Driving through, he entered a long avenue lined with elm trees, where closed-circuit cameras followed him at intervals, like the pivoting heads of watchful owls, until the convertible reached the grounds of a big white mansion house to join the array of other models already present.
At the entrance, two guards in identical immaculate blue uniforms scrutinised him as he walked towards them, their fingers of their right hands snaking around the triggers of their shoulder-hung M-16 assault rifles. One of them stepped out to block Donovan’s path.
‘Halt, sir! No further will you advance on this path.’
Tremaine smiled, instantly recognising the cue for tonight’s password. ‘Moore’s Creek Bridge,’ he recited.
On recognition of the title given to one of the most prolific battles of the revolutionary war, the guard bowed his head and stepped aside. ‘You may advance, patriot brother.’
Inside the house, Tremaine paced through the hallway, where waiters and waitresses scuttled around carrying trays of champagne flutes. Entering into a grand hall, Tremaine stood at the top of the staircase leading down to the highly-polished elm floor. At the side of the hall, tables laden with a buffet of food and several crystal glass punch bowls beckoned invitingly. Men in suits and women in evening gowns stood against them, as they sampled the offerings and shared jovial conversation. On the walls, oil paintings of famous battle scenes, including the one from which this evening’s password had been devised, hung like windows into the (almost two-hundred-year-old) past.
As Tremaine descended, he was greeted by a cluster of men. Instead of shaking their hands, each in turn clenched their right fist as one by one, they linked with the senator’s knuckles, ensuring that the identical rings worn by all of them, ‘kissed’ on the chant of ‘patriot brother’.
Half an hour later, a gong was sounded. Two big oak doors opened at the far end of the hall and, taking leave of the women, the men in the hall began to file into a large drawing room.
Circling the long table, they took their seats, staring at the Betsy Ross flag of independence that shrouded… something. At each place, a glistening curved Wilkinson dress sword was laid down, pointing towards the centre of the table. On each sword was the surname of the man who sat before it. Next to each weapon, pewter goblets had been filled with red wine.
The men chatted idly to each other, mutterings of what could possibly be under the flag in front of them. Then, as the gong was sounded again, the room fell to an abrupt silence and all heads turned towards a man at the end of the table. He was sitting in front of a large stone statue of an eagle; a genuine Mohawk lance was gripped inside its curled talons.
The man had a gaunt face and was bald, with a high forehead, reflecting deep intelligence. He surveyed each of the men with equal reverence, knowing that their loyalty had been tested.
He clutched the hilt of his sword.
‘My brother patriots, I have called this meeting to update you all on Operation Liberty Roost. As you are all aware, the president will be called to appear in front of Congress any day now, which could well lead to his impeachment over the Watergate affair. Therefore, we have to move fast to establish our objective in case a new president be appointed.’
The man turned to Tremaine. ‘Brother Donovan. Please can you give your brother patriots an update on the progress of Liberty Roost?’
Tremaine rose from the table and touched the sword with his name engraved on it. ‘Brother patriots. Phase one of Liberty Roost has been executed. The British are currently investigating the murder of their officer in London. I have also been informed, by our British patriot brother, the police have acquired the help of the ministry of defence and more disturbingly, Alex Swan of their services investigations department. Now, we are all aware of who this man is.’ Tremaine observed nods and low-toned comments around the room; all heads then turned to an empty seat. Before it lay a sword, engraved with the name Maitland. ‘Therefore, we are going to have to act quickly with phase two. We have hired the services of the mercenary unit and all is a go. The final phase is also in operation with our brother patriot, Mike Murphy, on his way to the Mediterranean with the submarine. I still fear Swan could be a problem. Brother patriot, Nick Everard, has already run into him in London, when he met with the mercenary. He is a friend of a man named Clinton Sanger, with whom Nick used to work. It has always been believed that Sanger first put Swan onto our society. Sanger is ex-CIA, and now works in the archive office at our embassy in London.’
Tremaine reached into his jacket, extracting a piece of folded notepaper. ‘Swan could well be a liability. He is ex-MI5, recently married, and seems to have a lot of friends in high places.’ He held the paper up. ‘Question is, what do we do about him? I don’t think he can be bought. Which leaves us with two other options. We use his wife as collateral for his silence, or we eliminate him.’ Tremaine touched the sword again and sat back in his seat.
The man in front of the statue took some time to write on a notepad. ‘Thank you, brother patriot. I will look into this and see what action is best to take.’ He then rose from the chair and reached out for his sword, again placing his hand on the hilt. ‘Now, my brother patriots, it is time for us all to share in this moment.’ He stretched out and pulled at the flag to reveal a scale model of a large military airfield, with two long runways, taxiways, hardened aircraft shelters, municipal buildings and barrack blocks. ‘I give you the Eagle’s Roost, our proposed super-base near Alanici, in northern Cyprus.’
Everyone stood up to view the model and appreciative comments circulated the room. This was what Liberty Roost was all about and now viewing it, Tremaine knew that his part in this objective was crucial. The Turks would also need to agree to it.
At the end of the meeting, all brother patriots raised their swords and in unison chanted their familiar four words. Four words that formed a motto chanted since the inauguration of a secret society. A society that would work continuously to see its nation would forever prevail. Allegiance to the end.
On exiting the estate, Tremaine drove the Pontiac along the road that ran alongside the Chattahoochee River. As he headed through the dense, dark, elm canopy, he made his own decision about the nagging problem that had been chipping away inside his head since first hearing the man’s name. On arriving home to his ranch, he would contact his man in London to arrange another assassination. There was only one thing for it. For Liberty Roost to succeed, Alex Swan would have to die.
Arthur Gable sat alone in the office. It was one of those rare times. With Swan and his wife in Portugal, he had promised them he would carry on with the Danvers business at this end. He was now convinced that Menendez had an accomplice in London. How else would she have been able to gain entry to a high-profile, high security function?
As he lifted his third cup of tea to his lips, he scanned the list of guests again. Where are you? He knew that they were there somewhere. He also considered the possibility that it could be someone not on the list — an employee. He ruled out Simms the barman, as he was more than helpful. The notes that the ex-detective had made while interviewing the young man were now in front of Gable.
He checked through them again, trying to find something that may jump out of the page at him.. However, he had already gone over them time and again, and there seemed to be nothing else to find.
He glanced through the names again. Having dismissed the VIPs from being involved, had he missed something?
A few hours later, Gable rose from his desk to put on the kettle. He noticed his back creaked and his legs were stiff as hepaced over to the kitchen. He knew he was getting old. Maybe he was now too old for this job? After all, he had been doing it for almost thirteen years.