Swan interrupted. ‘So this is what formed The Eagle’s Lance. An alliance between native Indians and Washington’s forces?’
‘Not exactly,’ corrected Sanger. ‘GW was totally against using any of the native tribes to fight in the war, and outlawed any such practices. Sanderson was a true patriot, and after the British were defeated, he murdered Kee-Haw, or got one of his men to do it. But, as he had managed to keep his organisation secret from Washington, he continued with it and used it so that at any future time when the United States was threatened in any way, The Eagle’s Lance would act to ensure that the country was protected. On Sanderson’s death, he passed on a legacy for it to continue. In the Civil War, The Eagle’s Lance were on the side of the Union, using terrorist tactics to plant bombs and give misinformation to Lee’s forces. During World War One, The Eagle’s Lance were said to have communicated with the German Navy, informing them that US passenger ships were being used to secretly transport ammunitions to England. The U.S wanted to be in this war, so The Eagle’s Lance made sure it happened by setting up those ships for torpedo attacks. There are even strong rumors that The Eagle’s Lance were behind the failed coup to assassinate Hitler at the Wolf’s Lair in Rastenburg, by granting the German traitors asylum in the United States, should they be successful. A secret meeting has said to have taken place with US commanders and high ranking German officers of the Wehrmacht to arrange it.’
‘This all sounds a bit like the Mohawk affair all over again,’ added Swan.
‘Exactly that, Alex. Since then, who knows what these guys have been doing to defend our country from any other threats?’
Swan asked a question. ‘So this man with the ring? Frank Maitland his name is. If he is a member of The Eagle’s Lance would he be up at Brinton Aviation for a reason, let’s say to sabotage a British aircraft project in favour of an American one?’
‘I take it you mean threatening the BR-101, to ensure your government scrap it and take the FB-X instead? Yes, I would consider that a possibility, and in the true tradition of the way The Eagle’s Lance work, our government would have no clue as to what was going on.’
Swan smirked at the prospect. He suddenly began to realise what he had been missing from his puzzle. ‘Clinton, you have been a true Godsend in this investigation. Thank God you gave up the CIA to manage your London embassy’s archives.’
Sanger halted and gave his old friend a sincere and concerned stare. ‘Alex, when your president suddenly gets assassinated on your own soil, then you gotta ask yourself what else is your own nation capable of? No pal, I resigned from The Company because I had no idea who exactly to trust in it anymore.’
Swan agreed and they walked on. ‘That is exactly why I met with you today,’ he remarked.
Sanger stopped again, abruptly taking hold of Swan’s arm. ‘One thing, Alex. The motto of The Eagle’s Lance is: Allegiance to the End. Be careful buddy, these guys stop at nothing to fulfill their aims. And I mean nothing!’
They eventually arrived at the café on Binney Street. In that short walk from the embassy, the SID man had acquired a wealth of new knowledge.
At Brinton, Jake Brannigan took another puff on his cigarette as he watched the busy scene fifty yards before him. Blue suited technicians were climbing on the first Rapier, preparing the machine for the flight down to RAF Pembridge. Various hoses and cables went into every available orifice of the aircraft as fuel, auxiliary power leads, and hydraulic fluid were injected into it.
The Texan dropped the finished butt of his cigarette and stepped on it, then stood studying the aircraft. His attention was drawn to the cockpit. A technician sat in the pilot’s ejector seat checking systems and then marking a form on his clipboard. Brannigan studied the movements of the technician who now moved towards a black box clipped to the side of the windshield.
He held a few breaths as the technician looked around the box and pushed a few buttons on the front control panel. Then he relaxed with a silent sigh, as the technician climbed out of the cockpit onto the mobile service platform, and then climbed into the navigator’s cockpit to continue with the systems checks.
Satisfied, Brannigan left the scene and walked back towards Hangar One, smiling to himself as he picked up the pace.
Behind him, he failed to notice another technician leaning on the service platform, who leaned in and spoke up to his colleague in the cockpit. ‘Bloody Yanks. They think they own the place, don’t they Tommy?’
Tommy gave his colleague the thumbs up sign in agreement.
‘Did you see the way that he stood staring at us while smoking his bloody Marlboro? He was probably worried that we might damage this bloody pod of theirs.’ The technician raised his leg and kicked the Python Hawk pod attached to the under fuselage pylon of the Rapier. Tommy looked over, suddenly surprised to hear a clanking sound, as if his colleague had just kicked a hollow shell. He shrugged then went on to complete his checks. ‘Well, everything checks out here. Time for some lunch, I reckon.’ Tommy clambered out of the cockpit and the two men gestured to their colleagues, working on other areas of the aircraft, of their intentions to go to the canteen. They all put down tools and clipboards and joined as a group to walk to the canteen building. Tommy decided to take a curious look back, and then again wondered why the Python Hawk pod had made that sound.
Inspector Lake sat at his desk, looking over the medical report on Brinton’s Chief Designer. He took a cigarette from the packet on his desk and lit it. ‘What are you hiding, Mr Barnett?’ he asked, to no-one in particular. He read through the contents and then suddenly stopped, got up from his desk and went over to a large brown filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. He searched through the files, then put his head up to look across at another plain clothes officer writing at his desk. ‘Excuse me, Charlie, I can’t seem to find the James McGregor file anywhere. Any ideas?’ Charlie Rusby, a young Detective Sergeant, looked up at him. ‘That was commandeered by Scotland Yard a few days ago, Guv.’ Rusby opened a notebook on his desk. ‘There, it was signed out by a Mr Carter.’
‘Mister?’ Lake replied, inquisitively.
‘Apparently, he just spoke to the Super and was given the file.’
Lake barked. ‘Just like that, no questions asked?’
‘No sir,’ replied Rusby sheepishly.
Lake thought for a few moments then slammed the drawer to the filing cabinet shut. ‘Scotland Yard, my backside. This is Special Branch, or it could even be the bloody Secret Service. He returned to his desk and picked up the medical report again. Then shouted across the room. ‘What the bloody hell is going on up at Brinton’s?’
Swan put down the phone after a long talk with Barnett, and stared across his office to the blackboard. He felt jubilant.
‘Got you, you bastard!’ Now wearing a vicious grin on his face, he sat down at his desk and placed some paper into the top of his typewriter, then with his fingers stretched out, he hit the letter keys. Five minutes later, he put on his jacket and checked his watch. He then reached into a wood cabinet to retrieve a small camera, but also noticed something else in the cupboard, and reached in and grabbed his colleague’s Webley .38 caliber revolver, sitting in its holster. He placed both the holstered pistol and the camera in his inside jacket pocket then left the office, walked into Whitehall, and hailed a passing black cab.