The Jefferson Allegiance by Bob Mayer

Author:Bob Mayer
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-09-26T04:00:00+00:00

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The Blackhawk helicopter flew up the Hudson River, Manhattan to the right, and the Palisades to the left. The pilots had it low, fifty feet above the surface of the dark water. In the back, Burns stared at Turnbull who was talking on the satellite link. Turnbull had been on the link since they left the FBI field station in Baltimore after catching a few hours of sleep on cots.

Burns was waiting. He was good at waiting. He’d watched Turnbull texting at certain times. He knew about the secure burst text mode the top levels of the FBI were now using; in fact, he’d been part of the FBI Task Force assigned to test the program.

Turnbull pushed the off button and began to make another call. Burns reached over and grabbed the man’s wrist. “Evie Tolliver’s file?”

Turnbull gave him an irritated look. “Tolliver isn’t a suspect.”

“She’s part of this, like Ducharme. I need to know about her.”

Turnbull stared at him for a few seconds, his face unreadable. “Fine. I’ll Bluetooth it to your satphone.”

As Turnbull worked the keys on his phone, Burns pushed a button on the back of his. There was a beep as the information was downloaded. And that wasn’t all that was being transmitted-- Turnbull might have the latest technology, but that didn’t mean he knew all its possible uses. Not only was Burns’s phone getting the data, it was sending a virus into Turnbull’s phone.

The download finished, Turnbull turned away and went back to talking on his phone.

Burns checked his satphone. It had copied not only the file, but the text-burst encryption on Turnbull’s satphone perfectly. With the virus he’d sent, any text message that went to Turnbull’s satphone, would now also go to Burns’s.

Burns put the satphone to his ear. He checked in with his office, then, using keywords, scanned the terrorist alert network summary FBI put out every morning. High profile new cases were listed first. He scrolled through the list, pausing when he read about the death of Admiral Groves in Annapolis. A blade had been used. The man had been cut, his office ransacked. Burns called the FBI officer in charge and asked if anything was missing: a flag.

The murderer had struck again. He looked at Turnbull, who seemed most unconcerned.

He went back to his phone. The FBI officer told him they had two, more recent, deaths in Philadelphia that had already been linked by FBI as probably committed by the same person: the first might have been listed as a suicide except for the blade wounds—and a new wrinkle, a burn—on a retired General Parker of the American Philosophical Society. And the throat cut on another Air Force officer, Major Elizabeth Peters.

Burns sighed. Another trophy for the murderer: this time a painting was missing from the office Parker worked in as the executive secretary for the APS. A painting of Alexander Hamilton. And a rare, valuable painting of Thomas Jefferson had been slashed to ribbons. A sign of rage, Burns thought. The killer was getting frustrated.

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