by Joseph Flynn
Davis directed other staffers in the placement of documents, coasters, glasses and pitchers of what McGill hoped was water. The young political climber avoided meeting McGill’s eyes.
“He’s probably still sore I told Elspeth to shoot him,” McGill said to Putnam.
“A subject that might arise this morning,” Putnam replied.
Good lawyer that he was, Putnam had checked out Davis down to his childhood vaccinations. He’d had them all. Had no criminal record. Graduated from Emerson College with honors. But in a college newspaper column Davis had been given a title: Most Likely to Piss People Off.
Anybody wanted to bring up McGill’s little joke, Putnam was ready with the reply.
McGill and Putnam had done four hours of prep work. Both of them felt ready to deal with hostile questioning. Of course, it helped that the president had promised pardons to both of them if Rockland started throwing contempt charges around.
Neither of them wanted things to come to that, though.
McGill’s testimony was already a piece of political theater.
The committee room was filled with newsies and cameras. Nobody was bothering McGill or Putnam at the moment. They’d wait until the end of the hearing and then pounce. Asking questions bearing on politics rather than substance.
In the lull before the storm, Putnam whispered to McGill, “Margaret was trying on a number of daring fashions when I got home, and by daring I mean things that made me think to call a cardiologist.”
McGill smiled. “Yeah. She’s something, isn’t she?”
“She told me her fashion choices were work related.”
“They are.” McGill paused, then asked, “Has she ever told you about the undercover work we did in Chicago?”
Putnam gave McGill a long look. “No.”
“There was nothing inappropriate between us, ever. But she left quite a few bad guys with their heads spinning. Within the bounds of department policy and her moral precepts, of course.”
Putnam considered that. “The good-girl-bad-girl dynamic must have been mind bending.”
“Pretty much.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing more of it,” Putnam said, “but not at the risk of any harm coming to Margaret.”
McGill told him. “I don’t love Sweetie the same way you do, but I have loved her longer. I’m happy the two of you are happy. We’re doing everything we can to keep everyone safe.”
Putnam nodded. “I’d probably be a nervous wreck if I’d known both of you sooner.”
McGill was tempted to tell Putnam to talk to Carolyn about that, but he didn’t want to make any comparison that might call his lawyer’s masculinity into question. He looked at his watch and said, “We’re already running five minutes late.”
“The chairman is letting us know whose time is more important.” Changing the subject, Putnam asked, “Did you see Ethan Judd’s last moments on WWN?”
McGill beamed. “I did. I thought he was great. I hope he lands a new job soon.”
“He has,” Putnam said.
McGill understood the implication. “You had something to do with it?”
“I tried to make the best use of my time in Omaha. I got to know Darren Drucker quite well. His first job was delivering newspapers for the Washington Post. A humble beginning for the third richest man in the world. Before I’d even heard about Ethan Judd’s dissatisfaction with Sir Edbert, I suggested to Darren he might want to return to the media business on a larger scale.”
“So you didn’t see Judd staying at WWN long?” McGill said.
“No, and Darren liked the job Judd was doing. I put a call into Judd to let him know Darren was interested. Things couldn’t have worked out better. Darren hired a whole news organization.”
McGill nodded. “The president hoped Judd would get back to work before the election. Thanks for the help.”
“I do what … well, I do what I think Margaret would like to see from me.”
“She’ll like this.” McGill looked at his watch again. The inquisition was now running fifteen minutes late. He got to his feet and told Putnam, “Anyone wants to know where I am, tell them I have a small bladder.”
“Rockland won’t be happy if you’re not here.”
“Good,” McGill said.
Men’s Room — U.S. Capitol
McGill had just finished drying his hands when his cell phone rang. He’d deliberately left it on, hoping it might interrupt questions the committee would be directing at him. He intended to answer the call and ask the chairman to give him just a minute.
Putnam had been unable to find any precedent of a presidential spouse being called to testify before Congress for anything other than ceremonial reasons. McGill felt he owed it to those who would come after him to make Congress think long and hard before they dragged any future henchman or First Lady into its midst.
Byron DeWitt was calling. “We found the Buick Enclave that Todd and his friends bought in Virginia.”
“Where was it?” McGill asked. He was sure DeWitt was only beginning his narrative. There had to be a greater reason for him to call than to report the recovery of a stolen vehicle.
“Mexico. Todd and his friends were down in Baja doing wing-suit flying.”
Okay. That was a new one on McGill.
“Which is what exactly?” he asked.
DeWitt told him.
“You jump out of plane in a flying squirrel suit?” McGill asked.
“Great fun,” DeWitt said.
The deputy director was from Southern California, a good thing as it turned out.
“The flying instructor south of the border goes by the name of Jaime Martinez. We’re looking to interview him. In the meantime, we checked a number of jump clubs on our side of the border. We found a woman by the name of Angeline Woods who gives skydiving lessons near Palm Springs. She picked Todd, Crosby and Anderson out of separate six-packs. Said Todd was a beginner but learned fast, was careful and polite. She said Crosby and Anderson had more experience than she did but were complete assholes.”
DeWitt told McGill about the two CIA loons playing a game of chicken by seeing who’d wait longer to pull his ripcord.
“That’s seriously crazy,” McGill said.
“Well, all these guys broke out of the Funny Farm.”
“Yeah, a point to remember.”
“And now we know they might plan to parachute in — somewhere.”
McGill was impressed by the work the FBI had done.
He complimented DeWitt.
“We have a lot of people working on this case, and we’re spending money by the ton.”
“You’ve got the budget for that?” McGill asked.
The deputy director of the FBI laughed. “It’s all going on the CIA’s tab.”
Committee on Oversight Hearing Room — U.S. Capitol
A Capitol Hill cop reached for McGill’s arm as he entered the room. The guy, who had a good ten years on McGill, told him sotto voce, “The chairman’s ordered you to be placed in custody on sight.”
McGill kept his voice down, too. “You try it and I’ll have to hurt you.”
He wasn’t going to allow himself to be arrested in front of all the cameras in the room.
Talk about setting a bad precedent.
The Capitol Hill cop understood immediately that the threat was not an idle one.
He pulled his hand back.
McGill told him, “I’ll buy you a beer the first chance I get.”
Chairman Rockland gave the intimidated cop a dirty look. Then he curled his lip at McGill. “So glad you could finally join us, Mr. McGill.”
“I was here on time. When you weren’t here by nine-fifteen, I took the opportunity to visit the men’s room.”
Putnam didn’t miss a syllable, but he kept his face impassive.
He’d intervene only when necessary.
McGill was sworn in, his testimony now being under oath, and he sat down.
“Do you have any further reas
on to delay the work of this committee?” Rockland asked him.
McGill said, “I’m not sure why the committee wants to see me at all.”
There were forty members of the committee, Putnam had told him, twenty-three Republicans, seventeen Democrats. Looked like just about the whole gang had come to see him, too. Flattering in a perverse way, he supposed.
He hoped no one would ask for an autograph.
Rockland said, “We are the chief investigative committee of the Congress.”
“I understand that, Representative Rockland. What escapes me is why you’re interested in me. Perhaps I can save all of us some time and tell you right now I won’t have anything to say that involves any communication between my wife and me. I also won’t have anything to say about any communication between my lawyer, Mr. Shady, and me. Both types of communication are privileged, as I’m sure you know.”
Rockland curled his right hand into a fist and used his thumb to tap the table.
McGill counted five taps before the chairman spoke.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to waive either form of privilege, Mr. McGill.”
“I would not, sir.”
“You think you’re really smart, don’t you?” Rockland asked. “You think you’ve found a way around Federal Election Commission rules and the Supreme Court’s ruling that political campaigns and political action committees not coordinate their efforts.”
McGill ignored the allegation and responded to Rockland’s characterization of him, “As far as my intelligence is concerned, I did passably well in school and have received a number of professional commendations.”
“Your manner is impertinent, sir.”
“And yours is imperious.”
Rockland leaned forward, his face red. “I represent the power of the federal government, Mr. McGill.”
“But not well in my opinion. You were elected the last three times by a plurality in one of four hundred and thirty-five Congressional districts. In electoral terms, you arrived at your present position by receiving the votes of about one one-thousandth of the American voting public. I would think that a man in your position would approach his job with a great deal of humility. But I’m not getting that feeling from you, Representative Rockland.”
The man’s thumb was tapping the table furiously now.
“My title is Chairman Rockland,” he finally said.
“Yes, sir,” McGill replied, putting more than a little smartass into his tone.
Rockland was momentarily speechless but his number two, Representative Marvin Nokes, Republican of the 1st District of Kansas, said, “You’re more than impertinent, Mr. McGill. You’re insolent. Do you think we can’t slap you with a contempt of Congress citation?”
“No, Representative Nokes, I don’t think that at all. But I do have a question.”
The gentleman from Kansas didn’t care to hear what it might be.
But Representative Diana Kaline, Democrat of the 5th District of Michigan, asked, “What’s your question, Mr. McGill?”
By parliamentary rules, both Nokes and Kaline should have been recognized by the chairman before speaking, but Warren Rockland looked like he was busy fighting off an aneurysm.
McGill replied, “Why is it, Representative Kaline, that any American who comes before Congress may be cited for contempt of this body but members of Congress can’t be cited for contempt of the American people? Isn’t that an inequity that needs to be addressed, quickly?”
Putnam kept a straight face. McGill had thrown out their script from the beginning, had been ad-libbing the whole time. But Putnam was enjoying the show, and wanted to see how it ended.
Representative Kaline played along for one thing.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. McGill. What would the grounds be to cite Congress for contempt of the American people?”
Not wanting to hear the answer to that question, now or ever, Chairman Rockland grabbed his gavel and pounded the table with a fury the late Keith Moon would have envied.
When the din subsided, a purple-faced Rockland said, “The gentlelady from Michigan is out of order. That question will not be answered. The witness is dismissed. Mr. McGill, you may leave.”
McGill said, “Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”
Comfort House — Arlington, Virginia
Damon Todd took the advice of Crosby and Anderson and cut off contact with any of his special friends. They would neither be taking shelter with them nor tapping any of their bank accounts. The three of them would have to get by on the quarter-million dollars they had on hand and would stay in public accommodations that valued and provided privacy for their clientele.
Comfort House catered to gay men who worked in both government and the private sector who were not yet ready to be forthcoming about their true natures. Many of the guests recognized each other. None of them said a word. All of them felt secure that none of the militant organizations that took pride in opening closet doors would dare expose them.
“Why is that?” Todd asked after hearing the first part of the story.
Crosby said, “Guy who owns the place is not only gay he’s a snake eater.”
Todd looked puzzeld. He wondered if —
Anderson recognized the misconception. “Not a figurative snake eater, a real one. Special forces. When they have to live off the land, they’ll eat anything. The hardcore guys don’t even bother cooking their serpents. Just skin’em and chomp’em down raw.”
“Snake does not taste like chicken,” Crosby said.
Todd knew better by now than to ask if Crosby’s knowledge came from personal dining experience. Instead, he said, “The innkeeper has let it be known he’s not a man to cross?”
Crosby and Anderson just smiled. They were sharing a room. Todd had one to himself, with a connecting door. At the moment, they were sitting in Todd’s room. A complimentary copy of the Washington Post lay open to the Style section. A photo of Chana Lochlan and Margaret Sweeney graced the front page.
Each woman wore a form fitting dress with a slit up the side that ran from mid-thigh to the tops of their three-inch heels. Thus shod, both stood taller than six feet. Each of them looked like she could drop and snap off fifty pushups in less than a minute.
Ms. Lochlan was described as an award-winning television journalist about to embark on a ten-city speaking tour. Ms. Sweeney was said to be a partner in the Washington, D.C. private detective agency McGill Investigations, Inc., owned by James J. McGill, husband of the president of the United States.
For those who were interested, a list of the cities and sites where Ms. Lochlan would be speaking was provided.
Todd, Crosby and Anderson had all read the article more than once.
Anderson was particularly interested in the photo of Sweetie.
“Wouldn’t have minded bumping into her when I dropped by her place.”
Not having had that opportunity, Anderson contented himself hiding half a dozen of the latest generation of miniature webcams around the townhouse. He was kicking himself now that he hadn’t put one in the bathroom.
Todd told him, “She looks different these days.”
The two former spooks looked at him.
“You’ve seen her in the flesh?” Anderson asked.
“In running shorts and a singlet. She passed me on the jogging path that encircles the National Mall. At the time, I thought she looked like the woman in the Apple computers commercial, the one who shattered the image of Big Brother.”
Crosby and Anderson looked at each other. They’d missed that cultural milestone. The omission was quickly remedied by an iPad search of YouTube. All three men watched closely. The viewing reconfirmed Todd in his opinion; the actress looked like Margaret Sweeney.
Anderson looked back to the newspaper photo.
“You’re right,” he told Todd. “I see the difference, too.”
Todd had the feeling he was about to be the butt of another joke.
Still, he asked, “What do you see?�
��
“First, you’re right about the resemblance. But the broad in the commercial is carrying a sledge hammer. Margaret Sweeney on the other hand is wearing a wedding ring.”
Todd turned his attention to the photo. He hadn’t noticed it before, but Anderson was right. Sweeney was wearing a ring. It was understated but it was there. Marriage could often have a profound influence on —
“Getting laid,” Anderson said, as if reading Todd’s mind. “She’s getting more than she used to. Some of the energy she might have used to kill dictators is being put to other uses.”
Todd thought about that. “You may be right, but it would be a mistake to think this woman has been … domesticated.”
Crosby chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t think she’d trot up to you and lick your hand if you whistled, but Olin has a point. If she loves her husband, her willingness to take risks won’t be the same. She’ll probably hold back just a little.”
“And that’s when I’ll take her,” Anderson said.
The desk chair on which Todd sat had wheels. He pushed back and studied the two former covert operatives. Crosby and Anderson stared back deadpan.
Crosby said, “You know what he’s thinking, Olin?”
“Yeah. Doc can’t quite understand how we slipped out from under his thumb.”
Todd clenched his teeth. He put a hand on each of the chair’s arms.
“No need to run,” Anderson said.
“We’ll let you leave if you want,” Crosby told Todd, “but if you go, you’ll never know how we did it. Found the psychological loophole.”
Todd relaxed, folded his hands on his lap.
“You’re an interesting guy, Doc, but your technique needs refinement. Things had worked out different, the Agency might have helped you with that.”
Todd was less than comforted. Upon seeing the photo in the Post, he’d been far more interested in finding Chana Lochlan than confronting Margaret Sweeney. He’d been trying without success to think of a way to do that. Now, he was hearing his work criticized.
Apparently with justification.
A true scientist, he was always willing to learn.
“How did you defeat the hypnotic suggestion I left for each of you?”
