The Jefferson Allegiance (34 page)

“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, which presented 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 INDEPENDENCE

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 of the chopper engine idling providing background noise. He checked his watch, gave her orders quickly and efficiently, and then shut down 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 his 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 lose 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 up the MP-5, 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 on his fedora 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.

Turnbull turned in the middle of the open doors and pointed. “Elevator is that way.”

The doors swung shut, leaving Burns alone in the corridor. As he walked away, he pulled out his satphone.

*************

Ducharme’s satphone vibrated. With his free hand he pulled it out and hit the on button. “Ducharme.”

“Colonel Ducharme, this is Agent Burns.”

“Need me to answer more questions?”

“You didn’t answer many to start with,” Burns said.

“Do
you
have any answers?” Ducharme asked.

“I’m not even sure what all the questions are,” Burns said. “But I have a few.”

“Caught the killer yet?”

“You know I haven’t.”

“How do I know that?” Ducharme asked.

“Because you saw what happened in Baltimore.”

“And you know what happened in Annapolis and Philadelphia,” Ducharme threw in. “And New York City.”

“Yes.” Burns didn’t deny it or hesitate in responding, which told Ducharme something. “I’ve been accompanying a man named Turnbull. He claims to be a high-ranking FBI official.”

“’Claims’?”

“Technically, he is,” Burns allowed. “He has the badge and clearance and the office on the top floor of the Hoover Building with his name on the door.”

“But?” Ducharme watched the snow-covered hills of western Massachusetts roll by on either side.

“He’s working on a whole other level,” Burns said. There was a pause. “You should head to John Adams’s grave in Quincy.”

Ducharme frowned. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because this Turnbull fellow is after something. I think the killer works for him. It isn’t about the killings, it’s about something Turnbull wants.”

“Right.”

“Are you agreeing with me or confirming what I just said?” Burns asked.

Ducharme hesitated for a moment, but then decided the odds were so high against them, it was worth taking a chance on gaining an ally. “Confirming.”

“Do you know what it is?”

“Yes.”

There was a sigh from the other end of the phone. “But you’re not going to tell me.”

It wasn’t a question, but Ducharme answered anyway. “Nope.”

“I just gave you some good information,” Burns pointed out.

“We’re already on the way to Quincy. So you gave me nothing new.”

“The killing in New York City,” Burns said. “Simone was Admiral Groves’s aide’ de camp before the Admiral retired six years ago. He’d been recalled from operations in Iraq just a few days ago, just like you got called back from Afghanistan.”

“Interesting,” Ducharme said.

“And General LaGrange was your uncle. Major Peters, who was killed in Philadelphia, served with General Parker in a unit here in DC—Air Force Honor Guard. And Mister McBride was Evie Tolliver’s mentor. Say hi to her by the way for me.”

Ducharme looked over at Evie. “Agent Burns says ‘hi.’”

Her eyes got wide.

“She says ‘hi’ back,” Ducharme said into the satphone. “Listen—“ he paused, realizing he was getting ready to roll the dice—“this thing everyone’s after. It’s important.”

“Indeed?” Even through the static of the scrambler on the satphone the sarcasm was clear.

“I’m saying it’s—“ Ducharme searched his mind for the words to convey what he wanted to say to Burns—“it’s powerful.”