The Hellfire Club(98)
“I saw them take her into the Capitol,” he said.
The attack by the Puerto Rican nationalists was apparently not enough to warrant increased security before dawn, since only one Capitol Hill Police officer roamed the grounds outside the Capitol Building. Charlie and Street saw him off in the distance, on the Senate side, as they pulled up. The cop briefly turned and considered their car—Charlie’s rented Studebaker—but then seemed to recognize Charlie as he exited the vehicle and looked back in the other direction. Members of Congress were given a wide berth to do whatever they wanted.
Street discreetly handed Charlie one of the two OSS guns he’d brought. Charlie tucked the dossier on General Kinetics at the small of his back under his shirt, and with the gun in his right hand, he led the way into the Capitol.
They first entered the Rotunda Crypt, a round room on the first floor containing thirteen statues representing historic figures from each of the original colonies. Red light from an exit sign exposed Robert E. Lee’s mournful gaze as Charlie and Street ran between the Doric columns in the center of the room, then took a left to exit the crypt. They rushed past a giant bust of George Washington and softly hustled their way up a curved stone staircase to the second floor.
The Rotunda was dimly lit by small lamps built into the circular wall. Normally daylight flooded the room through the dome windows a hundred and eighty feet above them, but at this early hour, with cloud cover, visibility was dim. Charlie knew that twelve statues of various Founding Fathers and former U.S. presidents stood like guards throughout the room, but all he could see were their immense looming shapes. The details of the eight paintings displayed—enormous renderings of explorers from Columbus to Daniel Boone—were all but invisible.
Charlie and Isaiah stood silently for a second. The Senate side of the Capitol was to their right, the House side to their left.
Street leaned close to Charlie. “Do you have any idea where they took her?” he whispered.
“No,” Charlie said. “I saw them go through the door we just came through, and then I went to get you.”
“Smart soldier,” Street said. “Let’s split up. Meet back by this doorway in fifteen minutes. You go to Statuary Hall, I’ll head toward the Senate side.”
“Roger,” Charlie whispered.
Street fell back and disappeared into the darkness.
Charlie drew his FP-45 Liberator and held it with two hands. He walked carefully along the walls of the Rotunda, heel to toe, making as little noise as possible. After passing by the statues he believed to be Thomas Jefferson and Theodore Roosevelt, he took a left out of the Rotunda and into National Statuary Hall.
He had been holding his terrors about Margaret at bay, focused as he was on his mission to save her. In this, he instinctively relied on the muscle memories of his days as an army captain in war, the ability of a soldier in life-or-death situations to cram unhelpful emotions in a box. But the war was nine years ago, and he was a different man now. A softer man. He started to tremble as his fears for Margaret crept into his consciousness.
Suddenly aware of his shaking legs, Charlie made himself stop short. There was no time for such indulgences, for fear or self-pity. He needed to finish this mission.
Statuary Hall was better lit than the Rotunda, and Charlie could make out some of the faces on the vast array of sculptures, men whom he and Street had been arguing about just a few months ago: Georgia governor Alexander Stephens, the vice president of the Confederacy; Mississippi’s Jefferson Davis, its president. The men containing multitudes. Charlie shook his head as he recalled making that remark.
He walked softly on the black-and-white-checkered marble floor as he moved along the edge of the room, stepping on the tile dedicated to James Polk. The faces of the statues, shrouded in shadow, were doleful, like guests at a funeral. He wondered what Street was finding. How much time had passed? He checked his watch: only five minutes. He quickened his pace, making his way out of the room and into the hall that went to the House Chamber. As he approached a narrow stairwell leading downstairs, he suddenly felt a metal object poking his back as he heard a voice.
“Hello, Charlie.”
His heart skipped. Phil Strongfellow was behind him. With a gun, presumably, one whose muzzle was now nestled firmly against his back. Charlie raised his hands in the air.
“Hi, Strong,” Charlie said.
“What is this you’ve got? A flare gun?” Strongfellow asked, half curious, half mocking, as he took it from Charlie’s hand.
“It’s an OSS gun, Strong,” Charlie said, turning his head to the right to try to see Strongfellow behind him. “Designed to look like a flare gun, but it’s not.” Strongfellow didn’t react. “Odd that you wouldn’t know that,” Charlie said. “I mean, given your illustrious history in the clandestine services. According to This Is Your Life, I mean.”
Charlie felt Strongfellow shove the butt of his gun more sharply into his back.
“Fuck off, Charlie,” he said. “Move. We’re going downstairs.”
Charlie proceeded slowly down two flights of stairs, turning his head to get a look at Strongfellow, who, he noticed, still had a limp but was no longer using crutches. “Where are your crutches?”
“Shut up, Charlie,” Strongfellow snapped. “You wouldn’t want to risk me getting agitated. I might trip, causing an accidental discharge of my firearm.”