Washington, DC
The National Mall
A week later it was one of those beautiful late-autumn days, and the brightness of the afternoon sun filtered through the trees and speckled the grassy lawn of the National Mall. Groups of tourists strolled by the museums, along with couples pushing baby carriages and a few joggers. A thin black man sat with a small keyboard playing a jazzy tune that was in competition with the carousel with its calliope music that floated pleasantly in the warm air. Bolan watched as Grimaldi approached him and Leza Dean carrying two ice cream cones. He stopped in front of them and handed one to her.
“Yeah, there’s nothing like eating an ice cream cone in the sunshine alongside a pretty girl,” Grimaldi said. He switched his gaze to Bolan. “I figured you didn’t want one.”
“You figured right.”
Leza Dean, her left arm still in a cast and sling, accepted the cone but didn’t taste it. Instead, she looked at Bolan.
“So I’m really glad you contacted me,” she said. “It was really quite unexpected.”
“It was his idea,” Bolan said, nodding toward Grimaldi. “He wanted to see you again to make sure you were all right.”
“Yeah,” Grimaldi said. “I’m the one who set your arm at the old prison, you know.”
Leza Dean smiled and licked her cone. She raised an eyebrow as she stared at Grimaldi.
“Thank you for that,” she said. “But doesn’t that also mean that you’ve seen quite a bit of me already?”
Grimaldi blushed and Leza Dean laughed.
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” she said. “I’m sure it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before.”
“Well...” Grimaldi shrugged, flashing a grin.
“We need to get a few things straight about the story you’re writing,” Bolan told her.
“Or not writing,” Grimaldi said.
Dean canted her head. “I’m listening.”
“Due to the sensitive nature of our work,” Bolan said, “we need to keep a low profile.”
“In other words, are you saying I can’t mention your heroics?” she asked.
“Preferably, you won’t mention either of us.”
“But you did so much,” she protested. “Both here and overseas. Why, you saved the royal prince, and quite possibly the President, as well.”
“Yeah, well, nobody can write about us or they’ll invoke the National Security Act,” Grimaldi said.
Dean’s brow furrowed.
“Say,” he said. “How would you like to go for a ride on the merry-go-round over there? Ever been on one? I haven’t since I was a kid!”
“No,” she said. “And as a reporter, I have a responsibility to tell the truth.”
“Truth is a funny thing sometimes,” Bolan said. “It’s rarely pure and never simple.”
Leza Dean’s brow furrowed. “I’ve heard that quote before. From one of your presidents, isn’t it?”
“Actually,” Bolan said, “Oscar Wilde. But the words still ring true today.”
“Speaking of rings,” Grimaldi said. “I’ll even let you sit on the outside horse so you can try for the brass ring. If you manage to snatch it, you get a free wish.”
Dean said nothing, her eyes on the Executioner.
“Well, I do owe you my life,” she said.
“And don’t forget about that splinting job I did on your arm,” Grimaldi said. “Did I mention that I made Eagle Scout?”
Leza Dean ignored him. “So you’re not going to tell me who you really are, are you?”
“Oh, we could tell you,” Grimaldi said, trying to edge into her view with a deadpan expression. “But then, as the saying goes, we’d have to kill you.”
Her face registered a sudden expression of mild shock.
Grimaldi grinned and added, “Hey, don’t worry. That would make both of those rescue exercises futile, wouldn’t it? Not to mention that splint job.”
Dean smiled. “And we certainly wouldn’t want that, would we?” After a few seconds of awkward silence, she looked up at Bolan. “But I do so want to tell your story. Can’t we come to some sort of mutual accord?”
“Maybe you should write a novel,” Bolan said.
She smiled. “Perhaps I shall.” She turned toward Grimaldi. “You know, I think I will try for that brass ring after all, if you promise to stand next to me and catch me if I fall.”
“It’ll be my pleasure,” Grimaldi said.
Bolan watched them stroll leisurely toward the merry-go-round. He always enjoyed coming to the Mall; usually it was to meet Hal Brognola for a briefing on a potential mission. This time he could spend a few minutes enjoying the day, watch the carousal make its endless rotations to nowhere accompanied by the effervescent calliope.
Calliope, Bolan thought. The Greek muse of heroic poetry and eloquence. And also a lover of Ares, the god of war. An appropriate companion to celebrate the demise of the Athena and the Aries. And the merry-go-round, circling endlessly and going nowhere, was also an appropriate and rather unpleasant metaphor for the war that never ended.
The Executioner’s war.
And in a moment of brief fancy, he allowed himself to wonder what he would wish for should he ever be fortunate enough to catch that brass ring Grimaldi talked about. Perhaps a prolonged period of blissful tranquility where he didn’t find himself rushing off to deal with some impending crisis?
Wishful thinking indeed. That would never happen, he thought. Not in this lifetime.