From the Ashes (18 page)

But Greer’s plan also came with tremendous risk. And the very prospect of discovering the Dossiers in the first place – was it perhaps better that they stayed as they had, hidden for all those years? When hidden, they were almost as harmless as they would be if they were destroyed. But no, there would always be the possibility that someone, somehow, would discover them on their own. Better to snuff things out now, while the Division was still in control. Or so Greer’s thinking had gone.

Enrique smiled as he realized that Greer had given him an out. Even though Greer had chosen the rookie Wilkins for this assignment – a necessity Ramirez had created with his altercation back at the apartment – Enrique realized he still had a role to play. He was caught in limbo between being pulled off of field duty – which meant no new assignments – and assuming the Directorship. His time – for the first time in a long, long while – was his own. And nothing could be a better use for his time than shadowing Wayne Wilkins and seeing through Greer’s bold scheme. If Wilkins was able to do what was necessary and everything went as planned, then great. If not, Ramirez would be there ready to clean up the mess, ensuring the integrity of the Division that he himself would preside over very, very soon. And regardless of the outcome, when the time came, Ramirez would make sure that it was his bullet that killed the younger Rickner and his female companion. His pride would allow for nothing less.

The front door to the building opened, and, as if by divine providence, Wayne Wilkins emerged. Enrique took a deep breath, murmuring a quick prayer of thanks as he watched his fellow agent cross the parking lot to his own vehicle.

Showtime.

Washington, D.C.

“Last call for Continental Flight 8736 to Newark.” The firm female voice echoed through the halls as Jon and Mara dashed through the terminal at Reagan National, carry-ons in hand and flinging wildly about with their frantic pace.

“I
knew
we should’ve left sooner,” Mara huffed between strides.

“Then why did you
pack
so darn much?” Jon retorted as he hurtled alongside her. “We’re cutting it
way
too close.”

“Then quit your yammering and keep up.” She started to pull ahead, but Jon was having none of that. He picked up his already rapid pace and passed her, immune to her shouts of “hey!” from behind.

They skirted their way around some crowds, jostled through others, all the way to their gate. Reaching their gate, gasping for breath, they managed to stop the gate attendant before he shut the door to the jet bridge.

“Cutting it a little close?” asked the young man, raising an eyebrow but not his eyes as he checked their boarding passes.

“Yeah, you know,” Jon quipped. “Living life on the edge.”

“Two more, heading down now,” the attendant spoke into a telephone receiver mounted on the check-in counter.

Mara smiled weakly at Jon. He returned her grin. They had made it.

“Mr. Rickner, Ms. Ellison, enjoy your flight. Please hurry, your flight is about to depart.”

Jon snatched their boarding passes from the outstretched hand of the attendant and led the way as they hurtled their way down the tunnel toward the waiting plane.

“Boarding pass?” asked the brunette flight attendant waiting by the door. Jon presented their boarding passes again, and the attendant directed them to their seats. Jon found a half-empty overhead compartment, a few rows up from their seats, where he placed his bag, then Mara’s.

“Such a gentleman,” Mara said as she followed him to their seats.

“Yes I am... I get window!”

“Hey!” she laughed. “That’s fine. I wanted the aisle seat anyway.”

’Yeah, on a little puddle jumper like this, nobody gets stuck with the middle seat.” The Embraer jet had only 22 rows of four seats, two on each side of the narrow aisle. And, despite the economic crisis, the short driving distance from Washington to New York for those with cars and the rather cheap bus or train fares for those without, the plane was almost completely full. Racking up those frequent flyer points, he guessed. Especially considering the number of business suits on the plane. Which made sense; the two termini of the flight were the political capital of the country and the financial capital. The number of organizations – lobbying firms, law firms, research institutes, corporations, and groups from other fields in which business and politics invariably met, mingled, and walked hand-in-hand – jetting representatives back and forth had to be tremendous.

One standard greeting message from the pilot on the speaker system, one safety regulation demonstration by the flight attendant, and one long taxi to the runway later, Continental Flight 8736, its jet engines whirring loudly, accelerated to takeoff speed and left the ground, bound for New York City and all the secrets – and dangers – it held.

Jon looked over at Mara and noticed she had her eyes closed, her fingers clenching the armrests as though she might float away should she let go of them. He grimaced. If she was scared about taking off... The fact was they had no idea what they were up against, how to go about their quest, or even exactly what it was they were looking for. They would have to start with tracking down and talking to Catherine Smith. Tomorrow. At her age, she would probably be in bed before Jon and Mara even got to their hotel room. But after that? If nothing
definitive,
if no real leads came out of that meeting, then what? A sinking feeling in the pit of Jon’s stomach, as the plane lurched through an air pocket, still less than a thousand feet off the ground, but he couldn’t attribute the sensation solely to turbulence. They were leaving Washington behind. New York lay ahead. And it was clear to Jon that they were now passing the point of no return.

Two rows behind them, in the window seat on the other side of the plane, Wayne Wilkins would have agreed.

The problem to be solved is, not what form of government is perfect, but which of the forms is least imperfect
.
~ James Madison

We must be the great arsenal of Democracy.
~ Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Manhattan, New York

The short flight to New York had proven uneventful. Two hours after touchdown, having made their way through the Newark airport and via train to Penn Station, Jon and Mara checked in to the historic Hotel Pennsylvania – the hotel that inspired the classic Glenn Miller song “Pennsylvania 6-5000” – and settled in. Due to several large conventions booked into the hotel – and its proximity to Madison Square Garden, Penn Station, and much of Midtown Manhattan – the rooms were nearly all booked. Jon and Mara had taken a spacious two-bed room, which, though potentially awkward, allowed them to keep an eye on each other – both in their grieving and should something more sinister befall them.

After unpacking, Jon suggested they grab some dinner.

“Definitely,” Mara agreed. “But I’m choosing the place this time.”

Jon conceded and, after changing into more formal attire – he in a deep red long-sleeved button-up with black slacks and a charcoal gray sports coat, she in a dark blue dress and black pea coat with black tights – they made their way through the crowded twilit streets to Mara’s restaurant of choice.

Del Frisco’s Golden Eagle Steakhouse was a three-story affair smack dab in the middle of Midtown Manhattan. Located in the McGraw-Hill Building of the Rockefeller Center complex, the glass-fronted establishment looked out on the throng of pedestrians and motorists bustling down the Avenue of the Americas. The atmosphere was formal, but cozy, the kind of place professionals might take a prospective client for a little wining-and-dining, or where they might go with some of their colleagues for lunch. Considering all the towering glass and steel skyscrapers that surrounded the restaurant, it was not surprising to see all the suits and work attire. The tuxedos and dresses comprising a good chunk of the rest of the patrons were likely headed to catch a show in the nearby Theater District, or perhaps in Rockefeller Center’s own legendary Radio City Music Hall. Directed to a table on the second floor, Jon felt somewhat out of place. He and Mara hadn’t just gotten off work from their six-figure executive job. They weren’t going to a hundred-bucks-a-pop performance afterward. They were just here to eat. And talk.

“Nice place,” Jon commented after they had been seated.

“Yeah, it is. Michael took me here once.” Her eyes started to glaze over. “Shoot, I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

Jon looked concerned. “Do you want to leave? Too many memories? We can go somewhere else if you want.”

“No.” Mara shook her head forcefully, as though she were trying to convince herself as well. “No, this is fine. It’s not like anywhere else we go will make me think of him less. And, honestly, I think I do want to think about him tonight.”

“He is the reason we’re up here, after all.”

Mara screwed up her face and nodded. “Yeah. He is.”

“Isn’t this place a bit ostentatious though?” Jon changed the subject. “I mean, if we’re trying to stay under the radar?”

“Jon, you’re a grad student, and I’m a brand new family counselor at an underfunded charity out of my church,” Mara said as she unfolded her napkin and placed it in her lap. “A place this cushy is the
last
place anyone would be looking for us. Besides, considering your restaurant choices of late, they’re probably combing the local Burger King for us right now.”

“Hey, now,” he countered with a smirk.

Their waiter approached the table, introduced himself as Ted, mentioned the soups and entrées
du jour
and offered his suggestions, then took their drink orders.

“Water for me,” Mara said.

Jon eyed her, then turned his attention to Ted. “Water for me as well. And two glasses of this Merlot, too, please,” he said, pointing his selection on the wine list. Mara looked at him with surprise, but he pretended not to notice.

“Very good, sir. Madam.” Ted tilted his head in a slight bow. “I shall be back shortly. Please take your time looking over our menu.”

“Will do,” Jon said, still looking at the waiter and ignoring the stares of his dinner mate. “Thanks, Ted.”

Ted nodded with a polite half-smile on his lips, and turned to leave. Jon started to study the menu, a smile creeping up on his face in response to Mara’s surprise.

“Merlot?” she finally asked.

“I think a good-luck toast is in order. Besides, I know
my
nerves could use a little calming.”

Mara sighed, sinking back into her seat with something like resignation. “Yeah, sure, why not.”

They thumbed through their menus, Jon deciding to go with the filet mignon, Mara setting her mouth for the shrimp scampi. A few moments later, the waiter arrived with their water and wine.

“Are you ready to order?”

Jon motioned for Mara to go first. After they had both ordered their entrees, Jon added,” And could we have an order of those crab cakes you suggested for our appetizer?”

“Of course. Just one order?”

Jon looked at Mara across the table. “How hungry are ya?”

“Just
one,
thank you,” Mara told Ted.

“Very good, madam. Anything else?”

“No, that’ll do it for now.” Mara forced a smile. “Thanks, Ted.”

“You’re quite welcome. Sir, madam.” And Ted made his retreat, leaving Jon and Mara alone.

Jon grabbed his wine glass, held it aloft, and waited for Mara to do likewise.

“And to what shall we toast?” Mara asked, mirroring Jon with her wine glass.

“Well, for starters, how about Michael?”

She pressed her lips together, her eyes sad but resolute.

“To Michael.” She raised her glass toward Jon’s. “The most amazing, most loving, smartest guy this world ever saw. He was taken away too soon.”

“Hear, hear. To Michael. The best darn brother and friend anyone could ask for. May he forever rest in peace.”
Clink.

“What else?”

Jon raised his glass toward Mara’s again. “To Michael’s memory and legacy, may his character never be forgotten, the lives he touched, the hearts he blessed, may he live on forever in our hearts, and may his life be lived out in our own.”

“Amen. Hear, hear.”
Clink.

“And to truth. Michael and I were always big on digging deep and finding the truth behind the mystery, or, as the case may be, the deception and conspiracy. May we finish his final quest for truth and bring justice and peace to his spirit.”

“To truth.”
Clink.

A pause. Mara broke it.

“What about for protection?”

“From... the guys who got Michael? The cover-up guys?”

“Yeah. From them. According to Professor Leinhart, they might be after us, too, right?”

“They’re already after
me”
Jon said, rubbing his shoulder, still sore from his encounter with the intruder at Michael’s apartment.

“Well, for protection, then,” Mara said as she raised her glass.

“You don’t toast
for
something. You toast
to
something.”

“To a safe, successful quest for truth?”

“That’ll work.”
Clink.

The crab cakes arrived, and the pair dug in.

“Better than a Big Mac?” Mara jibed between bites.

“Oh, hush. It does beat meat pies back in England, though.”

“Do you eat haggis over there?”

Jon made a face.
“Please,
Mara, I’m trying to eat. Haggis is disgusting. And decidedly Scottish. Oxford is in England. Different places, different foods. Thank God.”

Mara paused between bites and looked around the room, her eyes seeming to focus not on the room as it currently was but rather on how it had been in her memory.

“This place hasn’t changed a bit since Michael brought me here. Must’ve been about six months ago...” She counted on her fingers. “Yeah, it was. Last September. He wanted to take me to the Rainbow Room – iconic, historic, romantic, great view, great dancing, the works. But it was booked solid. A three month waiting list, if you can believe it.”