My King The President

by Tom Lewis

  Frye did as he was told, and was quickly frisked. In seconds, the tall man found Frye’s own gun, and the lock-picking tool case, which he shoved into his overcoat pocket. The second man then jammed the snout of his gun into the small of Frye’s back. “Let’s go.” The two of them disappeared down the hall. The shorter man returned within minutes, and motioned for Cal. “You next.”

  Cal gave me a flashing look of absolute helplessness, then followed orders. I opened my mouth to say something, but the ice-cold eyes of the tall man with the steady hand holding the machine pistol changed my mind for me. His partner came back soon, and it was my turn to be marched down the hall. While the tall man held his pistol to my spine, the second guy unlocked and opened the door. “Inside, please.”

  I obeyed, noticing that Cal was sitting on the harpsichord bench, but Frye was standing, leaning against the old piano, his hands resting on either side of its top. As I crossed the room, momentarily shielding him from the tall man, I saw him lean forward and lift his right leg, placing his foot against the thick leg of the heavy instrument. I would never have believed a man as big as Turmond Frye could move so fast. Cat-like, using the leverage of the piano leg, he sprang at the tall man with a blood-curdling scream. The surprise move was effective, but not quite fast enough. There was too much open space between his hurtling body and the tall man standing in the open doorway.

  His machine pistol emitted one obscene burp, making not much more noise than a child’s toy. Frye dropped in a heap at the man’s feet, his body twitching like that of a poisoned animal. The tall man looked up at Cal and me, again leveling the pistol. “Impressive, but stupid. I’m sorry.” He turned his head sideways, toward his partner, but without taking his eyes away from us. “You have them all?”

  The shorter killer patted his overcoat pocket. “Yes. All ten. Let’s go.”

  “Just a moment,” the tall man said. “Cover them.” From his pocket he removed Thurmond’s weapon, ejected its clip, and extracted two of the bullets, which he dropped on the floor. Placing the clip back into his pocket, he dangled the empty automatic from his finger. “Listen to me carefully. I am not by nature a cruel man. I’m a hard one, true, but I’m not without compassion. I’m going to leave this weapon here when we leave. You will have two choices. As you can see, this is a solid oak door, with a modern steel lock. One of you can use those two bullets to try to shoot it out, but that would be futile, I think. Your other choice will be for yourselves. I wish I could guess which of you will go first.”

  With those inhuman words, he turned quickly, flung the gun into the far corner, and slammed the door behind him. We heard the key turn in the lock, then nothing. They were gone—along with the proof of Koontz’s treason. Cal and I both stood stock still for a long couple of seconds before we thought of Frye. I bent over him, turned him over and tried to ignore the blood oozing from several holes in his upper body. He had not yet lost consciousness, and his tortured eyes looked into mine. Through pink froth and clenched teeth, he was trying to overcome his horrible pain to tell me something. His voice was weak. Otherworldly. Only a few croaked words at the time. “B—elt… Paaa—ger.”

  A spell of spastic coughing followed, and I caught my breath. With great effort of will, he opened his eyes again, “B—button… Three… times. Thrrrrreee…” His eyes rolled back in his head, and I couldn’t tell if he had died or had only fainted from pain. Reaching through blood, I found the pager, or what looked to be a pager, turned it over in my hand and found the button in the back. I depressed it three times, then dropped it. When I looked up, Cal was uselessly trying the doorknob. Looking around the room in oncoming panic, I suddenly remembered that it wasn’t the number of Sibelius recordings that had bugged me about this room before. It was something else.

  It had no windows!

  Cal and I bent over Thurmond Frye, using the pressure of our open palms to try to staunch some of the blood flow. It was hopeless, we knew, and our shared glances of human inadequacy changed and multiplied fourfold—to terror—when we both realized we were smelling smoke. Cal’s voice was a choking whisper. “They’ve set the place on fire, Jeb. We’re trapped.”

  I then believed I knew who had murdered Jean Tyndall, and it was also then that I fully understood why the “compassionate” killer had left behind Frye’s pistol and two bullets.

  Chapter 27

  Two things delayed my believing Cal and I were about to die.

  The first was natural compulsion to do what we could for Thurmond Frye. He was still breathing, although blessedly unconscious. Cal ripped off his own coat, shirt, and undershirt while I struggled to remove Thurmond’s blood-soaked parka. Neither of us spoke. Cal tore his undershirt into strips which he folded into improvised pads. These I pressed down onto the four holes in Frye’s chest and stomach, using my hands and forearms. Seconds later, Cal’s shirt became strips which I tied over the makeshift bandages as best I could. It wasn’t enough, so Cal and I exchanged places; he compressing the wounds while I tore up my own clothes in similar fashion, tying the strips around Frye’s upper body as tight as possible. Smoke was already coming from beneath the door. We dragged Frye into the far corner, keeping our hands pressing down on his wounds. It was all we knew to do.

  The second thing, mutually felt but unspoken as we avoided looking at each other and panting from the exertion, was unfathomable hatred for the tall man’s satanic cruelty. He had dropped only two bullets on the floor, and he had known Frye was still alive. No, it wasn’t compassion he had left behind, it was the stink of refined sadism he would obviously enjoy for hours wherever he had gone, guessing which of us would be the mercy-killing odd man out: Would the father shoot the son and then himself, allowing the already dying man to simply roast slowly in the flames or succumb to a combination of his wounds and smoke inhalation? Would the younger, stronger man prevail; put a bullet into his father’s brain, then put the dying man out of his misery, or become in the end, a coward, and use that last bullet for himself?

  Between the thoughts of those macabre facts, I couldn’t help but also feel abysmal, crushing failure. Failure of underestimating Ezekiel Koontz a second time, and worse, failure of never being able to report his high crimes. Too, it hurt to know I couldn’t tell Abby that however Mac McCarty had learned of Koontz and Tyndall’s plan, he had died an unrecognized hero, because by shooting Tyndall, he had stopped the coup before it could be launched.

  More smoke came beneath the door, making our eyes smart, then tear. Highlights, or rather, lowlights of Koontz’s fantastic scheme began flying through my mind:

  Zero hour minus 24— Simultaneous prison breaks in Colorado, New Mexico and Nevada. Riots in three others. Zero hour minus 20— Assassination of the President of Mexico, staged firefights along Mexican border in California and Texas. Zero Hour minus 16— Missiles from Air Force drones crash into both the White House and the Capitol, responsibility claimed in simultaneous letters and taped messages delivered to New York Times, Chicago Tribune, and Washington Post from followers of the martyred Osama Bin Laden. Zero Hour minus 12— Massive sabotage at main New York City power—

  “We’ve got to try to get out of here, Jebediah. These floors are hardwood. Help me with this piano.”

  Cal’s idea jolted me out of my stupor. That, plus the rising heat and smoke which had already caused us both to start coughing. Together we were able to move the old piano a few feet toward the door. Summoning all our remaining strength, we got behind it, counted to three, and pushed as hard as we could, but we couldn’t get enough momentum to crash it into the door. It was simply too heavy. Still, we tried twice more. Collapsing on the floor, sweating profusely now, we frantically looked around the room for any object we could use to smash the door down. There was nothing. We could have moved the harpsichord easily enough, but its fragile wood would have splintered into matchsticks against the solid oak of the locked door. There was nothing else we could use. Nothing else we could try. Nothing.

  After
a minute or two more, Cal looked me in the eye, then toward the corner where Frye’s gun lay. The heat from the floor below was becoming intense. When he looked back at me, the tears in his eyes were not all from the smoke. “You want to flip me for it?”

  I wondered whether I could summon up enough strength, enough guts, to crawl over to him and get him into a position where I could give him a sucker punch hard enough to—

  “What was that?”

  I stopped, turned my head. Someone on the other side of the door? Miracle?

  Sister Agnes’ prayers, and ours, must have been heard and answered fast! Our too real purgatory had lasted only fifteen or twenty minutes! When we heard the key turning in the lock, my first thought was that the tall man might be coming back to be compassionate after all, and finish us off himself, but the face of our Angel of Deliverance was a female one. Hettie Keeler, carrying two water-soaked blankets, came through it, with Jason Barnes and Dr. Mavis Zinman hard on her heels. . .

  My memory of the immediate events that followed are spotty. A few of them, however, are still crystal clear: Barnes and me, draped in wet blankets, carrying Thurmond down the stairs all the way to the basement. Out the cellar door to the back lawn, unmindful of the falling sleet, gratefully gulping the freezing, heaven-sent air. Mavis bending over Frye, then barking orders. Somehow getting him into the back of the unmarked van. With Cal driving the car we had come in, following the van to the emergency entrance of the hospital in Vienna. Falling asleep (or passing out?) in the back seat of the car with Barnes driving behind a parade of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cars back to and past Koontz’s flaming house, but not before hearing what Cal said to me.

  “Jeb, didn’t you recognize the killer?”

  “Huh? No. No, I didn’t.”

  “You should have. Would have if he’d had his uniform on. The big guy was General Abner Turnberry.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’d stake my resurrected life on it.”

  The car’s bumping, then slithering sideways through snow-covered ruts woke me up. Through the windshield, I recognized the farmhouse Liz and I had run away from. This time I was damned happy to see it! I couldn’t imagine a safer haven than its remote, FBI-protected sanctuary, and once again I realized for the second time how lucky I was to be alive when I was brought here.

  Inside, over coffee liberally laced with brandy, I half listened to Cal’s detailed recounting of our burglary, then to Barnes’ explanation that Hettie Keeler was the fourth member of Frye’s team. A careful legend had been constructed for her long-term undercover work, using the identity Walt Erikson had dug out. This reminded me of his family, so I asked Barnes if they had ever been contacted.

  “Yes,” he said, lowering his voice. “One week ago. Had to do it myself.”

  “How’d his wife take it?”

  “Pretty hard. Sometimes this job really sucks.”

  “Where’s Hettie now?”

  “She stayed at the hospital with Mavis.”

  Cal said, “Good thing for us Frye had planned back-up. That was a little too close. He’s a mighty good man. I hope he’ll make it.”

  I tried to lighten things up some. “By the way, Barnes, I owe you an apology for the last time I was here. No hard feelings?”

  Barnes shook his head. “No, but an apology might not be enough for Mavis.” He chuckled sarcastically. “The cousins really got on our case when they found out we’d let somebody escape from here, and I don’t mind admitting it was tough for us to swallow that pill. Since then, I’ve installed a laser beam barrier all around the perimeter. Nobody’s going to get in—or out—of here again without our knowing, but like I said, I can’t answer for Mavis. She owes you one. Big time.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to that. Seeing the questioning look on Cal’s face, and not wanting to explain, I changed the subject. “Cal is certain it was General Turnberry who surprised us. Apparently, Judge Koontz didn’t get rid of all his dwarfs.”

  Barnes asked, “Any idea who the other guy was?”

  Cal shook his head. “No clue, unless he was one of the other five. But how could it have been Turnberry? He was killed in a plane crash, wasn’t he?”

  Barnes poured more coffee all around. “With the kind of planning they detailed, it wouldn’t have been all that difficult. Find a fall guy with the same height and build, pre-planned exchange of dental records, sabotage the plane. Who would know? Accidents happen. What I’m wondering now is how many more of them might still be alive.”

  It was another baffling twist, but one I couldn’t focus on. I kept seeing the animated face of Walt Erikson’s bright little daughter. Too, there was something else crawling like a mole through the cobwebs of my mind; something Cal had said, but I was so tired I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  Barnes started to say something else when his cell phone rang. He jerked it from his pocket. “Barnes.”

  We watched his face while he listened, then took a deep breath and let it all out in a long sigh. He closed the phone and looked at me, tears in his eyes. “That was Mavis. She thinks the boss will pull through. Said to tell you all is forgiven. You kept him from losing too much blood. He’s got a collapsed lung and two cracked ribs, but the lowest wound was below his stomach. He’s going to make it.”

  “Thank God,” Cal said.

  “Hettie’s on her way to headquarters to make a report. Mavis is going to stay there until he’s strong enough to move him to Mayo’s. I hope it won’t be long, either. Vienna isn’t a very healthy place right now.”

  Almost as an afterthought, he added, “Mavis said Koontz’s house burned to the ground. Went up like kindling. Those guys must have planted incendiary devices all over the place. Or maybe the Judge did beforehand. Fail-safe precaution. We have a team already out there, but I doubt they’ll find anything.”

  Cal reached for the brandy bottle and helped himself to another hit for his coffee. “You know what? I think those guys were already in the house waiting for us. It wouldn’t have been hard for them to have some hidden place, maybe in the attic or in the cellar. After all, we crashed the joint pretty much like the Marx brothers, what with lights on, talking out loud, the whole nine yards.”

  Barnes pinched his nose. “Could be, but then they’d have to have had a third party pick them up, right? Timing would have to have been to the second. I guess we’ll never know, one way or the other. Not unless we can find Turnberry. Mavis said Hettie was going to get out an APB on those two guys, but my guess is it’ll be too late. No telling how far away they are by now.”

  We all lapsed into a lethargic silence. Cal picked up his coffee mug and walked to the back door. He stared out at the falling snow for several minutes, then turned back, looking at me. “It adds up to more, Pal: McCarty shoots Tyndall, killing both Koontz’s partner and his time table. You scare the Judge with the phony diaries. In panic, he arranges hits on several people, but not all done by Hemiola. Who else? Our cabin was raided by elite commandos. I was taken to Bragg. Your boat was probably blown up by other Special Forces, too, probably a secret SEALS unit. All military operations. Koontz goes to considerable pains to cover his tracks, worms his way into the Vice Presidency, and then Turnberry shows up. General Turnberry. Why?”

  Then I remembered what Cal had said earlier. “Sergeant Manley had hinted of hush-hush training missions going on at Bragg, too. Current training missions. It’s the Military.”

  “Right,” Cal said, and added his kicker, “Don’t forget, we didn’t have a chance to see what was on that last disc. So, like I said, it adds up to more. A lot more.”

  For several seconds, we stared at each other, neither of us wanting to verbalize what we were thinking. I opened my mouth, as if to deny the revelation we both were having. Cal nodded soberly. I turned abruptly to Barnes, ignoring the quizzical look on his face. “Let me borrow that cell phone, Jason. I’ve got to call the White House.”

  Chapter 28

  Shortly before dawn, f
lanked by a pale Bert Franklin and the agent who had been in charge at her Georgetown house, Helene Fordham stomped into the kitchen like the furious President she was, wearing a sashed sable coat and a matching Russian style hat. She marched right past the others and got in my face. “Damn you, Jeb Willard, you’re getting to be a bigger pain in the ass than my ex. What in hell’s going on? I feel like a college freshman sneaking out of the dorm on a back alley date. Bert practically kidnapped me. If this latest national security problem is so important he had to come barging into my private bedroom to roust me in the middle of the night, why couldn’t I have taken the helicopter? I’d have been here much sooner, and might have even caught two much needed winks of sleep.”

  I raised both hands in genuine self-defense. “I’m really sorry, ma’am, but the Marine helicopter might have been too dangerous. We don’t know who may be controlling its crew.”

  “You want to explain that in one sentence or less?”

  Feeling my own heat rising, I took a deep breath. Blew out my cheeks. “Okay. Bottom line is, the conspiracy was real. Is real. We found out that Judge Koontz and President Tyndall had been planning a military coup. They had a nearly foolproof plan to take over the government. Uh, maybe you should sit down. This is pretty rough stuff.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, and then thought better of it. Her narrowing eyes never left mine while she lowered herself slowly into the chair Cal had eased up behind her. “Go on.”

  I took another deep breath. “Robert McCarty somehow found out about it, probably through Mrs. Tyndall, and shot the President one hour before he and Koontz could make their opening moves. Mac’s action, ugly as it was, stopped what might have been the worst disaster in the history of the United States. Koontz has been frantically covering up ever since I confronted him.”