Mistress

I’ll take any delay I can get. I hop on the Triumph, look to my left, and see uniformed officers pointing at me and shouting. The police vehicles won’t be far behind. I kick the Triumph to life and bolt onto Independence heading east, navigating between cars under the blanket of the overhanging trees, the joggers and walkers to the north and south paying me little attention on a beautiful summer afternoon. I’d love to check my watch for the time, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I tried to time things out as best I could, but if I didn’t, it’s too late to fix it now.

I hear the sirens behind me as I race the Triumph onto the Kutz Bridge, which carries me over the Tidal Basin. They’re probably wondering where I’m going so they can roadblock me up ahead. (Is roadblock a verb? It should be.) Anyway, I have many options, but at the fork with Maine Avenue, I stay left on Independence.

They’re not far behind now, but at the intersection ahead, I skid into a sudden left turn onto 15th Street-sudden for them, though it was always my plan. I draw some horns but complete the turn and hope I’ve left a mess behind me.

Any delay doesn’t last long. The cars in the opposite lane of 15th, southbound, pull over, and one of the squad cars catches up to me and pulls up alongside me, like when Chevy Chase was being chased in Fletch

and he said, Hey, Fred, how’s the herpes? but I don’t think these cops would appreciate the humor and I have no intention of having a conversation, so-

I jump the curb, jump the tiny chain-linked gateway, and drive onto the pedestrian walkway, which is, thankfully, empty, and then cut onto the park grass to shortcut a right turn onto Madison Drive. (Shortcut might not be a verb, either.) The cops can’t follow my route by car, and Madison is one-way going west, so they’ll have to travel against the grain to chase me-just like when I was riding that bicycle, only this time, I have a little more horsepower propelling me.

It’s a short jaunt on Madison, avoiding cars coming directly toward me and unhappy to see me, before I hit 14th Street, but I’m not going to bother with a turn at that congested intersection. Instead I turn left early, jumping the curb again and heading north up the sidewalk, the Smithsonian looming across the street from me. They’ve got a new exhibit featuring photographs of Union generals from the Civil War I’ve been meaning to check out. Maybe now’s not the right time.

I hear sirens behind me, the squealing of tires, and I look back and see a squad car bearing down on me on the sidewalk. I have just enough of a lead to beat it to the next intersection, which is all I need.

I see a lull in traffic and jump the curb, cross the street, and hop onto the opposite sidewalk. I skid to a stop at the intersection, jump off my Triumph, and break into a headlong sprint.

Running to my own funeral, I’m afraid. But I’m out of options. And if this is the end, I’m going out on my terms.

Chapter 106

The Mellon Auditorium, part of the Federal Triangle on Constitution Avenue, is a magnificent neoclassical structure built in the 1930s that served as the site for FDR’s reinstatement of the draft, the signing of the NATO treaty in the 1940s, and the signing of the NAFTA treaty in the mid-’90s. This afternoon, it’s the location for an awards ceremony hosted by the Boy Scouts of America.

I cross Constitution on foot and rush up the stairs, brandishing-yes, brandishing-my press credentials to the dark-suited man at the gate. He waves me past and I walk through a metal detector unscathed. I jog through the lobby and head toward the auditorium as I hear a ruckus behind me, shouting from outside. Cops, I assume, having spotted me entering the building. The man who just let me pass-a member of the Secret Service-is probably just beginning to realize that the cops might be talking about me.

I slow my pace as I approach the two Secret Service agents manning the door, keeping those press credentials out for them to see.

“Hi, Ben Casper, Capital Beat,” I say. “I’m running late.”

The agent looks over the list to find my name. He won’t find it.

I turn back to look at the commotion as the cops reach the door.

“Oh, my God-does that guy have a gun?” I say to the agents, motioning back behind me to the front door.

The Secret Service agent blocking the auditorium door reaches into his jacket and takes a single step forward. I quickly push him aside and burst through the door into the huge, gilded auditorium.

“Alabama! Alabama!” the agent behind me cries out, which must be the current code word for “emergency.”

Inside, it’s all blue and red-the American flag, the Boy Scouts’ crest, the series of tables set up for a crowd of thousands, and the president and other dignitaries on the stage at the far end. The president’s authoritative voice echoes throughout the chamber.