by Bob Mayer
Kincannon was out of the Blazer and gone into the darkness.
“What kind of crypts?” Ducharme asked.
“Stone sarcophagus,” Evie said.
“So we’ll need something to get the lid off if the disks were placed inside,” Ducharme said.
“If they’re here,” Evie threw in.
Ducharme paused and put a hand on her arm. “Don’t waffle on me now.”
“I believe my reasoning to be valid based on the data.”
“You want to bet your life on it?” Ducharme asked.
“I am betting my life on it.”
Ducharme rubbed the back of his head. “Relax, Evie. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Let’s separate the disks again. You keep McBride’s and the rod, I’ll keep LaGrange’s.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re splitting up in a minute, so it makes sense. It’s one of Rogers’ rules.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want to disappoint old Mister Rogers.” She pulled out the rod, unscrewed one end, and slid seven disks off, handing them to Ducharme. He placed them in one of the Velcro pockets on the outside of his bulletproof vest.
Kincannon appeared in front of the Blazer, the submachinegun tucked underneath his long coat. Ducharme lowered the driver’s window.
“It’s clear,” Kincannon reported.
Ducharme looked back at Evie. “Stay here. We’ll be back as fast as we can. You hear shooting, get the hell out of here and we’ll contact you by phone; if we can.”
Ducharme went to the back of the Blazer and opened the tailgate, grabbing a crowbar, which he tucked under his jacket. He headed toward the church, with Kincannon flanking him. Ducharme scanned the area, noting there was little traffic on the streets surrounding the church.
“No security?” Ducharme asked as they approached.
“Didn’t see any,” Kincannon said.
“I guess dead Presidents don’t rate.”
“Aint like they’re gonna get any deader.”
Ducharme took the four stairs at the front of the church two at a time. Using one of the four large pillars as concealment, he went to a door. It was locked. He pulled a set of picks out and made short work of that.
He slid inside, pulling out his submachinegun. It would be some kind of irony if they were ambushed inside a church. What kind, he didn’t know.
He and Kincannon made their way to the stairway to the presidential crypt. Another gate barred the way. Ducharme pushed on it and it swung wide open. He checked the lock. It had been pried open.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Someone’s been here already. Came in some other door.”
“Let’s hope they haven’t left,” Kincannon said, the stock of his weapon tucked tight into his shoulder.
They entered the crypt as a team. Covering across each other’s fronts, sweeping the room with their eyes, the muzzles of the submachineguns following, fingers on the triggers.
The crypt was empty of life.
Resting on top of John Adams’ sarcophagus was a piece of paper. Ducharme grabbed it and read:
CALL FOR A TRADE
“Oh shit,” Ducharme exclaimed. He ran out of the crypt, Kincannon on his heels. Up the stairs, out the front of the church. He could hear the sound of a helicopter lifting off and saw the dark silhouette of the aircraft flit across the stars to the west and then disappear. He ran across the street to the Blazer.
The doors were open. The Blazer empty.
*************
Special Agent Burns stood on the roof of the Hoover Building dusting for fingerprints. He lifted the set off the door handle, then went to the elevator. He took it to the floor that housed the Criminal Justice Information Services Division. Finding an empty room, he processed the prints, then fed them into the FBI’s database.
Nothing.
As expected.
He dug deeper into the computer. He ran the fingerprints against the IAFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System which held over 47 million sets of prints, gathered from all over the country by local, state and federal law enforcement agencies.
Nothing.
The next largest list of fingerprints outside of FBI was not as easily accessible. He pulled a little black notebook out of his pocket and thumbed through it. A list of user-names and passwords were listed near the rear. Favors culled from favors he’d dispensed over the years.
Using one set, he accessed the Pentagon’s personnel records database. He ran the prints.
A Top Secret banner popped up, barring any further information unless the user had the proper clearance. He checked his book again and found a name and a password.
He punched it in.
A Department of Defense Form 214 appeared in response to the prints. Of a Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Blake.
He scanned the form, his own brief stint in the military allowing him to make sense of the abbreviations.
Blake graduated the United States Naval Academy in 1962. Was commissioned in the Marine Corps. Served two tours in Vietnam with distinction, winning the Navy Cross. Was assigned to the National Security Council in 1969.
Blake was promoted to Lieutenant Colonel in 1974, still serving in Washington. He retired from the military in 1976. And that was it.
Burns went back to his tiny office and sat down. He Googled for Thomas Blake and wasn’t surprised at what came up. Blake’s graduation from Annapolis and his time on the National Security Council were well documented. As were numerous allegations that he was involved in illegal operations involving arms smuggling, drugs and other nefarious dealings. He was indicted on numerous Federal charges.
The charges came to naught in 1977. Retired Lieutenant Colonel Blake, facing six federal indictments, died when the small plane he was piloting crashed at sea off the coast of Florida.
No body was recovered.
Burns had no doubt that Blake became Turnbull in 1977.
A player once more, with a different name and a different position, but doing the same thing.
Burns put his fedora on, pulling the brim down low over his eyes. Time to play the player.
Chapter Twenty-One
“The Surgeon will make the next move.” Ducharme slammed his fist into the steering wheel. “She’ll want the damn disks for Evie.”
“Aint gonna be no trade,” Kincannon said. “You know that.”
Ducharme tried to figure the angles to the tactical situation. His head was pounding and he was having a hard time concentrating on the facts. He finally accepted the grim reality: there were no angles other than the disks. “We’re screwed.”
“We’ve been in tight situations before.”
“Not with so much at stake,” Ducharme said.
Kincannon snorted. “I consider my life pretty damn high stakes.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.” Kincannon let out a long breath. He reached down and retrieved his submachinegun. He checked the magazine, pulled the bolt back slightly to make sure a round was chambered. “What now?”
“I think it’s time we—“ Ducharme was interrupted by his satphone buzzing. “Yeah?”
“Colonel, it’s Agent Burns. Just found out that the man who’s been running this op, Turnbull, is actually a former marine who worked on the JCS: Thomas Blake. Reported killed in a plane crash over deep water a long time ago.”
“Let me guess,” Ducharme said. “No body recovered.”
“Right. He was facing six Federal indictments. And now he’s supposedly an ADiC in the FBI.”
Ducharme absently rubbed the scar under his eye with his free hand. “What do you have on him? Anything?”
“Besides the fact he’s not interested in catching the killer and is actually the one issuing her orders?”
“Anything else?”
“No. But I’m going to keep an eye on Blake, aka Officer Turnbull. I’ll let you know what he’s up to.”
“Good idea.”
“And there’s something else. I don’t kn
ow if it means anything or not, but General Parker commanded the Air Force Honor Guard in the late nineties. They do the burial detail for Air Force personnel at Arlington, so maybe his disks are there?”
Ducharme considered that. “But how does it tie in to the ‘no one and everyone’ thing?”
“No idea. But something is going to break loose soon.”
“Just make sure it isn’t you,” Ducharme said.
“Right.”
The phone clicked off. Ducharme brought Kincannon up to speed. He listened, thought for a second, then shook his head. “Turnbull’s a spook, deep black. Not government either. This damn Society of Cincinnati is pulling all the strings.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“And lots of graves at Arlington,” Kincannon said.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“Sorry.”
Ducharme pressed his hand against the back of his head. He could see the dirt covering the grave of Charlie LaGrange. He opened his eyes and looked at the steering wheel. “’No one’s and everyone’s.’” He stiffened.
“What?” Kincannon asked.
“Did you know—“ Ducharme stopped, then swore.
Kincannon laughed. “It’s catching aint it? Did I know what?”
“That the hero of Gettysburg, Colonel Joshua Chamberlain, was a college professor just like Evie, before the Civil War.”
“’Evie’?”
Ducharme ignored the comment. “He wanted to enlist, but the college he taught at felt he was too valuable. So they gave him a two-year leave of absence to depart the country and go overseas to study foreign languages. So he promptly enlisted.”
“My kind of guy,” Kincannon said, laying the submachinegun across his lap.
“Yeah, he was. The governor of Maine offered him command of a regiment, but he declined, saying he kind of wanted to start a little lower and learn the business of war first.”
“Weird thinking there,” Kincannon said dryly. “Very un-officerly.”
“Anyway,” Ducharme said, ignoring the sarcasm, “he eventually took command of the 20th Maine, and ended up holding the far left of the Union line on Little Round Top at Gettysburg. They got attacked hard by the 15th Alabama. Things were looking bad for him—and the Union. His own flank got pushed back so far, his line ended up being in a V and his men were about out of ammunition.”
“Essentially, he was screwed,” Kincannon summarized.
“Which is the point of my story,” Ducharme said. “You know what he did then?”
“Nope.”
“He had his men fix bayonets and charge,” Ducharme said. “The Confederates were exhausted from attacking so hard all day, that it took them by surprise and broke their will and saved the left flank and, in essence, the entire Union line. And ultimately the Civil War.”
“So we’re a gonna fix bayonets,” Kincannon said.
Ducharme smiled grimly. “When the time is right.”
“And then charge.”
“Yes.”
***********
“Ducharme is going to hunt you down and—“
“Shut up,” the Surgeon snapped, slapping Evie across the face with the flat side of the wakizashi. Blood filled her mouth. Her body still twitched from the Taser. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, the chain looped through a cable along the back seat of the helicopter.
The Surgeon was facing her, sitting on a plastic case right behind the pilots. She slid the gun back into its holster, then held up the rod with seven disks on it. Evie watched her unscrew one end and slide the six recovered from John Adams’ crypt onto it. Then she slid another one on.
“One through fourteen,” she said. “Over halfway toward my goal. How many does Ducharme have?”
“Fuck you,” Evie said, punctuating the statement by spitting blood at the Surgeon.
“Such bad language,” the Surgeon said. “How many disks does Ducharme have?”
“Fuck you,” Evie repeated.
The Surgeon smiled coldly. “I can cause you great pain.” She looked at Evie, eyes roaming, as if trying to decide the best cut of meat in a butcher shop. She made her mind up, aiming the blade when her satphone rang. With a regrettable sigh, she lowered the sword and put the phone tight against her ear to hear over the sound of the helicopter.
*************
“Yes?”
Ducharme recognized the Surgeon’s voice and steeled himself. “What’s the trade, missy?” He could hear a helicopter in the background.
“Colonel Ducharme,” the Surgeon replied. “I have a friend of yours.”
“What makes you think she’s my friend?”
“I get irritable when my time is wasted and then I put blood on my blade.”
“Not my blood.”
“Not yet.”
“So you’re an optimist?” Ducharme asked.
“A realist.”
“The reality is I am going to kill you.”
“Can we get beyond this bluster to the details of what you’re going to do for me?”
Ducharme pulled the satphone away from his ear for a moment, took a deep breath, then brought it back. “Go ahead, missy.”
The response was quick and hard. “Are you insulting me?”
“I don’t even know you. Tell me what you want?”
“How many disks do you have?” the Surgeon asked.
Ducharme glanced at Kincannon who was listening in. The Sergeant Major shrugged. They both knew what was coming.
“I can make the lady experience considerable pain,” the Surgeon added.
“Seven.”
“So all we’re missing are General Parker’s five remaining disks,” the Surgeon said. “Any idea where they are?”
“No,” Ducharme said.
“I think you’re lying.”
“You can think all you want.”
“I can do more than think. Do you want to hear her scream?”
Ducharme gripped the phone tight. “I will rip the life right out of you. I will snatch it—“ Kincannon pressed a nerve in Ducharme’s shoulder, causing him to stop talking and loosening his grip on the phone. The Sergeant Major grabbed the phone and put it on speaker.
“Honey darling?”
“Who is this?”
“Someone else you’re going to have to spend every minute of what remains of your life looking out for if you hurt Tolliver.”
There was a moment of silence. When the Surgeon spoke again her voice was tight. “We meet. I give you Tolliver back. You give me your seven disks.”
“How?”
“I’ll send a helicopter to pick you up,” the Surgeon said.
“Negative,” Kincannon said. “We’ve got our own pilot and chopper.”
There was another short pause. “All right.”
“How can we trust you?” This earned him a roll of the eyes from Ducharme.
“I was an officer and a gentlewoman,” the Surgeon said. “I also was bound by an honor code.”
“Right,” Kincannon said. “That took.”
“I’m going to enjoy—“ the Surgeon caught herself. “I’ll meet you and Ducharme—“
“We’ll decide where to meet,” Ducharme said.
“You don’t—“
Kincannon’s voice was like steel. “We’ve got what you have to get. And you need the disks more than we need Professor Tolliver. We’re professionals. It’s the disks that are important. Right?”
“Where?” the Surgeon asked.
Kincannon looked at Ducharme, letting him answer.
“Washington. I’ll direct the pilot to the exact spot once we get close. Just be in the area.”
“All right.”
“I’ll see you soon,” Ducharme said.
“Looking forward to it,” the Surgeon said.
“You shouldn’t.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lily turned away from her captive in the rear of the helicopter and typed into her satphone.
>>>HAVE D
ISKS 1 THROUGH 14. HAVE TOLLIVER. MEETING DUCHARME IN DC TO GET HIS 7 DISKS<<<
There was a short pause before a response came on-screen.
***WHERE ARE LAST 5?***
>>>DON’T KNOW<<<
***WHERE ARE YOU?***
>>>EN ROUTE TO DC. WHERE SHOULD I LAND?<<<
There was a long pause.
***THEODORE ROOSEVELT MEMORIAL. ISLAND WILL BE SEALED OFF***
>>>ROGER<<<
The screen went blank. Lily moved forward and leaned between the pilot and co-pilot’s seats. She told them where to go and for a moment she thought they were going to argue with her, but they acquiesced, punching up the destination on their flight computer. Lily pulled out her satphone and accessed Google Maps. She typed in the Roosevelt Memorial and put the resulting map on hybrid, zooming in. She nodded as she saw the result.
Isolated. A perfect place to finish things.
*************
Kincannon pointed up and then to his ear. Ducharme could hear a helicopter approaching the Quincy Hospital heliport.
Ducharme walked to the edge of the helipad with the Sergeant Major. “How are you feeling?”
“Most fun I’ve had in a while,” Kincannon said.
“Sorry to drag you into this mess,” Ducharme said.
“Aint nothing but a thing,” Kincannon said.
“What exactly does that mean?” Ducharme asked as the lights of the Huey appeared in the night sky, coming in low and fast.
“No idea,” Kincannon said, cheerful at the prospect of action. “But I like the way it sounds.”
Ducharme sighed. “Sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth it. Catching Charlie’s killer, yeah. But the people pulling the strings—they’re so powerful. What good can we do?”
“We can get this Allegiance,” Kincannon said. “It’s got to be pretty strong stuff. Enough to scare the string-pullers.” The chopper was getting closer, lights flashing in the darkness as it came in. “Evie pointed out this Mary Meyers woman who was connected to Kennedy got a head and heart double-tap. But the Cincinnatians didn’t take over the country then. Somebody fought them. And the Philosophers were still around to confront Nixon.”
