26

Professor Prisoner

Professor Stein struggled as the men dragged him to his feet before one of the plainclothesmen, a man with the look of authority in his eyes.

“Well, what do we have here?”

“Some sort of anarchist, would be my guess,” one uniformed officer replied. “He was running up the steps, screaming about the congressman.”

“No, you don’t understand,” the professor replied. “I was trying to save Congressman Lodge from getting shot. There’s a shooter out there.”

“And an anarchist right here,” the plainclothesman said. “Okay, get him over to a holding cell until‍—‍”

“Let me pass! Reporter coming through.”

A determined-looking woman with long black hair beneath a large floppy white hat came barging through the line of cops, flashing her press pass as only a few women of this era seemed capable of doing.

“Miss, I’m afraid you’ll have to—”

“Claire Hill, freelance reporter,” she said as she brushed briskly past a pair of policemen. “And I saw the real shooter running off that way.” She pointed off across the square, then, before anyone could say anything, continued, “I didn’t get a good look at him, since I was interviewing this gentleman here at the time.”

“The anarchist?” the plainclothesman asked.

“I am not an anarchist!”

One of the cops holding him gave Professor Stein a sharp rap on the back to quiet him while the plainclothesman continued talking with Claire.

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Claire told them. “I’m working on a story covering the history of City Hall and decided to interview one of the bystanders for his perspective on the matter when I saw another man pull a gun.”

“So it wasn’t the anarchist here?”

“For the last time, I am not—”

To one cop’s glare, Professor Stein dropped into silence.

“It was someone else,” Claire told them. “Tall, blond hair, I think. Muttered something under his breath that sounded German. Anyway, when the gentleman here saw him pull off his shot, I guess he saw the direction the man was aiming, because he immediately broke away to warn the congressman. That is Congressman Lodge up there, correct? Because any details for this story would be great. Well, the shooter looked like he was about to try for another shot, but when he saw this man bravely run out shouting for the congressman to duck, he turned tail and ran. I must say, diving into the way of possible gunfire like that was one of the bravest things I’ve seen anyone do since the war. Don’t you think so, Officer . . . or is it Agent, since you seem to be lacking a uniform?”

Her words assaulted him like a torrent. He responded in a confusion of quickly spoken phrases, the flash of a press pass, and energetic mannerisms a dozen police might’ve been unable to handle. For a moment the man stood there confused, then shook himself back to alertness.

“Miss—”

“Hill. Claire Hill, freelance reporter. And you are . . . ?”

“Agent Becket. So, this anarchist here—”

“He is not an anarchist, Agent Becket,” she replied in protest, “but rather a true patriot. He was willing to throw himself in front of Congressman Lodge without thought for his own safety. That in itself is a story I think worthy of all the major papers. Though I wonder what sort of reaction a headline might get if it read, ‘Hero Falsely Jailed as Anarchist.’ Now that was Becket with one t? Because when this story hits, I just want to make sure that I get the details right.”

The man sighed and waved the officers holding the professor away. “Let the man go.”

“Thank you, Agent Becket,” Professor Stein managed to say.

“Miss Hill,” Agent Becket continued, “Which way did you say the shooter went?”

“That way,” she said, making sure to point in the same direction as before.

“Get four men and see what you can find in that direction,” Agent Becket told one of the policemen. “Then get some more up with‍—‍”

Another shot rang out, but this from no building. From somewhere in the crowd, someone else was trying to shoot at the dignitaries on the landing. Another person responded by firing in the general direction of the first shooter.

“Everyone down!” Agent Becket yelled.

“Sir,” one of the officers called back as he pulled his gun, “I recognize some of those guys out there. Gang calling themselves the Fifth Street Brawlers.”

“Is that who’s behind this?” Agent Becket clarified. “Round them all up!”

As Professor Stein was limping away from the circle of cops, he glanced out to see snippets of what was going on. The bulk of the passersby had cleared away, leaving just the combatants and a mix of policemen and plainclothes officers. One gang member was making a run at one of the Japanese team members, who replied with a karate kick to his gut, while another pair was trying to get past some of the cops. Meanwhile, Agent Hessman found himself back to back with a local policeman behind the car they were both hiding behind, trying to duck the shots of a Japanese man from one direction and a German shooter from the other. Captain Beck and Dr. Weiss were simultaneously trying to find cover on the far side of the square, while another Japanese man found himself in a pitched battle against a pair of gang members on one side and a pair of cops on the other.

Claire grabbed hold of the professor’s hand and used the confusion to lead him away to the side before breaking away from her reporter’s face to one of far more concern. “Ben, are you all right? I saw them beat you.”

“Only a couple of times. It’s not like they did a Rodney King on me.”

“A what?”

“Oh,” he said, realizing his slip, “uh, I’m fine. Hurts a little but fine otherwise. Thanks for helping me out there.”

“Well, I had to after you were crazy enough to go diving through a line of cops like you had a bomb or something. What did you think you were going to do, shield him with your body or something?”

“If I had to,” he said after a moment’s thought, “yes.”

The response caught Claire short. She looked at him in surprise for a moment, then shook her head. “You keep surprising me, Ben. You’ve never been in a war, yet you would do something like that.”

“It’s . . . very important,” he replied.

“Well, did it ever occur to you that there are fifty cops between the shooter and everyone at the top of the steps, every one of whom would have dived in front of that bullet? You could have gotten killed.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered,” he replied. “I’ve got no one to miss me.”

“You’re wrong on that one, my friend,” she half muttered.

“Though I do see your point,” he continued. “Next time I’ll just shout.”

“You do that. Now let’s find a place out of the way. It’s a war zone out here.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he shrugged. “Never been in one‍—as has been pointed out to me at least once before.”

“That doesn’t make you any less of a man. I can see that now.”

She caught his eye with a direct gaze and a warm smile, then pulled him away from the steps and off to some safer cover.