by Joseph Flynn
Patti saw McGill’s self-restraint and asked, “Is there something you’d like to know?”
He told her, “I’ve tried to stay out of politics as much as I could, but I seem to keep getting drawn into things lately. I don’t know if I should try harder to steer clear or just yield to the inevitable.”
“Let your president be your guide,” Patti said.
“Okay. Is there anything I should know regarding what you and Galia were talking about when I barged in on you?”
Patti thought about it. “There’s no harm in your knowing. You’re not a blabbermouth.”
“Certainly not.”
“True South is looking to rebrand itself. Politically, they’ll remain hard right, but they want a label that’s more national than regional. Some Democrats in certain states who rely on right-of-center voters to hold their seats might switch parties if True South finds an appealing new name.”
“Complicating your life even more,” McGill said.
“Galia isn’t taking things lying down. There are others in Congress who are currently in the GOP and depend on moderate voters to stay in office. We might be roping in some of them.”
McGill blinked. “Is the Republican Party about to go defunct?”
“Maybe the Democratic Party, too. Or it could become a coalition partner with a new progressive party on the left.”
“Wow. How’s all this change going to work out?”
“Nobody knows, but it might be for the best. The two old major parties look like they’ve come to the end of their useful lives. Political evolution could be good for everybody.”
McGill grinned. “Yeah, except for those people who don’t believe in evolution.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Patti said. Changing the subject, she asked, “What else have you found out about dogs?”
McGill tapped his iPad screen.
A photo of a World War One soldier appeared. Next to the doughboy was a dog. Both of them looked scuffed up but ready for action.
McGill told Patti, “In the so-called Great War, when frontline commanders needed to get a message back to headquarters, the most successful means of communications often was to use dogs as messengers.”
“Interesting but how is that relevant to your case?” Patti asked.
McGill said, “Dogs are analog technology not digital. You can’t wiretap a dog. If the animal is smart and fast, you’d be hard pressed even to throw a net over him. I won’t ask you if the NSA or some other spook shop has tapped into every diplomatic mission in town. But if that’s the case, maybe the people at the Russian embassy decided to go old school.”
“You think Anya’s dog was a courier? Communicating with whom? For what purpose?”
“That’s what I hope to find out tomorrow,” McGill replied.
McGill coaxed Leo out of the new whiz-bang Chevy sedan the government provided to keep McGill safe and mobile. Members of Congress from both the GOP and True South recently had offered public opinions that since McGill used the car for his private business he should reimburse the Treasury for the privilege. McGill said fine by him.
Adding, “So long as the same requirement applies to any future presidential spouse who continues to work after moving into the White House.”
Neither party on the right anticipated electing a female president any time soon. Enough social progress had been made in their ranks, though, to anticipate that their next First Lady might insist on keeping her day job after her husband became president. Jabbing McGill was all in good fun; sticking one of their own with the cost of leasing an exotically equipped car was another matter.
The issue was referred to committee for further consideration and discussion.
Meaning McGill would probably get a free ride for another four years.
Leo was agreeable to leaving his beloved ride because McGill had told him that he and Deke needed someone with tracking and hunting experience to help them. Leo took a shotgun out of the new arsenal in the Chevy’s trunk. Locked the car tight. Armed its anti-theft measures. Felt certain it would remain right where he left it, undisturbed. The car could be vandalized, of course, but it would make a video of the perpetrator. Send Leo a distress signal, too.
As the three men approached the woods adjacent to Montrose Park shortly after dawn, they saw one other person in the park, Steve Nagy, the insurance investigator. He was throwing a ragged yellow tennis ball high into the air. Paying keen attention and getting a jump on the ball’s trajectory that any major league outfielder would admire, Ajax raced off to make the catch.
The dog snatched the ball out of the air cleanly and ran it back to Nagy.
Ajax stopped to look at the three newcomers. McGill waved and said hello to Nagy. Ajax watched Deke, but didn’t demonstrate any audible aggression. He’d obviously been taught a lesson by Nagy and took it to heart.
McGill admired the dog’s qualities. Wondered how Patti might feel about getting one.
Nagy waved and smiled.
Didn’t bat an eye at Leo carrying the shotgun at his shoulder.
“Handsome animal,” Leo said as they stepped into the woods.
Deke agreed, “Yeah, it’d look real good turning on a spit over an open fire.”
Leo gave his friend a strange look. Turned his attention to McGill.
“Okay, boss, the way I heard you, we’re looking for any signs of a coyote and/or the remains of a small dog.”
Checking the photo Anya gave him, McGill said, “Yeah, the dog wore a red collar with a metal tag. Maybe a rabies inoculation record or something.”
“Gotcha,” Leo said, “and how far do you want me to track?”
“Let’s take it to the far side of the zoo.”
“Then we turn around?” Deke asked.
“No, then we step out into the manicured part of Rock Creek Park and see if we can spot someone — man, woman or child — looking for little Misha on that end.”
The three of them set off, only the good ol’ boy having any idea of what he was doing.
McGill noticed that Leo’s fieldcraft had a distinctly casual air to it. He didn’t beat any bushes; he nudged them aside with a shoe. Moved on without comment when his effort failed to turn up any remnant of cleanly gnawed canine carcass. There were piles of animal poop along the way, though one or two made McGill think that members of his own kind were among those who shat in the woods.
Leo simply stepped over the deposits of feces and said, “Nope, that ain’t what we’re lookin’ for.”
Deke, as was his role, kept an eye out to make sure no malefactor popped out from behind a tree with a weapon and hostile intent. Taking the rear guard position, he also made sure nobody sneaked up on them from behind. Like McGill, though, he would have been more at home in an urban setting.
Leo set a steady pace and before long they exited the trees into a more refined stretch of Rock Creek Park. McGill and Deke felt more comfortable immediately. But Leo said, “That was fun. I haven’t been out for a hike like that in too long a time.”
“We didn’t find anything,” Deke said.
McGill told him, “We narrowed things down.”
“How’s that?” Deke asked.
“It looks like Misha didn’t get eaten anywhere near where he was last seen. Is that a fair assumption, Leo?”
The driver nodded.
“If he’d been taken by a single coyote, one who thought he’d better finish his meal quick before some other critter came along and wanted to share, I’d have seen the spot where the coyote settled down for his meal. We’d probably have found the dog’s skull, too. If the coyote had been the alpha member of a family group, we’d have seen several sets of tracks, smelled their pee and some poop.”
“Didn’t know you were such a Dan’l Boone,” Deke told Leo.
“Sure,” Leo told him, “when I was a boy, I went out into the woods with my trusty .22 single shot every weekend. Right after Hebrew School.”
McGill smiled. Deke rolled his
eyes.
“We learn anything else?” the special agent asked.
Looking into the distance, McGill saw something and nodded.
“Come on,” he said.
He led the other two to a light pole on which a sheet of paper had been taped. On the flyer was a photograph of a small dog. This time, McGill did see a certain resemblance between the dog’s face and that of a monkey. The animal in the picture was wearing a collar with a tag.
The message above the photo said: Lost Dog.
Deke pointed out the obvious. “That says the dog’s name is ZuZu.”
“Uh-huh,” McGill agreed. “Look up the contact phone number listed there. See who it belongs to.”
There were no unlisted numbers in the database the feds used, if it was a landline.
Deke found the number’s subscriber and told McGill in a flat voice: “Embassy of the People’s Republic of China.”
Leo whistled. “Russians, Chinese, this pooch is a real commie.”
“Maybe,” McGill said. “What’s interesting is, I was told Affenpinschers are loyal to specific people and hostile to everyone else. Can you think of a better quality for a courier?”
He pulled the Lost Dog notice off the pole. Held it up over his head in both hands. Did a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn.
Deke scanned the horizon and asked, “You think somebody’s watching us?”
“Never can tell,” McGill said.
Leo took the shotgun off his shoulder. Looked for bad guys. Found none.
McGill said, “We’ve put in a good morning’s work. Let’s get back to the office.”
He seemed relaxed. Deke and Leo were still on alert.
“One more thing you might think about,” Deke said.
“Yeah?” McGill asked.
“The reason the Chinese might’ve put up that poster? They eat dogs, too.”
McGill didn’t think FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt had been trying to fake him out when he’d called about Georgi Travkin dropping by his office with Anya Ivanova. DeWitt hadn’t known anything about Anya’s missing dog. That led McGill to the think the Bureau hadn’t played a role in Misha’s disappearance. Of course, another government agency might be hip deep in the affair.
Sitting behind his desk, McGill called Doctor Daryl Cheveyo at Georgetown University. A secretary answered the call. When McGill identified himself and asked politely if he might speak with the good doctor, he got a positive response.
“Yes, sir. You’re on his put-him-through list.”
McGill grinned. “Who else is on it?”
“That would be indiscreet, if I were to tell you.”
“Which you won’t.”
“No, sir.”
A moment later Cheveyo came on. “Mr. McGill, sir, good to hear from you.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’m hoping you might still be in touch with your former colleagues.”
He’d skipped mentioning Cheveyo’s erstwhile employer, the CIA, intentionally; you never knew who might be hacking a university phone line.
Cheveyo said, “This isn’t something you might pursue through other channels?”
“I’m just looking for a lost dog. I think an informal approach might be best.”
“A dog?”
“A small dog — with big friends.”
“Okay, then. I might know someone. Are you looking for a personal meeting?”
“Yes, with someone who’s a good conversationalist.”
Letting Cheveyo know he wanted to meet with someone who wouldn’t try to stonewall him.
“You’ll hold up your end of the discussion?” Cheveyo asked.
McGill said, “I will.”
“I’ll get back to you before close of business or a friend will. Where would you like to meet?”
McGill said, “The Nationals just started a home stand. How about we take in a ball game? Hot dogs and popcorn are on me.”
Cheveyo didn’t seem overwhelmed. Maybe he wasn’t a baseball fan.
“You’ll leave a ticket at the will-call window?” he asked.
McGill said, “I was thinking more of a skybox. Comfort and privacy. I’m sure the president knows someone who can do a favor.”
McGill didn’t bother Patti about pulling strings for him.
He brought the matter to Galia Mindel’s attention.
The chief of staff said, “Do you know who’s pitching tonight?”
McGill didn’t. As a Chicago White Sox fan, he didn’t pay much attention to the National League. Except to root for whoever was playing the Cubs.
“No, who?”
“Jordan Zimmermann.”
McGill had heard of him. He asked, “How’s he doing this year?”
“Eight and oh.”
Leave it Galia to know baseball stats. She probably followed all the local pro and college teams.
“So you’re saying get a sky box to myself will be a problem?” McGill asked.
“To yourself?”
“Well, there will be one other person with me.”
“It had better be someone important.”
“Would you like me to tell you all about it?”
Galia stopped to think. “Not yet, maybe later.”
“Sensible answer. So can you do it?”
“Yes, but it’s going to cost me.”
Better Galia than the president, McGill thought.
Sweetie knocked on McGill’s door two minutes after he got off the phone with Galia.
She told him, “Boris is here.”
“Who?” McGill asked.
“Okay, it’s Georgi, but I’ve come to think of him as Boris.”
“The guy who tried to outstare you?”
“Uh-huh. He didn’t want a rematch.”
“What would Georgi like?”
“A minute of your time.”
“Show him in, Margaret. But stay close. The guy’s scary.”
Sweetie smiled and gestured to Georgi. He entered McGill’s office and stood in front of his desk, declining the offer of a seat.
“Something I can do for you, Mr. Travkin?”
“You know my name?”
“The FBI whispered it to me.”
The Russian security man filed that tidbit away in memory.
He told McGill, “Anya would like to know if you’ve made any progress in finding Misha.”
McGill said, “It looks like coyotes haven’t eaten him.”
The man leaned forward from the waist, as if to aid his comprehension.
“Coyotes?”
“Small wolves.”
Now, Georgi leaned back, as if to gauge McGill’s honesty.
“You are serious?”
“I am. There are coyotes in Washington, but I’m pretty sure they didn’t eat Misha.”
“Do you know where the dog is?”
“I can’t say for sure, but I think I’m getting closer.”
Georgi took a check out of a pocket. The same one Anya had showed him.
He said, “If you are getting closer, will you take payment now?”
“No, thank you. Not quite yet.”
“You are sure?”
“I am.”
Georgi looked disappointed by McGill, avoided meeting Sweetie’s eyes and left.
Sweetie said to McGill, “They probably told him back home it’d be a lot easier to get capitalists to take their money.”
McGill replied, “Most other places in Washington, it probably is.”
Galia Mindel came through for McGill in grand fashion. She got him a Washington Suite, a first level luxury box with a view of the game from almost directly behind home plate. Couldn’t ask for better. There was space for at least a couple dozen people, the way McGill saw it.
At the moment, there were only three men present: him, Deke and Leo.
The suite had retractable glass doors, outdoor padded chairs and a private restroom. Food and beverages were provided en suite upon request. All three men had been provided with soft drinks
. Leo, being a traditionalist, was also enjoying popcorn and a hot dog. The glass doors were closed for the time being.
It was seven o’clock. The game would start in five minutes.
The opposing team was … the Chicago Cubs.
McGill would fit right in with the majority of the fans, rooting for the Nationals.
There was a polite knock at the suite’s door. Deke answered it. Talked for a moment with the visitor and then admitted him. The Secret Service special agent stepped out into the corridor. Leo took his refreshments out to a padded chair on the field side of the box. He’d watch the game from there, and make sure no one tried to approach the suite from that side.
McGill stood and shook the newcomer’s hand.
“Jim McGill,” he said, introducing himself.
“Ben Holcomb.”
The CIA officer was about McGill’s height and age, slighter of build, but had a strong grip.
Further conversation was delayed by the playing of the National Anthem. As he always did, McGill sang along with the crowd. So did Holcomb. Surprising McGill a bit by his participation and more than a little by the quality of his voice. The man sang in a fine, clear tenor.
McGill complimented him on it after the country had been reaffirmed once more as the home of the brave.
Holcomb told McGill that his father was the choir master at their church in Syracuse.
McGill asked if his guest would like anything to eat or drink. Holcomb said he was good.
They watched the first batter, the Cubs’ right fielder, hit a blistering line drive that the Nationals’ shortstop leaped high and caught in the web of his glove. The crowd came to its feet, cheering. McGill took that as an opportune moment to begin his conversation with Holcomb. Everyone else’s attention, except Leo’s, was on the field.
“My Secret Service agent checked this suite for listening devices,” McGill told Holcomb. “He didn’t find anything. We can speak freely.”
“Your man is an expert at that task?”
“Yeah. You’d be surprised by how many people would like to know what I have to say.”
“Maybe not,” Holcomb said. “I’m here because several of the poobahs at Langley want to know what you have on your mind.”
“Well, a little Russian girl by the name of Anya Ivanova wants me to find her lost dog, Misha. Offered me three days’ pay to find him. I didn’t take the money but I’ve started looking for the dog.”
