by Bob Mayer
She removed the wakizashi from its sheath and gently placed it on the desk, next to the half empty bottle of cognac and the three roses the Chair had carried. She found disinfectant, poured it into a towel, and thoroughly cleaned the blade with it. She let it sit for a few minutes, then took a silk cloth and carefully wiped the blade dry. Turning it under the desk light, she checked the edge for damage. There was none, not that she expected any given the quality of the blade and the weakness of flesh, muscle and bone against steel that had been folded so many times by hands skilled in the perfection of such weapons.
She pulled back her left sleeve to the elbow. The skin on the inside of the forearm was marred with six scars, each about two inches long. The scars were poorly healed, red raised ridges marching down her arm, an incongruity for someone who held an MD and a harsh contradiction to the unblemished beauty of her flesh.
She grabbed the handle of the short sword with her right hand. Slowly and precisely, she drew the sword across the skin, just below the last cut. Skin parted easily to the razor-sharp blade and blood flowed. The hand holding the sword was steady as a rock. Then she did it again, another slice. Done, she sheathed the still bloody sword and rolled her black sleeve down.
Lily was from a long line of military veterans, but was the first female in the line of service. While her friends received dolls and clothes for their birthdays, she’d received knives and guns. Her father had rigged an old sea bag in the back yard as a punching bag for her and her brother. Instead of the mall, her father had taken her to military surplus stores. For her 15th birthday her father had given her the Special Forces Medical Handbook and the Special Air Service Tracking Guide. She’d never realized she was different from other girls. Now she was so far out of the bell curve it wouldn’t occur to her to realize there was a different reality.
Her four years at the Air Force Academy had honed the harsh discipline of her childhood into a martial zeal bettered by none of her peers. Still, being a woman in a male-dominated institution, the brutal hazing of the first year, coupled with the sexual harassment inherent at the Academy, had appeared to present more obstacles than even that discipline could overcome.
Early one Sunday morning, when her roommate was away on a team trip, someone snuck into her room. Feeling hands groping her, she’d reacted, smashing his head against the metal frame of her bed, then dashing for the rack where her rifle and bayonet were displayed. Cursing, the upperclassman had come after her.
She’d drawn the bayonet and held it in front of her. In the darkness, and dazed from the head slam, the upperclassman never saw it, running right onto it. His screams as the blade penetrated his bowels woke the entire floor.
The Academy, reeling under Congressional scrutiny from numerous sexual harassment complaints, listed the event as a training accident. The upperclassman graduated after a stint in the hospital and Lily was told to forget about it and be happy no charges were brought against her for assault with a deadly weapon.
On the plus side she was never harassed again.
On a deeper level, Lily replayed the moment of the bayonet in her hands penetrating flesh and blood flowing over the blade and her hands, again and again, relishing the thrill it had given her. She had never felt so alive.
She succeeded so well at the Academy that she was one of the select few tapped to go directly to medical school. She believed surgery was one way she could recapture that feeling. It was a futile attempt at control of her newly unearthed impulse.
After medical school, she’d been assigned as a flight surgeon for a transport squadron, but her sense of duty and the drive inside her caused her to volunteer to work on the ground, as far forward as she could go. She’d ended up near Fallujah during some of the worst of the fighting.
Patients in the forward operating center were brought in and treated without regard to whom they were—American military, Iraqi civilians and even insurgents were all triaged together. Lily saw an opportunity. Every badly wounded insurgent that came under her scalpel died. In the confusion of war it was weeks before anyone caught on.
When the commanding officer became aware of what was happening it was too late. He couldn’t charge her without making a publicity fiasco. A board was quietly convened, a psychological evaluation hurriedly churned out, and she was discharged.
Her family had served in every US war, with her participation in the Gulf being the most recent, although her living male forbearers didn’t hold a parade for her when she returned from overseas. She returned to the United States disgraced by the military she had given her life to, but also aware that the hunger inside her needed to be fed.
Leaning back in the chair, she looked at the large painting that dominated the wall. A portrait of Larz Anderson III whose wife donated their house to the Society of Cincinnati. History was made in the Anderson House. A secret history. A portion of it was open to the public, who trickled through, looking at the abundant collection of Revolutionary War documents. The open portion was like the sheath on her sword, hiding the edge underneath. This wing of the house was never on the tour and entry was limited only to the chosen few of the inner core. Lily had been granted access just a month earlier in her first meeting with the Head of the Society, known only as Lucius.
She looked down at the glowing screen of her laptop. She tapped the keyboard, accessing the secure satellite up-link. She was hooked into the Society’s network, which saddled on top of the military’s Milstar Internet, and her transmission was encrypted by the latest technology from Silicon Valley—so advanced, that even the military had not yet begun to field it. The encryption allowed her access to be safe from the National Security Agency’s screening program that monitored all Internet traffic, even its own.
Like night follows day the NSA had enacted a program called Carnivore as soon as there was an Internet to monitor. For years, fools had been sending emails unaware that a few choice words would tap them as a danger. A poor actor who typed-- I bombed; I died on stage-- was snarked into Carnivore’s database which counted alert words per sentence.
She was using such a high-speed system for something very simple. Googling.
She typed in: cognac three roses.
She stared at the results, all-pointing in the same direction. She quickly read the top three entries, collating the information in her brain.
She paused in thought for a few moments, glanced at the door, and then typed in head heart.
The first three entries weren’t useful, but she paused as she read the fourth. She accessed the entry and scanned it. She knew it was connected, but she had no idea how. As she was puzzling over this, the heavy wooden door creaked open and an old man in an archaic butler’s uniform nodded his head. She cleared the screen and shut the lid on the laptop.
Leaving the wakizashi behind, she followed the servant down the heavily carpeted and dimly lit hallway. On the wall were portraits of prominent Society members, the angled lamps highlighting them providing the only light. All of those portrayed—exclusively male—were recognizable. A who’s-who of American political history: George Washington, Henry Knox, Alexander Hamilton, James Monroe, Andrew Jackson, Zachary Taylor, James Buchanan, Grover Cleveland, Benjamin Harrison, William McKinley, Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, Woodrow Wilson, Warren Harding, Herbert Hoover, J. Edgar Hoover, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Harry Truman, Richard Nixon, and the next-to-last two portraits which flanked a set of double doors were of Ronald Reagan and George Herbert Walker Bush.
There was a puff of air and sensors searched for traces of explosives or dangerous chemicals. There were also imaging machines trained on her, penetrating through her garments, searching for hidden weapons. She knocked on the intricately carved wood and waited.
The voice that replied from beyond was low and deep. One that was used to power and respect as a right. “Enter.”
She went into a cavernous room and squinted in the darkness. The only light was that reflected through the windows from the streetlamps out
side. There was a large desk directly in front of her. On the other side of the desk was a single high-backed chair, but it was hidden in the shadows and all she could make out was that it was occupied. As she had been trained as a Plebe at the Air Force Academy, she marched up to it, halted three paces in front, and snapped to attention.
She bowed her head slightly instead of saluting. “Reporting as ordered, sir.”
“How did the meeting go?” Lucius asked.
“Sir, as of this evening the Chair of the American Philosophical Society and one of the Philosophers are dead. I have the names of the remaining two Philosophers.”
A long silence, then a click as Lucius turned on a lamp, shooting a cone of light onto the desk. Several white chess pieces were directly under the lamp. A king, a queen, and several pawns—the motif was Revolutionary America as the ‘king’ was clearly George Washington and the queen, his wife Martha. Some of the pawns were only roughed out, not yet finished.
Lucius’s aged hand broke into the light, picking up one of the smaller blocks, an almost finished pawn in the shape of a Minuteman. His other hand held a file. He scraped the file against the piece, the sound loud in the room. “It is very difficult to acquire pure ivory these days,” Lucius said.
Lily, as she’d also been taught at the Academy, remained silent.
The file scraped along the side of the piece. “Some of the few remaining expert ivory sculptors use power tools, but I prefer the traditional. You cannot achieve the fine details with power tools. The emphasis has switched from quality to quantity in order to mass-produce trinkets for tourists. A waste of an elephant’s life.”
The file rasped across the ivory. Then the hands paused. “You were directed to get the Jefferson Cipher, not kill.”
There was movement behind her in the darkness. She tensed, but dare not turn her head. Had she blundered? With her thumb she began to twist the Air Force Academy ring that adorned her left ring finger. The rough face of small diamonds shaped in a dagger ran across her skin.
“I was given a mission, sir,” Lily said, swimming carefully into dangerous and uncharted waters but pressing on anyway. “There were no parameters placed on how I was to accomplish it. I was told I had complete freedom of action. I took the most direct means for success given the current tactical situation. I was told the Philosophers were our enemy. I needed to use extreme force to try to get them to speak. Their deaths were an inevitable result of that application of force.”
The file began moving again. “Do you have the Cipher?”
“No.”
The file was placed down on the desktop and the hand reappeared with an awl. The tip dug into the neck of the tiny ivory soldier. “Then you have failed and your use of extreme force was futile. Not just futile, but dangerous.”
“I have the names of the last two Philosophers.”
The hands were steady as the awl dug deeper. “Your killings will bring unwanted attention to the Society. In two hundred years there has been a gentlemen’s agreement between the Philosophers and us. How could you--”
She dared to interrupt, her thumb twisting the ring on her finger even faster. “Sir, I am no gentleman. In all those years, the Society has never gotten its hands on the Jefferson Cipher. I thought new tactics were in order. If I am to be the first woman allowed into the Society, I must bring something original to it and I have done so as you’ve indicated by your own words—something new. I will find the Cipher. I have enough clues to direct me to a place I must visit. I believe the rod and some of the disks will be there. And I will pay a call to the other two Philosophers.”
She watched as the awl continued to work the ivory, bringing form to it.
She swam on. “Even if I do not find the Cipher, the deaths will throw the Philosophers into turmoil. It is a win-win situation for us.”
“What exactly do you think you will be winning?” Lucius sighed deeply, the sound absorbed by the sheer size of the room and the thousands of volumes of books that lined the shelves along the walls. “You are overly optimistic. And underestimate our foes. You killed a few tired, old men. Do you feel proud of that?” The awl stopped moving and the fingers turned the piece to and fro under the light as he examined it.
Pride had nothing to do with it, she thought. “I killed our enemies. No matter what form they take, they deserve no mercy.”
“Things always stand at a careful precipice,” Lucius said. “Your actions—“ he fell into silence and Lily waited for her fate to be spelled out. Her thumb stopped twisting the ring and pressed hard against the diamonds set in the top, the pain refreshing.
“There are a few things you know,” Lucius finally said, “but many things you don’t and some you probably will never be privy to unless—“ He put the pawn down and his hands disappeared. A few seconds later he placed a diamond encrusted Society medallion on the table—“you rise to a position to wear this, which is highly unlikely. You came to us from the outside and are largely ignorant of our ways. The bottom line is that the inner sanctum of the Society believes it is our solemn duty to serve our country and protect it in times of need.”
The chair creaked as Lucius once more picked up the file. “Membership in our Society was originally limited to those officers who served no less than three years in the Continental Army or the Navy during the Revolution, or who had been killed in the line of duty. Subsequent membership required an ancestor who met those qualifications. The only reason we accepted you is because you are nine generations directly removed from an officer who fought with Washington and we have bent the rules further than ever before to grant you this apprenticeship. Most in the inner sanctum disagreed with me over your appointment.” The file rasped away and small white powder floated in the air around his hands. “We extend a few honorary memberships, usually to Presidents whom we favor and whose policies are in line with our goals.”
“What does the Jefferson Cipher have to do with this?” Lily asked. “The Chair indicated it was just the first part of something larger. If the threat was the Chair and the Philosophers, then I have eliminated half of that threat and I will take care of the rest.”
“They were just caretakers,” Lucius said. “And they will be replaced. They are always replaced, just as someone will replace me in this seat when I am gone. You can also be easily replaced.”
Lily almost smiled at the implied threat and she began calculating her tactical options against whoever was behind her and Lucius.
“You were given a simple job, a test,” Lucius said, anger in his voice. He turned the pawn, filing away. “You may know military tactics, but you need to understand the historical and political framework of our centuries old stand-off with the Philosophers.”
Lucius pointed the tip of the file at her. “The Federalist Party grew out of the Society of the Cincinnati. It was populated by the true heroes of the Revolution, the men who fought for our freedom. They knew that pure democracy is a sham, since only a small percentage of the population is willing to put their lives on the line to defend the country. Many of the so-called Founding Fathers never approached a battlefield, instead hiding behind desks and arguing with each other over how to pay and supply those who protected them, often short-changing the soldiers in the field while sitting warm and comfortable in the cities, their bellies full. Our Society founders knew the mass of the people were not to be trusted because they were ignorant. They can be trusted even less now.” The file was switched out once more for the awl.
“Our enemy, the Philosophers—the three Philosophers and the Chair-- came out of the Anti-Federalist Party led by Thomas Jefferson. He would rather see the country plunged into chaos and another Revolution—even against our own leaders-- than be secured from foreign enemies by a strong central government. Like many of the other politicians, Jefferson never saw combat, except to flee Tarleton’s raiders while he was Governor of Virginia during the Revolution. His constituency thought so much of his cowardly actions that he was never again elected to offi
ce in Virginia.”
Lucius waved the awl as Lily attempted to speak. “But, whatever their martial frailties, Jefferson and the other members of the American Philosophical Society were not weak men. Do not confuse being misguided with weak. And they were smart, very smart. The military members of the Philosophical Society have always been brave men, however misguided their allegiances have been.
“For over two hundred years our Society has fought to keep our country strong and to protect it from enemies, both foreign and domestic, but primarily we have tenaciously maintained a fragile balance with the Philosophers over the way the Federal government operates to keep it from spiraling into the anarchy they desire.”
A small piece of ivory fell from the pawn onto the desktop and Lucius paused as he examined the piece under the lamp. Lily remained still, waiting for the old man to get to the point and just tell her whom she could kill.
“I don’t understand the connection to the Cipher, sir.”
“The Cipher leads to the Jefferson Allegiance, which was forged as a necessary compromise during the early battles between the Federalist and anti-Federalists. It is the same threat that has been the wild card behind the scenes of our country for over two hundred years.”
“What is the Jefferson Allegiance?” she asked.
Lucius sighed even as the awl continued to dig away into the ivory. “Concern yourself with the Cipher. Fifty years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, upon their death, the first two Philosophers broke apart their Cipher Wheel—the original one, Thomas Jefferson invented—and spread the disks out: nineteen to the first military Philosopher, who further split six out to each of his subordinate Philosophers, and the last seven and the center rod to the Chair. I doubt you will find them all in the same place. The Cipher holds the key to the location of the Allegiance.”