Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 (65 page)

 
          
 
"And your toes. But mostly with your
head. Tell yourself you can do it. Convince yourself."

 
          
 
"That's—"

 
          
 
Another shot was fired, and this time it was
followed by the sound of the door swinging open and slamming against the
apartment wall, and by running feet and enraged voices.

 
          
 
"Now!" Eva said.

 
          
 
And, triggered by Eva's voice, Burnham told
his muscles to explode. Like a child fleeing a neighbor's dog, he scrambled and
clawed his way up the wooden wall, balanced for a split second and then fell
head first into the alley in a heap of soiled seersucker.

 
          
 
"Stop, Mr. Burnham!" the red-haired
woman called out. "You're only making things worse."

 
          
 
"Worse?" Burnham called back.
"What's worse than a bullet in the brain?" He and Eva crept along the
alley toward the street.

 
          
 
"We're just s'posed to bring you
in."

 
          
 
"Sure," Burnham shouted.
"That's why you're shooting at me."

 
          
 
They reached the street and they ran, first
down to N Street, then over two blocks, then down a couple more, until after
three or four minutes Burnham was convinced they had lost themselves in the
maze of
Georgetown
. They ducked into an alley to catch their
breath.

 
          
 
"Where can we go?" asked Eva.
"We can't go to my apartment. The Russians'11 be watching that. For sure,
we can't go to your house. And we can't just waltz into the Y. It's—"

 
          
 
"Wait a minute."

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
Burnham looked out the end of the alley. At
the comer he saw a lighted phone booth. "Be right back," he said, and
before Eva could protest, he was gone.

 
          
 
A
BELL
TOWER
in the distance was ringing the twelve
chimes of
midnight
when Bumham led Eva into another dark alley. A rat scuttled between the garbage
cans, and a roused cat knocked over a bottle in pursuit. At the end of the
alley was a steel door, and Bumham knocked twice.

 
          
 
"Where are we?" Eva whispered.

 
          
 
Burnham smiled. "Waltzing into the
Y."

 
          
 
The door swung open on rusty hinges, and Hal
said, "Come in, children. Be quick."

 
          
 
He shone a flashlight on the floor for them
and led the way down a dingy hall. "They've had a man outside for the past
couple of hours, pretending to be a wino." Hal snickered. "The only
wino in Washington who wears Corfam shoes and a Rolex watch."

 
          
 
Halfway down the hall, Hal stopped at another
steel door. Faded stenciled lettering said MAINTENANCE^KEEP OUT. Hal inserted a
key into the imposing brass lock, turned it and pushed open the door.

 
          
 
Lights went on automatically, illuminating a
cozy den decorated in impeccable conservative Yankee taste: leather club chairs
worn shiny and comfortable, an antique four-poster bed covered with a
Rhode Island
quilt, Winslow Homer prints, brass lamps on
cherry end tables.

 
          
 
"Wow!" Eva said.

 
          
 
Hal smiled. "My lifeline to sanity."

 
          
 
"How did you—"

 
          
 
"Garage sales, flea markets, hearing
about this and that from here and there."

 
          
 
"Do they know?" Burnham asked.
"Upstairs?"

 
          
 
"They don't know and they don't
care," said Hal. "Their attitude about everything is, If it ain't
broke, don't fix it. I make sure it ain't broke. I have the only key. You'd be
safe here forever. But I don't imagine you want to stay forever?"

 
          
 
"A day or two," Burnham said.
"Till we can sort things out and decide where we can go. If
anywhere."

 
          
 
"You want to tell me what's wrong? I'm
the soul of discretion."

 
          
 
Burnham shook his head. "The less you
know, the better for you. I've mixed you up too far in it already."

 
          
 
"It's serious, though, isn't it?"

 
          
 
"Yes, Hal. Very."

 
          
 
"You sure I can't help? I have a devious
mind."

 
          
 
Burnham hesitated, then said, "All right.
See if you can work this out: How do you get two people out of the country,
with no passports and very little money, and with the entire federal government
looking for them?"

 
          
 
"My!" Hal said.

 
          
 
Eva kicked off her shoes and said to Burnham,
"If we're going to run again, I've got to close my eyes. I'm exhausted."
She spread her arms and let herself fall backward onto the bed.

 
          
 
The press of her weight on the mattress must
have tripped a hidden switch, for instantly the room was filled with the
pulsing, throbbing beat of Ravel's "Bolero."

 
          
 
Eva sat up and said, "Christ!"

 
          
 
"Apologies, my dear," Hal said, a
blush suffusing his pasty face. He touched a spot on the wall, and the music
stopped.

 
          
 
The grin that had started to split Burnham's
face now froze. "My God!" he said.

 
          
 
"Oh, don't be such—"

 
          
 
"No, no," Burnham said to Hal.
"It's not that." The motor of his mind, which had been resting at
idle, slipped into gear and began to race. "I think I . . . never mind.
What time is it?" He looked at his watch. "Do you have a
mirror?"

 
          
 
"There's a bathroom over there." Hal
pointed. "What are you—''

 
          
 
"You don't want to know," Burnham
said as he opened the bathroom door and stood in front of the mirror and dusted
off his suit and retied his tie. "Your tape just gave me an idea, that's
all." He spoke to Eva. "If they get me, you leave first thing in the
morning. You should be able to make it alone. I'd try
Canada
first, I'd—"

 
          
 
"Where are you going?"

 
          
 
"Just thought I'd stop in at the office
for a few minutes." He kissed her.

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
Burnham said to Hal, "D'you have a
briefcase?"

 
          
 
"A briefcase? Me?"

 
          
 
"How about a squash bag?"

 
          
 
"Not down here." Hal found a Gucci
shoulder bag. "How about this?"

 
          
 
"Good." Burnham took the bag.
"I'll be at the alley door in exactly an hour. If I miss, try a half hour
later, then a half hour after that. If I'm not there then, say a prayer for
me." He reached for the doorknob and said to Hal, "Thanks. Whatever
happens."

 
          
 
This was like Russian roulette but with worse
odds, Burnham thought, as he crossed
17th Street
and started along the last block to the
White House. All or nothing. And there was no way to find out which it would be
without committing himself. He would give his name and show his pass, and if
Epstein had put an APB out on him with the White House police, he was finished.
He was betting that Epstein hadn't thought to do it yet, that it hadn't
occurred to Epstein that Burnham would be so stupid as to walk back into the
White House. Unless Epstein thought he was crazy, in which case every White
House policeman would be sitting at his post with his finger on the button.

 
          
 
Burnham's footsteps rang out in the still
night. He wished he could creep up on the White House and peek over the
shoulder of the guard at the West Gate to see if his name was flashing on an
electronic hit list. But the concrete bulwarks and security fencing, the bright
lights and electric gates and bulletproof-glass observation windows, made
sneaky arrivals impossible. These nights, one approached the White House like a
submissive dog—all smiles and waggy tails and floppy ears, and keep your hands
out of your pockets.

 
          
 
So he continued noisily down the block,
clutching the Gucci bag in one hand and his White House pass in the other. He
tried to imbue his step with a confident bounce. He didn't feel like slinking
into federal prison.

 
          
 
He turned in at the West Gate. Through the
window he saw the guard leave his seat and turn to the door at the gatehouse
and, his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol, take a half step
outside.

 
          
 
Burnham held his breath and forced a smile and
raised his White House pass for the guard to see.

 
          
 
The guard took the pass and compared its
picture with the reality of Burnham.

 
          
 
What would the words be? Burnham wondered.
"Wait right here"? "Hands up"? "Gotcha!"?

 
          
 
The guard squinted at Burnham and said,
"You're either awful late for yesterday, or awful early for today."
He returned Burnham's pass and motioned him through the gate.

 
          
 
"Working hard to build a better
tomorrow," Burnham said, and he stepped quickly out of the circle of
light.

 
          
 
There was another guard, at the desk inside
the West Lobby, and he looked up when he heard the door open, and when he
recognized Burnham his languid face snapped to attention.

 
          
 
"Mr. Burnham!" he said.

 
          
 
Oh-oh, Burnham thought. Goodbye. Visions of
Danbury
and Allenwood danced in his head. He said,
"That's me."

 
          
 
"Just the man I wanted to see."

 
          
 
"Oh?" Burnham said weakly, thinking:
This is some laid-back arrest.

 
          
 
"I hope you don't mind, but—"

 
          
 
"Don't worry about it."

 
          
 
"You know a four-letter word for 'mine
entrance'?"