by Joseph Flynn
Jean Morrissey said, “I agree, Madam President. Every tinpot tyrant and dung-beetle terrorist would think he’d just been given the green light. Maybe, ahead of the inauguration, you should think of some overseas jerk whose attitude would be improved by a cruise missile or a naval shelling. A preemptive slap across the face might make a would-be terrorist or his sponsor think twice.”
The president and Galia looked at each other.
Neither of them had thought of that idea.
Then, again, neither of them had played collegiate ice hockey as Jean had. The vice president had been both the high scorer on her team and its chief enforcer. You messed with one of Jean Morrissey’s teammates, she’d mess you up.
The actual breaking of a nose, and suffering the same, might be useful experience for someone who wanted to sit in the Oval Office, the president thought. She felt a new level of comfort with her vice president. If she should perish — perish the thought — the country wouldn’t lack for a strong leader.
In fact, the vice president’s suggestion about attitude adjustment implied there would be hell to pay for anyone behind an assassination. That also pleased the president.
“That’s certainly something to think about, Jean. But here’s what I have in mind in the meanwhile. While we will have the ceremonial inauguration as planned, you and I won’t be in plain sight at the same time. You’ll be sworn in while I’m still inside the Capitol. Then you’ll step inside and a few minutes later I’ll make my appearance.”
“Sort of like the State of the Union strategy,” the vice president said.
At the president’s annual speech to Congress, assessing the well-being of the country and offering plans for its future, the president, vice president, speaker of the House and just about everyone else in the line of presidential succession was in one place, the chamber of the House of Representatives. A catastrophic attack might take all of them out. So one member of the president’s cabinet watched the speech from an undisclosed location. That person, in the worst case, would become president.
“Yeah, it’s sort of like that,” Galia said, “only we’ll insist Speaker Profitt remain at ground zero the whole time.”
Peter Profitt was second in the line of presidential succession
And the leading member of the opposition party.
Vice President Morrissey laughed.
The president limited herself to a smile.
Four Seasons Hotel — Washington, DC
Their body-clocks still not fully adjusted to the time zone in which they found themselves, Pruet and Odo rose early. The magistrate called Paris and spoke with his father.
“Papa, do you recall ever seeing anyone use a mobile phone in our Avignon library?”
“Why would anyone do that?” Augustin Pruet asked. “It is a place to read, to think or —”
To look at Renoir’s painting of Antoine and Jocelyn.
Augustin’s voice caught in his throat.
The wound he had suffered was not just fresh it was still bleeding.
“Papa, I have found a forgery of the Renoir in New York.”
The elder Pruet’s voice returned, filled with excitement. “A forgery? You’ve called the police?”
“Not yet, but Odo and I were visited by an agent of the FBI’s art crime team. He urged us to stay away from the gallery where we saw the forgery, even though I told him I had put a deposit down on the painting for the right to bid on it.”
“Why would you —” his father began. Then he understood, “You think the forgery is the initial step in your pursuit of the thief.”
“Yes, but not in the same fashion as I first thought.”
He explained McGill’s thought that a respectable forgery could not be painted, shipped to the United States and hung in a New York gallery in less than a week.
The magistrate said, “If someone visiting our house used his phone and sent the photos of the painting to the United States, the forgery could have been done here, perhaps over a period of months, and hung in the art gallery with much more subtlety.”
There was a long moment of silence. Pruet understood it. His father was mourning the idea that one of his guests must have betrayed his hospitality.
“I will ask Emmeline,” Augustin said. “She knows everyone who has visited us.”
Emmeline Louvel was the wife of the the maître d'hôtel. The head butler.
“I can call her, if you prefer, Papa.”
“That is very kind of you, Yves, but it is my responsibility.”
“As you wish. Please let me know what you learn.”
Pruet didn’t presume to tell his father how to speak with Emmeline.
He had learned his manners from his father, not the other way around.
The senior Pruet said he would be in touch. Even with an ocean between them, Pruet thought he could hear his father’s heart breaking. As he ended the call, the magistrate saw Odo looking at him.
“I know,” Pruet said, “you would still be happy to provide vengeance.”
“Oui.”
“Be careful of what you wish for,” Pruet told him.
The two of them went down to an early breakfast in the hotel’s Seasons dining room. A Belgian waffle with berries for Pruet; corn beef hash and poached eggs for Odo. The bodyguard said with a slight taunt that one of them had to keep up his strength.
Rising to the bait, Pruet suggested they get some exercise.
He proposed they go for a walk and see the American capital.
Williamsburg, Virginia
Welborn Yates and Celsus Crogher pulled onto the driveway of what Kira called the Yates’ country manor in the early hours of the morning. Working on short notice, Leo Levy had needed a few hours to find the pickup truck they wanted, a faded blue Ford F150 SuperCab Short Bed. The odometer showed 136,859 miles on the pickup.
Leo said, “Pay no mind to that.” He lifted the hood, showed them the gleaming monster that lurked within and told Welborn, “This engine will make you think you’re back in one of your jet planes.”
He also showed them a concealed storage compartment beneath the rear seats.
In it, held in place by tension clips, were two Beretta 92s and a Remington Compact Camo shotgun. Leo said, “I guarantee you nobody who doesn’t take this truck apart bolt by bolt is ever going to find these weapons. But if you want to head out unarmed, I’ll take them off your hands.”
Welborn and Celsus chose not to go gentle into that good night.
Celsus was only sorry Leo hadn’t brought him an Uzi.
They didn’t ask where Leo got the truck or the guns. Welborn told Leo he’d receive cash for whatever the rental fee was. Leo just shook his head.
“This one’s from a good ol’ boy who owes me more than one favor. Just try to bring the truck back if you can. And be sure to use only high-test gas. You’re going to need a lot of it.”
Arriving in Virginia, Celsus was amazed that anyone he knew owned such a large piece of land. Not that he could see the dimensions in the dark. The countryside outside the limits of the former colonial town of Williamsburg was illuminated only by their headlights. Beyond the beams the night was as dark as the devil’s sense of humor. Celsus judged the size of the property by the distance they traveled after turning off the small country road.
“It’s not a really big property,” Welborn said. “A little less than six times the size of the White House grounds.”
“Is that all?” Celsus asked and snorted.
Coming from Wyoming, he knew all about vast ranches and farms, but those were working properties. Businesses. People raised livestock or crops. He knew they did that in Virginia, too. Some well-to-do types also raised horses, and that’d take some room. But Welborn had told him that since the early days of the nation his property had been used as a “getaway.”
Self-indulgence on any scale made Celsus’ upper lip curl.
Having a hundred acres just to stretch your legs was beyond him.
“Giv
e it a try,” Welborn teased, “maybe you’ll like it.”
Celsus found the very idea threatening.
Some values were beyond even the power of dance to change.
It came as a comfort to him that in keeping with their cover identities Welborn said they should stay in the blacksmith’s cottage. The former SAC could relate to someone banging heated steel into horseshoes. It was the privileged gentry thing that set his teeth on edge.
Which led him to think of Kira Yates
He told Welborn, “Sorry if I upset your wife back in DC.”
“She’s tougher than she likes to let on,” Welborn said, “but thank you.”
The two men pulled up in front of a humble structure behind the main house. They got out carrying the duffel bags holding their changes of clothing. They also brought their firearms. Wouldn’t do to be caught unaware and unarmed. On that, they were in complete agreement.
Welborn, being a federal agent, wouldn’t have had to sweat a weapons’ charge.
Celsus, being a former federal agent would have to rely on a presidential pardon.
As they approached the front door, Celsus asked, “What’s that little lean-to section over there?”
“That’s the smithy,” Welborn said.
The former SAC’s face brightened. “You weren’t kidding? This place had a real blacksmith?”
“Hammer, tongs, anvil, bellows: the works. You can give it a try after the sun’s up. Right now, though, I need some sleep.”
Accommodating Celsus’ Spartan sensibilities, Welborn gave him the smaller bedroom, a space with a narrow cot, a small window and a chamber pot. He took the moderately larger, more comfortable room with access to the water closet.
Both of them fell asleep in minutes.
Being accustomed to functioning on fewer hours of sleep than Welborn, Celsus rose first. The chamber pot did not pass muster for his needs. He used the water closet, but the toilet refused to flush. While far from genteel, Celsus was devoted to hygiene.
With the sun just over the horizon, he headed out to the smithy to look for tools that might be applied to plumbing problems. He didn’t get that far. Parked next to the pickup was a black BMW 320i. The woman behind the wheel was filing her fingernails and looked like she was whistling along to a song.
Celsus couldn’t hear the music and the woman didn’t hear him approach.
Not until he rapped on her window and she levitated a good three inches.
After settling back on her leather seat, she looked at him, smiled and lowered her window.
“You must be SAC Crogher,” she said.
She extended her right hand and he shook it.
“And who are you?” he asked.
“I’m your new girlfriend.”
Celsus nodded and said, “Can’t blame Santa for not bringing you on time.”
Where the hell had that come from, he asked himself.
Then he knew. It came from four years of listening to Holmes talk. Still, the woman didn’t take it wrong. She got out of the car beaming.
“Well, aren’t you the sweetest thing?” She kissed his cheek and told him, “I’m Merilee Parker, and tonight you’re going to beat up the man who’s been pestering me.”
Celsus said, “Sure, I can do that.”
Washington, DC, Southeast
Odo interspersed his usual surveillance of his surroundings with glances at the brochure he’d picked up from the concierge at the Four Seasons. He asked Pruet, “Did you know that the original plans for this city were drawn up by a Frenchman?”
“Pierre Charles L’Enfant,” Pruet said. “He served in the Continental — that is Revolutionary — Army under Major General Lafayette. He also served under General Washington as a Captain of Engineers.”
Odo was impressed. “I bow to your superior knowledge. My pamphlet does not go into such detail.”
Pruet said, “My father has always had a fondness for Americans and a disdain for the leftists who filled Paris’ streets in the 1960s. I was educated accordingly.”
“So your share his views?”
“When I was young? Of course not. I was never a communist and only mildly a socialist. Having the luck to be born into privilege, I wanted to secure my position in life. But I never flaunted my good fortune. I dressed, talked and acted like most university students. The Americans had been foolish enough to follow us into Vietnam. I could not believe how blind they had been not to learn from our mistake.”
Odo said, “Obviously, they thought they could do better.”
“And they paid a terrible price for such pride. No, in my early days I did not think much of this country.”
At that point, the magistrate saw a building under construction. Rather, he saw a construction barricade around a building. From what little he could discern of the structure itself, it seemed to be near completion. He also took notice that he and Odo had exited from what he knew was termed official Washington, the area containing the White House, the Capitol, the plethora of government offices and national museums.
“Where are we?” Pruet asked Odo.
He knew there were parts of this city where visitors were advised not to tread.
Odo found a map in his brochure, pointed and said, “Ici.” Here.
They had not wandered too far off the path regarded as safe.
Pruet nodded. “What do you think that building up there will be?”
“The one with the barricade? If construction does not rise higher, it’s not likely to be a hotel or an office structure. Perhaps some sort of cultural site. That would be about the right scale.”
Pruet nodded, agreeing with the assessment.
They continued to walk toward the building.
Pruet said, “It was American culture, music, films and, television, that forced me not to underestimate these people. That and their technology. It seemed for several years, decades really, that every new thought in the world came from here.”
Odo said, “They do seem energetic.”
“In recent years, our country has lost several of our best academics to America. That made me both sad and envious, but I couldn’t blame this country for making itself so appealing.”
“Others have,” Odo replied.
“True, but I have enough burdens to carry without piling bitterness on my shoulders.”
“And then you met M’sieur McGill.”
“Oui. He was a revelation, and Madam la Présidente is a delight.”
Odo smiled. “After she paid for the holiday Marie and I took in Hawaii, my dear wife told me that never being able to vote for Patricia Grant will be one of her rare regrets.”
“Her regrets are rare only because she married such a stalwart fellow.”
Odo laughed. “It’s not too late for you to find someone new, Yves.”
“She will have to find me. My energy is not what it once was. Let’s find a taxi to take us back to the hotel.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a closer look at that building up ahead.”
It was less than a block distant now.
“Very well,” Pruet said.
“Have you given any thought about telling M’sieur McGill the other reason we are here?” Odo asked.
Pruet sighed. “The question torments me endlessly.”
“You could put it to rest.”
“I could, but I am still too foolish to do so. Yet another of my failings.”
Odo refused to contribute to his friend’s self-pity. As they waited for a green light at the corner across the street from the new building, a large truck passed in front of them. On the door of the cab was a small crest bearing the word FAT in Gothic script. Otherwise the vehicle was an anonymous white, as uninformative as a blank sheet of paper.
Pruet and Odo watched as a section of the barricade around the building swung open and the truck drove into the enclosed space. The barrier swung back into place, restoring a sense of secrecy to the site.
The traffic light turned gre
en and the two Frenchmen crossed the street. A security guard stood watch in front of them. Pruet stopped a polite distance away and asked, “May I inquire what purpose this building will serve?”
The man smiled and said, “I get that question a hundred times a day. I tell everybody that’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question.”
Neither Pruet or Odo knew the idiom. Incomprehension showed on their faces.
The guard read their looks easily. “Just means I don’t know. Whoever is putting this place up wants it to be a big surprise. I can say, I think it’s going to open pretty soon.”
“Merci,” Pruet said.
The guard understood he’d been thanked. He’d visited Montreal.
“Yeah, welcome to the United States. You fellas have a nice time now.”
Pruet and Odo hailed a cab, asked to be taken to the Four Seasons.
They continued their conversation in French.
“Now, I think the building is a mall, a collection of small but prestigious shops,” Odo said.
Pruet shook his head.
“No?” Odo asked.
“The truck that entered the construction site? Did you notice the initials on the cab?”
Odo missed very little. He said, “F-A-T.”
“Have you ever noticed such a truck in Paris? The initials there would be T-B-A.”
Odo wrinkled his brow. “I think I have, but I don’t recall ever giving it any thought.”
“No reason you should.”
“But you’ll enlighten me now, Yves?”
“Yes, the letters stand for Transport de beaux-arts.”
In English: Fine Art Transport. FAT.
Something to think about for two fellows looking for a Renoir.
Dupont Circle — Washington, DC
Laurent Fortier gave the paintings hanging in Gallery Trois far more attention than he felt they deserved. He was waiting for a client who was late. He couldn’t imagine why the man had asked to meet him in the gallery above the two-story bookstore. Every painting he looked at only depressed him more.
