May 13th: happy birthday to Sadusky-slash-Harvey Keitel. And incidentally, I heard that apparently there was this family of ducks at the White House that the secret service guys had to deal with since the president wasn't there…three guesses who was actually behind it. (coughSaduskycough)

Disclaimer: Suing me is a futile effort. And I don't own it anyways, so…yeah.

Chapter 21

"So, Peter," Abigail says with false cheer. "What is this oh-so-crucial information that you happened to overhear?"

I love Abigail and all, but she's really not helping. One thing I've learned is to not antagonize someone offering you assistance: case in point, Ian. Not that I think Sadusky's going to pull a gun out on us, but still. He was in the FBI.

"I don't have to tell you at all if that's the way you're going to act," he says simply, shutting her up in a hurry.

"Right," he continues. "So…before I expound upon what I've heard, you all need to know who we're dealing with here. Ingram wasn't the only one at that meeting, as you recall." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a wallet stuffed with small ripped fragments of photographs. "I gathered as many pictures as I could before I had to leave. You all know Nathaniel Ingram; he's the head, been so for about ten years, and no one in my memory has been as…well, ruthless as him. But he honestly has no ability to come up with these plans—the only thing he can do is implement them. All the schemes come from Chester Burr."

A faded color photo apparently torn down the middle spins across the breakfast table to my fingertips. Burr's thin face is lines with dull blond hair, and his aloof, clod eyes make him seem more like an old statue than an actual person.

"There are others," Sadusky continues, flying more pictures at us all and rattling off names: "Arnold Baker, Roy O'Connor, Madeleine Rôcher, Pierro Vasquez, Cameron Yeatts, Max Campbell, Jean-Baptiste Vernay, and of course…Charlie Green."

"What?" Riley says absently, picking the photo of Madeleine Rôcher out of his hair. "You don't have a picture of Charlie to throw at us?"

Sadusky, being the agent that he is, tactfully ignores his comment. "Green is an undercover agent whose face and current alias is known only to Ingram and Burr. They're the top three in this operation, and the most dangerous in terms of what they can have done."

"But what did you hear about the treasure?" I ask.

"Right. They're after…well," he sighs, looking perplexed. "The actual name of the substance is about twelve miles long, but I know it's this…this orb, about the size of a man's fist and pale yellow. It's supposed to be very rare, and unheard of in such quantities, and that's why they want it. They need it for something that's being housed in Area 51."

Abigail's eyes widen, and Riley lets out a low whistle. "Well," he says with dramatic thought. "We would know what was in Area 51 if somebody"—he swivels his head in my direction and stares for an awkwardly long time—"had let us peruse the president's book a little longer."

"Not my fault," I say. "And don't roll your eyes, Riley. You know we didn't have time." I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "And you have no idea what exactly they need this substance for?"

"No," Sadusky says with a shake of the head. "But it would be in our best interests to go on and get it—one to keep it out of their hands, and two to make sure they don't try themselves or…um, 'take us out of the picture' to start the process over. They seemed pretty patient about the whole thing. But whatever Ingram's planning, it's…not good."

Silence ensues, and staring contests, too, with the table the wall, occasionally another person. Sadusky suddenly seems quite intrigued by a painting of some tangerines facing him. To be honest, I've never understood why Abigail likes that picture so much; she doesn't eat citrus all that much, nor is she a fan of the color orange…and I personally don't think anything could be more dull than a bowl of fruit.

"Wait a second…" Riley says slowly. "How do you know that Ingram's really the head of all this? This whole thing is huge enough even with all the holes in our information, so shouldn't the president or somebody be involved somehow?"

"Not necessarily," I say. "You know the Manhattan Project in World War II?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Wasn't it Einstein and some people making the atomic bomb?"

"Yes, though it was much bigger than that—it's been called the 'world's best kept secret' since nobody knew about it despite the sheer number of researchers. Harry Truman himself, who had been vice president for the majority of the war until Roosevelt's death, didn't know about the bomb until a few months before they dropped it on Hiroshima."

"It is very likely that the president's clueless," Abigail agrees. "But you had a good point, Riley."

"Yeah…but," he sighs. "If he is, than that just puts this whole thing on another level. What could they be doing that's so wrong the president can't know about it?"

Silence again, and I feel like I'm drowning, like I'm ten feet over my head—in reality, we're closer to around ten thousand feet over. It's one thing to stop Ian stealing the Declaration, but stopping the FBI from doing whatever they're doing? I need to walk around again.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Riley asks once I get up.

"I just need to think some more."

"It better not have anything to do with you possibly not going, 'cause then I might have to attack you with the rock-hard pillows from the guest bedroom."

I crack a smile despite myself. "Is that a threat?"

"No," he says. "It's a forecast, actually. Now no uncertain thoughts, even though it is written all over your face."

As I walk back to the courtyard and the central fountain, I can't help but think of the last time I escaped to come sit out here—running from confronting the issue of Riley's arrest. And here I am again—running, but from what?

Suddenly, I envy the people like Jeremy Olsen, the people who live normal lives, the people who have normal worries, concerns, distractions, the people who are completely oblivious to the corruption right under their noses. The booming voice of one of my history professors echoes in my ears…we were studying Machiavelli—

"And the world consists of nothing but masses; the few who have no influence when the many feel secure."

I'd say four people constitute a "few." What are we going to do—engage in a pseudo-war against the most powerful police force in the Western Hemisphere? Sure, we've dealt with them before…by running. There's a large difference between that and a confrontation.

"BOO!"

"Jesus, Riley!" I shout.

"Sorry, sorry…" he chuckles as he takes a seat beside me. "You looked so lost in thought…it was just too tempting."

"Was it now…"

"Guess wha-at?" he continues without missing a beat. "Abigail and Sadusky got us fixed up with another plane to Thailand…a private one this time so it'll be harder to track. Apparently some guy she knew from college—Stan, I think his name was—got one together."

Stan…I frown, thinking. "Stan who?"

"No clue. The guy was also apparently some sort of stalker."

"And she went and struck a deal with him?"

Clapping, he says, "Congratulations. You've finally caught on that your girlfriend's completely nuts."

"She's not any more crazy than we are," I add.

"She's crazy enough to date you."

"Yeah, but she can break up with me at any time without warning. You can't really do that with a friendship, so technically—"

"So technically you're calling me insane," Riley finishes with a contemplating frown.

"No…'insane' is such a…strong word…I'm not talking about straitjackets and padded rooms…it's like…" I hold both my hands up, palms facing me, and slam them down a few times on the invisible table before me in frustration.

"What does this"—he repeats my gesture—"mean?"

"Y'know…" I too repeat it. "This."

Back and forth we go, performing this odd "I can't find the right word" motion, amusement overshadowing our mild irritation that my historical encyclopedia of a brain doesn't come with a free thesaurus.

"What are you two doing?" Sadusky suddenly calls from the doorway. "Conducting the New York Philharmonic?"

"Ha…no," Riley chuckles briefly. "The English language was just being evasive. Besides, if I was a conducting, I'd have a baton and would have most likely poked Ben in the eye by accident."

"And this happens often?"

"When you sit in the first few rows in front of a slightly-butterfingered band director?" Riley says. "All the time." Oh yeah…he played flute—

Agh. Death of more brain cells. The image just doesn't work, I'm sorry.

"Well…" Sadusky says, unsure how to respond. "Stan's here to pick us up. That is, if you want to go, Ben."

Why does Stan have to be so prompt? I really was counting on having a few more hours of mulling time before confronting this issue…but…hm. Any sane person would not go near that treasure or this issue with a mile-long pole; but since when are we sane? Any normal person would go into hiding; but since when are we normal? Any fainthearted person would give up; but since when are we fainthearted? And that passage rumbles back from the archives of my mind…"We can rise above it; we can live through it; but we can't ignore it."

"Yeah," I say, and a wide grin of relief spreads across Riley's face, accompanied by a barely perceptible twist of Sadusky's lips.

I—none of us—can afford to run any longer. There's too much at stake.

XXX

Once Riley, Sadusky, and I arrive back in the foyer, the first thing (or person, rather) that catches my eye is the one chatting away with Abigail.

Stan.

Tall, dirty-blond, gray eyes, and an air of nervousness desperately trying to be overshadowed by one of complete and utter calm—that's Stan. And let me tell you, I'm not liking him much…thinking he's so cool with his private jet…

"Riley, Ben," Abigail says with forced cheer. "This is Stan Grant."

As Riley reaches to shake his hand, I say casually, "Oh! Any relation to President Ulysses S. Grant?"

"Yeah," he starts with a grin. "Actually—"

"He was such an ineffective president, wasn't he?" I chuckle; beside me I can almost feel Riley's eyes slide over in disbelief, and I do feel Abigail's seemingly-playful "please shut up" punch in the arm.

"So!" she says, turning away.

"Crédit Mobilier scandal!" I sing under my breath.

Stan eyes me with an implied glare. "Is he…always like this, Abi?"

"Nah," Riley jumps in—thank God. Abigail looked as if she had a witty, ready-made agreement on hand. "See, Stan…Ben's had this bad cold lately and he just woke up from a nap after taking a tad too much Nyquil, if you know what I mean."

As Stan takes the bait and nods understandingly, Sadusky prods me in the back. "Watergate!" I chirp.

"Pretty sure Watergate was Nixon," Riley says quickly, grabbing some of the bags Abigail seems to have already packed. "But that's OK—he's Nyquiled…the only time that's excusable for Ben Gates to mix up his centuries." Like the parent of a small child who has just done something frighteningly embarrassing, he takes my arm in his free hand and pulls me out the front door before anyone else can say a word.

"And what, may I ask, was that?" he says halfway down the steps. "You're not the jealous type—wait." Actually pausing in his stride, he smiles almost as if he's chiding himself. "Yeah you are!"

"Since when?"

"Three words: Connor the curator."

"Oh. Right."

"But did you really have to make fun of Stan's ancestors?" he laughs; at least I know he's not as livid as…um…a certain someone.

"Hey now…I could've mentioned a number of other things about Grant's presidency and Grantism and the Guilded Age—incidentally, do you know where that term originated—"

"Ben," he says slowly, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Mark Twain. You've told me three times already. And no history montages—you're supposed to be Nyquiled."

I help him load the luggage into the trunk of Stan's Volvo. "'Nyquiled'?"

"Yeah. It's a verb."

"Maybe in the Standard Riley Dictionary."

"Fine. Make fun of my lexicography hobby," he says sarcastically. "I see how it is."

"Hey boys…" Abigail says from behind us—and very suddenly. "You want to get a move on and not cause any trouble?" Wow. That is quite the pointed glare.

I barely have time to nod before Stan sticks his head around the corner of the car. "All set?" And still there's that slight vibe of guard against me.

"I think so," Abigail sighs.

"Well then…off to Dulles!"

XXX

Death to AP English exam, and death to the broken fire alarm that disrupted it for an hour. (It's been a LONG day.)

Please review: comments, concerns, the like. You know.