarm sounded. There was only the reverberating clunk of the bar handle as she swung open the exit door.

The killer had disabled the alarm system.

Hit with a blast of cold wintry air, she found herself on the precipice between the open door and an external fire escape that zigzagged across the back side of the museum. Completely enclosed with black chain link, the escape was designed so that only those inside the museum had access to it, keeping vagrants and thieves at bay.

With no time to worry that it was lightly snowing, that she had no coat, or that she was afraid of heights, Edie stepped across the threshold into the caged stairwell as the exit door swung shut behind her. She kept her gaze on the alley below, knowing that if she looked anywhere else but down, she’d get dizzy, maybe even faint. Keeping a white-knuckled grip on the railing, she made her descent. The clanking sound of her boots hitting the metal grate of the steps echoed in the alley below. At the bottom, she opened a cage door, emerging into the alleyway. As with the emergency exit above, the door automatically closed and locked behind her.

Hurriedly she glanced around, disoriented, uncertain which direction to go. Like a weird netherworld, the alley was filled with garbage Dumpsters, SUV-sized air-conditioner condensers, and parked service vans. Against an adjacent building was a tall pile of discarded office furniture; the offices next door had recently been remodeled, and the outdated stuff was still waiting to be hauled away. Given that it was December, every window that looked onto the alley was closed. And because no one wanted a bird’s-eye view of big blue trash Dumpsters, the blinds were all pulled shut.

From above her, Edie heard a door suddenly swing open.

The killer had accessed the fire escape.

Not wasting a second, she ducked behind an air-conditioning condenser, praying she hadn’t been spotted. If she hurried, she could escape the alley before he reached the bottom rung. But that was a really big
if
. Particularly because she couldn’t exit the alley without moving into the killer’s line of sight.

That left only one option—she had to hide before he reached the alley.

Keeping to the shadows, she dashed some fifteen feet to the heap of jumbled chairs, their wooden arms and legs jutting into the air at odd angles. Like so many broken bones. As far as hiding places went, it was pretty pathetic. The ungainly pile wouldn’t stop a bullet. Or prevent a big, meaty fist from closing in on her. But it was the best that she could do on short notice.

Spying a small opening at the bottom of the pile, she got down on her hands and knees and crawled into the chasm. The opening was no more than twenty inches high, so she had to navigate with care. One wrong move and the heap of furniture could well tumble to the ground. With her underneath.