by Bob Mayer
She took at step closer and there was a flash of steel. Pain shot through him as the tip of the blade cut through his coat and shirt as smoothly and easily as if through butter, leaving a thin red line across his chest, not even an inch deep. Yet. He took a step back in shock and she took a step forward-- a macabre dance of torture. Even as he was registering the pain from the first strike, the blade darted forward, tip piercing straight through flesh and muscle. Well over an inch. The Chair froze in agony as the sword skewered him in the shoulder, and then just as quickly, the Surgeon pulled it out of him. Despite the pain, he focused his mind on what had to be done.
“A non-fatal blow,” the Surgeon said, looking at his blood on the blade as if it were another curiosity. “Unless you bleed to death. Which will take longer than you have. Where is the rod? Where are your disks? Who are the other two Philosophers?”
He covered the puncture wound, blood slowly seeping through his fingers. His legs gave out and he collapsed to his knees in the snow. The Surgeon stepped closer, sword at the ready. Something was alive in those eyes now. Something worse than the flat darkness. A flame of desire that would put the great lovers of history to shame.
“Never,” he said. “You’re wrong.”
The Surgeon pulled the sword up for another strike.
“You’ve been lied to,” the Chair cried out.
“It is you who lie,” the Surgeon said.
He raised his hand up to protect himself and with one blow she sliced off his fingers, causing him to cry out, the fingers tumbling to the snow, a part of him and no longer a part.
“Who are the other Philosophers?” the Surgeon asked as she leaned close.
He said something and the Surgeon put her free hand in his thinning hair, jerking his head up, and putting the edge of the blade against his neck. “Who?”
He whispered two names and she pressed the blade harder. A warm trickle of blood ran down his neck. “Who follows you? Who is your successor?”
McBride shook his head. “Never.”
The Surgeon shrugged. “We already have a very good idea of who it is. We are taking steps in that direction. Where are your disks and the rod?”
He clamped his mouth shut. That was another thing he could never say. She removed the sword from his neck and jabbed it once more into his shoulder, twisting the steel. He felt it, but distantly, his nerves over-loaded.
“The disks.”
She leaned close once more, her eyes intent on his face. He whispered something. She let go of his hair and stepped back. “The names are true. The location a lie. And like the Philosopher I just killed, you will continue to lie while you fight for time. Which you no longer have.”
She drew back the sword.
“In the name of God, mercy, please,” he cried out.
A cold smile crossed her face, amused by the pathetic attempt to reach something inside her that had died long ago. “That won’t work.” Her eyes locked into his. “The disks?”
“You’re so wrong,” the Chair said.
She lowered the sword and leaned close, her red lips next to his ear, her warm breath on his skin. “The Society calls me the Surgeon. But you can call me Lily.”
He looked up at her. “Please, Lily.”
Her arms moved and the last thing he saw was the flash of steel slicing through the falling snowflakes.
************
Evie Tolliver walked into the crowded restaurant and looked neither to the left nor the right. She stood calmly, waiting for the maitre’d to seat her, seemingly assured of her place and time. She was a woman of average height, but uncommon carriage; the type of body that suggests dance classes or, more likely, years of stern warnings to stand up straight. Her age would be more difficult in today’s world of dermatology and expert hair coloring, but the few spots on the hands clasping the book and battered old leather briefcase suggested mid-forties—along with the self-assurance that comes with experience.
At least it appeared that way. It was a good show. Her thick dark hair had just enough silver to make it fierce. The cheekbones, high and wide, were her only real genetic gift of youth, giving her skin an extra ten years of grip against everyone’s Newtonian battle. She had the bold, blue eyes of the black Irish, bespeaking a legacy of bold adventure and high romance. A good story, perhaps.
She was dressed simply; loose linen slacks, plain top, long black leather coat and the kind of jewelry a person who traveled accumulated over a lifetime; each piece special, with a story and worn every day, but of little interest to strangers. Good bag, but years out of style. Leather boots—not stylish, but well worn and comfortable. A bland exterior, more a wall, to keep strangers at bay and outside interest to a minimum.
In reality, Evie wasn’t as calm as she appeared. Her chest ached. Something wasn’t right with McBride—he was not a man who was late. Worse, giving her his briefcase earlier in the day had been completely out of character. After being seated at a table near the wall, she glanced at her watch and then reluctantly opened the old briefcase’s clasp. His sleek, ultra-modern personal laptop was in its usual spot—a computer he used to compile his articles and a journal no one had ever read other than its author, as McBride encrypted everything he put on the machine. He joked it was a book he was writing, the Great American Story, but had always added that it would never be published—never could be published for some reason he never explained.
Something metallic glinted in the depths of the bag. She opened the briefcase wider. In the bottom of the briefcase was an iron rod a quarter inch in diameter and eight inches long, with brass knobs on each end. Evie was jolted when she recognized it and she could tell it was authentic, but she also knew it wasn’t one of the two known originals—one in Monticello, where she had seen it safe and sound less than three hours ago, and the other locked securely in the Smithsonian.
Looking further, she spotted a thick envelope. She pulled it out. It was addressed to her in McBride’s flowing script with a note in parentheses indicating she should open it if he were late—a strange and foretelling postscript. As she fingered the envelope her mind was in turmoil as questions tumbled over each other: Why did McBride have a previously unknown Jefferson Wheel Cipher rod? Where were the disks that went with it? And most importantly, why was he late?
She slid a finger under the flap and broke the seal. Reaching in, she pulled out a piece of parchment folded over something round. Unfolding the parchment revealed a single, aged wooden disk about two inches in diameter and a sixth of an inch thick. She ran her finger around the rim of the disk, feeling the letters that had been carved into it, knowing its connection to the rod that was in the briefcase. The number 1 was etched very lightly into the flat side of the disk.
There was writing on the parchment. Four lines scrawled in McBride’s flowing handwriting:
FIND THE CIPHER, FIND THE ALLEGIANCE
ONE PHILOSOPHER CHAIR, THREE PHILOSOPHERS
YOU ARE NOW THE CHAIR
A PHILOSOPHER WILL MEET YOU HERE
Chapter Two
Outside the restaurant, Ducharme was getting impatient. The General was late, something very out of character. Kincannon was down the street, waiting in the black Blazer with tinted windows and maintaining surveillance of the street and sidewalk traffic.
Ducharme was outside because he’d already checked the restaurant and not spotted the General; and he disliked crowds. His irritation beginning to border on worry, he entered the restaurant once more, ignored the maitre’d station, and took a left toward the less crowded bar. He found a seat that gave him a perfect vantage of the door, dropped his black raincoat over the back of the seat and ordered a neat scotch without looking the bartender in the eye. The lack of warmth would cause the bartender to pour light, but Ducharme easily accepted that for full door coverage.
He took a sip of the scotch and saw the lone woman at a table just to the right of the door. He stared at her a moment too long because he’d just come back from a long tour in Afgha
nistan and he had forgotten about lone women. That was a big part of the problem over there and in Iraq—too many lonely, driven men, and the wrong crusade.
Then he saw that she was looking at the door and realized she also was waiting for someone. She sensed his stare and turned her head and her strikingly blue eyes locked onto his. He recognized the look for what it was: pure interest from someone who is interested in things and people outside of themselves. A rare trait in his experience.
He wondered what she saw in him: the uniform? Did she know what all the glittering badges and little strips of cloth lined up on his left chest meant? Was she gauging his height, a little over six-three, or was she wondering about the tan that no amount of sun-block will prevent in the high arid mountains on the Afghan-Pakistan border and so out of place in winter-time Washington DC? Maybe she was comparing the grey of his eyes against the white of his closely cropped hair and trying to guess his age?
But then, in the corner of his eye, he spotted movement as the door opened and a man dressed similarly to himself, entered. Not the General. Much younger. Yellow oak leaves on his shoulders. A major, two ranks below Ducharme. Ducharme stood. The man scanned the room and locked onto Ducharme immediately. He downed the rest of the drink and dropped a ten on the bar even though it was undeserved.
Ducharme moved forward. The major was nervous. Not good. He was talking with the maitre’d, who led him to a table. Moving quickly, Ducharme took the seat facing the door before the major could take that very seat being offered to him. The maitre’d frowned, but Ducharme could give a shit.
“Where’s the General?”
As the man took his coat off, he revealed the crossed arrows of Special Forces on his greens, and his ribbons indicated he was no lightweight.
“The General told me to let you know he’d be late and to start dinner without him,” the major said. “I’m his aide de camp.”
There was no ‘sir’ in the sentence, either leading or following, and Ducharme felt a slight surge of irritation cross his worry. Special Forces was a tight community, always with a disdain for traditional army way, but etiquette was etiquette and he didn’t know this guy and this guy didn’t know him well enough to so readily discard it.
***********
The waiter was hovering and Ducharme ordered the special. The major ordered off the menu, something complicated, with heavy sauces. The major looked blatantly at Ducharme’s ribbons and badges after handing the menu back to the waiter and began talking about his time in Iraq, with just enough jargon, and just loud enough, that nearby diners got quiet, trying to listen in.
Ducharme was embarrassed and surprised that the General would have such an aide-de-camp. He tried to change the subject, to find out what had really happened to Charlie LaGrange, only to be deflected. Ducharme fidgeted in his seat, looking over the major’s shoulder toward the door. If allowed his druthers, he’d be dressed in black turtleneck and jeans. He didn’t like his identity being linked with this blabbermouth.
“How long did the General say?” Ducharme cut into another story of derring-do and the major frowned.
“An hour. Give or take.”
Bullshit. Ducharme had to bite back the word. The General didn’t deal in ‘give or take’. Ducharme leaned forward to find out what the major was really doing here when his cell phone buzzed, indicating an incoming text message.
Something was wrong. Ducharme had the tingling he got in combat right before everything went to shit. He brought up the incoming message. His body stiffened as he read the words:
PENNSYLVANIA AVE AND 19TH ST
BE QUICK. P.S. BRING PACS
SEE THE ELEPHANT?
He excused himself and headed for the restroom. He had to pass the woman’s table and she now had the book open, but her eyes were straying toward the door and he felt a mirroring sense of anxiety in her. He saw that the book was a biography of Hannibal and realized that she was the General’s elephant. He also saw that she had ordered the special. Third, he realized that she was more striking than he had thought.
“You have an affinity for Carthaginian generals?”
She smiled warily, and said in a voice he liked way too much: “I’m really reading the latest Twilight book. I just put the dust jacket on for appearances.”
“I have a little Hannibal trait in me.”
“Don’t like to delegate?”
He smiled. “Among other flaws. Have the Romans seen the elephants yet?”
She nodded. “But Hannibal is still wandering around Italy without taking the main objective.”
“Rome. After Cannae. So much for a battle of annihilation ending a war. You know what soldiers mean when they ask if you’ve seen the elephant?”
She nodded again. “Whether you’ve been in combat.” She gave him a long hard looking over. “I know those ribbons don’t come from riding a desk.”
“You know the military?”
She nodded. “Full bird colonel. Special Forces. Ranger. No current unit patch on left shoulder below those tabs, which indicates either you’re in transit between assignments or your assignment is one you can’t advertise. On your right shoulder the Special Forces patch—which means you served in combat with the unit.
“Distinguished Service medal—one step below the Medal of Honor. Silver star. Bronze star with V for valor. Purple heart with cluster—sorry about that. Some of the newer ribbons I’m unfamiliar with it—I’m assuming they represent deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan. Master parachutist. I don’t know the wings above your right pocket.”
“British.” Ducharme was impressed. “I did a few jumps with the British Special Air Service.”
She understood. “The SAS. Who Dares Wins.”
“Who are you?” Ducharme asked, his surprise morphing into suspicion.
“Just a woman minding my own business and reading a book. Do you like to read Colonel Ducharme?”
She had the advantage of his nametag. “Yes. Ms.?”
“Tolliver. Evie Tolliver.”
The name suggested something to Ducharme, someone in the past.
“What do you like to read?” Her eyes floated over to the door once more.
“Military history and strategy and tactics.”
“Of course. Do you ever read anything outside of your province?”
He put one hand on the back of her chair and the other flat on the table, adjusting his position so he could see the major and the door. He bent over until his mouth was close to the side of her head. Ducharme whispered: “’It was a night when kings in golden suits rode elephants over the mountains’.”
“Cheever.”
“Glock,” Ducharme said.
“What?” Evie was startled.
“Silenced nine millimeter pistol the fellow I was with has at the ready under the table. Waiting for someone?” Ducharme asked as he straightened. “Is he—or she—late?”
“He is,” Evie said.
Ducharme was impressed she didn’t stare at the major, taking his word about the gun. “And he’s usually never late, is he?”
“Never.”
“And he left you a note.”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.”
Without protest or hesitation, Evie tossed a twenty on the table, put on her coat, closed the book, and followed him toward the kitchen. Ducharme led her past startled chefs and out the back door into an alley.
Snow was falling as Ducharme edged into the alley, Evie close behind. He drew his Mod-23 pistol and took a step forward. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Evie looking at the gun with a frown, as if disapproving or perhaps jealous and wanting one herself. He also saw the red dot in the center of her chest and he slammed her against the brick wall as a sub-sonic bullet missed by less than an inch, chipping brick from wall. Ducharme rolled, pulling her to the ground, his body on top of hers, firing rounds as fast as he could pull the trigger down the alley toward the unseen gunman, his suppressed gun emitting only the sound of the slide goi
ng back and forth. A deadly battle played out in almost near silence.
Ducharme tensed, feeling exposed on the ground, waiting for a bullet to slam home. But there were no further shots as flashing lights suddenly lit up the alley from the street entrance. Ducharme helped Evie to her feet as the doors on a dark sedan opened and four men piled out, weapons in hand.
“FBI! Drop the gun!” one of the men yelled.
Ducharme carefully put the gun on the ground, then raised his hands.
A black man in a dark suit underneath a long overcoat that flapped in the breeze held up a shiny badge in his free hand. On his head he wore, of all things, a fedora, which rated in usefulness only slighter better than the Green Beret Ducharme wore.
The man came walking down the alley, wary, weapon at the ready, as the other three ran by, after the shooter. He looked at Evie. “Are you Doctor Tolliver?”
“Yes.”
He shifted his gaze. “Colonel Ducharme?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Special Agent Burns.” He holstered his weapon. “I need both of you to come with me. If you please,” he added in a tone that indicated he didn’t care whether they pleased or not.
“I’ve got to get some place,” Ducharme said.
“Pennsylvania and 19th?” Burns asked.
Ducharme tensed. “How did you know?”
“We read it off General LaGrange’s cell phone.”
Ducharme took a step back as if punched in the chest. “Is he all right?”
“He’s been murdered.” Burns didn’t pause, looking at Evie. “Mister McBride has also been murdered.”
Chapter Three
Lily removed her heavy, armored cloak, draping it over a chair. The khaki pants were serviceable and fashionable, and fit her compact five-foot-four frame. The black turtleneck accommodated her shapely upper body. Her short blonde hair framed a face more befitting a nun’s habit than an armor-cloaked killer.
