by Joseph Flynn
“Vladimir Putin?”
“Yeah. How’s that for fun? Olin and I got a guy out of St. Petersburg. He wasn’t supposed to have that number, but he did. Wouldn’t have done us much good if dumbass Putin changed the number and his password once in a while, but he never does. Guy’s arrogant like you can’t believe. Thinks his security can’t be cracked. Anyway, the Company and the Pentagon have been overjoyed to listen in on his calls.”
“What will the people you gave the number to do with it?” Todd asked.
“Hell if I know. Maybe record all Putin’s calls and sell them to the highest bidder.”
“Spoil things for the CIA and the Pentagon.”
“Yeah, well, fuck them, too. So you understand what I want you to do?”
“Look for McGill to show up on one of the D.C. closed circuit cameras and look for whatever kind of security he has around him. Let you know what I find.”
“Exactly. As soon as you get a fix on things, I’ll know how to make my move. I’d like to get this job over fast.”
“You’re feeling well?” Todd asked.
“I get edgy when I work. I stay wound up too long, my performance drops.”
“I’ll watch closely,” Todd said. “I’ll let you know the moment I have something.”
“Thanks, Doc. Damn shame we didn’t get to work together sooner. You’d have been a killer.”
Todd was already that, but Crosby’s compliment made him glow.
He kept a sharp eye on his iPad.
Metropolitan Police Headquarters — Washington, D.C.
Sweetie and the two techs at the Synchronized Operations Command Center knew which monitor displayed the whereabouts of McGill and Chana Lochlan. The local cops had to watch all the other monitors, too. Sweetie concentrated on just the one.
If she spotted a threat none of Elspeth’s people saw, she could warn McGill directly.
At the moment, nobody saw anything menacing.
Chana was asking pedestrians in the area of Union Station if they had a moment to stop and talk with her; Sweetie could hear McGill and Chana as well as speak to them. Just about everyone Chana approached was happy to speak with her. Many of them knew of her. All of them knew they’d have a good story to tell family and friends.
Yeah, Chana Lochlan, from TV, wanted to know if I was going to vote.
And you know who was with her? The president’s husband. No, really.
Lots of people were taking pictures of McGill with Chana now.
Sweetie paid close attention to Jim. He was guarding Chana. Sweetie was protecting him.
When the cluster of people around them grew thick, Sweetie could see Elspeth’s special agents get right up close, too. As people moved on, the Secret Service fell back. Smart cookie, that Elspeth, Sweetie thought.
After a break for lunch, Chana would move the show to Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Tomorrow morning they would be on the National Mall and then over to the Pentagon. Sweetie settled in for a long surveillance job.
Without losing focus on her task and without her beads in hand, she began to say the rosary silently, one decade after the next, losing all sense of time, banishing boredom, gathering grace.
Catholic Zen.
The Oval Office
Galia had brought the president the latest news and numbers, both being more than a little surprising. “Rosalinda Fuentes’ mother was taken to the hospital this morning.”
“What happened?” Patti asked. “Will she be all right?”
“She had a heart attack. She’s resting quietly, but you know that’s no guarantee.”
The president did know. Her own mother had survived a heart attack that hit her at home; the one that followed at the hospital had killed her. Patti Darden had been estranged from her mother for years, but when she’d heard the news of the first infarction, she’d gotten on a studio plane in L.A. to fly home to Connecticut. Her mother died while she was in the air.
Old wounds hurt all the more once you learned they’d never have the chance to heal.
“What has Governor Fuentes decided to do?” the president asked.
“She sent her regrets to Vice President Morrissey. She’ll be unable to make the debate.”
“She has her priorities right,” the president said.
Only one vice presidential debate had been scheduled, for the following night.
Now there would be none.
“Please send the elder Ms. Fuentes my best wishes.”
Galia nodded and made a note, even though she had already done as the president had asked.
She moved on to the next item on her list.
“The assistant U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York reports that Satellite News America willingly surrendered the photo of the vice president and her late cousin, Molly. They said that after the print had been analyzed by their photo experts they had decided not to use it anyway.”
“Something was faked?” Patti asked.
“Something was removed. A spaghetti strap. As the vice president told us, both she and her cousin were wearing nighties. They weren’t nude. But when Satellite News America called Reynard Dix demanding their money back, they said he told them they wouldn’t get it and he’d find someone else who would run the picture.”
The president shook her head. “Have the FBI visit Mr. Dix and talk to him about being a party to a fraud. Ask the agents if they can find out who gave Dix the photo. He didn’t come up with this on his own.”
There was a moment of silence in the room. Both women were thinking they knew the name of the culprit, the man who hated the president more than anyone else, now more than ever, since he felt he’d unfairly been denied the vice presidency: Roger Michaelson. Neither of them was willing to say the name aloud for now.
Moving along, Galia said, “Bobby Beckley was found dead in the swimming pool at his home in Jackson, Mississippi. He’d been struck on the head, apparently with a fireplace poker that was found in the pool, but the cause of death was snake bite.”
The president gave Galia an incredulous look.
“A dead water moccasin was also found in the pool. Done in by the chlorine. There was a second human body found dead of a gunshot wound at the edge of the pool. The victim was identified as Rupert Beauchamp. In a plastic bag next to his body, the police found a kilo of crystal methedrine that had been cut with sugar and food coloring and formed into small tablets. More of the same were found in Beckley’s refrigerator.”
“A drug deal gone wrong?” the president asked.
“That’s the preliminary theory, but the snake has muddied things for the police.”
“Must make life complicated for Howard Hurlbert, too,” Patti said.
“He’s issued a statement expressing his sorrow that a one-time friend and colleague had come to such a bad end.”
“One-time being more important than the sorrow or the bad end.”
“Of course,” Galia said, “and that brings us to the latest poll of likely voters, and things are much closer than either of us would like. You stand at forty percent, Madam President. Mather Wyman is at thirty-four percent and Howard Hurlbert at twenty-six percent.”
“How do we look for holding the six point lead through election day?”
“Everyone’s support, including ours, is soft around the edges. And there’s one last thing that might stir the pot. Word is that Tom T. Wright has agreed to become Howard Hurlbert’s running mate. The announcement is expected to come later today. Now, we have a rich guy who’s jumped into the race with both feet.”
“You mean another rich person,” the president said.
“Stephen Norwood expects a flood of money from Wright to give Hurlbert a big push, starting any minute now.”
“I have at least as much money as Tom does,” the president said. “Have Stephen let me know what he needs, and Galia …”
“Yes, Madam President?”
“See to it that we get a bigger bang for our bucks.”
&
nbsp; The White House Residence
McGill got back to the quaint cottage he called home just after eight p.m. He hadn’t been hungry at lunch, but now, after dropping Chana off and letting her small private security army take over for the night, he was starving. He called Blessing, the White House head butler, from the Chevy and asked for an extra large serving of king crab legs, a pound of shoestring potatoes, a green salad and three bottles of Bell’s Lager on ice.
“Will that be all, sir?” Blessing asked.
“A slice of devil’s food cake or a brownie, whatever’s on hand.”
“Very good, sir. When should the meal be ready and where would you like it served?”
Leo, hearing every word, flashed the fingers of his right hand three times.
“Fifteen minutes. In the residence dining room.”
“Will the president be joining you, sir?”
“I don’t know. Please give Edwina a call. Say I’d love to have her company for dinner. The president’s, not Edwina’s.”
“Yes, sir.”
McGill ended the call.
“Quite the life, huh boss?” Leo asked.
McGill shook his head. “Never in my wildest dreams did I foresee anything like this, Leo.”
“Me either.”
Patti arrived one minute before dinner did. Blessing’s sense of timing, no doubt. First the head of the free world, then the food. McGill got up from the table to greet his wife with a kiss. They took their seats and dinner was served.
Would that the whole world ran so well.
Patti had used her authority as chief executive to divvy up and amend McGill’s food order. She took one-third of the crab legs, two-thirds of the salad, cut the potato order in half and divided it evenly, took the brownie, gave McGill the devil’s food cake and took one of the Bell’s Lagers for herself.
McGill said, “I won’t say I’m getting too old for all this stuff yet, but here’s to the twenty-second amendment.”
The one limiting a president to two terms in office.
The president and her henchman tapped their bottles and drank.
They ate in a companionable silence, each of them hungry and more than comforted by the presence of the person he or she loved most. By the time they put their forks down after dessert they were ready to discuss the rough and tumble of their respective days.
McGill went first.
“I can’t say I ever wanted to be a worm on a fishing hook, but that was what I felt like today. It got to be wearing after a while. I felt like hitting someone with my shillelagh just to show I could.”
“Of course, you didn’t.”
“Too close to the election,” McGill said.
Patti laughed. “Thank you for your consideration and political insight.”
She gave McGill the same run down of misfortune, death and horse race politics Galia had given to her earlier in the day.
“You’re sure you want to do all this another four years?” McGill asked.
“I’m just getting good at the job, and I don’t have any gray hair yet.”
“Oh. I thought your stylist took care of that.”
The president threw her napkin at McGill.
Cat quick, he caught it and returned it.
Patti asked, “Have I saved you from overeating?”
McGill patted his abdomen. “Svelte as a teenager.”
“Randy as one, too?”
McGill smiled. “Now, I see your little plan. Amour shall not be thwarted by indigestion.”
“I could use some close company tonight. How about you?”
“You know me,” McGill said. “The closer the better.”
The President’s Bedroom
The bedside phone rang at six a.m. As usual, Patti was already out of bed and McGill had to reach across the bed and grab the damn thing. He said hello. Not even half-awake, he didn’t sound like himself. Thought, God, is that what my voice will be like when I get old?
“Mr. McGill?” It was Galia.
“The last I checked,” he said.
“May I speak with the president, sir?” Formal Galia.
McGill thought, Oh, shit.
“Just a minute. I’ll get her.”
McGill saw a sliver of light coming from under the door of what used to be the president’s dressing room. The space still partially served that purpose, but Patti had cut her wardrobe in half last year and used the liberated area to do both yoga and Pilates. Darn stuff worked so well he was tempted to take it up.
He tapped on the door and when it opened he saw his wife in a black unitard flushed with excellent circulation and showing muscle tone a gymnast would admire.
“Galia’s on the phone,” he said. “Sounds serious.”
Patti didn’t whine. She sucked it up and took the call.
McGill started to head to the shower but Patti tapped the bed next to her.
Ever attentive, McGill sat. Waited to hear what the problem was this time. The presidency was the world’s busiest complaint window. Maybe one term, six years like they did it in Mexico, would be long enough, McGill thought. Nobody should have to run for this job twice.
“Thank you, Galia . I’ll be in the Oval Office in thirty minutes.”
Patti looked at her husband and asked, “Did you know I’m a lesbian?”
“Last night’s activities notwithstanding?”
“Not only am I gay but Jean Morrissey is my lover.”
McGill stopped cracking wise. He knew what was coming next.
“You are just my front man. A prop to keep up appearances. You attend to your own needs, of course, with your many girlfriends. The foremost of whom is —”
“Chana Lochlan,” McGill said.
Patti nodded. She told McGill the story of the stolen picture of Jean Morrissey.
“This whole cock-and-bull story came from one photo ripped off from the Internet? And it must be true because it’s on the Internet?”
Patti kissed McGill hard. “Just one more week,” she said.
Eight days, but who was counting?
McGill watched Patti run into her bathroom to shower.
He ought to be pissed, he thought, but he found an unexpected silver lining.
If every nitwit in the world was talking about this sordid sex scandal, it ought to reach Damon Todd and Arn Crosby before long.
Jealous fellow that Damon Todd was, maybe all the publicity that McGill and Chana were an item would prompt some action.
Maybe he’d get to hit someone today.
Peninsula Hotel — Chicago, Illinois
Damon Todd awakened an hour before he was scheduled to call Arn Crosby. It was still dark when he got out of bed. Lights were on in all the high rise buildings he could see from his room but the lake was a sea of blackness. He sat at the desk in the room and turned on his iPad. He’d set up Google Alerts for both Chana Lochlan and James J. McGill.
He wanted to know whatever anyone had to say about either of them, as soon as it hit the Net. He was flabbergasted, though, when he saw how much there was to choose from that morning. Nearly a hundred people had posted candid photos they had taken of Chana and McGill in Washington. Each of them was a wound to Todd.
Time had left no insult on Chana’s face. If anything, it only seemed to reveal a deeper beauty. Todd longed to hold her. Explain to her how much he loved her. Tell her he’d do anything for her. What McGill was doing was obvious. He was protecting Chana. Todd had seen other armed bodyguards yesterday as he’d carefully watched the CCTV video. But McGill was always the one closest at hand.
He was Chana’s last line of defense. So close she was able to — and did — reach out to touch McGill. Whisper in his ear. Make him smile. McGill, too, had worn well with time. The whole situation made Todd all but insane with anger.
He wanted to look down from his window and see McGill about to enter the hotel. Swoop down on him in a flying suit like a BASE jumper. Alight before a stunned McGill and do him in the worst way imaginable. He wasn
’t quite sure what the method of demise would be, just something agonizing and bloody.
Todd was trying to work out the exact details when his disposable cell phone rang. Crosby calling. Damn. He’d been the one who was supposed to make the call. He clicked the answer button.
Crosby said, “Something wrong?”
“Diarrhea. Must’ve eaten at the wrong restaurant.”
Todd hoped the lie passed muster.
There was a pause, but Crosby said, “Yeah, well, that’s the shits. What do you have for me?”
Todd told him, “I counted eight people, five men, three women, whom I think are Secret Service. They appeared from off camera and formed a circle around McGill and Chana any time the crowd around them got heavy. Four of them were looking at McGill and four of them were looking outward. Twice, I saw one or more of them looking up at the sky.”
Crosby said, “That’s real good, Doc. Tells me a lot. They’ve got air support and evacuation nearby. Give me all you can about what the people you saw looked like: age, hair, eyes, skin color, physique, clothing and anything else you can remember.”
Todd searched his memory and was surprised by the amount of detail he was able to recall.
“Damn, Doc,” Crosby said, “that is good.”
“You think you’ll be able to get to McGill?” Todd asked.
“Will he be out and about again today?”
“The National Mall in the morning. The Pentagon in the afternoon.”
He’d found that information on a Google Alert last night.
“Perfect,” Crosby said. “I’ll get him this morning. You watch on your tablet, you’ll see it. Raise a glass to my memory when you get a chance. See you in hell, Doc.”
So Crosby was going to sacrifice himself to kill McGill.
He’d certainly sounded confident he could succeed.
But then so had Anderson.
Just in case things didn’t work out, Todd still had Jaime Martinez on call.
He rented a car and mapped out a drive up the North Shore to Winnetka.
Reserve Drive — Dublin, Ohio
Mather Wyman was the first person outside the immediate Fuentes family to hear that Maxina Fuentes had succumbed to a second, massive heart attack in a hospital in Santa Fe. Governor Rosalinda Fuentes, her siblings, their children and numerous friends all grieved the passing of a good woman.
