The Jefferson Allegiance (24 page)

Burns put the satphone to his ear. He checked in with his office, then, using keywords, scanned the terrorist alert network summary the 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 the FBI as probably having been 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 fewer 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 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 2
^nd
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 thirty-three,” 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 nineteen-oh-four, not to run again in oh-eight. He kept
that
promise. But he did run in nineteen twelve 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. Most 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 thirty-nine, 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 of nineteen forty-one, 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 sixty-five House Democrats were at a luncheon.”

Marshall didn’t seem to appreciate the humor. He continued. “In May of forty-one, 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.”

Roosevelt spread his hands as an innocent man would. “Would you have preferred I had not done those things?”

Marshall pulled a lighter out and lit the President’s cigarette as he brought it to his lips. “No, sir. They were necessary to win the war.”

“And I told Ed that I’d restore all our liberties as soon as the war is over.”

“Yes, sir,” Marshall agreed. “And that is why the Philosophers have not taken action despite the unconstitutionality of many of your actions. The Jefferson Allegiance remains in check.”

“So what is the problem?” Roosevelt asked, more sharply than he intended.

Marshall went over and swung open one of the small portholes to let fresh air in. “The recent conferences, sir.”

“I thought they went quite well.”

Marshall blinked. “Sir. Stalin is a thug. A despot. You and Churchill handed him Eastern Europe on a platter.”

“He promised to hold elections,” Roosevelt said. “More importantly, even you agreed that we need the Russians for the final invasion of Japan.”

“I do agree with you on that,” Marshall allowed. “But it went too far. You gave up Poland. You agreed that citizens of Poland and Russia would be repatriated whether they wanted to or not. You gave Stalin practically everything he wanted.”

“Stalin agreed to join the United Nations once we form it,” Roosevelt countered.

Marshall appeared not to hear. “And the meeting with King Ibn Saud. Sir, there are great strategic implications in the Middle East for the future. Both in terms of the displaced Jews, but more importantly, the oil. Japan went to war with us when we embargoed their oil. The Germans went into Russia for the oilfields. Oil is the key. I fear we’re setting up problems that are going to take generations to untangle.”

“You say ‘we,’” Roosevelt noted, “but you mean me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Roosevelt nodded ruefully. “Do you think I don’t know that?” He nodded toward the comatose General in the bed. “I hope I go quickly.”

“Sir, Stalin took too much away from Yalta. And Ibn Saud too much from the Great Bitter Lake conference.”

“We need the Russians for Japan—“ Roosevelt began, but Marshall leaned forward and whispered.

“Sir. We have the Manhattan Project.”

“If it works,” Roosevelt replied. “That’s a mighty big ‘if’ to roll the dice on the lives of millions of American servicemen. Frankly, I’d rather it be Russian blood spilled in Japan than American.”

“Sir, we must look beyond the end of the war and—“

“Please,” Roosevelt said in a low voice. He pulled the remnants of his cigarette out of the holder and slid another in, then extended it to Marshall who dutifully lit it. “I can’t see beyond the end of war, George. It’s been thirteen years. I’m tired. I’m sick. My friend is lying here dying. I’ll be gone soon enough. Enact your Allegiance if you want, but by the time you do, I doubt there will be a need.”