by Bob Mayer
“Actually, my sense is she’s cold and suppressed only externally when dealing with people she doesn’t know. She’s a cauldron of emotion underneath. She learned the control somehow and not in graduate school. Makes her almost dissociative, which is a dangerous state for her to be in. The memory thing is interesting. How she can bring up apparently disparate facts that are actually somehow connected.”
“’Interesting’?”
“Yeah. Where’s her file?”
“Don’t have it yet,” Turnbull said.
“You’ve got my file and information on Ducharme, but you don’t have Tolliver’s?”
“Odd, isn’t it?” Turnbull said.
“Not the word I would choose.”
“One has to be careful about word choices,” Turnbull said.
“Only with certain people.”
“So they’ll be heading to Baltimore soon.”
Burns was surprised for a second, then nodded. “Yes. Ducharme isn’t the type to let go of something. He served with General LaGrange. He strikes me as one of those people to whom honor is very important.”
Turnbull closed Burns’s file.
“What else do you have on Ducharme?” Burns asked.
“I don’t have Ducharme’s classified file yet,” Turnbull said. “But he had a life before going into the military that I was able to access. A rather interesting life.”
“Interesting in what way?” Burns asked.
“He’s from New Orleans, but his family history stretches back to the original French occupation of Haiti in the eighteen century. He’s descended from a long line of soldiers, gangsters and men of violence.”
“That’s an interesting genetic stew,” Burns said.
Turnbull shrugged. “Aren’t they all the same?”
“Not necessarily,” Burns said.
Turnbull stared at him for a second, then stood. “I have a quick reaction force available that’s already moving to Baltimore. Just in case. You let me know what else you need. Everything comes through me. Every report goes to me. You talk to no one else about this. Got it?”
“Yeah.” Burns paused. “What about the disks?”
“What about them?”
“They’ve got to be important.”
Turnbull shrugged. “As Tolliver said—they’re old. Probably keepsakes.”
Burns shook his head but didn’t respond to that. “If Ducharme and Tolliver aren’t suspects, why have we tagged them?”
“I think they’ll lead us to what we want to find.”
“The killer?”
“Of course.”
************
Navy Captain Kevin O’Callaghan finished his thirty minutes on the treadmill precisely ten minutes before midnight. That gave him enough time to shower, put on his robe, and go to his desk to review the latest intelligence briefing from Naval Special Warfare Command for exactly one hour, so he could be in bed at 1 AM, to get his four hours of sleep, which was the maximum he would allow himself. He considered four hours a luxury given that was the total amount allowed during the five days of Hell Week during SEAL qualification. The fact his Qualification was twenty years in the past wasn’t something he dwelled on. The fact he didn’t have to be anywhere until ten in the morning wasn’t even a factor.
He’d considered cutting the run short, given the importance of the meeting he had the next day with Admiral Groves at Annapolis, but he had always made it his mantra to do things exactly according to routine, no matter what the circumstances, and that had stood him in good stead throughout his years in service and saved his life more than once.
Still, as the last minute counted down on the display in front of him and sweat trickled down his forehead, his mind kept mulling over the implications of the meeting. The Admiral was sick. He’d attended the funeral of the Old Man’s wife eight months ago and everyone attending had seen the spirit fading in the Admiral’s eyes.
The treadmill beeped and O’Callaghan hit the stop button. The machine came to a halt and he grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his naked torso. Despite the mental discord, he felt great for forty-two. Almost as fit as when he was active in the field and not riding a desk at the Pentagon. No booze, eating right, and working out—it all paid off. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, waiting for the hot water to clear the pipes from the water-heater of the town house.
**************
Crouched in the crawl space underneath the Georgetown town house, the man was whistling quietly. An old Irish song—The Wild Colonial Boy. Appropriate for an O’Callaghan he thought. He checked the glowing face on his watch as the gauge he’d planted on the copper pipe spiked. Exactly on time. Third night in a row, exact to the minute.
The man admired punctuality. In others. Made his job so much easier. It had worked with the car crash. The seat-of-the-pants effort at the restaurant—not so well, but he blamed that on his partner trying to get inside information instead of just doing the job. They were at fifty percent and he wanted to put another win in the plus column, before they reported back to their employers.
He whistled the chorus to the song, the sound barely going three feet, as he grabbed the live wire he had cut with a rubber-gloved hand. He watched the gauge in the glow from the mini-mag light he had clenched between his teeth. The temperature was rising.
*************
O’Callaghan stuck his hand into the water and adjusted the knobs. Just right. He stepped into the shower, his mind on the meeting. Admiral Groves had been cryptic, but hinted at matters of the highest urgency.
O’Callaghan shrugged—he’d find out what it was about when the Admiral told him what it was about. One thing two decades in uniform had taught the SEAL was to never try to guess what was on the mind of a higher-ranking officer.
***********
Just right, the man thought. He pulled the gauge out and stuck the wire into the small hole. There was a spark, a loud humming, and then a crack as the main circuit breaker went.
***********
O’Callaghan went rigid as the water poured over him, the electricity it carried surging through his body and connecting with the water in the base of the shower. His taut muscles were frozen for several seconds, then the lights went out.
O’Callaghan collapsed, crashing through the glass around the shower and hitting the tile floor. He didn’t move again.
************
The man placed plumber’s cement over the tiny hole, holding his thumb in place for twenty seconds to allow the hole to seal. He pushed the wire back into place, insuring the connection was solid. Then making sure he had everything he’d crawled in with, he slithered toward the back wall. The electrical box was there, close to the wooden trap door leading to the space under the back deck.
Reaching into a pocket, the man pulled out a fresh breaker. He opened the box, removed the burnt one and replaced it. He flipped the breaker. There was a hum as electricity flowed once more. The man pushed open the wooden door, then backed out of the yard, making sure he left no tracks.
***********
In the bathroom two floors above, the lights flickered back on. Revealing Captain Kevin O’Callaghan lying motionless on the floor in a pile of broken glass. His skin was cut in numerous places, but there was very little blood, indicating his heart had stopped beating before he fell through the glass and hit the floor.
Chapter Six
“So I assume you would like a ride?” Ducharme asked Evie as they exited the Hoover Building. She had a death grip on the battered leather briefcase. The black Blazer with dark tinted windows was in the no-parking zone beyond the car barriers, a familiar figure leaning against the door.
“Sergeant Major Kincannon,” Ducharme said.
“Colonel Ducharme, sir.” Kincannon looked at Evie and tipped an imaginary hat. “Ma’am.”
“Please call me Evie.”
“Evie.” Kincannon grinned warmly.
“Hurt anyone in there, Kincannon?” Ducharme asked
.
The Sergeant Major spread his hands wide in innocence. “Who me? They asked a lot of stupid questions. Weren’t worth answering or getting upset about. But we will find who took out the General.” The edge was back in Kincannon’s voice.
“Who exactly do you work for?” Evie asked as she opened the passenger door.
Guess she's accepting the ride offer, Ducharme thought.
She paused. “That was all real, wasn’t it?” Evie asked.
“Yes.” Ducharme’s beast wanted to howl, to rage, to destroy. He snapped the leash, his face flat, giving no sign of the internal struggle. “It’s as real as things get.”
Evie got in the passenger seat. She pulled out her silver cigarette case and took out another piece of gum. She caught Ducharme’s glance. “Quitting isn’t that easy.”
“Quitting anything we’re addicted to is hard,” Ducharme allowed. “Why was your friend, McBride, meeting my old boss?”
“Which exact part of the government do you work for?”
“You don’t have a need to know.”
She laughed. “You have no idea how many times I’ve heard that bullshit line.”
“As the curator of Monticello?” Kincannon asked mildly from the back seat.
“Not exactly.”
Ducharme waited along with Kincannon for her to be more forthcoming, but she didn’t oblige. He had yet to pull away from the Hoover Building, because he wasn’t sure what his next step would be. Burns was right. This was indeed deep shit. But there were two things Ducharme was certain of: he would find his uncle’s killer before Burns did; and he wouldn’t be arresting her.
Evie finally spoke. “I don’t know anything about your boss, LaGrange, so how could I know why McBride was meeting him?”
“General LaGrange was the Special Assistant to the National Security Council,” Ducharme said. “Which is a fancy way of saying he was the military’s adviser to the Executive Branch on counter-terrorist operations. And he wasn’t my boss.” Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Kincannon following the conversation.
“I don’t see a connection,” Evie said. “McBride had nothing to do with terrorism or counter-terrorism. He was a newspaper editor. After he retired from the Post, he was adjunct history faculty at UVA. I have no idea if McBride knew LaGrange, but if he did, he never mentioned him to me.”
“And you would remember if he mentioned it,” Ducharme said.
Evie nodded.
Ducharme checked his watch. He put the truck in gear and pulled away from the curb.
“Were these murders a terrorist act?” Evie asked.
“Possibly,” Ducharme said. “General LaGrange was a high level target.”
“And McBride?” she asked.
“Maybe he was in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Ducharme said.
“I don’t think so,” Evie said.
“Don’t think what, exactly?”
“That he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or that it was terrorism. Conspiracy, maybe, but not terrorism.”
“Conspiracy by whom?” Ducharme asked.
“I don’t know,” Evie said.
She was lying. He was sure of it. The look in Kincannon's eyes in the rear view mirror indicated he knew it too.
“So you believe in conspiracies?” Kincannon asked.
Evie sighed. “There’s what you can see and what you can’t see.”
“Speak plainly,” Ducharme said.
"’When all government, domestic and foreign, in little as in great things, shall be drawn to Washington as the center of all power, it will render powerless the checks provided of one government on another, and will become as oppressive as the government from which—‘” She paused as Ducharme cut in.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Those words aren’t mine,” Evie said. “They were written by Thomas Jefferson. Let me continue with President Jefferson’s words: ’But while our functionaries are wise, and honest, and vigilant, let us move compactly under their guidance, and we have nothing to fear. Things may here and there go a little wrong. It is not in their power to prevent it. But all will be right in the end, though not perhaps by the shortest means.’" She looked at Ducharme. “The question is what exactly did Thomas Jefferson mean by this last sentence?”
“I assume you’re going somewhere with this?” Kincannon asked amiably. “That there’s some connection between Thomas Jefferson and these killings?”
Evie nodded. “The Founding Fathers, particularly Jefferson, understood true power. He also understood politics, which means maneuvering for power. Jefferson was a brilliant man, perhaps the most brilliant amongst the men who founded this country, and they were a most interesting and frighteningly intelligent group, although they naturally had their personal foibles.
“John Hancock was a smuggler, a black marketer. He was also the only person to actually sign the Declaration of Independence on the 4th of July, 1776. Perhaps that’s why his signature is so large: he had all that blank space to work with. Or perhaps it was because his signature matched his ego.
“Benjamin Franklin was carried to the convention hall in a chair carried by four prisoners. Not because he wanted to appear regal, but because he suffered from gout. Thomas Jefferson died deeply in debt. Most of them drank way too much—after all you couldn’t really trust the water in those days so wine and beer were the staple drinks. As good an excuse as any. And the sex scandals—“ she shook her head. “Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton, two most mortal enemies, both threw allegations of affairs and sexual scandal at each other. Hamilton even started the New York Post in 1801 as a venue to spread his spin. The Fourth Estate is called that for a reason. McBride was one of the leading members of the Fourth Estate in our time.”
Evie fell silent and Ducharme waited. And waited. But she seemed to have dried up as a font of ‘useless information’ as Burns had labeled her. Ducharme drove the Blazer toward the center of Washington DC. He could see the Washington Monument ahead and slightly to the left.
Things stayed blessedly silent as he took a right onto 15th, heading back toward the White House. He looked to the left. No flashing lights. No crime scene tape. Nothing around the Zero Milestone to indicate the murders that had taken place.
“They’re covering up the killings,” Ducharme said.
“That’s the government,” Evie said.
“I’m the government,” Ducharme noted.
“Not that government,” Evie said. “Come on. You’re in black ops. You know there are so many layers in the game, no one knows them all.”
“And how do you know that?” Kincannon asked.
Evie twisted in her seat and looked at him. “Once upon a time, I wasn't just a curator. Maybe I’ll tell you the story some day.”
“I’m all yours,” Kincannon said, his voice inviting. No response. “Why the Zero Milestone?”
She looked out the window. “The Zero Milestone was emplaced after the First World War, by people advocating the building of roads across the country. It’s inscribed on all four sides. I’m not sure of the exact wording, but two sides indicate it was the start point for the first and second transcontinental motor convoys conducted by the Army.
“Did you know," Evie directed at Ducharme, “that General Eisenhower, then a lieutenant-colonel and one of your fellow West Pointers, was part of that first convoy that departed from the Zero Milestone for California? And the difficulties they had crossing the country—along with his later experience in Germany with the autobahns-- led him to start our Interstate Highway system while he was President?”
“Fascinating,” Ducharme deadpanned. “What’s the significance of the Milestone for our killer?”
“There might not have been one for our killer,” Evie said. “I think McBride and LaGrange were going to meet there. You might consider the Zero Milestone the center of the country, symbolically.”
“So these murders—“ Kincannon left it hanging.
/> “Cut to the core of the country,” Evie said. “Someone was sending a message.”
“Where do you suggest we go to find the killer?” Ducharme asked, tired of circling, the beast wanting to strike.
Evie shook her head. “Unfortunately, the killer isn’t the priority.”
“The rest of the disks,” Ducharme said, not asking.
She reached into the leather bag and pulled out her wooden disk. “I have number one.”
Ducharme took his out. “Number twenty-six. I assume there are twenty-four more?”
“Correct. And we need to find them.”
“Why?”
“They lead to something.”
“What?”
“We’ll know when we find them and read the message.”
Lying again, Ducharme thought, glancing in the rear view mirror for a tail. Nothing. Which was wrong. He pulled into a parking lot and put the Blazer in idle. He pulled out his MK-23 and slid the magazine out, checking it and the weapon. Something wasn’t right; years of living with weapons told him that. He stared at it for a moment, then began thumbing the stubby .45 caliber rounds out of the magazine while Evie and Kincannon watched.
Ducharme got to the bottom of the magazine and noted that the last one was lighter than the others. He re-loaded the gun, keeping the round out. He slid the light bullet into his pocket. “Interesting. Our friend Agent Burns put a tracking device in my gun.”
“Why?” Evie asked.
“To follow us,” Ducharme said.
“We have to figure out why LaGrange and McBride were meeting,” Evie said.
“OK," Ducharme conceded. "Besides the Poe thing—West Point and the University of Virginia—what do you think the thread is between McBride and LaGrange?”
