The Jefferson Allegiance (33 page)

Nixon leaned back wearily in his seat. “So the Joint Chiefs will uphold the Jefferson Allegiance?”

“Every officer in the military will, if they become aware of it.”

“That would be a coup!”

“No, sir,” the General said firmly. “It would be enforcing the highest law of the land. And then the country would go back to the way it was originally designed to work.”

A long silence played out, the words seeming to sink into the books lining the walls of the room.

“Leave me,” Nixon finally ordered.

The General spun on his heel and departed, shutting the door.

The 37
^th
President of the United States was alone in the dark once more; the only sound his labored breathing. That slight sound was over-ridden by the shrill ring of the phone. Another violation of the isolation Nixon had ordered. Rattled by the recent visitors, he turned on the speakerphone. “Yes?”

A voice echoed out of the small box next to the phone. “Mister President, this is Lucius. I understand you’ve had some visitors.”

How could he know so quickly
? Nixon wondered. “They just left. What are you going to do about--”

“I’m afraid The Society can’t help you, sir.”

Nixon’s hand tightened on the receiver, the knuckles turning white. “You promised—“

Once more he was cut off. “You’ve received all the support The Society could give you, and you over-stepped the boundaries. The tapes are too damning. We cannot have the Allegiance invoked. You are now on your own. Good luck in your new life.”

Chapter Seventeen

The film went black.

“That was McBride,” Evie said. “He was the Chair.”

Ducharme let out a deep breath. “My uncle, the General, was one of the Philosophers. And another was Groves. I recognized him from the crime scene photos. The third must have been Parker.”

“Who was Lucius?” Ducharme asked. “The person Nixon was talking to on the phone at the end?”

“The head of the Society of the Cincinnati,” Evie guessed. “Named after Lucius Cincinnatus. And the General was Haig.”

“Yeah, recognized that,” Ducharme said.

They were silent for a while, the only sound the fan cooling off the projector bulb.

“Fuck,” Ducharme finally said. “What the hell is in this document?”

“We know it’s powerful.” Evie filtered through the facts. “Powerful enough to force Nixon to resign, because he did the very next day—“ she held out the case, showing him the date. “We know Nixon had his offices wired for sound, but no one has ever released a film before like this. It seems the Philosophers had his private office rigged for video and sound. Or Haig did. Who knows where the film came from? Maybe even the FBI. Bottom line is, we now know the Jefferson Allegiance is powerful enough to take down a president.”

“Damn,” Ducharme said.

Evie put a hand on his shoulder, feeling his agitation. “Things aren’t as clear as everyone likes to believe. Even history. Nixon was so crazed by the time that was made—“ she pointed at the reel of tape—“that the Pentagon—on Haig’s and Kissinger’s advice—had actually removed the real launch codes for our nuclear forces from the ‘football’ that was carried around by his military attaché.”

“Bullshit.” Ducharme said, startled.

“No bullshit. Smarter minds prevailed. For months before his resignation, Nixon didn’t have the authority to launch nuclear weapons. Think about the person you saw in that film. You’d want his finger on the button?”

Ducharme ran a hand across his forehead. “What the hell is going on?”

She pointed at the film once more. “Haig—along with Kissinger—knew Nixon was unstable and drinking too much. They made the decision on their own to do that.”

Ducharme rubbed his hand against the back of his head as he spoke. “Fuck.”

“You could expand your vocabulary,” Evie noted mildly.

Ducharme grabbed the film off the projector and headed for the door. They jumped into 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 ninety-three. 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 that 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 his 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, of 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’s 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 really?”

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’s.”

“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 started. 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 refueling 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.