by Pat Mullan
His head was killing him. It took him a while to remember where he was. He could feel his hair sticky with congealed blood. Reaching out with his left hand he felt the large boulder that had broken his fall. Rising on one knee he pushed himself to a crouching position and used the boulder to leverage himself back on his feet. He didn't seem to have broken anything and he was sure that his head wound was superficial. Looking at the luminous hands of his watch he could see that it was almost four a.m. He had lost the better part of an hour. He couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. He had used up his extra time. And he still had a mile to go.
He could see the house darkly silhouetted against the night sky. The ground was solid and flat and he crossed the final two hundred yards with long, loping strides. He pulled back the screen door gently, enough to make a low squeak. He waited. Silence. The door was unlocked and he opened it, sliding his body inside. Then he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Dawn had stirred in the sky and shapes were taking form. He could see that he was standing in a large room, a table on his left and what appeared to be a couch huddled against the opposite wall. A dark rectangle in the far left corner must be a door. He crept across the room noticing that the floor was solid, concrete. No creaking floorboards to concern him. The doorknob turned smoothly in his hand and the door opened silently. He could see the angular contour on the bed in the corner and he listened to the deep, regular breathing. Anxious to get it over with, he strode to the bed, gripped the sleeping body in a firm armlock, and placed the chloroformed cloth over the nose and mouth. There wasn't even a struggle. Just a tension in that angular body, then a limp slackness.
Fifteen minutes had elapsed since he entered the house and dawn was approaching. Picking up the limp body, he tossed it over his shoulder like a rolled up carpet. Then he left the house and crossed the short distance to the rusted wire fence overlooking the water and the rocks below. He didn't hesitate. One strong heave and he had launched the body over the fence and into the air. He watched it twist once, then fall awkwardly onto the rocks. The water lapped up against it in a macabre ritual of welcome.
He turned without a further glance and left by the same way he had arrived.
Washington, D.C.
MacDara went to see General Shields as soon as he returned from his visit with Charlie Pettigrew. The General was expecting him. He had barely sat down when Sally arrived with two large mugs of the General's special rich blend of Colombian coffee. An old army addiction of his. He briefed the General on his visit and got right to the point.
"The incident in the 53rd MASH is no longer a mystery. Pettigrew told me everything."
MacDara told the story about General Walker exactly as Charlie Pettigrew had told him. Down to the details of the orgiastic ritual in the Followers residence in Seoul. As he spoke, the General seemed to sink further into his chair, cupping the mug of coffee in both hands like a comforter. He had forgotten his Macanudo that was now smoldering away in the large black ashtray.
"You realize, Sir, if this information had ever been disclosed the General's career would have been finished."
"I know that, Owen. Are you suggesting that General Walker has killed to protect himself?"
"What do you think, Sir?"
"Never! Not the Zach Walker that I know. But I don't know that other Zach Walker. The one that Pettigrew talks about. It's hard for me to believe that they're both the same man."
"Well, let's face it. They are the same. The General is gay.”
Bart Shields just stared out the window in deep thought.
“Did you hear me, Sir? The General is gay!”
“I heard you. It’s difficult for me to swallow, that’s all. A gay General! A gay Chairman of the Joint Chiefs! Jesus, if the papers ever got wind of that! We’d have hell to pay! The General would have to resign!.”
“You’re right. If you think a guy in the ranks gets ‘fucked’, pardon the expression, by his peers when they find out he’s gay, what do you think will happen to the General?”
“I know. I know. But you’re not seriously suggesting that General Walker is killing people to save himself. I don’t believe that for a minute! Do you?”
“No, I don’t. But I believe somebody else wants to save him. I’ve been thinking long and hard since Pettigrew told me what happened in Korea. Very few people knew that the General was gay. Even fewer people knew about the orgy that went wrong that night in Seoul. Major Whiteside knew. He removed the broken dildo that same night in the 53rd Mash. I helped him. Murph’ filled in for me that night. I never told Murph’ but whoever ordered his murder didn’t know that. Or couldn’t take the chance. It was easier to eliminate him. That’s why I’m on their hit list. I know it!”
“But who are ‘they’?”
“I don’t know but I’ve got a damn good idea. I believe there’s a right wing conspiracy going on. And I believe General Walker’s a part of it.”
“Never! Not the General!”
“Let me explain. When Major Whiteside started to write his memoirs he found something ‘rotten in the state of Denmark’. That’s the note he made in his journal. He went to see General Walker. He was troubled by his meeting. He told Dr. Pepper. In the doctor’s own words he said that the Major thought that ‘the enemy was right here in this country’ and ‘he was certain that General Walker was an easy target’ The doctor also said that the Major was sure that his life was in danger.”
“Owen, we know all this”
“But the pieces are beginning to fall in place. I know we’ve gone over this ground before. But let’s look at it again. What do we know so far? Major Whiteside was killed because he was going to say too much in his memoirs. Ruth Whiteside was almost killed when they ransacked the Major’s home. Probably looking for the journal and notes that I have. Murph’ was killed because they wanted to eliminate anyone who knew about the General’s secret. That includes me. I’ve been lucky so far. That’s all. At first I couldn’t figure out why Jay was killed. That didn’t seem to make any sense. But now it does. The albino who killed Murph’ was a member of Thackeray’s cult. Thackeray was having an affair with Liz Russo. What’s one more to him. Maybe he thought he was doing Liz a favor.”
“I know you believe Thackeray was behind these killings? But I still don’t see his motive. And I sure see no evidence that Major Whiteside knew that Thackeray even existed. Do you?”
“Ah, but there’s a connection. The Thackeray Institute. I did a little research on that organization. It’s a place where the conservative elite like to send their kids. A sort of finishing school of the right. You’d be surprised to know who some of the alumni are!”
“But you’re going to tell me, aren’t you, Owen.”
“How about Senator Sumner Hardy for a start? He was a Rhodes scholar at Oxford. Stayed an extra year in England so that he could attend The Thackeray Institute. He now sits on the Advisory Council of the Institute”
“Owen, there’s nothing sinister about any of that. We all know the senator is the leader of the right in this country. You’re not seriously suggesting that he is involved in this. Why, hell, he ran for President last time. His family founded this nation!”
“Well, I think the good senator is involved in this up to his neck! Did you know that the senator served in Korea? He was a 2nd Lieutenant , assigned as aide to Colonel Zachary Walker. He was in Seoul the night we operated on the Colonel at the 53rd Mash. My bet is that he knows all about General Zachary Walker. I bet he knows exactly what happened that night. So, if that’s the case, why isn’t someone trying to kill the senator? I think he’s got General Walker right in his pocket. Right where he needs him. Now why do you think it’s so important to keep the General in his job as head of the Joint Chiefs? Do you think that the Senator wants to make sure his back is covered when he makes his move?”
“Owen, that’s all wild speculation. You sound like you’re talking about the kind of shenanigans that go on in some South American countries! For Christ�
��s sake, man, this is the U.S. of A. you’re talking about. Not some two bit dictatorship!”
“If I’m right it explains all these murders. Why would anyone go to such an extent to prevent the world from finding out that someone is gay? Even if that someone is Chairman of the Joint Chiefs? Makes no sense, you say. And you’d be right. It does make no sense. Until you look at it from another angle entirely. They’re not killing to stop the world from finding out that the General is gay. They’re killing to keep the General in his job. They want to make sure that their man is in control of the military in this nation. Why would anyone want that so badly? Only if they needed to ensure that they controlled the military. Or that the military would be ordered not to move against them. That’s the way I read it, Sir.”
Owen could see General Shields wavering. He had picked up his unlit macanudo and was now sucking it to comfort himself. Owen hadn’t finished.
“And what about this mad Colonel McNab and his militia? I ran a check on him after Sanderson traced one of those hackers to his computer. Did you know that the Colonel is a card carrying member of the good senator’s political party? And that he has given money to every one of the senator’s campaigns? We all know that Senator Hardy isn’t very happy about the direction this country is taking. He makes no secret about that. All you have to do is listen to him on Meet The Press on a Sunday. And he’s obviously well known to the Honorable David Anthony Llewellyn Thackeray. From what I know of Thackeray’s vision of the future, it fits very nicely with the senator’s. And, for that matter, so does McNab’s. Strange bedfellows? But maybe not so strange when you think about it.”
“Jesus, Owen. I hope that this is all just as crazy as it sounds! But, if it isn’t..”
“If it isn’t, your General Walker is in one hell of a lot of trouble. And so is our country!”
"You're right, Owen. It's time to get to the bottom of all of this. I'll see General Walker immediately. I’ll also see the President.”
Sally had left the pot and General Shields refilled their mugs. Owen declined. One mug of the General's special blend would hold him all day.
"I've got an appointment to see Tony Thackeray ."
"When?"
"Couple of days from now. In L.A. At the Thackeray Institute."
"How will you handle that?"
"Totally business. A follow-up to his keynote speech at our GMA dinner. I'll invite him to conduct a seminar for our senior associates on the challenges facing us. It should not raise any suspicions on his part. If he is behind the attempts on my life there is no evidence to show that I suspect him. As far as he's concerned, his other life is safe from me. So he should not be on his guard. I want to meet him again. I need to know more about him. Not the kind of stuff I'll find in his biographies. I need to get my own feel for him. The GMA dinner was too impersonal for that. Besides, he was on display. The second time I believe I saw him in his other role as the Chosen One, he was also on display. I want to see him when he's not on display."
"Be careful, Owen. If this Thackeray is all that you say he is, he's a dangerous man."
Cheticamp
Nova Scotia
The boy tossed the driftwood as far as he could and his golden retriever brought it back to him every time. His dad was far behind, enjoying the invigorating feel of the early morning sea. He watched his son toss the driftwood again and watched the dog chase it. But the dog didn't return this time. He just stood there at the edge of the rocks and the sea, barking furiously. The boy stood where he was and waited for his father.
At first glance the object at the dog's feet looked like a sack of something that had been washed up on the rocks. It was only when they got closer that they saw the long bony fingers protruding from a corner of the sack.
There was an autopsy. Charlie Pettigrew's cause of death was obvious : fractured skull, severed spine and multiple internal injuries; consistent with a fall onto the rocks from the promontory above. Accidental death, suicide, foul play : each was possible but there was no evidence to help make a determination. Charlie Pettigrew had left a will. His body was cremated according to his wishes and the ashes scattered on the sea near his Cheticamp home. He left that home and the couple of thousand dollars in his bank account to little Georgie Collet. Finally, he left a sealed package that was to be given, unopened, to General Zachary Walker.
NINETEEN
Los Angeles, California
Wilshire Boulevard seemed to go on for ever. Even though MacDara had the address, it still took him half an hour to find the west coast office of the Thackeray Institute. He finally found it on the tenth floor of one of those high rise buildings that was built recently, almost in open defiance of the San Andreas Fault. Double glass doors with black and gold lettering ushered him into a reception foyer that might have been more suitable for the Dorchester Hotel in Park Lane.
The receptionist was blonde, good-looking and well-tailored. She had a mid-Atlantic accent and MacDara couldn't tell whether she was a Europeanized American or an Americanized European. He introduced himself:
"Owen MacDara. I have a ten a.m. appointment with Mr. Thackeray"
She pulled up a screen on her computer, confirmed his appointment, and said,
"Yes, Mr. MacDara, won't you please have a seat and I'll inform Mr. Thackeray that you're here."
Owen thanked her and chose instead to walk over and examine the art on the adjacent wall. He was absorbed in a limited edition Alexander Calder stonecut lithograph when the timbre of that Anglo-Welsh voice broke in.
"Good morning, Owen. So glad you could come."
Owen MacDara turned around and grasped Tony Thackeray's outstretched hand.
"It's my pleasure. Besides, I never got a chance to thank you in person for your entertaining and provocative talk at our dinner."
"If I provoked you, then I succeeded. If you found it entertaining then I was doubly successful. Would you like some coffee?"
"Good. Rebecca, coffee for Mr. MacDara and myself in my office. Follow me, Owen."
Tony Thackeray's office reflected his pedigree, his interests and his travels. The desk used to belong to the Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Louis Mountbatten. Primitive African carvings seemed at home beside Mayan and Aztec sculpted busts from Central America. This sense of the past contrasted strongly with a modernist sense of the present. Tall and elegant high-backed chairs by Charles Rennie Mackintosh surrounded an oval table of spalted beech in the adjoining conference room whose walls displayed works by Miro, De Kooning and David Hockney.
A young girl arrived with a thermos pot of freshly brewed coffee and blueberry muffins just as they were sitting down in the conference room.
"I'm afraid these are an American product that I've acquired a taste for," said Tony Thackeray as he picked up a blueberry muffin, "can't find anything quite like them in Europe."
He demolished his second muffin, pressed the intercom on the phone and told his secretary to see that he wasn't interrupted.
"Tell me about the Thackeray Institute. I'd like to know more," said Owen.
"As I'm sure you know, my father founded the Institute to prepare people to manage and to govern. I believe that the contribution made by the Institute is only now being realized. Our alumni sit on the board of most Fortune 500 companies. They're also in politics, law and public service - and not just in our Western society. We're beginning to play a vital role in the new world emerging out of the collapse of the Soviet Union. You'll also find us in Japan, Korea and even in China."
"But you chose to split the Institute and concentrate on that great unknown, The Future. Why?"
"Precisely because of what you just said. I don't believe that it's the great unknown. You see, I believe my father was right when he forecasted chaos, anarchy, and economic collapse for the UK at the millennium. That's only five years away. And I believe his forecast applies to our entire world, not just the UK."
Tony Thackeray pressed a button. A section of the conference table slid back and a
computer emerged as the large De Kooning print on the end wall retracted to reveal a floor to ceiling audio visual display screen. He hit the enter key and a map of the world appeared, color coded by country and region into degrees of stability based on ethnic, religious, racial, economic, social, territorial, and political conflict. Only a small fraction of the planet was colored with the dark blue of stability.
"Some of this is obvious. Areas like the former Yugoslavia have always been unstable. Look at the bastions of democracy : the UK, the US, France. In the UK the Scots will soon follow the Irish. That will leave an England divided sharply between the haves and the have-nots with inner cities populated by unwanted Pakistanis, Africans, Asians and West Indians."
He hit a few keys and the Western Hemisphere dominated the screen and then narrowed to bring the US into focus.
"Let's take the US. What do you see? Some areas of blue, lots of red and much gradation in between. Pretty unstable, don't you think? Now, let's overlay that with stability analyses of the US taken every twenty-five years starting in the middle of the nineteenth century. Even in the beginning of this period when the US had just emerged from the Civil War and the Indian Wars and lawlessness continued in the western states, there was still a dominant blue for stability. You see, the pioneer and puritan ethos had complete solidarity and those people were ruling and building. Let's overlay the screen every twenty-five years until we reach the present."