by Bob Mayer
“Blood for blood,” she whispered.
************
“They’re still tracking us,” Evie said.
Ducharme glanced over from the driver’s seat as they rolled up I-95. “Are you asking or telling me something I already know?”
“What’s your problem?” Evie asked.
“My problem,” he told her, “is I’m fumbling around in the dark here.”
Evie stared at him. “Your uncle was murdered. My friend was murdered.”
“And we’re off on a half-ass wild goose chase after wooden disks two hundred years old,” Ducharme said. His head was pounding, his mind sliding into the dark pool, the beast snarling and grumbling.
“Your logic is backward.”
Ducharme tightened his jaw for a second. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Easy, Duke,” Kincannon said in a low voice.
Evie spoke. “If someone is willing to kill to get them, then it’s not a wild goose chase as you put it. The disks are obviously important just from that simple fact and because your Uncle and my friend died to protect their whereabouts. We’ll know why when we read the message encoded onto the Jefferson Cipher.”
“What if it just says ‘congratulations’?” Kincannon asked.
“It will be twenty-six letters long,” Evie said. “You want my best guess what this is about?”
“I want something.” Ducharme hit the wheel with his fist. “I want to know why my uncle died. Why didn’t those contractors move in on the killer even though they had that graveyard under surveillance?”
“Wheels within wheels as the Sergeant Major noted,” Evie said.
Kincannon cleared his throat. “Perhaps the government itself is doing it.”
“You guys are the government,” Evie said.
“Not that government,” Kincannon said. “The government is not this monolithic organization that most people think it is.”
“Watch the big words,” Evie said.
“Funny woman,” Kincannon threw back.
“I understand compartmentalization in the government,” Evie said. “Hell, half the time people at Langley didn’t know what the person in the next cubicle was up to. But that’s information, not power. There’s a they out there. People in the shadows. Pulling strings.”
“What exactly are they behind?” Ducharme demanded, as he glanced in the rear view mirror to see if they were being followed. “And who are they? My first team sergeant had a saying: ‘There’s no we and they, until they fuck up.’”
“Sounds like a smart man,” Evie said.
Ducharme nodded, feeling the beast settle down. “He also said there were two types of soldiers.”
Evie bit. “And they are?”
“The steely eyed killer and the beady-eyed minion. And it’s hard at first glance to tell them apart.”
“Now me,” Kincannon threw in, “I’m neither. I’m a free spirit. I’ve been everywhere but the electric chair, seen everything but the wind.”
Evie rolled her eyes. “Are you two done?” She held out her hand. “Let me see that medallion.”
Ducharme fished it out of his pocket and gave it to her. The medallion was shaped like an eagle with an image engraved in the center of two men.
“This is they,” Evie said.
“What?” Ducharme asked as Kincannon said: “Who?”
“Ever hear of the Society of the Cincinnati?” Evie said.
“No,” Ducharme said. “Should I have? Did I miss something important in college?”
“You didn’t go to a real college,” Kincannon chided. “Hudson High, remember?”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Ducharme said. “The Society of the Cincinnati?”
“Named after the town?” Kincannon suggested.
“The town was named after it.” Evie paused. “‘Omnia relinquit servare remplublican: Roughly translated as: He abandons everything to serve the Republic.’ Though they really should have used the imperfect subjunctive for the verb.”
“Of course,” Kincannon muttered. “Everyone knows that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Ducharme demanded.
“That’s the motto of the Society of the Cincinnati. Its abbreviated version is engraved here on the medallion.” Evie pointed. “The Society was named after Lucius Quinctius Cincinnattus, a Roman consul who twice became dictator in order to save Rome from its enemies. He was called forth in times of crisis to defend Rome, and when the crisis was over, he went back to his farm. Supposedly,” she added. “That’s his image in the center being given his sword by the Roman Senators and on the other side—“ she turned it—“is an image of him at his plow being crowned by ‘fame’. Subtle, don’t you think?
“And yes, you should have learned about it. Most especially going to Hudson High as you put it because military men invented the Society. The Society of the Cincinnati is the oldest and most powerful organization in the country although few have ever heard of it. Its founding pre-dates the Constitution. In 1783 General Henry Knox, the head of Washington’s artillery, organized the first meeting of the Society at the Verplanck House near Newburgh, New York, not far from your West Point. George Washington was voted in as the first President of the Society. Membership was limited to those officers who had served in the Continental Army or the Navy, no less than three years, or who had been killed in the line of duty.”
“Fat lot of good it did for the dead guys,” Kincannon said. “What did they do—prop them up in their chairs?”
“It was good for their heirs,” Evie said. “Subsequent membership requires an ancestor who meets those requirements.”
“A good old boy’s club,” Ducharme said.
“An elitist club maintained through primogeniture,” Evie said.
In the rear view mirror, Kincannon rolled his eyes.
“Through what?” Ducharme rubbed the back of his skull, which was starting to pound. “Pretend I’m a simple soldier and keep the language easy.”
“I think you’re anything but simple,” Evie said.
“You don’t know me.”
“True,” Evie said, staring at him. “I don’t. And you don’t know me even though you tried.”
“No shit,” Ducharme said. “Except I do know you have a theory about love.”
“Primo-whatever-the-fuck?” Kincannon demanded from the back seat.
“Primogeniture is inheritance,” Evie said. “Simply being born to the right people—aka those killed in combat during the Revolution—thus requiring no effort, skill or qualities of the individual. Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson vehemently opposed this. They felt it was establishing a ‘noble order’ in a country that had just revolted against such a thing.”
“So if this group is so powerful, how come I’ve never heard of this Society of Cincinnati?” Ducharme asked.
“That’s the way they like it, although with a little effort anyone can look them up. You can find out about them on Wikipedia. The entry there makes the group sound pretty tame. However, the inner sanctum of the Society has been working from behind the scenes, out of the face of public scrutiny, since its founding. Although Knox organized the first meeting, Alexander Hamilton chaired it and in essence was the force behind it.”
“What does the Jefferson Cipher have to do with this Cincinnati group?” Ducharme asked.
“Bear with me,” Evie said. “What do you know of the founding of our country?”
“What I was taught in history courses.” Ducharme checked the road ahead and then the rearview mirror once more, knowing that the tail was probably just out of sight, tracking them from a transmitter secreted somewhere on the vehicle and the false bullet. The issue of the tracking devices was something he still hadn’t made a decision about. “I doubt my memory equals yours.”
Evie ignored the comment. “Our two party system came out of the early conflicts between those who were known as the Federalists—led by Alexander Hamilton—and the anti-Federalists, led by J
efferson.
“The Federalists wanted power consolidated with the national government and the ruling class to hold most of it. They believed the first federal government we had, formed under the Articles of Confederation, was much too weak. Their main goals were to move power to the Federal level, increase protectionist barriers, collect taxes and build up the military.”
“Sounds familiar,” Kincannon dryly remarked.
Evie nodded. “The Federalists also wanted to limit protest, both among the press and civilians, against a society with a very unequal distribution of wealth and property.”
“You sure you’re not talking about the present?” Kincannon asked.
“That’s my point,” Evie said. “Most people haven’t learned from history even though it repeats itself over and over again. The battle between the ideologies of the Federalists and the anti-Federalists continues unabated. The details change, but the essence is the same—the handful of rich and powerful against the rest of the people. The desire of the wealthy for even more wealth, no matter what it costs everyone else. Besides being unfair, it’s a doomed philosophy because the mass of people make the country function, not just the chosen few. When the gap between the ordinary person and the rich gets too wide, a country is doomed. The Romans learned that the hard way.”
Ducharme was driving them across the high bridges that arched over the Susquehanna River. Delaware was not far ahead.
Evie’s voice became low and steady, almost matching the rhythm of the tires on the highway. “Back then, the Federalists were greatly helped by the spin they put on the response to Shays’ Rebellion in 1786.”
“Never heard of it,” Kincannon said.
“History.” Evie shook her head. “Shays’ Rebellion was an armed insurrection by farmers in western Massachusetts who were getting crushed by mounting debt as the lingering cost of the Revolutionary War was being passed down to them.”
Kincannon snorted. “Sounds a bit like the real estate crash and the mortgage emergency and the growing national debt from the War on Terror. I know people, good people, military people, who’ve lost their savings and their houses.”
“It was just as nasty back then,” Evie said. “The farmers in Western Massachusetts had a barter system and didn’t use cash. The tax collectors—political appointees-- knowing that, demanded cash. So speculators from Boston went to the western part of the state and bought land at pennies on the dollar. A nice scam. A conspiracy between the speculators and the tax collectors, who received lucrative kickbacks. Some of the farmers revolted. The federal government, with practically no standing army, couldn’t deal with the revolt and Massachusetts was forced to hire mercenaries to put it down.”
Ducharme thought of all the former soldiers he knew who were now doing ‘contract’ work for the government in Iraq, Afghanistan and other places: in essence, mercenaries, although no one uttered the word publicly. Security contractors was the politically correct phrase, like the TriOp personnel they had just encountered. A chilling thought: Where was the loyalty?
“What’s interesting,” Evie said, “is Jefferson’s response to the rebellion. He thought it was a good thing. The saying on my cigarette case is part of his response. He prefaced it with: ‘God forbid we should ever be twenty years without such a rebellion.’ Jefferson felt the government needed to fix the problems that caused the rebellion.
“Of course, the Federalists didn’t feel that way. They seized on the failure of the national government to crush the rebellion—rather than focus on the causes of the revolt—to push to replace the weak Articles of Confederation with a stronger Federal government.
“The Federalists succeeded in defeating the rebellion and consolidating power at the Federal level, of course, but the anti-Federalists, who wanted powers devolved to the states, and people to be relatively equal, pushed back to get a Bill of Rights. Thus the two building blocks of our government, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, were a compromise between these two parties. The Constitution was ratified in 1787 and the Bill of Rights in 1791.”
“Thanks for the history lesson.” Ducharme’s head was pounding. “What does that have to do with things today?”
“When I say Federalists, think the Society of the Cincinnati,” Evie said. “Our current enemy. And it’s still around. Even has its headquarters in Central DC with a plaque right outside that anybody walking by can read. Hell, you can take a tour of part of their building, which I’ve done. A bunch of Presidents were awarded honorary memberships—those whose policies the Society approved of.” She dangled the medallion. “George Washington was given one of these encrusted in diamonds as the first President General of the Society. Each succeeding President General wears it. The Society wasn’t so un-noticed when it was first established. In fact, it was seen by Jefferson and Franklin as a major threat to the fledgling Republic of the United States.”
“So you think this Society of Cincinnati is behind the killings?”
“Obviously, since you took the medallion off the killer. This is bronze, which means she’s an apprentice to the Society. Probably earning her way in to full membership through blood, although as far as I know, there has never been a full female member of the Society of Cincinnati.”
“If this Society is out in the open,” Ducharme said, “there must be a secret inner core that’s really running things.”
Evie nodded. “I’ve heard that whoever currently wears the diamond medallion calls himself Lucius. And that the American chapter has made connections with foreign organizations like it. Sort of a secret society Mafia, except they control most of the world’s wealth.”
“So this Lucius fellow is behind the killings?” Kincannon asked.
“I would imagine,” Evie said. “But it’s all so shrouded in secrecy—even when I was with the Agency, I knew there was a whole ‘nother playing field out there. And if you study history, you realize there are always people in the shadows who have the real power.”
“How do you know all this arcane stuff?” Ducharme asked.
“I read. A lot,” Evie said. “And I remember what I read.”
“Everything?” Ducharme said. “Like a photographic memory?”
Evie shook her head. “Not photographic. It’s called Eidetic Memory. Eidetic comes from the Greek word eidos, which means form or image. The written language has a form to it. Words are placed in sentences in a certain way. Because of the patterns, I can remember what I read.”
“I don’t understand,” Ducharme said.
Evie thought for a second. “OK. Scientists have found that chess masters who have eidetic memory can recall thousands upon thousands of board layouts. However, if the pieces are put on the board in a non-sensical or impossible layout, for example a friendly pawn in the first row, they can’t remember the layout. So it’s the form they remember first, not the location of the individual pieces, even though once they remember the form, they can remember the location of every single piece. I remember the substance of everything I read and its context in terms of the larger tapestry of history, not every individual word unless I choose to focus on it, such as sayings and quotes that I consider of significance. I put all the substance into patterns. Many of these patterns have connections in one way or another. For me, the greatest pattern is history through reading. Everything is connected in some way in history and thus in my brain.”
“And you have a great memory, right?” Kincannon asked with a grin.
Evie nodded. Ducharme could almost swear she was blushing. “I do have a pretty good memory.”
“Any other special skills we should know of?” Kincannon asked.
“I have a black belt in hapkido.”
“Can you cook?” Kincannon asked.
“I can boil water.”
Kincannon laughed. “Damn. If you could cook, I’d propose right now.”
Ducharme sighed. “Great. ’Of all the gin joints in the world—‘”
“It wasn’t coincidence,” Evie said.
“No. It wasn’t.” Ducharme moved his hand from the back of his head to where the bullets had hit his back. “We’ll get her.”
“What about those who are pulling her strings?” Evie asked.
They drove on in silence.
Chapter Ten
Lily walked through the long term parking at Baltimore-Washington International, the only sound the click of her boot heels on the pavement. This time of the morning, there wasn’t even the roar of aircraft taking off or landing. A dead zone.
She smiled and pulled back the hood on her cloak, revealing her golden hair to the sputtering arc lights illuminating the lot. She had a metal briefcase in her left hand. She paused when she heard whistling coming from somewhere ahead.
“Hello?” she called out in what she hoped was a frightened voice. It was a stretch for her.
The whistling was circling to her right. She took a step back and clutched the briefcase to her chest. “Hello? Mister Turnbull sent me.”
There was silence. Then a voice with an Irish brogue spoke from behind her: “Evening, lass.”
Lily turned, stumbling on her heels as she did so. “You startled me!” She held the briefcase out. “Here. This is yours.”
The man walked closer. He was short and wiry, barely taller than her.
“Now why would our Mister Turnbull send such a pretty thing to make delivery on such an ugly thing?”
“I just do what he tells me,” Lily said. He was about five meters away, his right hand in the pocket of his jacket, a lit cigarette in his left. He took a few steps closer, then paused, taking a drag.
“You do everything he tells you, lass?”
Lily considered the question, torn between telling the truth and lying to complete the mission. There had been an honor code at the Academy. Admiral Groves was still on her mind. She chose neither. “I have your payment.” She put the briefcase on the ground and took two steps back from it.
“Payment for what?” the man asked, taking two steps forward.
“I have no idea, nor do I wish to know,” Lily said. “Good evening, sir.” She turned around and began walking away.
