by Bob Mayer
He fell silent, remembering.
“And?” Evie persisted.
“The Humvee was Up-Armor, so we had some protection,” Ducharme said. “The blast proof glass wasn’t perfect in this case. Ever since, I’ve had some pain episodes. They’re very short. A second at the most. According to the Army I’ve been fixed and am serviceable once more.”
“I’m sorry,” Evie said.
Ducharme wasn’t sure what to say. He realized no one had ever said they were sorry. Not the Army, not the Administration, not the General who pinned the Purple Heart on him and quickly moved down the line in the hospital ward. There had been a lot of wounded to pin and forget.
“It hasn’t been a problem,” he lied. “A lot of people in the War on Terror have sustained brain injuries from IEDs. But since you can’t directly see the damage, it’s been largely ignored. Some are even saying it’s PTSD, not a real injury, which I can tell you is bullshit.”
“A lot of things have been ignored,” Evie added, touching his arm.
Ducharme was flustered. He noted in the rearview mirror that Kincannon was pointedly staring out the window. “Yeah.” He took his foot off the brake and continued down the road.
Ducharme looked about and had his first surprise. He hadn’t been back to the Academy since graduating. Where tennis courts had once graced the landscape behind a scowling statue of General Patton holding a pair of binoculars, was a large building, albeit one bearing the same gray stone granite façade. Had he simply forgotten about the building?
“That’s new,” Kincannon muttered, which was a relief.
“Well, it’s appropriate,” Evie said as they rolled past and saw the sign in front of the building: Thomas Jefferson Hall Library. “Looks like someone finally remembered who founded this place. And picked the most appropriate building to put his name on. Probably a statue of him inside.”
“Funny.” Ducharme was at the stop sign, getting ready to make a left and continue on around the parade field when Evie spoke again. “I want to go in the library.”
Ducharme looked at her. “We’re not here to sightsee.” He tapped the watch on his wrist. “We’re on the clock. Good chance someone’s going to be dying in New York City today.”
“There’s something I want to check on, something that seeing that library reminded me of. Something that could be important.”
Ducharme sighed. She had that info-bot look again. “Going to tell me what that is?”
“I’m going to show you,” Evie said.
Ducharme pulled into a spot clearly marked ‘No Parking’.
“Breaking a rule?” Evie asked.
“Fuck the MPs,” Ducharme snapped. “They wouldn’t dare mess with this vehicle.”
“That’s the spirit,” Kincannon said.
“Is it special? Covert?” Evie asked. “Will they not be able to see it?”
“Real funny woman.” Ducharme got out, meeting Evie and Kincannon on the sidewalk outside the façade of the new library. They walked in the front doors of the library, a blast of warmth greeting them. Along with a portrait of Thomas Jefferson hanging on the wall to the right.
Evie stopped to admire it. “This is Sully’s original portrait of Jefferson. A classic.”
Ducharme had vague memories of seeing the painting in the old library somewhere. He hadn’t exactly lived among the stacks as a cadet. “This is what you wanted to see?”
“Partly,” Evie said. “A copy of this hangs at the University of Virginia. The other copy done by Sully hangs in Philosophical Hall in Philly. But there’s also something we need to check.” She led the way to a computer and sat down in front of it.
A cadet wearing the diagonal white belt, polished breastplate and saber of a cadet on duty came walking up to them. “Excuse me, sir, these computers are for official use only and the library is only for—“
Ducharme pulled out his identification card and put it in front of the cadet’s face.
The cadet snapped to attention. “I’m sorry, sir.” He spun on his heel and quickly walked away.
“Now that’s discipline,” Ducharme told Kincannon.
Who, of course, laughed. “Don’t get too used to it.”
Evie ignored both of them, immersed in her work. She wrote something down on a slip of paper and then headed toward the stacks.
“Should we follow?” Kincannon asked.
“I think she can survive the stacks on her own,” Ducharme said. He looked at the cadets hard at work, studying, researching. The atmosphere was different than Ducharme remembered: this was now a military academy during wartime. Ducharme had graduated before 9-11. Every cadet here now had made the decision to come to the Academy knowing that the country was already at war. War was all they knew for years. How had everything gone so wrong? The question reverberated through his brain.
“We might need some reinforcements,” Kincannon said. “I’m gonna make a call or two.”
Ducharme glanced at the Sergeant Major. He had his satphone out and was scrolling through his long list of contacts. Having been on active duty for twenty-five years, Ducharme knew the Sergeant Major had a very long list. Apparently he found someone to his liking, because he took a few steps away and made a call.
“Anyone I know?” Ducharme asked when Kincannon was done on the satphone.
“Chopper pilot whose ass I saved in Iraq. Stationed up at Stewart Airfield in the National Guard.”
“He going to help?”
“Of course.” Kincannon looked insulted. “I rescued her after her bird was shot down.”
“Her. Right. That all you did?”
“She was grateful,” Kincannon said with a warm grin. “Nice lady. Very nice lady. And a damn good pilot. I fear she took advantage of me.”
“Poor her,” Ducharme said.
Evie was coming back to them, a book in her hands. “Let’s go.”
“Aren’t you going to check it out?” Ducharme asked.
“You are a rule follower,” Evie rolled her eyes. “We’ve got people getting killed and you’re worried about checking out a book?” She walked out the door. She tapped her wrist, which, of course had no watch strapped to it. “We’re on the clock.”
“I guess we’re going,” Ducharme told Kincannon.
Kincannon snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m surrounded by funny people,” Ducharme muttered.
“Better than the alternative,” Kincannon said as they went out the doors back into the winter cold. “Sometimes all you can do is laugh at the absurdities.”
Ducharme glanced at the painting of Jefferson on the way out. “Sometimes you can do more.”
*************
The Blackhawk helicopter flew up the Hudson River, Manhattan to the right, and the Palisades to the left. The pilots had it low, fifty feet above the surface of the dark water. In the back, Burns stared at Turnbull who was talking on the satellite link. Turnbull had been on the link since they left the FBI field station in Baltimore after catching a few hours of sleep on cots.
Burns was waiting. He was good at waiting. He’d watched Turnbull texting at certain times. He knew about the secure burst text mode the top levels of the FBI were now using; in fact, he’d been part of the FBI Task Force assigned to test the program.
Turnbull pushed the off button and began to make another call. Burns reached over and grabbed the man’s wrist. “Evie Tolliver’s file?”
Turnbull gave him an irritated look. “Tolliver isn’t a suspect.”
“She’s part of this, like Ducharme. I need to know about her.”
Turnbull stared at him for a few seconds, his face unreadable. “Fine. I’ll Bluetooth it to your satphone.”
As Turnbull worked the keys on his phone, Burns pushed a button on the back of his. There was a beep as the information was downloaded. And that wasn’t all that was being transmitted-- Turnbull might have the latest technology, but that didn’t mean he knew all its possible uses. Not only was Burns’s ph
one getting the data, it was sending a virus into Turnbull’s phone.
The download finished, Turnbull turned away and went back to talking on his phone.
Burns checked his satphone. It had copied not only the file, but the text-burst encryption on Turnbull’s satphone perfectly. With the virus he’d sent, any text message that went to Turnbull’s satphone, would now also go to Burns’s.
Burns put the satphone to his ear. He checked in with his office, then, using keywords, scanned the terrorist alert network summary FBI put out every morning. High profile new cases were listed first. He scrolled through the list, pausing when he read about the death of Admiral Groves in Annapolis. A blade had been used. The man had been cut, his office ransacked. Burns called the FBI officer in charge and asked if anything was missing: a flag.
The murderer had struck again. He looked at Turnbull, who seemed most unconcerned.
He went back to his phone. The FBI officer told him they had two, more recent, deaths in Philadelphia that had already been linked by FBI as probably committed by the same person: the first might have been listed as a suicide except for the blade wounds—and a new wrinkle, a burn—on a retired General Parker of the American Philosophical Society. And the throat cut on another Air Force officer, Major Elizabeth Peters.
Burns sighed. Another trophy for the murderer: this time a painting was missing from the office Parker worked in as the executive secretary for the APS. A painting of Alexander Hamilton. And a rare, valuable painting of Thomas Jefferson had been slashed to ribbons. A sign of rage, Burns thought. The killer was getting frustrated. Not the only one.
Burns thanked the officer and disconnected, telling him nothing about the killings in Washington or the confrontation in Baltimore. This was indeed, deep shit. The less involved, the less would go down. Plus, there was no doubt in his mind this was much, much bigger than a multiple homicide investigation.
Burns finally accessed Evie’s file. He scrolled through it as the Tappan Zee Bridge appeared ahead, a ribbon of steel slicing across the sky above the river.
He paused as he noted that her ex-husband, Donald Freemont, was still in the CIA. He read about her father and understood why she had been run out of the CIA and the cause of her divorce. Deep shit indeed. Her CIA training explained a lot of what he’d seen in the interrogation room. Compartmentalization and detachment.
They flew underneath the Tappan Zee Bridge and Burns sat back, trying to pull the pieces together. Five deaths. The trophies. The killer. Ducharme. Evie. And most of all Mister Turnbull.
Movement to the right caught Burns’s attention. He looked out and saw an Apache gunship and another Blackhawk helicopter flanking them. Inside the cargo bay of the Blackhawk were ten heavily armed personnel.
“That’s not HRT,” Burns said, referring to the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. “And the FBI doesn’t have any Apache gunships.”
“That’s not your concern,” Turnbull said.
“What are they looking for?” he asked Turnbull. Seeing the confusion on Turnbull’s face, Burns clarified. “Ducharme and Evie. What are they looking for? It’s more than just the killer.” He knew he wouldn’t get an answer, but he wanted to see the reaction.
Turnbull stared back at him silently. He held up a finger as he listened to something on his satphone. Then he glanced over at the GPS display and nodded. “They’re at West Point. Just went through the gate.”
“Why?”
Turnbull moved the finger to his lips. “Hush-hush, Agent Burns.”
Burns bit back a reply. He pulled out his notepad and turned back to the beginning of this case. Head-Heart. He accessed the Internet on his satphone and looked up the letter that Jefferson had written so many years ago and began reading.
18 February 1945
President Roosevelt sat at his friend’s deathbed aware that soon someone would be sitting by his. He felt the slightest of movement through the wheels of his chair. The USS Quincy, named after the birthplace of two presidents, was one of the new Baltimore Class cruisers churned out by the United States since the start of World War II. The sea off the coast of Algiers had minimal effect against its heavy metal sides.
The man in the bed, Major General Watson, had been by Roosevelt’s side through the entire war. To lose him now, with the end in sight, deeply saddened Roosevelt, sapping the satisfaction from the accomplishments of the past three weeks. Via the Quincy he’d met Churchill in Malta on the 2nd of February, Stalin and Churchill at Yalta after that, then King Farouk, Emperor Haile Selassie and Saudi Arabian King Ibn Saud on the Great Bitter Lake a few days ago.
Watson had collapsed after they passed through the Suez Canal and not regained consciousness, nor was he likely to according to Roosevelt’s personal doctor. Roosevelt’s hope was that his friend would last until they got back to the States so that he could accompany him back to his home, adjacent to Monticello in Virginia. Roosevelt had stayed at Watson’s Retreat at Kenwood numerous times during his presidency, often making the quarter mile journey next door to Jefferson’s house in the company of Ed Watson and his wife.
The hatch to the cabin swung open and General Marshall came inside, securing the heavy metal door behind him.
“George,” Roosevelt acknowledged.
“Mister President.” Marshall came over and looked down at Watson. “No change?”
“I am afraid not.”
“The Ambassadors will be on board shortly,” Marshall said. “Your briefing for them is prepared.”
The last thing Roosevelt felt like was another meeting. But briefing his ambassadors to the United Kingdom, France and Italy on the agreement at Yalta was imperative. “I’ll be ready.” His hands were gripping the arms of his wheelchair. “I’ve known Ed a long time.”
Marshall took a chair from the tiny desk in the cabin and settled his bulk into it. “He was in Washington on and off for decades. Wasn’t he an aide to President Wilson?”
Roosevelt felt uncomfortable discussing Ed as if he were not here. “He’s been with me since ’33,” Roosevelt murmured. “Longer than anyone else except Eleanor.”
“I was talking with General Watson last week about something interesting,” Marshall said.
Something in the General of the Army’s tone roused Roosevelt out of his melancholy. “And that was?”
Marshall leaned back in the metal chair and waited as ship’s orders were broadcast throughout the cruiser, and then relative silence fell once more. “In ancient Rome when a general or emperor won a great victory, there would be a Triumph in Rome when they returned. A great procession into the city to celebrate the victory.”
Marshall paused, then continued. “General Watson reminded me of something. He said that the victorious leader, riding in a chariot, had a slave standing behind him. The slave held a wreath over his head and whispered in his ear: ‘Respice post te! Hominen te esse memento.’”
“My Latin is rusty,” Roosevelt said dryly.
“It means: ‘Look behind you! Remember that you are but a man.’”
“A warning,” Roosevelt said, arching an eyebrow.
“A reminder,” Marshall said mildly. “Your cousin, Teddy, made a promise in 1904, not to run again in 1908. He kept that promise. But he did run in 1912 under his own Bull Moose platform. He won all but two of the Republican Primaries, but still lost the nomination at the convention. Have you ever wondered why he lost that nomination?”
“My cousin and I were never on such an intimate level of discourse.”
Marshall nodded toward the figure in the bed. “You know General Watson is one of the Philosophers, of course?”
Roosevelt put a hand on the left wheel of his chair and pulled back, turning to face the head of the Armed Forces. “Yes.”
“He told me that your cousin lost the nomination because the Philosophical Society opposed him.”
“But Teddy still ran on his own ticket,” Roosevelt pointed out. “Damn near won it all because he was supported by the Cincinnatians. M
ost votes anyone outside of the two parties has ever received. Beat out the Republican candidate who’d been nominated.”
“But he didn’t win. Wilson did.”
Roosevelt glanced at the man in the bed, then back at the man in the chair. “True.”
“You’ve been elected four times,” Marshall said. “Twice as much as any other President. You got us through the Depression and through the war. The end is in sight.”
“It is,” Roosevelt agreed, waiting for the bottom line, knowing that Marshall was maneuvering the way a politician would, not a general. Roosevelt also knew that the five star general was telling him what Watson would have, if he could. Those trips to Monticello had not been without their lessons.
Marshall continued. “In 1939, despite the country’s neutrality, you declared a state of limited national emergency. There is no such term in the Constitution or even in subsequent laws passed by Congress. In March 1941, you got Congress to pass the Lend-Lease program.”
Roosevelt pulled out his cigarette holder and loaded it. “Are you telling me my accomplishments or my crimes?”
“Both.”
Roosevelt chuckled. “Do you know how I got Lend-Lease through Congress?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I had my people push it through while 65 House Democrats were at a luncheon.”
Marshall didn’t seem to appreciate the humor. He continued. “In May of ’41, when we still weren’t at war, you dropped the ‘limited’ from the state of emergency and declared a state of unlimited national emergency. Under this, you could, and did, organize and control the means of production, seized commodities, deployed military forces abroad, imposed martial law, seized property, controlled all transportation and communication, regulated the operation of private enterprise, and restricted travel.”
