what you’re thinking,” Jefferson said. “You’re thinking what you hold is no great matter. That it would never be enacted. I hope that is true. But it is the ultimate check against a President who seeks to be King, and against your Cincinnatians or any group like it.”
Hamilton rolled up the parchment. He tucked it under his arm and stood. “When I bring it back, and then your people and you sign it, what is to be done with it?”
“Let me worry about that. I will have people appointed to be caretakers. People that can be trusted with such power, desiring none of their own. People that can keep a secret.”
Hamilton laughed. “Remember what old Benjamin said about people keeping secrets. Three might if two are dead.”
Jefferson met his adversary’s eyes. “Let us hope it does not come to that.”
Hamilton gave the half-smile that Jefferson had always interpreted as the man thinking he held the winning hand. Perhaps he did, Jefferson allowed as Hamilton departed. But there was more to Jefferson’s plan for the Allegiance than he had told Hamilton.
Jefferson laughed. And given Hamilton’s insistence, it had a new, simpler name:
The Jefferson Allegiance.
Chapter Four
Deep inside FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue, Ducharme stared without expression at the two men across the table from him. They had been asking questions for a half hour, and in that time he had not uttered a single word in response. While they prattled on with their useless inquiries, he was trying to concentrate. To understand what was happening. As he had been programmed to do in harsh military training, he separated emotion from mission and kept the beast raging in his chest on a leash, as this was neither the time nor the place to let it out.
The door behind the two officers opened, and Special Agent Burns walked in holding a bulky manila envelope. Burns leaned over and whispered into the ear of one of the agents who had been asking the stupid questions.
Reluctantly, and with angry glances, the two junior men left. Burns stared at Ducharme for over a minute. Then he said in a voice that was level and emotionless. “They told me you haven’t said a word.”
Ducharme returned the gaze.
“I’m in charge of this investigation.”
Ducharme remained silent.
“You’ve been advised of your rights, correct?”
Ducharme said nothing.
Burns sat down across from Ducharme, pulling out a small spiral notepad. He flipped the cover open. “You are Colonel Paul Ducharme, United States Army. Apparently. According to your identification card and uniform. However, when I queried our Army liaison on the highest priority, I was told you don’t exist. That means you’re not who you say you are, or you’re deep in covert operations.”
Ducharme said nothing.
“If you are covert ops, you were trained not to say anything when interrogated,” Burns added. “Probably Level Three SERE training at Fort Bragg. Correct?”
Ducharme crossed his arms over his chest. He’d gone through the Survival-Evasion-Resistance-Escape training at Bragg years ago. The FBI were amateurs compared to the ‘interrogations’ the instructors in SERE put the high-risk-of-capture students in Level Three through.
Putting down the notepad, Burns reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a switchblade, which he flicked open. He began to slice the skin off of an apple with one long, slow, spiral, as he glanced once more at the notepad.
“I checked out your gun. MK-twenty-three pistol, but one that is specially modified—a military Special Operations version, the Mod O. Built-in laser sighting, trigger pull’s been lightened, serial number gone, top of the line suppressor. Those big, bad forty-five caliber rounds. A lot of punch even when subsonic. Not something you pick up at your local gun show. In fact, the modified MK-twenty-three is illegal outside of Special Operations.” A piece of apple skin fell to the table.
“The vehicle your
Hamilton rolled up the parchment. He tucked it under his arm and stood. “When I bring it back, and then your people and you sign it, what is to be done with it?”
“Let me worry about that. I will have people appointed to be caretakers. People that can be trusted with such power, desiring none of their own. People that can keep a secret.”
Hamilton laughed. “Remember what old Benjamin said about people keeping secrets. Three might if two are dead.”
Jefferson met his adversary’s eyes. “Let us hope it does not come to that.”
Hamilton gave the half-smile that Jefferson had always interpreted as the man thinking he held the winning hand. Perhaps he did, Jefferson allowed as Hamilton departed. But there was more to Jefferson’s plan for the Allegiance than he had told Hamilton.
Jefferson laughed. And given Hamilton’s insistence, it had a new, simpler name:
The Jefferson Allegiance.
Chapter Four
Deep inside FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue, Ducharme stared without expression at the two men across the table from him. They had been asking questions for a half hour, and in that time he had not uttered a single word in response. While they prattled on with their useless inquiries, he was trying to concentrate. To understand what was happening. As he had been programmed to do in harsh military training, he separated emotion from mission and kept the beast raging in his chest on a leash, as this was neither the time nor the place to let it out.
The door behind the two officers opened, and Special Agent Burns walked in holding a bulky manila envelope. Burns leaned over and whispered into the ear of one of the agents who had been asking the stupid questions.
Reluctantly, and with angry glances, the two junior men left. Burns stared at Ducharme for over a minute. Then he said in a voice that was level and emotionless. “They told me you haven’t said a word.”
Ducharme returned the gaze.
“I’m in charge of this investigation.”
Ducharme remained silent.
“You’ve been advised of your rights, correct?”
Ducharme said nothing.
Burns sat down across from Ducharme, pulling out a small spiral notepad. He flipped the cover open. “You are Colonel Paul Ducharme, United States Army. Apparently. According to your identification card and uniform. However, when I queried our Army liaison on the highest priority, I was told you don’t exist. That means you’re not who you say you are, or you’re deep in covert operations.”
Ducharme said nothing.
“If you are covert ops, you were trained not to say anything when interrogated,” Burns added. “Probably Level Three SERE training at Fort Bragg. Correct?”
Ducharme crossed his arms over his chest. He’d gone through the Survival-Evasion-Resistance-Escape training at Bragg years ago. The FBI were amateurs compared to the ‘interrogations’ the instructors in SERE put the high-risk-of-capture students in Level Three through.
Putting down the notepad, Burns reached into a coat pocket and pulled out a switchblade, which he flicked open. He began to slice the skin off of an apple with one long, slow, spiral, as he glanced once more at the notepad.
“I checked out your gun. MK-twenty-three pistol, but one that is specially modified—a military Special Operations version, the Mod O. Built-in laser sighting, trigger pull’s been lightened, serial number gone, top of the line suppressor. Those big, bad forty-five caliber rounds. A lot of punch even when subsonic. Not something you pick up at your local gun show. In fact, the modified MK-twenty-three is illegal outside of Special Operations.” A piece of apple skin fell to the table.
“The vehicle your
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