by Bob Mayer
Ducharme rubbed his hand against the back of his head as he spoke. “Fuck.”
“You could expand your vocabulary,” Evie mildly noted.
Ducharme grabbed the film off the projector and headed for the door. They jumped in the Blazer, Evie driving, an implicit sign of trust by Ducharme.
Evie followed his directions and drove out of Camp Buckner, toward the Thruway so they could cross the Hudson on the Interstate and head east toward Boston.
“What are the numbers on LaGrange’s disks?” Evie asked.
Ducharme checked the numbers on the inside. “We’ve got disks one through seven and twenty through twenty-six. We need the middle twelve.”
**************
The Blackhawk was over southern Pennsylvania when Burns saw Turnbull take a call on his satphone and then issue orders to the pilots. The chopper banked and headed east.
Burns keyed the intercom. “We’re not going to Monticello?”
“You must have been a detective in a former life,” Turnbull said. “I’m suspecting you suggested Monticello as a diversion.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Why indeed?”
“So are you going to tell me where we are going?” Burns asked.
“I’ve had people working on the enigma of this case,” Turnbull said.
“Interesting choice of words. And?”
“They believe the next location isn’t Monticello, although I am sending some people there just in case.”
“So you believe them over me?” Burns asked, playing with the rim of his fedora.
Turnbull smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “Mister Burns. I’ve seen your file. You’re a law and order fellow. One who believes that those words written in black and white and bound in leather are the answer to all of life’s problems. Unfortunately, as you might have found out in your career, the world isn’t that simple a place.”
“I—“
Turnbull didn’t let him get a second word out. “I’ve seen your official record, Mister Burns, and I’ve seen your unofficial record. Vincent Foster. You were a brand new field agent in the FBI’s Washington Office in 1993. You got dumped in the deep water pretty quickly on that. I assume no one else wanted to touch the case, given Foster’s relationship with the President and particularly the First Lady. So you were sent out as the sacrificial goat. You even tried to do your job and find out what really happened. Commendable, although extremely naïve.”
Burns took a deep breath. “I did my duty as best I could given the circumstances.”
“And it’s the circumstances which I’m talking about and you seem to want to keep ignoring,” Turnbull said. “One would have thought you’d learned.”
“I learned.” Burns hunched his shoulders. “I just haven’t changed.”
The smile that never reached the eyes crossed Turnbull’s scarred face. “At least you have awareness of your flaw. Be careful it doesn’t turn out to be a tragic one. I’ve always had awareness of who I am and, as importantly, the world around me. It has stood me in good stead. Thus, I do not believe you about Monticello and I do believe my people. The next destination of the killer, and most likely Professor Evie and Colonel Ducharme, is John Adams’ grave in Quincy, Massachusetts.”
Burns stared at Turnbull for several long seconds, and then nodded. “It’s a possibility.”
“A likely one. More likely than Monticello. Correct?”
“Perhaps.”
“What’s rather amusing,” Turnbull said, “is that you still supported Clinton in the next election.”
“I can see the bigger picture,” Burns said.
“Can you? Can you indeed, Agent Burns?”
“Besides,” Burns added, “it was a suicide.”
“Was it indeed?”
Burns felt his world go black for a second. “What are you saying?”
“Nothing.”
“So we’re going to Quincy?” Burns forced himself to stay in the now.
“No.”
“Where are we going?”
“Back to Washington,” Turnbull said. “It’s all playing out and it’s best if we’re at the center of the storm.”
“What about Quincy?”
“It will be taken care of.” Turnbull turned away, back to his satphone as the Blackhawk headed east.
Burns pulled his fedora down over his eyes. He appeared to go to sleep, but he was thinking. Hard.
***********
“Whatever the Jefferson Allegiance is,” Ducharme said, “it involves officers being messed up in politics. The film showed that.”
“We’ll know when we find it.”
“Confidence,” Ducharme noted. “Not to be confused with hope.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hope is often based on faith. Confidence on ability.”
“’Hope is sweeter than despair.”” Evie’s voice had taken on that I’m quoting someone from long ago tone, Ducharme was beginning to recognize.
“Thomas again?” he asked.
Evie nodded. “From the Head-Heart letter.”
“Which one said that?”
“The heart.”
“Figures. Thought you liked the head better.” Ducharme’s satphone buzzed and he turned it on. “Ducharme.”
“Duke, it’s Kincannon. Just got this over the terror network. Navy SEAL named Vincent Simone got cut—femoral and bled out-- right near Hamilton’s grave.”
Ducharme glanced at Evie. “So that leaves the two of us.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?” Kincannon asked. “I’ve got your back. You on your way to Quincy? Got the General’s disks?”
“Roger that. Your location?”
“ETA Monticello in twenty miles.”
“Be careful.”
“I’m tired of being careful,” Kincannon said. “Time for the other guys to be careful. Out here.”
Ducharme told Evie about Simone and Hamilton’s grave.
“We have to assume this Surgeon has at least two disks now,” she said. “Simone’s and Peters’.”
“Right.” The Interstate to the east beckoned.
************
The sun was getting lower in the west, the rays reflecting off the tower at Hanscom Air Force Base as the Bell Jet Ranger flew along a taxiway toward the refueling area. Lily was alone in the back with her case of goodies, eyes closed, resting. When the chopper’s skids touched down she opened her eyes to the flashing lights of several Air Police vehicles surrounding the chopper.
“You gave them the authorization code?” she asked the pilot over the intercom.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Get the aircraft refueled.” Lily took off the headset and shoved open the rear door. Two Blackhawk helicopters were parked on the ramp, weapons pods attached on either side. She saw pilots lounging in the front seat of one of them and knew it was an on-call, immediate reaction force aircraft.
A tall man in uniform stepped forward out of the surrounding vehicles. The gold leaves on his shoulder and the arrogance in his swagger immediately annoyed her.
“This is not an authorized refueling stop for FBI—“ he began, but she cut him off.
“At ease, Major. My pilot gave the proper level of authorization.”
“True, but we’re home to the Air Force Electronic Systems Command and conduct a lot of highly classified—“
“I don’t care,” Lily said, stepping closer and peering up several inches at the officer.
He bristled. “Who are you?”
She grimaced as a bolt of pain shot across her brain, from the side where she’d been shot to the other. It was gone as quickly as it had occurred. She blinked, realizing her hand was on the grip of the wakizashi, the blade half drawn. She forced herself to slide it back down. “Do I have the proper authorization or not, Major? Or do I need to call your superior and discuss your inability to follow orders?”
The Major angrily waved at her chopper. “My people are already refueli
ng your aircraft. I was just—“
“Being a fool,” Lily said. She had a headache and this idiot wasn’t improving things.
“Screw the FBI,” the major muttered.
Screw the Air Force, Lily thought, remembering all the years and blood and sweat she’d put into the organization only to be discarded like a cog that was no longer functional. If you couldn’t kill for the military, what was the point? For some reason she couldn’t control, a vision of her classmate lying in a puddle of blood flashed through her mind. She dismissed it as quickly as it came. “Forget about the refueling. I want that aircraft,” she said, pointing toward the Blackhawk.
The major adopted a confrontational stance. “That’s our Immediate Reaction Force bird. You—“
“You have a second Blackhawk,” she said. “Call in its crew.”
“You can’t-“
“I can,” Lily said. “I have the proper authorization, don’t I?”
The major’s silence was enough answer.
“Tell the crew to get it cranked,” Lily ordered.
The major stalked away toward the Blackhawk. Lily’s brief feeling of victory was interrupted by her satphone buzzing.
***LOCATION?***
>>>HANSCOM AFB<<<
***DUCHARME & TOLLIVER HEADING TO QUINCY***
Lily texted back an affirmative.
Chapter Eighteen
Sergeant Major Kincannon stared through iron bars at the tall obelisk that marked Thomas Jefferson’s grave. It was just after dusk. Pollack had dropped him off a half-mile away, doing a quick touch and go in a field, and then she had disappeared into the darkness to hover out of range of sound until he called her back. He wore night vision goggles, presenting the world to him in varying shades of bright green.
Jefferson had specified his own epitaph. For a man with so many accomplishments, it was most interesting what he had chosen to be written in stone and what he had left out. Jefferson’s wish was to be remembered for what he had done for the people, not what the people had given him. Thus there was no mention of being Secretary of State, Vice President or President:
HERE WAS BURIED
THOMAS JEFFERSON
AUTHOR OF THE
DECLARATION
OF AMERICAN INDEPEDENCE
OF THE
STATUTE OF VIRGINIA
FOR
RELIGIOUS FREEDOM
AND FATHER OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA
BORN APRIL 2, 1743 O.S.
DIED JULY 4, 1826
Kincannon stood perfectly still, scanning the iron fence surrounding the marker, even though he felt the urge to hop the fence and dig. His patience was rewarded when he spotted the motion sensor attached to the bottom of fence, almost completely covered in old leaves. Almost. The wire that ran from the sensor to the iron was a thin dark line. Touching the fence would set it off. Disconnecting it or destroying the sensor would bring the same result: whoever had placed it there was probably not too far away.
Kincannon pressed the speed dial on his satphone and Pollock answered immediately, the sound the chopper engine idling providing background noise. He checked his watch, gave her orders quickly and efficiently, then shut the connection.
Letting the MP-5 hang on its sling, Kincannon jumped, grabbing the top rail of the iron fence. In one smooth move he was over and dropping down on the other side. He drew his knife as he knelt in front of the obelisk and probed quickly, covering the ground in a pattern. The fifth probe touched something and he dug, clearing leaves and dirt away. His hand closed on a small, hard object and he pulled it out, stuffing it into a pocket on his body armor without even looking at it.
He leapt, grabbed the top of the fence and pulled himself over. As soon as he landed, he brought the MP-5 up to his shoulder, scanning the immediate area.
Coming through the woods were three dark figures silhouetted in the rising moonlight. They were moving in perfect triangle formation, light glinting off of automatic weapons in their hands. They walked far enough apart a single grenade wouldn’t take more than one out, with angles of fire that allowed any two to cover the third. And they were heading right toward Kincannon.
His finger caressed the trigger. Ducharme’s admonition to not kill flickered in his head, an irritating red light. With a silent curse, Kincannon lowered the gun. With his free hand, Kincannon reached into a pocket on the inside of the coat and brought out a cluster of what looked like small green ping-pong balls and a clacker. He put the small grenades up to his mouth and pulled the pins with his teeth. Then with a smooth underhand movement he tossed them toward the intruders.
While the balls were still in the air, he yelled: “Freeze. Mini-frags on my command, dead man’s switch.”
In concert, the three men aimed their weapons directly at Kincannon. The balls landed on the ground around the men.
The point man of the three lowered his weapon, holding his left hand in the air, palm open, a badge in it. “FBI. Who the hell are you?”
Kincannon held up his hand, the clacker in it. “The guy whose balls you’re fucking with. If you don’t want to loose yours, put your guns down.”
The point man looked at the ground. “We’re FBI.”
“What’s the motto of the FBI?” Kincannon yelled.
“Put your weapon down,” the man countered with.
“That’s not it.” Kincannon held his ground, detonator in one hand, weapon in the other. The faint sound of a helicopter approaching washed over the area.
“You’re inside the blast radius,” the FBI point man said.
“So?”
“Are you crazy?”
“It’s been said before.”
The point man carefully put his gun on the ground. “We’re FBI.”
“You keep saying that,” Kincannon said, “but I think you’re lying. I don’t like liars. Might just kill you on principle.”
The man was persistent, if not bright or quick. “Are you Colonel Ducharme? We’re here to escort you back to the Hoover Building.”
“Already been there,” Kincannon said. “If I want to go again, I can find the Hoover building on my own.”
“Are you Ducharme?”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“Listen—“
Kincannon brought the MP-5 up, finger on the trigger, the other hand still holding the clacker. “I got things to do.” The chopper was closer. Kincannon slid to the left, to the middle of the road. The Huey came in fast, flaring hard, skids barely touched the ground and Kincannon hopped on a skid and they were airborne.
As Kincannon pulled himself into the cargo bay with one hand, he tossed the clacker out of the helicopter. It released and the mini-grenades exploded, a cluster of bright lights all around the three ‘FBI’ men. The crack of the explosions reached Kincannon a second later and there was no sign of the three men.
Kincannon swung into the cargo bay, sitting on the edge. He watched the lights of Monticello fade in the distance. He put on the headset.
“What the hell happened?” Pollack demanded.
“’Welcome back to the fight’,” Kincannon muttered. “”This time I know our side will win.’”
“What are you talking about, Jeremiah?”
“Casablanca.” Kincannon got up and leaned between the pilot and co-pilots seat. He planted a kiss on Pollack’s cheek. “Nothing my dear, nothing at all.”
*************
The Blackhawk landed on top of the Hoover Building and Burns held on to his fedora as Turnbull opened the side door. They got out and the helicopter lifted and disappeared into the night sky.
Letting go of his hat, Burns put his fedora on and faced Turnbull. “That’s it? Investigation over? The killer walks?”
“Oh, I doubt the killer is walking,” Turnbull said. “Either now literally, or in the future, figuratively.”
“Why did you have me on this wild goose chase?” Burns asked.
“You were assigned to it,” Turnbull replied as they
headed toward the roof door accessing the stairwell. “You had something better to do?”
“I’d like to finish the job I started.”
“What job was that?”
“Catching a killer.”
“Insignificant in the big picture,” Turnbull said, pulling the door open.
Burns resisted the urge to throttle the higher-ranking officer.
“What is this big picture you keep referring to?” Burns demanded as they went inside. “Why don’t you let me do my job?”
“Oh, you’re doing your job,” Turnbull said. “You do know what your job is?”
Burns clenched his jaw. “I know my job.”
“I’m not sure you do,” Turnbull said. “I think you’ve spent so many years among the trees, you’ve lost sight of the forest.”
Turnbull led him down one flight without comment. A metal door barred access to the top floor of the FBI headquarters. In all his years working in the building, Burns had been on the top floor only once, to receive a commendation from the Director of the FBI. It had been a brief affair: a handshake long enough to have a photo snapped, then he’d been sent back down to the trenches. Such a momentary event was supposed to supply him with enough motivation to keep going for years, above and beyond the call of duty.
Turnbull pressed his palm against a reader and looked up at the unblinking eye of a security camera. The door hissed open.
“Come on.” Turnbull led him down the corridor. “Law and order, that’s you,” he said. He paused at a set of double doors. His name was carved into the wood itself, indicating an atypical sign of permanence at a level where heads rolled on a regular basis depending on which way the political breezes in Washington blew. “Are there levels to the law? A pecking order? A higher good?”
Burns pulled the brim of his fedora low, putting his eyes into its shadow. “There’s the law.”
“So simplistic.” Turnbull put his hand on the lock pad and turned his face toward the small camera above the doors. The camera scanned his retina. There was a solid click and Turnbull shoved both doors wide open, revealing a spacious office with thick, blast-proof windows at the far end. If it were daylight they’d have a wonderful view of the center of DC: White House, Washington Monument, the Potomac, all of Washington.
