by Joseph Flynn
Then McGill asked Sweetie and DeWitt for some privacy. He needed to talk to his lawyer about accompanying him on his date with the Committee on Oversight. He called Putnam Shady in Omaha and told him about getting the subpoena.
Putnam said, “Probably a good thing you didn’t shoot the messenger.”
The White House Residence
“You wanted to say fuck it on television?” McGill asked Patti.
“Has more punch than saying to hell with it, and it was what I really thought. When I saw how emaciated I’d let myself get.”
“But you exercised masterful restraint.”
“I save all my best material for you.” McGill was about to reply when Patti held up a hand. “Just a moment, Jim.”
She picked up the remote control for the television. After she had joined McGill in the Hideaway an hour earlier and told him of her moment of near four-letter honesty and, by the way, having Elton Galbreath arrested on a charge of facilitating fraud, she had turned on the television, curious to find out what the media were saying about her.
Two minutes was all she could take before hitting the mute button.
Up and down the dial, media creatures of all political stripes were railing against the arrest of one of their own, a CEO who couldn’t reasonably be expected to know the content of every commercial his network televised. Aggie Wu, speaking for the administration, rebutted that criticism with an elegant socioeconomic equation. “The guy who gets the biggest paycheck bears the greatest responsibility.”
McGill loved that idea.
It was playing well in flash polls, too.
“Galia came up with it,” Patti said.
“Knew I saved her for a reason,” McGill said.
The president swatted him, affectionately.
Disregarding public approval, the media continued to rant that the president was trying to cow the free press.
McGill said, “Not to mention killing the cash cow of TV time sales to political campaigns.”
“The media would call your point of view cynical.”
McGill sneered at the media’s whining hypocrisy.
But when Ethan Judd appeared on screen, the president wanted to hear what he had to say.
The camera was close on Ethan Judd as he said, “Patricia Darden Grant is the most courageous president of my lifetime. She left a political party she believes has lost its way and possibly its sanity. She joined the opposition party, giving it the graft of a spine it so desperately needed.
“While we’re on the subject of medical donations, let’s not forget that she saved a young man’s life by putting her own at risk. When was the last time we had a sitting president who did that? I’ll leave it to our presidential scholars to make that call, but my guess is President Grant was the first to do that, too.
“She’s been a groundbreaker in so many ways. She could have played it safe and chosen a man to replace Mather Wyman, aiming for gender balance, geographical balance and perhaps even someone who parts his hair on the opposite side of his head. She didn’t do any of that. She made history again by choosing Governor Jean Morrissey, another woman, to join her at the pinnacle of the executive branch.
“Not content to leave any trail unblazed for long, the president decided that a campaign for public office does not confer upon a candidate a license to lie about his or her opponent. On the contrary, Patricia Darden Grant maintains that lying to obtain a public office constitutes a fraud because the winning liar is rewarded with the salary and other valuable benefits that come with holding the office in question.
“That legal theory will certainly be tested by the Supreme Court, sooner rather than later, but not before the president’s two nominees to the high court are confirmed. Here again, Patricia Darden Grant moved in a bold way. She nominated a known liberal to be chief justice of the United States. In doing so, she’ll change the direction of the way the Constitution is interpreted for many years to come, countering the steady rightward march we’ve seen since the Nixon administration.
“I applaud the president for both her daring and her bravery. I also want to say this will be my last day at WorldWide News. In my short time here, I’ve done everything I could to build a news organization whose purpose it is to bring the truth to the American people about their government, their country and themselves.
“When I went to work for Sir Edbert Bickford, I was skeptical that things would work out for either of us. To be blunt, I didn’t trust the man. I thought he was too steeped in sensationalism and slanted news to ever change his ways. So my contract allows me to leave at a moment’s notice. All the people I’ve hired at WWN have the same escape clause.”
The camera pulled back to reveal dozens of people surrounding Judd.
“We’ve learned that Sir Edbert has planned to start another news channel. This one would be called WorldWide News in Review. It’s purpose would be to take the reporting we do here and twist it to suit their own partisan agendas. Well, we’re not having it. All the people you see here and many others working for WWN around the world have all resigned.
“The next few moments will be the last any of us toil for this network. So we’d like to take the opportunity to tell anyone out there with a lot of money and even more reverence for honest reporting that there’s a news organization here that’s ready to hit the ground running.
“My one regret about my time at WorldWide News was that I was unable to persuade the president to do an interview with me. She didn’t trust the idea of going on WWN and it turns out she was right. But, Madam President, we’ll find ourselves a new soapbox and my offer stands.
“Thank you all and goodbye for now.”
The image of Judd and his staff faded out.
A ten-year-old documentary on the life of Sir Edbert Bickford started to air.
McGill turned to Patti and said, “I like that guy.”
Patti clicked off the television. “I should have trusted him.”
“Judd, yes. Sir Edbert, never.”
“There’s always someone to slam the president.”
“True. In some cases, it’s even a good thing.”
“Et tu?” Patti asked.
“I did say in some cases. And Judd said he’d be back.”
“Let’s hope it’s before the election,” the president said.
Aboard the Poseidon — Capital Yacht Club
Hugh Collier was summoned by his uncle, Sir Edbert Bickford, to come to his yacht with his passport and a wardrobe for two weeks at sea. Hugh came but he brought neither his passport nor more clothing than the weather and the dictates of fashion demanded. He had no intention of going cruising with a madman.
No bookie in the English-speaking world would take the bet that the evening news hadn’t set the old boy free from the moorings of sanity. Elton Galbreath, a peer in wealth and power, was already in chains, and Sir Edbert had suffered a mutiny.
The man might think he was Captain Bligh by now.
Hugh had watched Ethan Judd’s farewell to WWN. Judd had told him he would be leaving soon — a decision that was made immediately after Hugh had told the eminent newsman of Uncle’s plan to launch WorldWide News in Review.
Hugh wasn’t surprised by Judd’s public love letter to the president. The woman was almost enough to make a gay man concede that being straight had its advantages. What did take Hugh aback was the mass resignation of the news staff.
He’d never have thought Judd or anyone else could inspire so many well-paid professionals to chuck their jobs. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was Judd had already found his next patron. Hugh had set his snoops to find out who that person was.
He made it all the way to the yacht club, though, before he thought of Ellie Booker.
That cunning little minx would know what was happening. She might even —
Hugh stopped ten feet short of the gated jetty to the Poseidon. There was no crew member standing watch. That was akin to Uncle leaving the front door of his Lo
ndon townhouse open to any street beggar who might pass by. Something was surely amiss.
Hugh peered at the gap between the dock and the yacht. Lights from the vessel illuminated dark water. No body floated there. That didn’t mean some poor bastard hadn’t been killed and weighted down before his body was dumped.
Unlike so many of the natives, Hugh didn’t carry a gun in America. At home in Oz, he never felt the need. Most cobbers Down Under still felt they could settle their differences with their fists or, at worst, a blade. In the States, firepower was king.
That thought gave no small measure of concern to Hugh.
Unarmed but unwilling to retreat, he climbed the stairs at the stern of the craft. He tried to spot one of the yacht’s officers or crew. He saw no one. Two-thirds of the way up to the owner’s deck he stopped and looked about. No one was on the main deck below him. No floating bodies were visible from this elevated vantage point. Above him, one small pool of golden light glowed in the grand salon.
Hugh ascended the remaining stairs and stepped into the salon. There was not a soul to be seen. But another light shone softly on the spiral staircase that led up to the sun deck where Sir Edbert had his master suite. The lord of WorldWide News enjoyed starting his days at sea by pressing the control that opened his bedroom curtains and looking out at his female traveling companions as they reclined on lounge chairs and filled in their tan lines.
Sir Edbert was a dirty old man, to be sure, but when you had his kind of money nobody ever complained. Hugh wondered if he might find Uncle dead in his big round bed, having taken some poor unsuspecting bird with him. That would explain the crew having abandoned ship.
He was mildly disappointed to find out he was wrong.
Uncle was there, all right, but he was sitting out on the balcony that adjoined his bedroom. The glowing end of his cigar protruded from his face. Hugh stepped onto the balcony and took the padded chair opposite Sir Edbert. Uncle put his cigar down, but didn’t offer Hugh a drink.
“You’re late,” he said.
“You fire someone, you can’t expect punctuality,” Hugh told him.
Sir Edbert grunted. “You left your luggage below?”
“I didn’t bring any. Didn’t see —”
Poseidon began to move. Dead slow ahead. The crew had come out of hiding.
“You brought your passport?”
“No.”
“You’ve no identification at all?”
“A birthmark on my arse,” Hugh said.
Uncle was not amused. He took a gun out from under a newspaper that rested on his lap. One of the newspapers he owned, of course. He pointed the gun at his nephew.
Hugh smiled. “Now, I understand about the passport. My photograph’s in it. You want to make sure you shoot the right bloke.”
“Shoot you, I shall. But we’ll wait until we leave U.S. waters.”
“Very wise. The water is so much deeper and colder twelve miles out. I don’t suppose you’d consider giving me the chance to swim ashore from that distance.”
Sir Edbert shook his head.
Hugh didn’t beg for his life.
He made himself comfortable, extending his legs, resting his hands on his middle.
“Let me see if I have this right then. I didn’t see anyone as I came aboard … and no one saw me. My luggage and passport are supposed to go into a stateroom. The crew is not to disturb me. I’m upset, no, distraught, about all the corruption I carried out, using your name to bend everyone to my will.”
Sir Edbert looked as if he was trying to kill Hugh by the sheer force of his ire.
“I’ve anticipated this you know,” Hugh said. “Not quite from the very beginning, but once you drove poor Colin Nedby to suicide just because he had the nerve to shag your third ex-wife. The man helped you make millions and … what was his sin? Getting above himself? Finding pleasure with a woman who’d once given you pleasure?”
Sir Edbert’s face darkened. “We were divorced but I wasn’t done with Portia yet.”
“Ah, well. You might have put a notice in one of your newspapers, Uncle.”
The nobleman extended his gun at Hugh. It was can’t-miss distance.
“You won’t shoot me now, Uncle. That would spoil everything. There would be blood, flesh and bone everywhere. The sound of the gun being fired would attract attention. Now, where were we? Oh, yes. Your plan. Once we’re out on blue water, I become despondent and do myself in, going over the side in the bargain. You hit the man-overboard alarm. Like the one so close to your free hand.
“My body is never recovered, of course, because you smoke a cigar, enjoy a drink, do a crossword puzzle for all I know, before you sound the alarm. Poor me, my remains are many miles astern sinking into the deep, being consumed by sharks if you’re lucky.
“Then, my heavens, any number of incriminating documents are found in my luggage. My passport is there, too, because it would be suspicious if it were not. Have I overlooked anything?”
“Only my great satisfaction that you will be the one to pay for my sins,” Sir Edbert said.
Hugh drew his feet closer to the chair.
Sir Edbert rightly saw this as a possible threat.
It was much easier to spring with your legs tucked under you.
“I will shoot you, you know. I’ll take my chances,” he said.
“Of course, you will. I just wanted to lean forward to share a secret.”
“I can hear you from where you are.”
“Very well. Here’s the thing, Uncle. Sorry to spoil your plans for me, but I left documents incriminating you with Ellie Booker. You might think of disposing of her, too, but the problem is you won’t know where to find her. Not in time to stop her from putting your neck on the block.”
“Why would she —”
Sir Edbert found the answer without assistance.
“That’s right, Uncle, money. I paid her. Then there’s the fact that she thinks you’re a miserable old sod. Women are such good judges of character.”
Sir Edbert looked as if he might sink into a pout, except that Hugh got to his feet.
He didn’t try to attack his uncle. He leaned on the balcony railing and watched Poseidon turn toward the sea. The vessel increased its speed but only marginally. She really was a beautiful craft, Ellie’s disparagement of her notwithstanding. Looking out across the river, Hugh saw the East Potomac Tennis Center on the far shore fall slowly astern.
Hugh wasn’t certain how deep the river was at this point, but he did know the Poseidon’s draft fully loaded was nearly thirteen feet. Even another ten feet of depth beyond that would serve his purpose. He’d have to move soon, though. Couldn’t wait for the yacht to pick up much more speed. Wouldn’t do to get sucked into the propellers.
The bloody minded old fool had thought he’d set a trap for Hugh, when all he’d done was —
“Look there, Uncle, I was wrong.” Hugh pointed a hand. “Ellie Booker is right there under that street lamp.”
Sir Edbert Bickford turned his head and that was the last mistake he ever made. Hugh grabbed the front of his shirt and his belt. Threw him off the balcony like a sack of dirty laundry. Hugh matched the splash Sir Edbert made with a landmark on the near shore of the river. Then he hit the man-overboard alarm and dived into the river.
Sir Edbert popped to the surface a moment before Hugh did, but being eighty years old and having experienced the terror of being flung into the sky and falling twenty feet into a cold dark river, he didn’t stay above water for long. Just long enough for Hugh to grab him.
Grab him and take him under.
Like many an Aussie, Hugh was an excellent open water swimmer. He could hold his breath under water for two minutes. In the Potomac he didn’t even have to worry about a great white shark stopping by for a nibble. All he had to do was wait a very few seconds for Uncle to suck in half his body weight in river water. Count to ten just to make sure. And surface, his heroic rescue attempt a tragic failure.
Eme
rgency lights now flashed aboard the Poseidon.
Sirens began to clamor along both shorelines.
Help would arrive momentarily. Hugh cradled Uncle’s head above water.
First impressions were so important.
Not having had the need to wrestle with so weak a specimen as Uncle, Hugh was sure he’d left no bruises on the body. There was no one who could say what had occurred under the river’s surface. No way to say he’d done anything except try to save the life of Sir Edbert Bickford.
He wasn’t sure what had happened to Uncle’s gun.
No matter. His fingerprints weren’t on it.
He looked at Uncle’s face. Silly old sod.
Hugh had warned him he wouldn’t be made a scapegoat.
7
May, 2012
Committee on Oversight Hearing Room — U.S. Capitol
The formal name of the body before which McGill was called upon to testify was the United States House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform. Its chairman, Representative Warren Rockland (Republican, 49th District of California), had a power unique in the House. He could issue a subpoena without a committee vote. In recent decades, the committee’s chairmen had refrained from using that authority.
When Rockland took over, he reveled in its use.
He enjoyed banging his gavel, too.
Editorial cartoonists often drew him wearing a crown.
McGill’s subpoena instructed him to be present at nine a.m. He and Putnam Shady arrived fifteen minutes early. McGill wore a navy blue suit, white shirt and marigold tie. Putnam went with a gray suit, blue shirt and red tie.
“So it’ll be easier to tell us apart,” Putnam said.
Henry Davis, the young careerist who’d served McGill his summons, stood behind the lower of the two tiers where the chairman and the committee members would ensconce themselves. Rockland’s seat was front row center. His chair was slightly more thronelike than the others. In a moment of adolescent fantasy, McGill wished he could put a Whoopee cushion on it.
