by Joseph Flynn
McGill laughed, but he liked the description.
He tried it out on Patti and Sweetie.
Got a kiss and a thumbs-up in response.
White House Library
The president’s face was impassive as the lights came up in the White House library. She’d had the space converted into her private reading room, a retreat from the Oval Office. She did much of her obligatory study of threats to the nation and to her own life there. She also kept current about the possible plots against her husband and the McGill children in the room. Not that she mentioned that to Jim.
She looked at Secret Service Director David Nathan and SAC Elspeth Kendry.
“Computer generated imaging?” the president asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Nathan said.
Galia Mindel, the White House chief of staff and the only other person present, said, “It’s amazing how realistic it looks. That’s what makes it all so frightening.”
The president offered a thin smile. “This is the first movie I’ve been in where I die at the end. Can’t say I care for the script at all, not with Jim and me …”
She didn’t finish the thought.
The president, Galia, Nathan and Elspeth had just finished watching the Secret Service’s production of the threat it thought had the best chance of killing the president. The means would be an unmanned aerial vehicle, small but deadly. The place would be a public setting in which the president offered prolonged exposure, her inauguration.
The security array protecting her that day would be massive with the best people and technical resources doing their utmost to prevent a tragedy, but the challenge they faced would be equally great. Hundreds of thousands of people would be within a mile radius of the president. Many of those people would be openly hostile to her, thinking she’d either stolen the election or had been the beneficiary of an effort to steal it.
The leadership and partisans of the new True South party had been anything but conciliatory about the election’s outcome. Despite their candidate, Senator Howard Hurlbert, having received fewer popular and electoral votes than the president, they claimed that if a “faithless” elector, Sheryl Kimbrough, hadn’t switched her vote to the president, the election would have gone to the House of Representatives, and Hurlbert would have won.
They were probably right. But that wasn’t what happened.
In earlier times, the political right had been fond of telling the left to get over tough losses. Now, True South was unwilling to follow its own advice. The new party was promising to battle the president every day of her coming administration. To make her life “a living hell,” and assure history recorded her as a failed president.
The political dimension of the challenge lay outside the concern of the Secret Service.
The chance of another president being assassinated was what kept them up at night.
They had told the president the threat matrix was at an historical high.
To impress Holly G. with the seriousness of the threat, they’d produced their Inauguration Day assassination movie. Done a hell of a job with it, too, the president thought. She’d caught a glimpse of real fear on Galia’s face as she watched the final scene.
Now the White House chief of staff asked Director Nathan, “Is drone technology so readily available that your scenario is plausible?”
Nathan said, “Our military and intelligence agencies have the best drone technology in the world, but the race to catch up has been underway for the past five years. As of now, China, Russia, India, France, Germany, the UK, Italy, Turkey, Israel and India all have drones. So does Iran, and their people have studied the drone we lost over their territory two years ago.
“Given the global dispersal of the technology and the fact that much of it is in the hands of people who are openly antagonistic to us or at least wouldn’t mind seeing us suffer, we have to consider that a drone attack on the president is feasible.”
Galia’s face reddened. “But that would be an assassination, an act of war.”
Nathan was about to respond when the president raised a hand.
“That might be just what an enemy or a provocateur intends, Galia. War might be a small price to pay, in some people’s minds, for the bragging rights of saying they killed the president of the United States.”
“Exactly, ma’am,” Nathan said.
“But you’re also considering the possibility that a domestic political enemy might have obtained a drone through some black market source, aren’t you, David?” the president asked.
Nathan said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“The melee your movie showed, that would have been a distraction to the security personnel. Have you considered that the violence in the crowd might be deliberately caused in concert with the drone attack?”
“We suspect that would be more likely than spontaneous mob action,” Nathan said.
The president asked, “Are you recommending that I cancel my public inauguration?”
Everyone in the room knew that the official swearing in would happen on Sunday, January twentieth, inside the safety of the White House.
“We’re asking that you weigh the risk, Madam President,” Nathan told her.
“Thank you, all of you. I’ll need some time to myself now.”
Nathan, Elspeth and Galia all left. The chief of staff was the last to depart. She gave the president an inquiring look, as if to say, “Are you sure I can’t be of help?” The president gently waved her out.
She was going to have to watch the damn movie again.
With Jim. So he could see it, too. Watch the two of them die together.
Get his opinion. Then make her decision.
Air France Flight 006 en route to New York
Investigating Magistrate Yves Pruet and his police bodyguard, Odo Sacripant, sat in the first row of La Première class on the starboard side. Odo had informed the chic cabin attendant whose job it normally would have been to hover over them anticipating their every need that the two men required only their privacy. If they wanted anything else, he would press the call button.
Odo’s voice was gentle as he delivered his message, but his hard Corsican face provided a clear subtext that his wish was to be respected. The seats behind the magistrate and his bodyguard were empty, as were those across the aisle. The closest company they had was an elderly couple on the other side of the plane, one row to the rear.
Both monsieur et madam had their seats reclined, wore sleep masks and buzzed quietly with the respiration of medicated slumber. The smooth flight did nothing to disturb them.
Even so, Odo kept his voice low.
“I would be happy to kill this man for you, Yves.”
Revenge being a specialty of certain Corsicans.
Pruet gave his old friend a melancholy smile. “Of course, you would. Nonetheless, the task remains mine.”
“Yes, but carrying it out will change you.”
“Perhaps that would be for the best.”
“You might not like who you become.”
Pruet said, “I’m not so happy with who I am.”
Odo sighed. He’d taken things as far as he could for the moment. If he pushed any harder, M’sieur le Magistrat might simply send him home. Not that he’d ever leave Yves alone. He would wait for another moment and try again to reason with his superior.
In the meantime, he pursued another angle.
“You are sure you don’t wish to contact Le Partisan de la Présidente?”
The president’s henchman, James J. McGill.
“I am certain of nothing,” Pruet said, “other than the fact that neither of us has plied his trade in the United States before.”
“Another hurdle,” Odo agreed.
“We will do what we can,” Pruet said. “Start our investigation in New York and see where it might lead us.”
Odo nodded. “Bon. With any luck, we’ll find the bastard, deal with him and be back in Paris almost as if we’d never left.”
Prue
t smiled again, more sadly than before.
He closed his eyes and said, “Of course, you and I, we are the luckiest of fellows.”
Far from it, Odo knew.
He said, “If we have to engage the services of M’sieur McGill, he will not be so easy to deceive.”
“We will tell him the truth. We are trying to recover an invaluable Renoir painting, stolen from my father’s summer house,” Pruet said.
Odo bided his silence.
Pruet opened one eye. Looked at his friend.
“You think that will not do?”
Now, Odo closed his eyes. “It is the truth, but it might not be enough.”
“You are right. It wouldn’t do to underestimate M’sieur McGill. We must behave as if all that concerns us is a painting.”
Odo said, “Should we use M’sieur McGill’s help to find our man, and he learns that you have killed the fellow, you will lose a friend.”
“I know,” Pruet said. “A terrible thing, but I have no choice.”
The flight had left Paris early that afternoon. But both men had been hard at work for the past several days, and they slept fitfully for the rest of the flight.
The Chief of Staff’s Office — The White House
Having been dismissed by the president, Galia Mindel invited Secret Service Director David Nathan and SAC Elspeth Kendry into her office. She didn’t offer them anything to drink. It was within her purview to know of any existential threat to the president, but she knew how the guys and gals with the guns liked to keep their secrets.
Hell, secret was their first name.
So Galia looked each of them straight in the eye.
“I want to know what percentage of likelihood you ascribe to the assassination scenario you just presented to the president.”
Not blinking, Nathan said, “Fifty percent.”
“Even money?” Galia asked.
SAC Kendry nodded.
“Good God,” Galia murmured. She pulled herself together and asked, “If there’s no attempt at the inauguration, does the likelihood of some other attempt on the president’s life decrease?”
Nathan said, “It does, but only slightly and it remains higher than normal threat levels for the foreseeable future.”
“Break it down for me,” the chief of staff said, “into foreign and domestic components.”
The director looked at SAC Kendry. It was her turn in the batter’s box.
She said, “Foreign threats are marginally higher, but that’s to be expected for either a new president or a newly reelected president. Bad guys around the world see the first few months of a president’s term of office as moments of maximum vulnerability. All the new people in the White House are getting their bearings and maybe things aren’t working so smoothly yet.”
“But you have things well in hand, don’t you, SAC Kendry?” Galia asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Former SAC Crogher and I worked very hard to assure a seamless transition. I’m confident we’re doing everything possible to keep the president safe.”
“Mr. McGill, too?”
Elspeth bit her lip, then said, “I’m sure you know by now the unique problems that Holmes presents to us.” Holmes being McGill’s code name. “His exposure is greater because he insists on doing things his way. He doesn’t answer to you or us or anyone I know of.”
Galia had to agree with that assessment.
She knew from delicately worded discussions with the president that even the commander-in-chief couldn’t rein Holmes in. That simply wasn’t the way their marriage worked. Damnit.
She asked, “Does Mr. McGill share the president’s elevated threat level?”
Nathan said, “Only insofar as the times he’s at the president’s side. On his own, his threat level has actually decreased. It’s the inverse of his public approval ratings. Holmes has charmed a good portion of the country.”
Elspeth said, “Saving your life on live TV gave him a big bump.”
Galia nodded. She still had flashbacks to the moment she’d almost died.
“Mr. McGill now has former Special Agent Ky working for him, as well as Leo Levy. So he’s essentially as well protected as ever,” Nathan said.
“You’re okay with that?” Galia asked Elspeth.
“I accept it,” Elspeth said. “I grew up in Beirut when people were dying in the streets by the dozens every day. You see that, you realize nobody can ever be fully protected, but some people walk away from situations you’d think would surely kill them.”
Galia nodded. If James J. McGill had been a half-second slower in his reaction time, she wouldn’t be alive today.
“You’ve said you think the main threat to the president is domestically based,” Galia said. “Is there any evidence to tie it directly to supporters of Senator Hurlbert?”
Both Nathan and Kendry sat stone faced.
The director said, “We have no direct evidence implicating either the senator or senior members of True South.”
Galia said, “That still leaves a lot of people who voted for Hurlbert and his new party.”
The chief of staff held up a hand. She knew that she could poke her nose into the workings of a Secret Service investigation only so far. She didn’t like it, but she had to live with it.
That was easier to do because she had her own network of spies.
She might pin down the threat to the president before anyone else did.
“Thank you for your time, David. You, too, SAC Kendry.”
After they’d gone, she picked up her phone and made a call.
Captain Welborn Yates answered.
McGill’s Hideaway — The White House
Gabbi Casale had tucked her easel into a corner, packed up her paints and took her brushes and the canvas with the portrait-in-progress of McGill with her when she left the room. McGill felt sure Gabbi was hiding the painting somewhere in the White House, but the building had one hundred and thirty-two rooms. Even after four years of living in the place he hadn’t seen all of them.
He felt sure the president’s personal secretary, Edwina Byington, knew where the painting was kept, but that privileged knowledge was just the sort of nugget Edwina would withhold for her memoirs.
McGill was still working on solving the puzzle when Patti entered the room.
She had the Residence’s head butler, Blessing, with her. Blessing had brought drinks, shots of Bushmills single malt, for the First Couple. The president told Blessing they were not to be disturbed for anything short of a family or national emergency.
McGill took all this in without a word.
Until he was alone with his wife. He raised his glass and said, “Sláinte.”
Irish for health. Appropriate to the whiskey and the mood McGill was sensing.
“God save the president,” Patti replied. “Her henchman, too.”
She clicked her glass against McGill’s. They drank. McGill got an eighty proof presidential kiss and they sat close together on the room’s huge leather sofa. The vibe was starting to make McGill feel uneasy. It wasn’t that long ago that Patti had experienced a transient heart condition, one that might have killed her but hadn’t.
“You’re all right, aren’t you?” he asked. “We don’t need to call Nick?”
Artemus Nicolaides, the White House physician.
Patti put her glass and McGill’s on an end table.
Not bothering about coasters. Worrying McGill all the more.
She took his hands in hers and he was somewhat reassured by their warmth.
“I’m in excellent health, as far as I know. I feel quite well. Physically.”
“Then the problem is?” McGill asked.
“I’ve just sat through two screenings of a horror movie.”
That one lost McGill for a moment, until he remembered the kinds of secrets to which a president was privy. It was a part of Patti’s job that had always left him feeling conflicted. He understood there were awful things his wife learned of almost daily. It wasn
’t his place to share in that knowledge. For the most part, he was glad to remain blissfully ignorant. But it was hard to comfort someone when you weren’t allowed to know what was bothering her.
Simply trying to be a warm and fuzzy presence failed to satisfy either of them.
McGill always wanted to take steps to make things right. Rationally, he knew that the scope of the problems a president faced every day were beyond the ability of even the most motivated and able gumshoe to solve. Emotionally, that wouldn’t have stopped him from giving it his best effort to meet the challenge.
If he brought Sweetie along, that just might be enough to overcome.
Assuming he was allowed to know what the problem was.
“How much can you tell me?” McGill asked.
“On this one? Pretty much the whole thing.”
Patti looked around, even though she didn’t need to do so. She knew Jim hadn’t sneaked a TV into his hideaway. Doing so, even to watch a White Sox, Bears or Bulls game, would have allowed the world to intrude. He wouldn’t have that.
There was, however, a television in their bedroom. Tucked away in a cherry-wood cabinet. But perfectly functional for viewing moments of tragedy or disaster before leaving bed to try to make the world all better. Might be just the place for the two of them to …
“Come on,” the president said, getting to her feet, tugging McGill upright. “I need you to see the horror show, too. So you can give me your opinion.”
McGill nodded. Put an arm around his wife’s shoulders.
Old Ebbit Grill — Washington, DC
The restaurant was little more than a stone’s throw from the White House, and it met Galia Mindel’s requirement of the moment, anonymity. She’d never been there before. As far as she knew, no one working there knew her. Still, there was no telling if some politically astute diner might recognize her. This was Washington, after all.
To minimize the possibility of being spotted, she dressed down, far more casually than she did to stand at the president’s side. The restaurant’s dress code was informal. Blue jeans were acceptable. Galia had never owned a pair of jeans in her life, but that was what she’d asked Welborn Yates to wear. She definitely didn’t want him to show up in uniform or even a suit.
