Kittridge scraped a lucifer against the dashboard and used it to light another cigarillo. The sulfurous smoke from the lucifer was better than what came out of the cigarillo, as far as Bushell was concerned. Kittridge took a couple of puffs, coughed, and then asked, “What if you’re wrong?”
“Then I’m going to look like the biggest damn fool the world has ever seen, and I’ll do it in front of all the millions of people listening to His Majesty’s speech on the wireless.”
“Charles’ll forgive you,” Kittridge said, blowing out another cloud of vile smoke. “He’d better, considering.”
“He may forgive me,” Bushell answered. “Nobody else will.”
The All-Union Art Museum was a neoclassical building with a marble stairway leading up to a colonnaded front modeled after that of the ancient Roman Temple of Concord. Bushell and Kittridge reached the grounds surrounding the museum at 6:13. Bushell hadn’t heard any ambulances or constabulary vehicles clanging their way to the site or, worse, away from it, and took that as a good sign. He needed all the good signs he could find.
By then, he was used to barricades manned by red-uniformed RAMs. This time, Kittridge didn’t have to crash through any of them. The RAMs waiting at the roadblocks stumbled over themselves shoving them aside and waving his steamer forward. “You’re a hero,” Kittridge said as he rolled up to the entrance.
“See what it gets you?”
“Into more trouble,” Bushell answered. He got out of the motorcar as soon as it stopped. So did Kittridge. They bounded up the steps together, as he and Sam Stanley had on the way up to the first floor the night The Two Georges was stolen. He wished Stanley were at his side now. Had it not been for Sam, though, he might not have made the connection between the knowledge the Sons of Liberty had and the remaining danger to Charles III.
Provided, of course, he told himself as, panting, he pulled at the heavy glass-and-bronze doors to the museum, there is any remaining danger. If there wasn’t . . He shook his head. He’d been through that already.
Just inside the doors, more RAMs stepped forward to block his path. When they found out who he was, they went from wary and hostile to eagerly helpful in the space of a heartbeat.
“Yes, sir,” one of them said. “His Majesty is speaking in the Heritage Room. Down that corridor, turn left, and then right at the first door. Here, let me come with you and clear a path.”
Bushell didn’t argue, but set off for the Heritage Room at the best pace he could manage. It was almost 6:20 now. If there was a bomb in the frame around The Two Georges, the Sons wouldn’t have set it for much after six. They’d know the King-Emperor would start to speak right on the hour, for the benefit of the wireless broadcasts that would beam his words across the NAU, all through the British Empire, and around the world.
The RAM guards at the door to the Heritage Room were not carrying pistols. They had Lee-Enfield rifles with bayonets fixed, and brought them up as Bushell, Kittridge, and the RAM from the front entrance bore down on them. At that RAM’s urgent gesture, they lowered their weapons. “What the devil’s going on?” they demanded, almost in chorus.
“Trouble,” Bushell answered. One way or another, that was true. Either the King-Emperor was in trouble or Bushell momentarily would be.
He thumbed the latch and yanked the door open. The sudden sharp noise made heads turn all through the Heritage Room. Up at the podium, Charles III never faltered, but continued with his address: “. . . bound to one another by ties of blood and friendship, of unity and amity, we go forward together and . . .”
Press photographers, gaudy security badges pinned to their jackets like decorations from minor German powers, stood against the walls of the Heritage Room. Flashbulbs popped as Bushell and Kittridge trotted to the front of the hall. One went off almost in Bushell’s face. Ignoring the blast of light, he hurried past the photographers.
Charles III went on with the speech until the very moment Bushell came up beside him. Among the dignitaries seated behind the King-Emperor was Kathleen Flannery, who looked lovely in a gown of shining, dark green silk Bushell hadn’t seen before. She got to her feet, saying, “What - ?”
Bushell leaned forward so the microphone would pick up his words. “I’m sorry,” he began, thinking, I’ll be sorrier if I turn out to be wrong, “but you must clear the hall at once. We have” - some - “reason to believe an explosive device may be concealed in the frame of The Two Georges.”
He’d used the euphemism on purpose, to try to hold panic to a minimum. But people didn’t take long to realize explosive device was just a five-syllable synonym for bomb. They didn’t quite stampede out the doors at the back of the Heritage Room, but they weren’t perfectly chivalrous, either. Bushell turned to Charles III, who showed no inclination to leave. “That means you, too, Your Majesty. Especially, that means you. If there is a bomb and if it goes off and catches you, the Sons win in spite of everything else we’ve done today.”
The King-Emperor considered that, looked unhappy, and finally nodded and retired, much less rapidly than most of his subjects. Kathleen said, “Why do you think - ?” Again, she didn’t finish the sentence.
“I’ll explain later,” Bushell said. One way or another, he added to himself. “Go on now - get out of here while you can.” When she looked mulish, he told her, “The King-Emperor listened to me.”
“It’s not the King-Emperor’s museum,” she said, and didn’t budge.
“No point getting blown up to no purpose. This is your life we’re talking about,” he said, and shoved her toward the RAMs staring in from the hallway. “Get her out of here.” Ignoring Kathleen’s vehement protests, the RAMs did just that.
“Help me get it down off the wall,” Bushell told Ted Kittridge. They lowered The Two Georges. Bushell examined the frame, front and back. It looked fine. It would, he thought. Venable was a hell of a cabinetmaker.
Raising his voice, he called to the RAMs who had taken charge of Kathleen:
“Have we got an explosives expert handy?” Nobody said anything or came forward. He rubbed at his mustache. “Looks like it’s amateur night,” he said to nobody in particular. He took out his pistol, unloaded it, and used the barrel to tap at the frame. It sounded like solid wood. He tapped again, a couple of inches farther along the oak. That sounded like solid wood, too. Seeing what he was doing, Sergeant Kittridge took the cartridges out of his own weapon and started tapping at the other side of the frame.
Tap, tap. Thunk, thunk. Tap, tap. Thunk, thunk ... Bushell turned the corner on the frame. Tap, tap. Thunk, thunk. Tap, tap. Thunk, thunk. Tap, tap. Thunk . . . thok. Bushell paused and tapped at the second place again. Thok. The sound was distinctly different. He glanced over to where the picture had hung on the wall of the Heritage Room. That part of the frame would have been right behind the King-Emperor, and about chest-high. He stared at the frame. It still looked fine. He put on his reading spectacles and brought his head so close to the gilded wood, his eyes crossed. Was that a hair-thin straight line that didn’t belong in the rococo exuberance of the carving? He couldn’t be sure. He ran his thumbnail across it. He couldn’t be sure there, either.
“Only one way to find out,” he said, and, reversing his pistol so he held it by the barrel, brought the butt down on the picture frame as hard as he could.