by Joseph Flynn
Turn himself in, confess to the authorities what he knew about the truck bomber. He couldn’t tell them about Brock or his drones. The congressman was a Catholic, had first spoken to him under the seal of confession. That conversation was inviolable. But he could talk about what he’d heard from Fisk. He wasn’t Catholic. Hadn’t spoken to Mulchrone in the context of a sacrament.
True, he’d lied to both Fisk and Brock about keeping his mouth shut.
That was a sin on his part, one he could confess.
He doubted he’d see Dez in the next life, which he felt fast approaching.
But there was no harm in giving it a try.
McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown
“I am still of the opinion that Tyler Busby stole my family’s Renoir,” Pruet told DeWitt. “I had expected to find it at the new museum, but I did not.”
Ethan piped up. “Maybe they hadn’t gotten around to hanging it yet.”
Everyone in the room looked at him.
He shrugged and said, “Just an idea. We never asked if the exhibits were finalized.”
McGill made a note of that.
The magistrate continued with his explanation.
“I first thought Busby meant to sell the forgery, perhaps to lead any investigators, such as myself, down a false trail. In order to savor the real Renoir, I thought he would have to build a private viewing room. A discreet place where his theft would not be subject to discovery. I thought it would be a reasonable idea to see if the man had construction work done at any of his homes in the past year.”
DeWitt bobbed his head.
“I like your idea, m’sieur,” DeWitt said. “We can check for building permits. If we don’t find any of those, we can check with the neighbors to see if they noticed any work being done. If they did, and no permits were obtained, that’s a clear sign of a guilty mind.”
McGill said, “It might be more subtle than that. A building permit might have been obtained for another stated purpose, a storage room perhaps, but the space will be used to exhibit the stolen art.”
Everyone thought about that for a moment. Wondering how they might unmask such a deception. They couldn’t go to a judge and ask for a search warrant on a hunch. Ethan came up with the solution.
He said, “What you need to do is find out what kind of lighting was put into any new construction. You’d light an art gallery differently than a shed or a garage. Check how much wiring went into the room. The number of light fixtures, too. That way you might even get a close count of the number of paintings the guy intends to hang in his little hideout. You know, in case he wants the Renoir to have some company.”
McGill took all that down, too. He directed a smile of approval at Ethan.
DeWitt liked the young man’s reasoning, too. He told Ethan, “That’s good. Sorry I doubted you. There’s still something that bothers me, though. Mr. Winger here said he knows other experts who could spot the forgeries he saw. Some of those people are bound to visit Inspiration Hall. What’s to keep them from raising a stink?”
McGill sighed.
“What?” DeWitt asked.
McGill said, “I have an idea about that, but I have to ask Mr. Winger and M’sieur Sacripant to leave the room first.”
Odo got to his feet without hesitation or complaint.
“C’est rien,” he said. It’s nothing. Colloquially, no problem. He opened the door to the outer office and extended a hand to Ethan. “Mon ami?”
The young prodigy left without a word, but not before directing a look at McGill.
As if to say, “Okay, buddy, let’s see what you can do on your own.”
McGill took no offense. He liked the kid’s cockiness.
“Your farm team looks pretty good,” he told DeWitt.
“But not quite ready for the major leagues?”
Pruet did his best to keep up with the American idioms.
Believing he understood what had been said, he told the others, “I think the young man was an asset.”
McGill nodded. “He was, but what I’m about to say, I shouldn’t even be telling you, M’sieur le Magistrat.”
“But you’re going to,” DeWitt said uneasily. “Maybe I shouldn’t be a witness to that.”
McGill said, “You’re right. No need to put you in the soup. I’ll come see you soon.”
DeWitt nodded, got up and left, waving farewell to Pruet.
The Frenchman looked at McGill.
“Seeing you in your own milieu, m’sieur,” he said, “I must conclude you can be as much of a problem to your government as I am to mine.”
McGill laughed. “Probably more. I’m not on the payroll. I’m married to the boss. It’s hard for people to find a handle on me.”
Despite all his advantages, McGill’s face turned somber.
“There are, however, people who will try just about anything to manipulate me or at least make me pay for what I do.”
He asked for and received a pledge of confidentiality from Pruet. Then he told him in general terms about the threats Patti faced and how they had been extended to his children. Hearing the news, Pruet’s mood also became grave.
“This is terrible,” the magistrate said. “If there is anything I can do to help, you have only to ask.”
“Merci,” McGill said. “There are a few more things I need to tell you. Patti was betrayed by someone who was quite close to her first husband.” He told Pruet of Joan Renshaw’s perfidy. “That led me to think that perhaps you’ve overlooked someone else when you decided that Tyler Busby was behind the theft of your family’s Renoir.”
With the sinking feeling he was about to put his foot into a trap, Pruet asked, “Who?”
McGill said, “If I remember correctly, you told me your great-grandmother’s engagement to one of the Busbys —”
“Hiram Busby,” Pruet said.
“Yes, her engagement to Hiram Busby was the cornerstone, I think you said —”
“Of a grand business alliance.”
“Right. So you saw the Busbys as the injured party, and old Hiram probably had his ego as seriously bruised as his body was from the beatings the Louvels gave him. But did having Hiram’s wedding to your great-grandmother fall through do any lasting financial harm to the Busby family? Assuming Tyler Busby still possesses the original versions of the forged paintings hanging in Inspiration Hall, I’d have to say no.”
Pruet thought about that and said, “I must assume you are correct.”
“So what does that leave?” McGill asked. “Hard feelings? If that’s the case, would the Busbys have waited a hundred years to get even with the Pruets? Not likely.”
Pruet couldn’t argue with McGill’s logic … and McGill had just told him how Madam la Présidente had been betrayed by someone she trusted. He knew where this should lead him, but he didn’t want to put his conclusion into words.
McGill saved him the trouble.
He told Pruet, “You said your great-grandmother was originally an American, a Hobart. Have you thought to see how her marriage to Antoine Pruet affected the Hobart family? Did their financial fortunes take a dive. Might it have taken them a century to get back to the big time? Maybe one of your American cousins is the one who hired Laurent Fortier to steal your Renoir.”
Pruet hung his head. Whether in sorrow or shame, McGill couldn’t tell.
When he looked up, a new sense of resolve filled his eyes.
“I will ask the Louvels to see if any Hobart has visited our country home.”
McGill said, “I don’t think you’d need to have the Louvels look back more than a few years. This plan probably took a while to put together, but not all that long.”
Pruet said, “I feel so … incompetent to have overlooked this.”
McGill shook his head. “Don’t. If not for Joan Renshaw, I wouldn’t have thought of it either, and you’re still going to wind up bagging a Busby, I’ll bet. The thefts at Inspiration Hall had to be an inside job. Most of the world doesn’t
even know what the nature of the building is.”
Pruet agreed. “A theft on such a grand scale and the commissioning of so many forgeries would also require a considerable sum of money to finance.”
“Money, ego and a sense of entitlement,” McGill said. “What’s mine is mine and what’s yours is also mine. I look at the way the forgeries are distributed at the museum, I can come up with only one conclusion. Most of the genuine Busby collection remained with its owner, and he cherry-picked the pieces he liked best from the other two collections. Assuming I’m right. You think we need to ask young Mr. Winger for his opinion?”
Pruet smiled. “Only if you wish to impress him with your understanding of the criminal mind.”
“Yours, too,” McGill said. “I think you’re spot on about his need to build his own private gallery, not just for one Renoir, but for all the paintings he stole from the Drucker and Ransom collections, too.”
Pruet said, “But M’sieur DeWitt pointed out the flaw in that. Busby will not be able to sustain his illusion for long.”
“He thinks he won’t have to,” McGill said. He shared one more secret with Pruet. “Inspiration Hall is the target for the people trying to kill the president and me. They mean to bring the building down. Preferably on us. Tomorrow.”
Thinking about that, McGill had an idea that might land a fly in the bad guys’ ointment.
He asked Pruet to give him a moment of privacy and called Patti.
The Oval Office
In the time honored fashion of Washington mission creep, a meeting between two people, the president and the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, grew into a meeting with six people: the president; her chief of staff, Galia Mindel; the head of the presidential protection detail, SAC Elspeth Kendry; the director of the Secret Service, David Nathan; Secretary of Defense, Patrick O’Connor; and chairman of the joint chiefs, Marine Commandant Barett Turnbull.
Galia was the one who had told the president, “On matters like this, it’s best to have all your bases covered.”
The president said, “Baseball has just four bases.”
“Only because the federal government didn’t invent the game,” the chief of staff replied.
Patricia Grant sighed and yielded. Now, she and Galia sat side by side in rosewood chairs. Elspeth and Director Nathan sat on the sofa to their right. Secretary O’Connor and General Turnbull sat on the sofa to their left.
“Thank you for coming, gentlemen, Elspeth,” the president said. She looked at those present and had a thought. Yet another person needed to be present. “Will you all please excuse me for just a few seconds. There’s someone else who should be here.” She went to her phone and asked Edwina Byington to have the vice president join them.
Less than a minute later, as if she’d anticipated the summons, Jean Morrissey entered the room. SAC Kendry gave her place to the vice president and stood behind Director Nathan. The president told her number two, “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Jean.”
“My pleasure, Madam President.”
The president proceeded to tell those present of the threat to her inauguration as described by Elvie Fisk, and Joan Renshaw’s leak of her closely held plan to visit Inspiration Hall tomorrow. Then she asked for comments, starting with Elspeth Kendry.
“Off the top of my head, Madam President, I’d say you have to cancel your visit, but I have the feeling …”
For the first time in years, Elspeth felt the pressure of being in a room filled with people far above her pay grade. She wasn’t actually intimidated. She just knew she’d have to choose her words carefully.
“What feeling do you have, Elspeth?” the president asked.
“That there might be other priorities beyond mine. Keeping you safe is not only first and foremost for me but …” Elspeth couldn’t help herself. She had to speak plainly. “But to hell with anyone and anything else.”
General Turnbull rewarded Elspeth with a tight grin.
Jean Morrissey had a sparkle in her eyes.
Everyone else kept a straight face.
“Thank you for your concern, Elspeth. You’re right as usual. There are other considerations to take into account. We’ll get to those in a minute. David, do you have anything to add from the Secret Service’s point of view?”
The director said, “Only that I couldn’t agree with SAC Kendry more. She has it exactly right.”
“Jean, how do you feel?” the president asked.
The vice president responded, “Madam President, I feel like putting on some brass knuckles and beating some bad guys to a pulp.”
That got a laugh from everyone in the room.
Jean Morrissey continued, “Failing that, I’d be pleased to borrow one of your limos and show up at Inspiration Hall in your place. Nobody would ever mistake me for you, but we might get the creeps ready to jump by using your car and once they saw me, they might figure half-a-loaf’s better than none.”
“You’d risk your life for me, Jean?” the president asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I was already threatened. I’d place my faith in the Secret Service and our military. If the bad guys are planning to hit tomorrow, and if one of us doesn’t show up, they might pull back, regroup and think up a new plan. We don’t want that. Might turn out worse for everyone.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” the president said.
General Turnbull raised a hand.
“Yes, General?”
“Ma’am, the vice president’s courage would do any Marine or other uniformed service member proud, but from my information we may be dealing with hostiles who’ve gotten their hands on missile-firing drones. Is that correct?”
“That’s the latest intelligence I’ve received as well,” the president said.
“Then, Madam President, the other side might well not wait to see who gets out of your limousine. The vehicle itself might be the target. In which case, there would be no need for the vice president or anyone else to be in the vehicle.”
“My limousine can drive itself?” the president asked.
“Not yet,” Director David Nathan said. “We’re working on a confidential pilot program with Google. The idea is that if your driver were ever injured and you needed the car to make a strategic departure — “
“An escape,” Elspeth said.
“Yes, an escape,” the director agreed. “Under the envisioned scenarios, your car would be able to get you out of harm’s way without a human driver.”
“But we don’t have that technology in place right now?” the president asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“So we’d need a volunteer, someone willing to risk his or her life, if the car should become the target,” the president said.
“Unless you forgo the visit to Inspiration Hall entirely, Madam President,” Director Nathan said, “and don’t send anyone in your stead.”
The president replied, “The museum itself might become a target. A gleaming new repository of Western culture might be as great an affront to the extremists as, say, two giant sculptures of the Buddha. Perhaps the time to strike would be on opening day when Inspiration Hall will be filled with any number of well-known visitors. Or it could be sometime later. Say a day when school buses are unloading children.”
Now, Elspeth understood the president’s view of the bigger picture.
“Yes, ma’am, it could be something like that,” she said.
“That’s unacceptable,” the president said. She looked at the secretary of defense. “Patrick, does the military have any system to counter drone-fired missiles?”
“That’s also in the works, Madam President, and also currently unavailable.”
The president took a note from a pocket. She glanced at it and said, “Intelligence from the FBI’s interrogation of Elvie Fisk suggests that the drones in the possession of our unidentified adversaries might be either Israeli Harpies or based on the technology of that drone. I’m told the Harpy will fire without a human comma
nd if it detects a radar signal that its database does not identify as friendly. Is that correct?”
O’Connor looked to Turnbull.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s correct,” the commandant said.
“Well, then, knowing that and knowing the target, my arrival at Inspiration Hall or the building itself, couldn’t we at least detect the approach of the hostile drones? Jam their video transmissions and use our radar selectively to misdirect the drones’ missiles to some relatively harmless area? Say a river or an open field.”
O’Connor and Turnbull looked at each other.
The secretary of defense said, “I’d have to check on that, Madam President.”
Elspeth guessed the note the president had read and the idea it described had come from James J. McGill. The man was involved in this situation up to his eyeballs. Who knew what else he had in mind? The SAC would have to be ready for anything.
“Please do,” the president said, “and now lets talk about the number and composition of the troops we’ll need on the Mall in case Washington sees its first military skirmish since 1812.”
Ile de la Cité — Paris
Gabbi Casale was getting ready for bed when the phone rang.
“You have a hammock at your place?” Tommy Meeker asked her.
“I have a guest room. I also have a hide-a-bed. Will that do?”
“Yeah. See you in fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll buzz you in, but come to the studio, okay?”
“Absolutely.”
“Would you like something to eat or drink?”
“Now that you mention it, food sounds good. Can that fancy French chef of yours do something simple like an honest-to-God hamburger? Maybe with a side of pommes frites and a Kronenbourg.”
“Sure. Would you like to split a chocolate mousse with me for dessert?”
“Love it. Be there soon.”
Gabbi called the kitchen of Monsieur Henri’s and placed the order. She slipped out of her pajamas and into her SAIC sweats. Whenever she was asked why the School of the Art Institute of Chicago would put its initials on athletic wear, she said the tuition at the school was a heavy lift for anyone not named Rockefeller.
