Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 24
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Thirty-Seven Minutes
"Dammit!" Talmadge swore.
"What?" Michelson asked, turning to the director. "What is it?"
"The secret is out," Talmadge announced, powering down his wireless phone and throwing it onto the limousine's opposite seat. It bounced up to the car's ceiling and dropped onto the floor, where the director proceeded to pound it into crunchy pieces across the thin shag carpet.
"What do you mean? What secret?"
"The worst possible one we share right now," the director stated, finished with his tirade. "CVN. They just broke the news of the President being moved to an undisclosed location."
"Oh, no," Olga moaned.
"So much for the White House keeping a lid on things," he muttered.
"It was bound to break sooner or later, Bradley."
"Yes," he agreed, "but once this gets airplay in the morning, the local authorities are going to have a mess on their hands in trying to keep the peace."
"How could that happen so quickly?" she asked.
"Quickly?" Michelson asked, raising an eyebrow. "Hell, I'm surprised it's lasted this long."
His two companions turned to him, and he shook his head. "Someone – you can bet it was some low level White House staffer – probably offered some juicy off-the-record comment."
Talmadge gritted his teeth, refraining from biting his bottom lip. "You're probably right."
"You can bet I am," Michelson added. "Once the reporter found out what he was sitting on, he knew his shot for a Pulitzer was too good to believe. A scoop like this? The terror alert elevated? All interstate travel halted until further notice? The President placed into protective custody? There's no way an editor would let any good reporter sit on that for much longer than thirty seconds."
"You're probably right," the director agreed, peering through the car's tinted window at the approaching hospital lights. "In any event, our only advantage is the late hour." Pointing to the glass, he said, "Let's get in here and found out how Donovan is doing. Assuming his condition has improved, I'll see to his release into our custody. Olga, you'll have to monitor his condition closely. Whatever room we had to work with just went down the drain with the CVN news report, so let's play each and every move as safe as we possibly can. Understood?"
The car screeched to a halt in front of the hospital. Throwing open the door, Michelson stepped out. He reached back, giving Olga his hand, and helped her out of the limo's backseat. Talmadge climbed out the other side, and he knocked on the driver's side window. Once it was lowered, he told the man to wait for them to come back down. The man agreed, and he pulled the car ahead into the nearest parking spot.
"Olga," Michelson began, "tell me about this Craig Donovan."
"You've met him."
"Yes, I've met him," he agreed, "but he's been on a leave of absence from the Program since not long after I came on board."
She nodded. "Donovan is the best field agent BackStep could possibly hope for."
Michelson sniffed. "Does Parker like him?"
"Of course. They're the best of friends."
"Now ... that I didn't need to hear."
Inside, the hallway adjacent to the Emergency Room was quiet. A few folks – two older men and one young woman – sat in the waiting area. The old men were playing a hand of poker, Talmadge guessed, as he walked past them. The woman was thumbing through a crumbled magazine. He marched past, Olga and Michelson following his stride wake, and he neared the desk. A young-looking nurse – she appeared far too young to be working a graveyard shift – poked her head up at the window. She nodded when the director asked about Craig Donovan, explaining that he was in a private room – down the hall – beyond the policemen.
"The policemen?" Talmadge asked. "I don't understand. Is Craig under armed guard?"
"Oh, no, sir," the nurse replied. "His boss from the NSA came by earlier in the evening to check up on him, but Mr. Donovan's recovering very nicely." She tilted her head. "The police have been here for awhile. They've been questioning a woman. I believe she's a talent scout or agency manager or some such thing. Apparently, one of her employees was the victim of a drive-by shooting earlier tonight."
"Oh, my God." Olga winced. 'So much crime,' she thought, 'for one of America's most prominent cities.'
"Thank you very much," the director said. Nodding in the director she had indicated, he started walking briskly down the corridor.
Michelson glanced up the hall. There were a few gurneys parked solidly against the walls, and, beyond them, he noticed two men passing the far waiting area. Casually, the men glanced into the room as they walked past, and, instead of stopping, they kept moving – at a leisurely pace – in Michelson's direction. They were both smartly dressed – black shirts, black slacks, dark shoes – and one of them wore a thick black leather jacket. If he didn't know better, Michelson would've guessed the lump under the man's coat beneath his left shoulder indicated a concealed weapon. Was he another police officer? One in plain clothes following up on the shooting report? He didn't know, but it would make sense.
As they neared one another in the corridor, Michelson glanced over, taking a quick study of their faces. The first man – the younger of the two – smiled. He had a youthful expression of concern about him despite his fixed eyes and relaxed jaw. The second man ... the second man had a familiarity about him. He, too, smiled over at Michelson, as they passed one another, and the chrononaut nodded back to him. However, in his mind, he ran the features over and over. Dark hair. Dark complexion. Elegent cheekbones, appearing to almost indicate royalty. In his smile, Channing thought he saw a bit of mirth – not a playful expression, but one of mischief and equally daring. Slowly lowering his head, the chrononaut turned the face over and over in his mind. It had an odd familiarity to it, but he couldn't quite ...
He stopped in his tracks.
Pivoting, he now studied the backs of the men who were walking away. Both of them planted firm footsteps on the tile floor. Their gate was confidence, assured. They passed the nurse's station, now about fifty feet away, when Michelson cried out, "Richard DeMarco!"
The men stopped as the hospital corridor was overcome with complete silence.
In that singular moment, Channing Michelson knew all hell was about to break loose.
END of Chapter 24
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Thirty-Seven Minutes
"Dammit!" Talmadge swore.
"What?" Michelson asked, turning to the director. "What is it?"
"The secret is out," Talmadge announced, powering down his wireless phone and throwing it onto the limousine's opposite seat. It bounced up to the car's ceiling and dropped onto the floor, where the director proceeded to pound it into crunchy pieces across the thin shag carpet.
"What do you mean? What secret?"
"The worst possible one we share right now," the director stated, finished with his tirade. "CVN. They just broke the news of the President being moved to an undisclosed location."
"Oh, no," Olga moaned.
"So much for the White House keeping a lid on things," he muttered.
"It was bound to break sooner or later, Bradley."
"Yes," he agreed, "but once this gets airplay in the morning, the local authorities are going to have a mess on their hands in trying to keep the peace."
"How could that happen so quickly?" she asked.
"Quickly?" Michelson asked, raising an eyebrow. "Hell, I'm surprised it's lasted this long."
His two companions turned to him, and he shook his head. "Someone – you can bet it was some low level White House staffer – probably offered some juicy off-the-record comment."
Talmadge gritted his teeth, refraining from biting his bottom lip. "You're probably right."
"You can bet I am," Michelson added. "Once the reporter found out what he was sitting on, he knew his shot for a Pulitzer was too good to believe. A scoop like this? The terror alert elevated? All interstate travel halted until further notice? The President placed into protective custody? There's no way an editor would let any good reporter sit on that for much longer than thirty seconds."
"You're probably right," the director agreed, peering through the car's tinted window at the approaching hospital lights. "In any event, our only advantage is the late hour." Pointing to the glass, he said, "Let's get in here and found out how Donovan is doing. Assuming his condition has improved, I'll see to his release into our custody. Olga, you'll have to monitor his condition closely. Whatever room we had to work with just went down the drain with the CVN news report, so let's play each and every move as safe as we possibly can. Understood?"
The car screeched to a halt in front of the hospital. Throwing open the door, Michelson stepped out. He reached back, giving Olga his hand, and helped her out of the limo's backseat. Talmadge climbed out the other side, and he knocked on the driver's side window. Once it was lowered, he told the man to wait for them to come back down. The man agreed, and he pulled the car ahead into the nearest parking spot.
"Olga," Michelson began, "tell me about this Craig Donovan."
"You've met him."
"Yes, I've met him," he agreed, "but he's been on a leave of absence from the Program since not long after I came on board."
She nodded. "Donovan is the best field agent BackStep could possibly hope for."
Michelson sniffed. "Does Parker like him?"
"Of course. They're the best of friends."
"Now ... that I didn't need to hear."
Inside, the hallway adjacent to the Emergency Room was quiet. A few folks – two older men and one young woman – sat in the waiting area. The old men were playing a hand of poker, Talmadge guessed, as he walked past them. The woman was thumbing through a crumbled magazine. He marched past, Olga and Michelson following his stride wake, and he neared the desk. A young-looking nurse – she appeared far too young to be working a graveyard shift – poked her head up at the window. She nodded when the director asked about Craig Donovan, explaining that he was in a private room – down the hall – beyond the policemen.
"The policemen?" Talmadge asked. "I don't understand. Is Craig under armed guard?"
"Oh, no, sir," the nurse replied. "His boss from the NSA came by earlier in the evening to check up on him, but Mr. Donovan's recovering very nicely." She tilted her head. "The police have been here for awhile. They've been questioning a woman. I believe she's a talent scout or agency manager or some such thing. Apparently, one of her employees was the victim of a drive-by shooting earlier tonight."
"Oh, my God." Olga winced. 'So much crime,' she thought, 'for one of America's most prominent cities.'
"Thank you very much," the director said. Nodding in the director she had indicated, he started walking briskly down the corridor.
Michelson glanced up the hall. There were a few gurneys parked solidly against the walls, and, beyond them, he noticed two men passing the far waiting area. Casually, the men glanced into the room as they walked past, and, instead of stopping, they kept moving – at a leisurely pace – in Michelson's direction. They were both smartly dressed – black shirts, black slacks, dark shoes – and one of them wore a thick black leather jacket. If he didn't know better, Michelson would've guessed the lump under the man's coat beneath his left shoulder indicated a concealed weapon. Was he another police officer? One in plain clothes following up on the shooting report? He didn't know, but it would make sense.
As they neared one another in the corridor, Michelson glanced over, taking a quick study of their faces. The first man – the younger of the two – smiled. He had a youthful expression of concern about him despite his fixed eyes and relaxed jaw. The second man ... the second man had a familiarity about him. He, too, smiled over at Michelson, as they passed one another, and the chrononaut nodded back to him. However, in his mind, he ran the features over and over. Dark hair. Dark complexion. Elegent cheekbones, appearing to almost indicate royalty. In his smile, Channing thought he saw a bit of mirth – not a playful expression, but one of mischief and equally daring. Slowly lowering his head, the chrononaut turned the face over and over in his mind. It had an odd familiarity to it, but he couldn't quite ...
He stopped in his tracks.
Pivoting, he now studied the backs of the men who were walking away. Both of them planted firm footsteps on the tile floor. Their gate was confidence, assured. They passed the nurse's station, now about fifty feet away, when Michelson cried out, "Richard DeMarco!"
The men stopped as the hospital corridor was overcome with complete silence.
In that singular moment, Channing Michelson knew all hell was about to break loose.
END of Chapter 24
