Benjamin stood in the main concourse of Union Station in Washington, D.C. Behind and around him throngs were streaming by, all of them intent on their destination, and all of them apparently late. High overhead the immense arched roof of the station, with its frescoed inset panels and dramatic lighting, gave him the feeling he was in an enormous underground bomb shelter.
Which matched his other mood: watchful paranoia. He was certain at any moment men in dark coats would converge on him out of the crowd, quickly flipping open wallet badges they didn't really expect him to read, and lead him away to a black van waiting outside, after which he would never be heard from again.
He'd had that feeling of imminent danger ever since he'd driven recklessly out of the Foundation gates and barreled on down the country lanes of western Massachusetts as fast as his frayed reactions could allow.
Soon after leaving the grounds, he'd found a small service station where he'd filled the gas tank and purchased a road map for the Mid-Atlantic Region. Sitting in the car pulled off to the side of the road a half mile away, sipping his first of many cups of coffee, he'd traced a route that bypassed 95 and the glut of cities along the coast, and which instead led through meandering connections and small towns. He'd driven a constant five to ten miles over the speed limit of the back roads. But the closer he got to Washington, the more he worried about what would happen once he entered its permanent traffic jam. If they were looking for his car, it would be easy to spot and easier to seize.
So he'd decided to drive to Silver Spring, park his car in the MARC lot there, and take the train into Union Station. He figured he'd be just another anonymous commuter among the tens of thousands arriving for their Monday work. Once there, he found the saturating roar and bustle comforting, as though it made him invisible.
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.