Authors: Al Ruksenas
requested that we close today out of respect. He was a member here.”
The officers looked at him with an understanding demeanor.
“
We weren’t going to dine,” General Bradley replied. “We need a few minutes for some urgent business.”
“
Certainly, gentlemen. A few minutes.” The waiter continued on to some nearby tables.
“
It’s just as well,” the general said. “I don’t want someone to overhear what I’m about to tell you.”
Caine and Jones pulled their chairs closer to the table and leaned forward.
“
Another odd thing happened during the service,” General Bradley said in a hushed tone. “A bird flew into the Cathedral. It flew around like it was lost. At first I thought it was no big deal. Then it landed on the statue.”
General Bradley looked at each of them. “Shall I go on?” he asked expectantly.
“
The statue came loose from its pedestal and fell.” Colonel Jones finished.
“
Now the obvious explanation,” General Bradley went on, “is that the base was degrading and the weight of the bird was all that was necessary for it to finally give way.”
“
Or it was just a simple coincidence,” Colonel Jones offered.
“
But we’re reluctant to buy into it, right, sir?” Colonel Caine anticipated.
“
Reluctant,” the General agreed. “I’m thinking of those weird little anomalies surrounding the other incidents you told me about. Birds, the dogs that attacked you in that firefight in Beirut, and those unusual hoof prints around General Starr’s body. Cloven hooves. We still haven’t figured that out.”
“
Familiars,” Caine said blankly.
He related to the officers his conversations with Laura Mitchell— her students drawing parallels with Grigori Rasputin in revolutionary Russia and Father Pierre Dumas in revolutionary France, the dog at her door, meeting her uncle Jonas—his ordeals in the Gulag, the mysterious cabal within the Soviet secret police and Mitchell’s pentagram scenario.
“
That pentagram, at least coincidentally, seems to tie in with the locations and details surrounding the accidents. It’s unusual that they occurred in such a quick sequence and involved officials directly linked with the succession of power in our government.”
“
What details?” his general asked.
“
Like you said, sir. The bird on the statue, the cloven hooves around General Starr.”
“
And the bird on the girder that let loose on Secretary Stack’s car,” added Colonel Jones.
“
All resulting in Speaker McConnell ascending to Chief Executive if anything now happened to the President,” Colonel Caine said.
“
And it’s her daughter we’re looking for,” General Bradley stressed.
“
She’d be ripe for blackmail!” Bradley said loudly, then quickly looked around as if to catch his words. The dining hall was empty, except for an attendant waiting patiently by the entrance.
“
That’s why it
is
terrorists who have her,” General Bradley declared. “Hammad in Beirut was misleading you.”
“
With due respect, sir, I don’t agree,” Colonel Caine responded. “Arie and I were attacked in the ocean, so we wouldn’t make our rendezvous with Hammad. I think somebody—somebody here—was stalling for time. You, yourself, suspect Senator Dunne somehow betrayed our mission.”
“
Mustafa Ali Hammad was helpful, willingly or not,” Colonel Caine emphasized.
Garrison Jones, his fellow commando at the scene, slowly nodded his head in agreement.
“
We were trying to figure out who the attackers were and mentioned some gibberish the bogies were humming in their boat when they tried to sink us,” Caine said.
“
Hammad immediately linked it to some devil
‐
loving cult from the desert,” Colonel Jones affirmed.
“
Too many incidental and unrelated factors seem to point in a certain direction,” Caine said.
General Bradley nodded his head slowly, as if coming to a mental agreement with Caine’s explanation.
“
Now, maybe, Senator Dunne’s bad, but I don’t think that he would see any future in tying in with terrorist networks. They’re dust
‐
eating criminal vagabonds. They’ll never have a state to rule. The world won’t stand for it.”
“
Civilized world,” Colonel Jones emphasized.
“
So, who would he tie in with?” General Bradley asked with redirected interest.
“
Traditional adversaries, sir. The Chinese. They
are
communists. The Russians, a lot of their leaders still act like communists. They’re actively working for world hegemony—directly or indirectly. They could offer a traitor better conditions than living in a cave.”
“
It’s a lot of conjecture, Chris. And a lot of pushing of the proverbial envelope,” General Bradley said, but did not negate his subordinate’s reasoning.
“
There’s no way we can prove anything. We need something solid to grab onto.”
“
You remember, sir,” Colonel Caine said deferentially, “that the Russians used to have a special political arm in the Soviet Army under Colonel General Dmitri Volkogonov.”
This elicited a bemused smile from Colonel Jones, marveling at how his fellow officer recalled such details and wondering if General Bradley did remember.
“
Their purpose was to wage psychological warfare against the United States. This was in the nineteen
‐
seventies and eighties. For that purpose they delved into parapsychology and mysticism.”
“
Looking back on it, it seems kind of bizarre,” Colonel Jones ventured.
“
Yes. But obviously some high level commissars in their government thought it was worth the undertaking,” Caine replied. “It ties in with Jonas Mitchell’s story of a cabal within the KGB trying to work some sorcery to take us over.”
“
So, there’s got to be some connecting link here?” Colonel Jones followed.
General Bradley was listening, not sure whether to entertain this kind of reasoning. He remembered the CIA experimenting with mind
‐
altering drugs during that same period, but in his view this was different.
“
We’ll be a laughing stock if we start chasing ghosts and goblins,” he postured. “Do you want to go to the Omega Group or the President and tell him that we’re following a sorcery lead? How’s that for a career killer?”
“
True sir. But the effects of certain events are real,” Caine emphasized. “We have dead people to prove it. And Jeannie McConnell is missing. Their collective absence has put us in a very vulnerable position. And if any of our conjecture is even remotely close, the President is in potential danger.”
“
Speaker of the House, McConnell, moving into the Presidency is susceptible to coercion with her daughter missing,” Colonel Jones recited. “And Philip Taylor—Sherwyck’s protégé—simultaneously inherits the nuclear button.”
“
A double whammy!” General Bradley declared.
“
And one prominent link stares us in the face,” Caine continued.
“
Victor Sherwyck,” General Bradley said slowly.
He turned to the entrance of the dining hall and motioned for the attendant.
“
What was the Vice President’s favorite drink here?”
“
A vodka gimlet, sir.”
“
Not bourbon?”
“
No, sir. He was from New York.”
“
Of course. Give us three, then,” General Bradley said and noticed the hesitation in the man. “—in his memory.”
“
In his memory, sir. Yes, sir.”
As the waiter left for the bar, the General assuaged his subordinates. “The place is closed, gentlemen. So, we’re not officially drinking.”
They understood.
“
I know there are some odd things in play here,” the General continued, “but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t what they seem—freak accidents.”
After setting what he believed was a necessary common sense benchmark, he continued: “Having said that, I should note that Sherwyck was sitting next to Vice President Mansfield at the Cathedral. Someone said he was muttering something just before the statue fell. Sound familiar?”
Caine and Jones were anticipating.
“
But no one could make out what it was.”
“
It does sound familiar,” Colonel Jones agreed. Then mimicked softly, “Do dee do do—do dee do do.”
“
Right, Arie!” the General said scornfully. “That’s all we got—the twilight zone.”
The waiter came back with their drinks. “Complimentary, gentlemen. In memory of the Vice President.”
“
Thanks,” General Bradley replied, sounding more solicitous. “We’ll be leaving soon.”
He raised his glass and declared more reverently: “To Vice President Louis Mansfield.”
“
Hear, hear,” both Colonels responded. They took a sip.
They repeated the salute to Defense Secretary, Ronald Stack and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Benjamin Starr.
“
And a promise to Jeannie McConnell,” Colonel Caine added.
Putting his empty glass on the table, General Bradley asked, “Does anyone know where he came from?”
“
It was before my time,” Colonel Caine responded.
“
No one ever asked, as far as I know,” Colonel Jones added. “I’m not sure anybody knows.”
“
Over time he just moved into the power elite of Washington,” General Bradley stated. “He has an estate not far from Mount Vernon. Influential, rich—and therefore appealing to presidents. A succession of them. ”
“
And no one knows where he came from?” Colonel Jones repeated.
“
How did he amass his fortune?” Colonel Caine wondered.
“
No one ever looked the gift horse in the mouth,” General Bradley replied. “By the way, Chris, you probably haven’t seen him yet.”
“
Haven’t had the chance, sir.”
“
Do it now.”
“
Socially?”
“
Act official!”
Chapter 33
The late afternoon sun was already casting a golden hue over the lush April landscape as Colonel Caine sped along the George Washington Memorial Parkway towards Mount Vernon. He apologized silently to himself for his aggressive manners as he weaved his roadster among southbound motorists who were driving more leisurely down the scenic boulevard along the Potomac River.
At the grounds of George Washington’s iconic Mount Vernon Estate the Mount Vernon Highway branched off sharply northwards surrounded by expansive wooded tracts of land. Caine followed the Highway and saw the entrances to several estates in the pristine surroundings buffering Mount Vernon from urban neighborhoods farther north. Their location announced power and privilege.
Caine approached a long driveway that looked more like a street and cruised slowly towards a colonnaded, white Georgian mansion evoking a vague mimicry of George Washington’s own Mount Vernon. Arabian horses grazed on several acres of luxuriant lawns on either side of him. Farther to the right of the mansion was a long building housing the stables and built in the same Georgian style.
Scanning the baronial splendor, his eyes caught the rear section of a dusty green van parked behind the far end of the stables. He was fixated on dark vans ever since the attack outside the museum and this one seemed out of place in the manicured environment of the property.
Caine kept peering towards the stables where he heard the spirited neighing of a horse. Instead of pulling up to the broad stairs extending the length of the mansion, he veered down a paved drive to the stables.
“
Wait! Stop! Not that way!” a man shouted from the veranda.
Caine ignored the command and halted near the van at the end of the long building. He hurriedly climbed out, looked around and instinctively adjusted the holster at his belt in case he needed to draw his pistol. He approached the van, looking intently at its rear door and the metal around it. Closely scrutinizing the back of the van, he suddenly felt an adrenalin rush when he spotted the unmistakable hole of a bullet. Caine smiled in grim satisfaction as he circled his finger around the small puncture of naked metal where velocity and heat had flecked away the paint.