There being no time to think, Cædmon shoved the table aside and hurled himself at Edie Miller, flinging both of them to the floor in one strong-armed motion.
The bullet struck the upturned table and ricocheted off the stone top. Female companion in tow, Cædmon scooted behind a nearby column. The second bullet struck a metal planter — ping! — less than a metre from their huddled position.
A woman in the crowd frantically screamed.
A man gruffly shouted, ‘He’s got a gun!’
Yet another yelled, ‘It’s a fucking terrorist!’
Several other people joined the cacophony of fear.
Not waiting for the third bullet, Cædmon went on the offensive. Stretching out his right arm, he grabbed a trolley stacked with dirty crockery parked beside the column. With a mighty heave, he propelled the cart forward. Plates crashed to the floor. A smashing diversion.
Catching sight of the motion, the gunman spun on his heel, reflexively firing a third round. The bullet hit the sheet of glass that contained the cascading fountain, the glass shattering on impact. Water gushed into the concourse.
The chaos increased, people running pell-mell in every direction.
Armour-piercing bullets, Cædmon thought, horrified. That would have been safety glass. The man was using bloody armour-piecing bullets.
Edie, flattened beneath the weight of his body, shrieked in his ear. Raising his head, Cædmon scanned the panic-stricken crowd, searching for the armed behemoth.
The gunman was nowhere in sight. All that remained was the yellow bucket, a wooden mop handle protruding from its murky depths. He’d fled the scene. Or he’d moved to a different firing position. Either way, they had mere seconds to escape the concourse.
He pushed himself to his knees, yanking Edie off the floor as he did so.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked in a strangled voice.
‘Padgham’s murderer has just paid his respects.’
‘Oh, God! We’re not going to get out of here alive!’
Suddenly realizing he might soon have a hysterical woman on his hands, Cædmon roughly grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘We will escape. But only if you remain calm and do exactly as I say. Understood?’ When he received no answer, he shook her. Hard. ‘Understood?’
She nodded. Satisfied with the mute reply — her input unnecessary and unwanted — he surveyed the damage. The crowd, some running, many crouched on the concourse floor, had become a shouting, screaming mass of collective hysteria. A Bosch painting come to life.
Cædmon directed his gaze first one way then the other, determining how best to navigate through the mêlée. To the right was a tunnel-like hall. To the left was the gift shop. With its dim recessed lighting and numerous display counters, the gift shop offered the best cover. Grabbing Edie by the hand, he ran in that direction.
‘Where are we going?’ she demanded, huffing as she kept pace with him.
He sidestepped a museum employee, the man actually attempting to direct the frenzied horde, much like a traffic cop directing cars after a pile-up.
‘We’re going as far from the maddening crowd as possible,’ he informed her, having to shout to be heard over the din. Espying a black trench coat draped over a counter, the owner having abandoned it in the rush to escape, he grabbed it as they ran past. He then dodged behind an oversized column. Out of sight, he came to a halt.
‘Quickly! Put this on!’ Unceremoniously, he shoved the coat at his companion’s chest.
‘Why would I want to —’
‘Your outfit is preposterous. As such, it makes an easy target.’
Removing her bag from her shoulder, Edie shoved her arms into the trench coat. ‘With your red hair, you kind of stick out yourself.’
‘Point taken.’ As he spoke, Cædmon plucked a beanie from the head of a bespectacled Asian teenager as he shot past, the youth too terrified to do anything other than keep on running. Having lived through several RIRA terrorist attacks on London, Cædmon knew that chaos had a way of making even the most truculent uncharacteristically pliant. He shoved the green hat with its gold-lettered PATRIOTS logo onto his head. Then he reached over and yanked the two sides of the much-too-big trench coat across Edie’s waist, hurriedly tying the belt around her waist.
Camouflaged, he led them through the gift store in a zigzag pattern, that being the most difficult for the human eye to follow. Hand in hand they darted from sales counter to column to yet another sales counter. A few seconds later they emerged into a well-lit antechamber that housed a Henry Moore sculpture. Quickly, Cædmon assessed their three choices: escalator, lift or staircase.
‘Always execute the least likely manoeuvre, that being the only way to escape a determined enemy.’
His MI5 instructors’ lesson well-learned, Cædmon grabbed Edie by the shoulder, spinning her towards the stairs.
‘But it’s quicker to take the escalator.’
‘Quicker, perhaps, but far more dangerous.’
Side by side, they ascended the steps, the staircase deserted, unlike the crowded escalator on the opposite side of the antechamber, people packed onto it like frantic sheep.
At the top of the stairs they found themselves in a large vestibule, two matched bronze pumas standing sentry. On the far side of the vestibule the lift opened, half a dozen owl-faced visitors spilling out. A few feet away, he sighted the public conveniences, the WCs marked with male and female symbols. Just beyond the pumas was the 4th Street lobby, the area a veritable mob scene, frantic museum goers running to and fro, harried guards attempting to corral them through the exit.
Like doomed fish in a glass bowl.
Easy pickings for a hungry cat.
The situation evaluated, Cædmon grabbed Edie by the hand and dragged her towards the WCs. Shoving his shoulder against the swinging door, he pulled his companion into the ladies’ loo.
‘What are you doing?’ she screeched, the sound echoing off the stark white tiles.
‘Saving your life, I dare say.’
‘But you’re a man! You’re not allowed in here!’
Ignoring her, he scanned the facilities.
Six stalls. Five sinks. No occupants.
He pushed open one of the middle stall doors.
‘Did you hear me, Cædmon? I said that you’re not allowed —’
‘Do calm down, will you?’ He shoved her inside the stall, following her. ‘And while you’re at it, lower your voice. Getting into a dither will only make things worse than they already are.’
An adamant look on her face, she continued to protest, ‘But this is the ladies’ room.’
‘Precisely why I chose it over the little boys’ loo. It’s only a guess, but I seriously doubt our testosterone-driven assailant will think to look for us in here, the word “ladies” acting as a natural deterrent. For the moment at least, we’re safe.’
‘Not to mention cramped like peas in a porcelain pod,’ she muttered, awkwardly twisting her upper body as she straddled the toilet, the stall barely wide enough to accommodate one person, let alone two.
Stall door locked, Cædmon removed a visitors’ guide from his coat pocket, having picked up the map when he arrived at the museum.
‘Now what?’
‘Now, we work out how best to outwit our nemesis.’ Unfolding the map, he held it in front of his chest. Edie, forced to stand on tiptoe, peered over his shoulder. ‘According to the map, there are five possible exits from the museum.’
‘The nearest is no more than fifty feet away. That one we just passed.’ Reaching over his shoulder, she jabbed her index finger at the nearby exit. ‘Right there. The 4th Street exit. My Jeep is parked outside the door. We can be out of here in seconds. As in “Gentlemen, start your engines.”’
Cædmon rejected her suggestion with a brusque shake of his head. ‘I have reason to suspect you were followed to the museum. Which means the 4th Street exit will undoubtedly be manned by either the gunman or an accomplice. Our point of egress should be the most distant exit from our current position.’
She grabbed him by the upper arm, awkwardly turning him towards her. ‘Are you crazy? You’re talking about the 7th Street exit!’ she hissed in a highly agitated whisper. ‘That’s all the way on the other side of the National Gallery of Art. It’s three city blocks from where we’re at right now. If you think that’s a good plan, you’re totally insane!’
‘Ah, I see my reputation precedes me.’
His mind made up, he refolded the map, replacing it in his breast pocket. Not bothering to ask permission, he searched the pockets of Edie’s pilfered trench coat. Discovering a black canvas rain hat, he handed it to her.
‘Here, put this on.’
‘Uh uh.’ She shook her head, brown curls buoyantly bouncing about her shoulders. ‘You might not care if you get a case of head lice, but I —’
‘Put it on,’ he ordered, thinking her adamance, yet again, misplaced. ‘Head lice can be cured with a bit of medicated shampoo. Resurrection is trickier to manage. As I speak, the gunman is searching the museum for two targets: a red-headed chap and a curly-haired maiden. Trust me. We have danger in spades.’
‘Not to mention hearts, clubs and diamonds,’ she muttered, stuffing her curls into the canvas hat.
‘Much better,’ he said, nodding his approval. ‘Come. We’ve tarried long enough.’ He unlocked the stall and swung it open.
Edie stared at him, her obstinacy now replaced with a look of fearful dread.
‘Do you think we’ve got a chance of getting out of here alive?’ she whispered.
Rather than make an empty promise he might not be able to keep, he said, ‘We shall find out soon enough.’