by Bob Mayer
“Nothing?” Ducharme asked, staring through the one-way glass into the room.
“Not a word,” Burns confirmed.
“He won’t talk,” Evie said with as much confidence as if she were announcing that the sun would rise shortly. “He has no incentive to.”
Burns’ trademark fedora was on a peg near the door of the observation room. He was a tall black man, his hair graying from age and the job, serving in the Washington Headquarters of the FBI for far too many years. Sometimes, in his more bitter moments, he likened being an FBI agent in DC to being a cowboy trying to control a herd of bulls while mounted on a donkey and using a lasso made of string.
“If I remember rightly,” Ducharme said, “your questioning techniques left little to be desired.” It wasn’t that long ago that Ducharme had sat in that same room in the same chair as Burns questioned him about the death of General LaGrange.
“I do what the law allows,” Burns said.
“A limitation,” Evie noted. “But even extreme measures wouldn’t work on a man like Turnbull. Plus, he’s waiting on his friends in high places to get him out of here.”
“I killed Lucius,” Ducharme said. “That’s one less friend in high places for him.”
“They’ll replace him,” Evie said. “I suspect this isn’t the first time the Head of the Society has been killed. As we’re reconstituting the Philosophers, the Cincinnatians will reform. And their tentacles reach into all parts of the government.”
“So it will go on,” Ducharme said. He sat down wearily in one of the gray metal chairs.
“It’s been going on for centuries,” Evie said. “That’s the point. Keeping the balance. It’s the way our country functions. An extreme in any direction can be dangerous.”
“Right,” Ducharme said. “So Turnbull there will go free and back to being the lackey for whoever replaces Lucius.”
“He won’t be under the radar any more,” Burns said. “That’s something. And I doubt he’ll keep his office here on the top floor.”
“Don’t bet on it.” Evie stared at Burns. “He was never under the radar. He did have an office on the top floor of this building. Hiding in plain sight. He was, probably still is, and will continue to be, an assistant director. Come on. You’ve been in DC long enough to know how it works. The only way they’ll get rid of him is if he becomes a liability.”
“You don’t think he is now?” Burns asked, gesturing toward the room.
Evie shrugged. “Being a liability and getting thrown under the bus is something I know about.” She was referring to her time in the CIA. “The question is do the Cincinnatians need him more than they don’t? Once that decision is made . . .”
“He had our friends killed,” Ducharme said. “I don’t think we let him get away with it. In fact, I hope his buddies spring him. Then it’s open season on his ass.”
Evie shook her head. “That’s not the way this works. There are limits.”
“Right.”
“Hey,” Evie said. “You had limits in the Army. Why didn’t we just nuke Afghanistan? Take out Tora Bora with a couple of tac nukes? Solve that problem that way? Why’d we limit ourselves? It’s not a perfect system, but it’s a system that’s functioned. We take him out, they come after us. Few people know how bloody the Cold War actually was when the CIA and KGB were going at it.”
She turned to Burns. “I hate to say it, but it’s more likely you’re the one who’s going to get transferred as far away from DC as possible.”
“Don’t you guys have friends in powerful places?” Burns asked.
“I suppose we do,” Evie said, “but I have to go through McBride’s files to find them. And you,” she indicated Ducharme, “need to go through General LaGrange’s stuff. I’m sure they’ve each left a file just in case, like they left the disks for us to find. We’ll see what we can do for you. That’s if you even want to stay in DC.”
The door to the interrogation room swung open and two military officers in uniform stepped in, shutting the door behind them. The man had four stars on his collar and Ducharme recognized him immediately: the Army Chief of Staff. The woman wore Air Force blue and had two stars on her epaulettes.
“General Dunning,” Ducharme said, snapping to his feet and to attention.
“At ease,” Dunning said. He took in the three of them, then Turnbull in the next room. “You people made a mess at the Tomb.”
“Couldn’t be helped, Jim,” Evie said.
Dunning nodded at her. “Evie. Been a while.”
“It has.”
Dunning indicated the Air Force two star. “This is General Pegram. She’s Air Force A-3.” He looked at Burns, noting the badge clipped to his pocket. “He cleared?”
“He knows what’s going on,” Evie said. “Some of it, at least. But enough that he has to be brought in all the way.”
Dunning nodded. “I’ve been in contact with others. We took a big hit this past week. Sons-a-bitches took out some good men. McBride. Parker. Groves.”
“We took out quite a few of their people, too,” Ducharme said.
“Yes. I’ve heard about Lucius,” Dunning said. “He overplayed his hand badly.” He shook his head. “This bullshit is getting to be too much.”
“It is what it is,” Evie said.
“Keep saying that, Evie,” Dunning said. “But there has to come a point where we don’t need the violence.” Dunning looked at Ducharme. “My condolences on General LaGrange. I understand he was like a father to you.”
“He was, sir.”
“I assume you’ll reconstitute the Philosophers, Evie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You need anything, Pegram is your POC at the Pentagon. Outside of the Pentagon things get dicey. Hell, it’s dicey inside. They’ve got people everywhere. Damn Cincinnatians about have the CIA locked up, as you know. They’ve got a lot of people in State, too. We play our game, back and forth. Rarely does it get bloody.”
“This is one of those rare occasions,” Evie said. “Unfortunately.”
“What are you going to do with him?” Dunning asked, pointing at Turnbull.
“Not much we can do,” Evie said.
“I say we charge him and—“ Burns began, but Dunning cut him off.
“Where would he be put on trial, Agent Burns?” Dunning shook his head. “The amount of information he knows and could reveal would never be acceptable.” He held out his hand. “Colonel. Thank you.”
Ducharme shook it.
Dunning then shook hands with Burns and Evie.
“You need anything, don’t hesitate to ask,” he said as he left.
Pegram had yet to say a word. She reached in a pocket and extended a business card to Evie. “My direct line.”
“Thank you.”
And then they were gone.
“I guess that’s your friend in high places,” Burns said. “What’s an A-3?”
“Operations,” Ducharme said. “She runs operations for the entire Air Force. Dunning is Army Chief of Staff. I’d say they’re your friends now, too.”
“Yeah, if I worked at the Pentagon,” Burns said.
“What about—“ Ducharme began, but was interrupted by a cell phone vibrating on the table behind him. They all turned and stared. A clear plastic evidence bag was moving, shaken by the phone inside.
Ducharme got up and grabbed the bag.
“That’s breaking the chain of custody,” Burns noted without much emphasis or concern.
“You all just said he’s going to be free soon anyway.” Ducharme pulled the phone out and looked at the screen. “A text message for our friend in the other room.”
“What’s it say?”
“The phone is locked,” Ducharme replied. “But it’s flashing Priority One on the screen, so I’d say it’s important.”
“Probably informing him Lucius is dead,” Burns said. “I already gave him the happy news.”
“Maybe,” Ducharme said. “But I didn’t leave anyone alive
back there.” He headed for the door. “Maybe this will get our friend’s attention.”
The three of them entered the interrogation room. Turnbull didn’t acknowledge them with even a glance.
Ducharme slid the phone across the table. “Priority one text.”
Turnbull didn’t blink but his eyes shifted toward the phone, a break that signified much to Ducharme, Evie and Burns.
Burns spoke up. “You already know the bad news about your buddy Lucius.”
“I took him down like a dog,” Ducharme said. “And Evie here, took out your little bitch with the big sword. Using a little knife.”
Turnbull finally broke his silence. “No need to descend to the gutter, Colonel Ducharme.”
“Got you to talk, didn’t it?” Ducharme said.
“I’m an assistant director of the FBI,” Turnbull said. “I’ve been quite patient with you, but I’ve committed no crime.”
“You used the Surgeon, Lilly, to commit your crimes,” Burns said. “Multiple murders.”
“You have no proof.”
“You told me.”
“My word against yours,” Turnbull said.
“What are we, in kindergarten?” Evie said.
“Turnbull isn’t even your real name,” Burns said. “You are Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Blake. Naval Academy, class of ’62. Commissioned in the Marines. Two tours in Vietnam, winning the Navy Cross. You-“
“You don’t win an award for valor,” Turnbull interrupted. “You earn it. Isn’t that right, Colonel Ducharme?”
Burns pressed on. “You were assigned to the National Security Council in 1969. Where, apparently, you were involved in illegal operations including arms and drug smuggling. You were even indicted, but the original charges couldn’t stick.”
“They won’t ever stick,” Turnbull said. “Either old ones or new ones.”
“You retired from the military in 1976,” Burns continued. “Still facing other indictments. But then the small plane you were supposedly piloting supposedly crashed off the coast of Florida. No survivors. No body was ever found. Then Agent Turnbull suddenly appears in 1977 in the FBI. Yet there’s no record of you having ever gone through the Academy at Quantico.”
Turnbull gave a chilly smile. “A nice story. Maybe tell it to your children to put them to sleep at night. Ah, that’s right. You don’t have any. Too dedicated to the job. I’ve been in this city a lot longer than you, Agent Burns.” He glanced down at his watch. “I suspect someone is coming down from the top floor to arrange my release any moment.”
“Likely,” Burns agreed. “But you’re my prisoner right now.”
Turnbull shifted his gaze. “You and I,” Turnbull said, pointing at Ducharme with a finger raised from his chained hand, “we’re not any different. We do the dirty work. The wet work as they used to say.”
“We’re not the same,” Ducharme said. “You use others to do your dirty work.”
“You never commanded soldiers in combat?” Burns asked. “People laughed at that Jack Nicholson character in A Few Good Men, but they shouldn’t have. They should have listened to what he was saying. Someone has to stand on the walls. A lot of people look down on it, but a lot of people aren’t willing to get their hands dirty.”
“So the rich can get richer?” Ducharme asked. “Isn’t that what your Society is all about?”
“Hardly,” Turnbull said. “The Jefferson Allegiance is just the beginning. Checks and balances, Colonel Ducharme. It’s always been about checks and balances. And more than just here in the United States. Checks and balances across the globe. How do you think civilization has managed to last this long?” He raised his hands to the extent of the cuffs. “Do you want me to unlock the phone and read the message? Then release me first.”
Ducharme pulled out his MK23 Special Operations pistol. He smiled at Turnbull. “My finger is the safety.”
Burns walked around the table and unlocked the cuffs, stepping back quickly, making sure he never crossed Ducharme’s line of fire. Turnbull picked up the phone and his stubby fingers, knuckles gnarled with arthritis from years of boxing, pecked at the face of it.
“Hmm,” he finally said, putting the phone back down. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes closed. “There is indeed a problem superseding our present situation.”
“Whose problem?” Evie asked.
Turnbull’s eyes opened. “Everyone on the face the planet, unfortunately.”
24 March 1943
Less than two months earlier, General Paulus had surrendered his 6th Army at Stalingrad after five months and ten days of fighting, the likes of which mankind has rarely seen; one of the bloodiest sieges ever with over one million casualties. For those close to Stalin, they knew that this hard-won victory was the turning point. The Germans had given up the initiative and would never regain it because their losses could not recouped.
For the Soviets, the vast Motherland could bring forth from her bosom an almost endless supply of men to be chewed up in battle. And Khrushchev knew that was exactly the way Stalin saw it playing out. A war of attrition that would only end with Soviet soldiers in Berlin, and Hitler in chains.
But as he entered Stalin’s private quarters, it was not Hitler who stood in front of Stalin’s desk in chains, but an aviator, an Air Force Officer, one whom Khrushchev could recognize even though the man was facing Stalin.
“Comrade,” Stalin called out, seeing Khrushchev enter. He was flanked by several Cossacks: fierce soldiers who had sworn a blood oath to the Premier.
Khrushchev said nothing. He forced down his instinct to run to the prisoner and wrap his arms around his son, who’d been reported killed in action on the 11th his fighter shot down. Khrushchev walked up next to Leonid, who kept his gaze fixed to a point above Stalin, his eyes unfocused. His face was bloody and Khrushchev recognized the work of the savages in the cellars deep under the Kremlin.
“Premier,” Khrushchev said with a nod of his head.
Stalin smiled and Khrushchev’s heart dropped. He’d seen this smile many times before. “Ah, Comrade, this is a moment of both good news and bad news. As most news is. Your son, who we feared dead, is not. That is the good news.”
Khrushchev remained silent.
“Unfortunately, he wasn’t shot down. That is the bad news.”
Leonid stirred, as if to protest that statement, but he’d learned well at Khrushchev’s knee and remained silent.
“His wingman said he saw the plane on fire, Premier.” Khrushchev said.
“Then why is he standing here alive?” Stalin asked, as if that solved the entire riddle. “He deserted. Betrayed the Motherland. Flew his plane to a German airfield and surrendered to save his own hide. He was taken when our victorious forces over-ran the column in which he was riding, not chained as a prisoner, but seated with German soldiers as one of them.”
Leonid finally spoke. “Premier, with all due respect, I was shot down and taken prisoner. I was in cuffs when—“
“Did I ask you to speak?” Stalin said in a voice that chilled the room, as icy as that which blew across the Siberian tundra.
“Premier,” Khrushchev said, jumping into the breech. “Leonid has been awarded the Order of the Red Banner for his bravery. He has never faltered in combat. He volunteered to fight in 1939 when he could have stayed safe at the Academy. He had been on the front lines ever since. He had proven his loyalty to the Motherland countless times by risking his life.”
Stalin shrugged, shedding years of bravery like a summer squall. “One can be brave and still be a traitor.” He glanced down at a piece of paper on his desk. “Leonid Nikitovich Khrushchev.” He said the family name with particular emphasis and Khrushchev knew exactly what game the old man was playing. He’d seen it before; just never directed at him. “You have been sentenced to death by order of the Supreme Soviet for treason against the state. Sentence to be carried out immediately.”
Khrushchev dared to rush around the desk. Two of the Cossacks made to stop h
im, but Stalin waved them off.
“Premier Stalin.” Khrushchev fell to his knees and lowered his face. “I beg you to spare my son. Place him in prison. He is more effective to your purposes alive than dead.”
“You dare presume you know what my purposes are?” Stalin hissed. “Insolent.” He leaned forward in his seat, his mouth just above Khrushchev’s head, whispering so only he could hear. “You have two options: move away and prove your loyalty to the Motherland; or take your son’s fate with him as a traitor as well.”
Khrushchev remained on his knees for several long seconds. Then he stood. He walked back around the desk and hugged his son. “I am sorry, Leonid.”
“I should have died when my plane was shot down,” his son said. “I had some extra days of life. Look at it that way, Father.”
There wasn’t a chance for any more words as two Cossacks stepped up on either side of Khrushchev’s son, grabbed his arms and led him toward a door on the right side of the office. A balcony was beyond that door.
They left the door open so Khrushchev could watch helplessly as they forced Leonid to his knees. One pulled a pistol, aimed it less than an inch from the side of Leonid’s head, and pulled the trigger, all without the slightest hesitation.
A puff of red blew out the other side and the body slumped to the ground. The other Cossack swung the door shut.
Khrushchev turned to face the Premier.
“Do you have anything to say, Comrade?” Stalin asked, picking up a file folder and opening it. He glanced up over the folder at Khrushchev, one bushy eyebrow raised, awaiting his answer.
“No, Premier.”
“Good. You may go.”
25 February 1956
Premier Nikita Khrushchev looked out over the anxious faces of the members of the Twentieth Party Congress of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and repressed the desire to smile.
It was not fitting for the message he was about to deliver. But it was what he felt. Revenge was indeed a powerful elixir.
