Glen Allen - The shadow war

Which, right now, was his deepest desire.

He was exhausted. He needed to find somewhere to sit down and think.

He found a coffee kiosk, bought a mug of latte and a croissant, though he doubted he could stomach yet another dose of caffeine. Making his way to a small table, he sat with Wolfe's briefcase on his lap, almost superstitiously afraid to open it. But finally he did, took out the yellow pad-the same one they'd used that first day in Fletcher's room-and the same pen he'd used to figure out those first snatches of Franklin's pyramid code.

He thought about Samuel Wolfe, about their initial jousting in Terrill's office, and felt a wave of nostalgia-and something not quite yet grief.

The roar of the crowds around him brought him back to his immediate situation. During his nighttime drive, he'd thought about what he would do when he got to D.C. He instinctively felt that contacting any authorities, the police or the FBI, was out of the question. Besides, with Fletcher's computer sitting like radioactive material in the briefcase, he doubted they would believe anything he had to say.

Stuffing the remainder of the croissant into his mouth, he gathered up the briefcase and his coffee and went to the nearest bank of telephones. He fished some change from his pocket-he had avoided using credit cards for gas, and he didn't want to use one now for the phone-then dropped some into the slot and dialed Information.

He was told there was indeed an Anton Sikorsky listed in Georgetown-the only one in the directory.

He dropped the requisite amount of change into the phone, dialed the number provided, and listened while it rang once, twice, three times.

"Alloa," said a voice on the other end. "This is Anton."

The voice had a thick accent that Benjamin couldn't quite place.

"Hello," said Benjamin. "Is this Anton Sikorsky? The Anton Sikorsky that teaches at Georgetown University?"

"Yes," said the voice. "Who please is asking?"

Now that he had Sikorsky on the phone, Benjamin wasn't sure what to say. As far as he knew, Wolfe hadn't contacted Anton since he'd arrived at the Foundation, perhaps hadn't spoken to him in years. How much would the mention of Wolfe's name gain either Anton's trust or his ire? After all, Benjamin had the distinct impression that Wolfe wasn't in the habit of endearing himself to people.

"Mr. Sikorsky," he began, "my name is Benjamin Wainwright, I'm a… colleague of Samuel Wolfe. He suggested that, well, that I contact you if I had questions about… about a project he and I are working on."

"Samuel Wolfe?" said Anton. There was a long silence, and Benjamin began to wonder if he'd made a fantastic mistake. There was a cough, and then Anton said, "And how is that son of a bitch?"

Benjamin laughed. It sounded like Anton knew Wolfe quite well. "He's fine," he said, wincing at the lie. "He sends his regards."

"And you're, what, colleague?"

"Yes. Mr. Sikorsky, I have something I'd like you to look at, a computer program, that Samuel thought you might be more… familiar with than he is. It's the work of someone named Fletcher, and-"

"Jeremy Fletcher?" Anton interrupted. "Bright young man. Genius, maybe. How the hell Sam work with him? Last time I read about Fletcher, he's at American Heritage Foundation. Samuel wouldn't go near that place again." There was a pause. "Are you government bastard?"

This was all becoming more difficult than Benjamin had anticipated.

"No, I'm not," he said. "I'm an historian. An academic." He didn't want to tell Anton anything more specific until he could meet him. "Mr. Sikorsky, I wonder if I could see you today. Perhaps at Georgetown?"

"Today off," Anton said. "Thanks god. Are you in Washington?"

"Well," Benjamin couldn't see the harm in telling him that. "Yes, yes I am."

"Come to house, then. Show me what's so important, Sam sends you all the way to me." Anton gave him an address to write down, and Benjamin told him that he could be there in half an hour, if that was all right.

"I'm up," said Anton. "Hardly sleep anymore anyway. I'll make coffee."

Oh, god, Benjamin thought as he said good-bye and hung up. Please, no more coffee.

Benjamin stood outside Anton's town house in Georgetown. It was typical of the neighborhood, with an undersized front door-a relic left from a time when apparently people were shorter-and the black shutters on the windows fronted by black wrought-iron fences and short hedges. He noticed there were cornstalk decorations in front of some of the doors, and a few houses had already placed pumpkins outside on their steps.

He lifted the brass knocker, tapped it on the door three times, and waited. He heard footsteps coming, someone fumbling with a lock, then the door swung open.

He was greeted by the sight of a short, rounded older man dressed in a thick sweater, and baggy pants drooping over well-worn slippers. His thick white hair sprouted up stiffly in a dozen different directions. The man peered at him over the rims of large square glasses.

"Mr. Wainwright?" Anton asked.

"Yes," he said. He extended his hand. "And you're Anton Sikorsky?"

"Of course," he said. Anton stepped forward a little, took his hand. "Come in, don't let cold air in house. Drafty as hell. Americans know nothing about drafts."

Benjamin stepped into the foyer and Anton shut the door behind him. The layout was as typical as the house's facade: a staircase extended upward from the foyer, with a narrow hallway running to its left, back to what Benjamin knew would be the kitchen. To the left out of the foyer was a drawing room, and it was into this room that Anton showed him.

The first thing Benjamin noticed were the books.

Everywhere.

Not only on the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves but also stacked on a large round table in the middle of the room. Here and there on the floor were more stacks, some of them tilting precariously, as though the slightest nudge would send them toppling over.

Benjamin had to thread his way carefully around the towers of books, wending his way to an open spot on a large overstuffed couch. Anton sat down in an armchair to his left. He picked up a cup of coffee from a round end table next to the chair, took a long, loud slurp, and then looked again at Benjamin over the tops of his glasses. But Benjamin noticed he was looking not at him, but rather at Wolfe's briefcase perched on his lap.

"So, Mr. Wainwright," Anton began. "How can old fart like me help smart guy like Sam Wolfe?" He smiled. Then he seemed to remember himself. "Oh, and would you like coffee? Sorry I didn't ask sooner. Afraid my manners are a little dull. Ever since my wife died, things around here," he waved his free hand at the piles of books everywhere, "go to hell."

Benjamin shook his head. "I've had quite a long drive," he said, "and a lot of coffee."

"Something else?" asked Anton. "Think I have prune juice. Maybe even orange juice. I will see." Anton set the coffee down, began to stand up, grunting as he did so.

"No, no." Benjamin waved for him to sit down. "I'm fine, really."

"Um-hm," said Anton, sitting down. He looked again at the briefcase. "You have something so important in there, you can't put it down?"

Benjamin looked down at it. "Well…" Now that he was here, Benjamin had no idea how or where to begin. "Mr. Sikorsky-"

"Anton."

"Anton… I don't know how long it's been since you've spoken with Mr. Wolfe, but-"

"Excuse me," Anton interrupted. He shifted in the chair, leaned forward. "Sam sends you to me, but doesn't mention our last conversation?" He looked directly into Benjamin's eyes. "Also, he doesn't call to say even 'boo' to this old friend, Anton, the only person can help you? And you come, I think driving maybe all night, by your red eyes?"