by Joseph Flynn
The former NASCAR driver arrived before any jitters could set in.
He announced himself with a brief chirp from the siren McGill’s Chevy featured.
Welborn escorted Kira down the front steps of their townhouse to the car and got her situated comfortably in the back seat. He was about to join her when Kira grabbed his arm and told him, “My bag, it’s on my desk. It has all my necessities.”
Leo said, “Go get it. I’ll get you to the hospital in time.”
Welborn ran back inside. The bag was right where Kira said it would be. He grabbed it — and saw a legal pad that had lain beneath the bag. He saw at a glance what was written on the top page.
Debate Strategy. Criticize President’s Inconstancy. Call Her Quitter by Implication.
Those words, written by his wife, hit Welborn like a kick to the gut.
He flipped the pad face down, so Kira would find it that way.
Welborn ran out of the house with Kira’s bag, barely remembering to lock the front door.
Leo got them to the hospital on time. He waited with Welborn in the new dads’ room until the girls were born. With the delivery of twins, it was suggested Welborn not be in the birthing room. When the nurse came in and told him his wife and daughters were all doing fine, he wept for joy. Leo hugged him and told him to go see his ladies.
The twins lay in small transparent cribs each with her name on it when he entered the birthing room. So tiny, so pink, so perfect, he thought as he marveled at them. He moved on to Kira who looked like she’d just run a marathon — and won. He kissed her.
Unable to resist, he said, “Remind me to have all my children with you.”
Kira laughed and winced. “I am so sore. I need a little rest. Would you mind giving Ari and Callie their first feeding?”
A nurse held up two bottles with clear liquid in them. “Water with just a touch of sucrose.”
She nodded to a chair. Welborn sat. Another nurse brought his girls to him, settled each one in the crook of an arm. They were so small he had no trouble cradling them and holding the bottles to their mouths. They took the liquid without hesitation.
Welborn had never known a feeling of such joy and fulfillment.
It lasted until he remembered Kira’s note on debate strategy.
Call the president a quitter? How could Kira have thought of something so awful?
More important, what should he do about it now that he knew?
Betray the president or the mother of the two little angels he held in his arms?
United States Senate — Washington, D.C.
One of the great powers of the Senate majority leader was he got to schedule when a bill or the confirmation of a nominee was debated and later came to a vote. With the Democrats holding a fifty-three to forty-seven majority, Majority Leader Wexford scheduled the vote to confirm the nomination of Craig MacLaren to be chief justice of the United States first.
Public opinion had hit the Senate Republicans hard for walking out on the vote to confirm Governor Jean Morrissey as vice president. Fox News held fast and defended the GOP, but all the other major media outlets called the Republicans crybabies and worse. A popular movement called DockTheirPay had begun online to withhold a day’s pay from any member of Congress who boycotted a vote because the outcome was unlikely to be the one he or she wanted.
So far ten million “signatures” had been collected and electronically transmitted to Wexford in the Senate and Speaker of the House Peter Profitt. Neither man had yet to respond publicly. The DTP movement said if the pols wanted analog petitions they’d find a way to bury them in paper. It looked as if the voter’s ability to make their elected representatives vote against their personal interests would soon be put to the test.
James J. McGill was invited to sign the petition in front of TV cameras in Washington.
He did, though allowing in only a pool camera and the movement’s founders.
They all smiled and shook hands.
The president told her husband, “You might have new career opportunities.”
“Perish the thought,” McGill said.
After the nominees appeared before the Judiciary Committee, the judgement of every senator who would speak for the record was that Judge MacLaren was an unabashed liberal who thought it was high time someone who saw the Constitution from his perspective headed the high court again. His boldness had sent three conservatives to the hospital with atrial fibrillation. Senator Daniel Crockett was seen as a moderate conservative, an acceptable choice had the nominee for chief justice been a staunch conservative, but was dubious in the present context.
The American Bar Association’s Standing Committee on the Federal Judiciary rated both men as well qualified. That meant not a damn thing to a hard right wing that wanted the two “strong” conservative justices who’d died to be replaced with “even stronger” conservative justices. They didn’t give a good goddamn if the Democrats controlled the Senate.
The only nuclear option they cared about was one that nuked all Democrats.
Some of the fire-breathers held seats in the Senate. Majority Leader Wexford and Deputy Leader Bergen weren’t sure if they might try something drastic or even criminal. The Capitol Hill police and fire departments had both been alerted. No one truly thought the Capitol would be burned down as the Reichstag had been in 1933 Germany, but why take a chance?
Every Democrat in the Senate demanded a roll call vote, far more than the one-fifth of those senators present required to force the issue. The clerk called the senators’ names in alphabetical order, requiring a yea or nay in response. A running tabulation was kept.
Several Republicans and every member of True South shouted nay to the nomination of Judge Craig MacLaren, but no actual violence occurred. The nomination was confirmed, fifty-three to forty-seven. Senator Daniel Crockett, Republican of Tennessee voted for his fellow nominee. Senator Roger Michaelson, Democrat of Washington went the other way.
Senator Crockett’s nomination was confirmed ninety-four to five.
The senator abstained from voting for himself.
Once the Senate’s business was concluded, the losers walked out again.
Nobody had yet started a petition to penalize a bad attitude.
9
July, 2012
The Royale Hotel — Washington, D.C.
Olin Anderson decided that the place to either kidnap or kill Margaret Sweeney was in the ladies room just off the rear of the hotel’s Plaza Ballroom. He and Arn Crosby had gone over the video Damon Todd had shot of the hotel and the ballroom with a tie-pin camera. Crosby agreed with his friend’s choice.
Wanting to have a role to play, Todd had persuaded Crosby and Anderson that he could visit the hotel and pass himself off as a convention planner for the American Psychological Association. He’d say he was looking for meeting space for next year’s national conference. He’d say he had a five-year contract to offer the right hotel. For the kind of money that would involve, they’d let him see their chef’s secret recipes.
With a new suit and a fresh haircut, wearing tinted glasses, knowing all the professional jargon and having the bearing of the actual doctor he was, Todd had been able to pull off the deception. He’d told the hotel’s sales representative that he was favorably impressed and would let her know of his decision within a week.
Todd had shot footage of everything Anderson needed to see, including service entrances, corridors and elevators, the three-stall ladies room at the rear of the ballroom and the uniforms hotel maintenance people wore to work. Prep work was critical to the success of any covert operation and both former CIA spooks had been impressed by Todd’s thoroughness.
“Helluva good job, Doc,” Anderson told him.
“First class,” Crosby agreed.
Todd accepted the compliments with a nod and stepped back to watch the pros lay out their plan. He thought Anderson’s idea was overly optimistic, but he didn’t comment. The one time he’d tried to take McGill on i
t hadn’t worked. He didn’t have license to criticize.
He’d wait and see what happened.
What happened was Anderson, in a knockoff hotel uniform stitched together by a Korean seamstress, made his way into the hotel. He carried with him a large tool bag and a three foot length of brass pipe with a six-inch elbow at one end, as if he was working on a plumbing job. He elicited no questions on his activities from any of the people he passed. There were times when Anderson’s tough face was an asset. After knocking on the ladies room door and receiving no reply, he went inside.
Todd and Crosby watched and listened to Anderson’s progress compliments of the camera and microphone he wore. Both instruments were embedded in the U.S. flag pin he’d affixed to his uniform shirt. Placed over his heart.
No one would dare question a public display of patriotism.
Anderson entered the large wheelchair accessible stall at the end of the row and closed the door. The door and walls of the stall ended six inches above the floor. Anderson unscrewed the cap of the brass pipe and withdrew a black wooden cylinder. From his tool bag, he took a rubber tip and put it over the bottom end of the cylinder. The object now resembled a cane with a brass handle. Anderson leaned it against the door. The section visible to an outside observer showed that the occupant had a legitimate reason to use the special needs stall.
To complete the illusion of a gimpy old broad using the facilities, Anderson took two mannequin legs sawed off at mid-calf out of his bag. Each appendage wore shoes similar to those Anderson remembered his grandmother wearing. He positioned the legs so the left foot pointed straight ahead and the right foot was splayed outward at forty-five degrees.
The way Anderson normally sat on the throne.
Now he squatted with both feet up on the seat. He could hold the position for hours. You spent years working in Asia, you learned to sit like the natives. It actually got to be comfortable once your muscles stretched out.
From where Anderson had perched, he couldn’t see anyone who might come in, but he’d spent hours watching and listening to videos of Chana Lochlan. When she and Margaret Sweeney entered the room, he was sure they’d be talking. Broads talked everywhere, and they loved company when they went to the john.
Of course, he was betting they’d take a pee before Lochlan gave her speech.
If they didn’t … nah, they would. A woman speaking in public, it was probably in her DNA to use the john first.
So he’d recognize Chana Lochlan’s voice. Sweeney would say something back, sounding tougher, like the bodyguard she was, and he’d be all over them in nothing flat. Lochlan would have to get conked, knocked out. A damn shame, a babe like her getting treated that way. Of course, normally Anderson would have killed her, but if he did that, there’d be no living with Damon Todd.
If Anderson caught Sweeney looking the other way, he’d knock her out, too, and take her with him. Hostages were valuable. If she was ready to put up a fight or started screaming, he’d kill her.
Of course, some other broad, maybe more than one, might come in, but if one of them didn’t sound like Chana Lochlan, he’d just sit tight. But he was betting the peeing public would be using the big rest rooms off the main corridor near the entrance to the room. The little relief station back here, that’d be for the star of the show.
He hoped anyway. Worse came to worse, the target never showed, he’d just hold his water.
Leave the way he came.
He settled in to wait for Lochlan and Sweeney to arrive, letting his mind drift but not too far.
Be something if he wound up buying it in a ladies’ loo. People who knew him would say, “Yeah, they tried to flush old Anderson right there, but he clogged the drain and they spent a month trying to —”
The door to the room opened. He heard just one pair of footsteps. Fuck.
Some broad needing a tinkle, he hoped. Not the other stuff if he was lucky. Some women … he thought he should have heard a stall door close by now. He thought it should have been the far one. Given a choice, people didn’t like to crap too close in public.
Anderson was surprised to see a square of blue paper float under the door to the stall.
Fall to the floor right in front of him.
What the fuck?
He wasn’t going to give himself away to anyone he didn’t have to kill. He’d just sit quiet and … something was written on the blue paper. He had good vision and the writing was nice and clear. What it said was —
Should’ve given your legs a few varicose veins.
Shit!
Then a woman’s hand reached under the door and grabbed his cane.
Goddamn!
Anderson jumped off the toilet and threw open the stall door. He saw Margaret Sweeney all right. James J. Fucking McGill, too. And some dark-haired broad he’d never seen before. McGill had Anderson’s cane now. Pulled on the brass handle and revealed a gleaming thirty inch blade.
McGill said, “Not as broad as a Roman sword but nearly as long.” He tested the edge with his thumb. “Sharp, too.”
Anderson reached up a sleeve and came out with a switchblade knife. He popped it open.
“Come on, McGill,” he said. “You’re any kind of man, you’ll fight me, sword to knife.”
Without taking his eyes off Anderson, McGill told Sweetie and Elspeth, “Shoot him.”
They did. Sweetie with a beanbag round, Elspeth with a Taser.
Sweetie shot for the gut and knocked Anderson on his ass.
Elspeth nailed Anderson in the chest.
The combination bounced him on his backside like a bronco buster.
Until he lost consciousness and toppled over sideways.
Anderson would be turned over to Daryl Cheveyo, who was back with the CIA on a short-term contract, for questioning. One down, two to go.
McGill picked up Anderson’s knife. Looked at it and noticed something. He pushed open the door of the nearest stall with his foot. Pointed the knife blade at the roll of toilet paper. Pressed the knife’s blade-release button. The blade shot free of the handle and embedded itself in the roll of toilet paper.
He looked at Sweetie and Elspeth and told them, “The next time someone reaches for something, we don’t wait for anyone to say shoot.”
The Oval Office
Circumstances being what they were, McGill had the privilege of preempting anyone when he needed to see the president. When he presented himself to Edwina Byington, she said, “The president is conferring with the vice president and the chief of staff, but I’ll let her know you’re here, Mr. McGill.”
“You’re a marvel, Edwina.”
“So I’ve been told,” she said.
Less than a minute later, the door to the Oval Office opened and Jean Morrissey stepped out. She extended a hand to McGill. “Mr. McGill, so nice to finally meet you.”
“Madam Vice President, the pleasure is mine.”
“Rory Calhoun,” she said.
McGill smiled. There weren’t many who saw the resemblance so quickly.
“My brother Frank is a fan of old cowboy movies,” she told him. “He says when I get out of politics he’s going to open a dude ranch out west.”
“Well, good for him. We don’t have enough people going into dude ranching these days.”
Jean Morrissey chuckled as if he’d said something funnier than he knew.
She said she hoped they’d meet again before too long and went on her way. When McGill entered the Oval Office, closing the door behind him, he saw he was alone with Patti. Galia must have left through the side door.
McGill knew Patti had anticipated the wisdom of having just the two of them in the room.
The advantages of spousal privilege already having been made clear to Warren Rockland.
“We got Olin Anderson,” McGill told Patti. “Took him alive.”
“Without so much as a scratch on you.” Patti nodded in approval.
“I had Sweetie and Elspeth shoot him with sublethal measures.”
“I might swoon. Smart man, powerful women working toward a common goal. May I sit on your lap?”
McGill laughed. “Later. We wouldn’t want to rumple your power suit.”
The president contented herself by sitting next to her husband and holding his hand.
She said, “So everything went as well as possible?”
McGill sighed. “It went well. Not as well as possible.”
“What do you mean?”
“We should have set up our snooping equipment sooner. It’s the newest gear. Elspeth and Byron DeWitt went out and bought it from a high-end spyware shop here in town. Anderson, from the way things went, never noticed he was on camera from the moment he entered the hotel.”
“But?” Patti asked.
“But he wore a hotel uniform that was picture perfect, and he knew the least obvious way to get to the ladies room where we grabbed him. That means somebody had to blaze the trail for him, give him the information he needed.”
“Crosby or Todd?” Patti asked.
“Todd is my guess. He has the civilian, white collar background. He’s used to manipulating people. He probably got the hotel people to give him a guided tour. DeWitt’s checking on that.”
Patti added her sigh to McGill’s.
“Would’ve been nice to catch him first,” she said.
“Or even follow him back to bad-guy central. Grab all of them.”
“Nobody’s perfect, Jim.” She squeezed his hand.
“Don’t I know it?” McGill said.
“The goal, then, is to be less imperfect than the other guy.”
“Yeah, that’s the goal for both of us.”
McGill kissed his wife and let her get back to the business of running the country.
That and thwarting the ambitions of lesser politicians.
When McGill left, Edwina buzzed the president.
“Madam President, your chief of staff asked to know when the coast was clear. Is it?”
“Yes, Edwina. Please send her in.”
Galia returned. Patti gestured her to a chair.
