by Joseph Flynn
The producer said he couldn’t do that. Those decisions were the perquisites of the director.
“As you envision things,” Carina asked, “would the director be a man?”
The producer said yes. He said the man he had in mind was bankable.
Carina thanked him for his interest but said she’d never again let any man make important decisions regarding any aspect of her life. She might have agreed to working with a female director who had a collaborative attitude, but she saw no sense in giving the producer false hope and kept that to herself.
To his credit, the producer was gracious in defeat. He wished her well and said he hoped they might meet again under happier circumstances. Better yet, word never got back to Carina that the producer had bad-mouthed her in any way.
Almost made her wish … nah, no point wishing for the fall of Hollywood’s auteur system.
The Pentagon would become a matriarchy first.
So Carina used the million dollars she was sure had been intended as a down payment on her movie deal and bought her boat. She took two years of sailing lessons from a master female mariner who wanted to become her lover and was also sent away disappointed. When Carina’s contract with WorldWide News came up for renewal, she put that off, too.
She’d been a special consultant on issues of women in the military.
And was oh so bored with all that. She wanted to move on, not be trapped by her past. Woman in Command was her version of the adultery charge that had been brought against her by the Air Force. She’d had an affair with Navy Captain Dexter Cowan. She’d told the investigating officer, Lieutenant Welborn Yates, that Cowan had told her he was single. But Cowan had said he’d told Carina he was married but separated from his wife. It was a classic case of he said, she said. After Captain Cowan had died in a car wreck, the matter of a court martial for Colonel Linberg was dropped in the outgoing trash.
So was any chance for her career advancement.
She resigned her commission, was honorably discharged, and signed a three-year deal with WWN that left her with seven-figure assets, but hadn’t made her appreciably happier. She was single, getting older — not that most people would notice — and at a loss about what she wanted to do next.
She decided to take a month off, August being a good time to do that. With the end of the month fast approaching, she got her lawyer to buy her another month of grace with the network. She set off alone on a voyage to Key West. She’d never gone farther than Charleston, South Carolina before, but she felt confident she could make it to the far point of Florida.
She’d keep an eye out for hurricanes, oil tankers and any Somali pirates who might have drifted off course, and she’d be fine. One thing did take her by surprise during the voyage: a story in the online edition of the Washington Post about the death of Speaker Derek Geiger at the official residence of Vice President Mather Wyman during the wedding of Kira Fahey and Captain Welborn Yates.
Sonofabitch, she thought, little Welborn had grown up, got married and been promoted. She’d bet he would become a major the day after Patti Grant’s second term began, assuming she got reelected.
Carina knew Welborn had a barely restrained case of the hots for her when he was investigating the adultery charge against her. She’d felt more than a little attracted to him as well, despite their difference in age. But she’d felt certain Welborn was the type of Boy Scout who, had he slept with her, would have turned himself in because he felt guilty.
She hadn’t thought she could beat two charges: adultery and subverting an investigation.
But she had two nights alone on the ocean dreaming of Welborn.
Seven days out of Newport, she pulled into the Waldorf Astoria resort in Key West, Casa Marina.
Determined to think of the future not the past.
McGill’s Hideaway — The White House
Before Elspeth Kendry left, McGill asked her to send for Deke Ky and Leo Levy. He intended to talk with the two people most immediately responsible for his personal well being before he spoke with the FBI about hunting down Damon Todd and friends. He was on the phone with Edwina Byington when the two of them appeared in his hideaway. He gestured to them to sit, and they did so reluctantly.
It was as if they thought it best to be on their feet and on their guard even in the White House, which was protected by a legion of uniformed Secret Service agents and Marines. Maybe Deke and Leo were right, McGill thought. Attitude might count for more than multitudes. Better safe than sorry was now more than ever the operative state of mind.
McGill asked Edwina, “Are you handling the acting president’s schedule, if that’s not being too nosy?”
“It might be,” Edwina said, meaning it, “but I’ll go out on a limb for you. Yes, I am.”
McGill thanked her and said, “Will you ask him if I might have a minute or two of his time? A phone call will be fine, if that’s all he can spare.”
Edwina said she’d make the request at the first opportunity.
McGill thanked her again and hung up. He turned to Deke and Leo.
“Did Elspeth inform you guys about Damon Todd’s escape before she talked to me?”
They nodded.
McGill said, “And?”
“Pulling a jailbreak on the CIA is a pretty good trick,” Leo said.
Deke said, “Scary, if you’re the kind of person who gets scared.”
“Something nobody here would ever admit to,” McGill said.
Deke said, “Not part of my job description.”
“I like riding someone’s bumper at two hundred miles per hour,” Leo told McGill.
“But you’re the one who’s married to the president,” Deke said.
“The one with three kids,” Leo added.
At the mention of his children, the word hostages leapt to McGill’s mind.
The expression on his face was enough for Deke to hold up a hand. “The Secret Service doesn’t overlook the obvious. SAC Crogher is working up new protection for everybody.”
“Including me?” McGill asked.
Deke said, “Sure. We see someone whose looks we don’t like, we now have permission to snarl at them.”
Leo grinned at the joke. McGill saw the larger truth behind it.
He said to Deke, “Celsus knows he can’t overtly force a platoon of agents on me. So what’s he going to do, reinforce Elspeth’s outer ring?”
Deke sat mute. He wasn’t going to blab.
Leo shrugged. He wasn’t privy to Secret Service plans.
Someone else might be, though, and McGill asked, “Deke, did Mather Wyman sign off on whatever it is Celsus has in mind?”
Deke nodded.
Well, wasn’t that a kick in the ass? There was a new de facto president in the White House and he didn’t have McGill’s back. No, that wasn’t quite right. Wyman had his back far more oppressively than McGill ever would have wanted.
Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t in good conscience ask Patti to rap Wyman’s knuckles. She had to focus on getting better, just like Kenny. So he’d have to sit tight for a while. Let himself be boxed in. Help the FBI catch Todd, if he could.
God, he hated the situation already.
There was only one thing to do: talk to Sweetie.
Maybe the two of them could … he saw Deke and Leo staring at him.
Trying to read his mind. See what sort of plan he might be hatching.
Maybe tattle on him?
The idea caught him by surprise. Rubbed him the wrong way, too.
McGill asked, “You guys remember our agreement, right? Nothing I do or say gets back to SAC Crogher or anyone else.”
Leo looked very uncomfortable; Deke looked the other way. It was plain they’d received other orders. Crogher must have laid down the law to Deke and … McGill had no idea who headed up the White House Transportation Agency, Leo’s direct employer, but an order from Wyman would bring Leo’s complicity.
Not hearing an answer, much less a satisfactory one
, McGill got to his feet, his temper also rising, and said, “Fine, I’ll ask to have both of you reassigned immediately. You’re no longer working for me. Not if you can’t keep our agreement.”
Deke only narrowed his eyes. Leo said, “Sumbitch.”
They both stood and looked McGill in the eye.
He repeated, “We had a deal. If you can’t keep it, for whatever reason, we’re done. It was a pleasure working with you. If you need letters of reference, I’ll be happy to provide them.”
McGill sounded anything but happy. He opened the door for Deke and Leo.
Before they could leave, McGill told them “I’ll need a new driver to visit my son at the hospital this afternoon. If Elspeth wants to ride along with me, that’s fine.” Then he had one last point to make, emphatically. “But you tell SAC Crogher and Acting President Wyman that Elspeth is the only Secret Service protection I’ll accept. If they have any objections, remind them that I do not work for them. I am not subject to their wishes. I —” McGill bit his tongue.
He’d promised Patti at the start of her presidency he would not embarrass her.
If he let his temper burn any hotter, he might go too far.
He stood aside so Deke and Leo could leave. He felt as if he’d just discarded two friends.
He got Edwina on the phone and canceled his request to speak with Mather Wyman.
He sat alone in his hideaway, feeling as if he was the one who needed to make a jailbreak.
Galia Mindel caught McGill before he could go anywhere, nabbed him in his hideaway.
“I’d like you to repay the favor you owe me,” she said.
McGill took a deep breath. He still hadn’t completely calmed down.
“Would you like a light drink or snack, Galia?” he asked. “You wouldn’t believe the service in this place.”
He was stalling, trying to collect himself and figure out what the chief of staff wanted. There was no question that he would do whatever it was she asked. He owed her, and he paid his debts.
“Thank you, no. What I’d like you to do is …” She gave him a once over. “Are you all right, Mr. McGill?”
He saw no reason to evade. “I had a difference of opinion with SAC Crogher and indirectly with the acting president. I dismissed my personal bodyguard and driver.”
Galia took that in and started to process what the consequences might be, but she tabled the matter for later consideration. She had to focus on her issues first.
“I’d like you, sir, to take a quick shower, put on a suit and talk to the press.”
“The White House press corps?”
“That’s the only one we allow in.”
For most of his wife’s first term, McGill had kept a deliberately low profile. He attended state social functions with Patti and got good reviews for looking spiffy when he put on a tuxedo, but the only time he’d done a press conference was shortly after the inauguration when he’d accepted the necessity to formally introduce himself to the American public.
“You cleared this with Mather Wyman?” he asked.
“I cleared it with the president and the acting president.” Galia’s tone told him he should have known better than to ask.
“What would you like me to say?” McGill asked.
He didn’t want to be coached and would refuse to use canned responses, but knowing a general direction would be helpful.
“I’d like you to reassure the nation that the president is resting comfortably, is on the mend and will return to office.”
“Isn’t that something Nick should handle?”
Galia frowned. She was expecting a greater degree of cooperation.
“Dr. Nicolaides will precede you in speaking to the press. What I hope you will provide is a more personal assessment as the president’s …” Galia almost said henchman but she caught herself. “Husband.”
McGill thought about that, apparently a moment too long.
“Are you going to repay my favor or not?” Galia asked.
He did owe her, and not knowing if someday he might need another favor from the chief of staff, McGill said, “What color suit would you like me to wear?”
McGill wore a navy blue suit and a marigold tie. The suit was sober but not funereal; the tie evinced a note of optimism. Galia had selected both items of clothing from his closet. In the White House press room, he stood to one side as Nick gave a concise unemotional recitation of Patti’s condition. The plan, simply, was to give the public a full disclosure of what had happened to the president at GWU hospital.
Nick finished by saying he felt the president’s prognosis was good.
He refused to take any questions, saying that going beyond what he’d already said would violate doctor-patient confidentiality.
That ethical shield was allowed to remain in place because McGill stepped forward and shook Nick’s hand and took his place at the lectern. Press Secretary Aggie Wu stood to McGill’s right. She’d pick out the newsies who would be allowed to ask questions, and smack anyone who forgot his or her manners.
McGill began, “The American people deserve to know the condition of their president’s health. That’s what my wife tells me. If anyone other than Patricia Darden Grant were president, I would feel the same way. As her husband, though, I’m somewhat uncomfortable discussing what feels to me like a family matter.
“I’m sure those of you who have experienced medical crises in your own families will understand what I’m saying. If you’re caught in the middle of a life-or-death situation, the last thing you need or want is someone looking over your shoulder.
“That’s an entirely reasonable position to take, if you’re a private citizen. When you’re the president, though, the only things that outnumber your powers and perks are your obligations to the people who put you in office … and to those who wish you’d just go away.”
The newsies gave McGill a laugh. More in sympathy than anything else, he thought.
“My wife is a remarkable woman. She’s done her best for our country from the time she entered Congress to the present. During her years in public office, she experienced the tragedy of losing her first husband, Andy Grant, to a horrific act of violence. In recent days, Patti and I, along with Carolyn Enquist and her husband Lars, all faced the possibility …”
McGill needed a moment to compose himself and took it.
“The possibility that we might lose our son, Kenny, to leukemia. Kenny’s best treatment option was a bone marrow transplant. Patti, as God or fate would have it, was a perfect match for Kenny. During the course of administering general anesthesia to the president, the medical team discovered the condition Dr. Nicolaides just described to you. I was called on to make the decision whether to continue with the transplant process or to stop it. I chose to proceed.”
McGill paused to take a sip of water.
“That was the hardest decision of my life. I believe I did the right thing. The president’s health is being closely monitored and she has shown no further sign of any heart irregularity, and Kenny’s transplant seems to be working. As long as I’m here speaking to you, I ask that those of you who believe in the power of prayer remember the president and Kenny in your prayers.
“Within the limits of matters of public interest, I’ll take your questions now.”
From the forest of hands that immediately sprouted, Aggie Wu picked a reporter from the Washington Post.
“Mr. McGill, were you informed of any risk the president would face by continuing with the transplant process, and did you think to consult with anyone else before you made your decision?”
“I was informed of the risks. You may talk to experts of your choosing to find out what they were. I did not consult with anyone. I was told time was of the essence, and I was the only person involved who was both the spouse to the donor and the parent of the recipient. Who else might have made the decision?”
The Post reporter followed up. “If there was no time for consultation, your decision must have been al
l the more difficult. In retrospect, though, if you’d had the time, do you think you would have owed it to the American people to consult a medical ethicist?”
“No,” McGill said. “The obligations I mentioned that the president owes the people of this country are not infinite, and the ones I owe them are far fewer than hers.”
Aggie called on the reporter from the Chicago Tribune next. “Mr. McGill, I can’t speak for anyone else’s religious convictions among the media, but I feel comfortable saying everyone here extends their best wishes to the president, your son and your family.”
“Thank you.”
“My question is,” the reporter continued, “have you spoken with the president about the decision you made to continue the transplant process, and if you did will you tell us what her response was?”
McGill looked down at the lectern for a moment. When he raised his eyes, it was clear that he had decided to answer both halves of the question.
“I have talked with the president about that, yes. She supported the choice I made. The president and I both work in risky occupations. If you’re a politician or a cop these days, there’s a chance someone might take a shot at you. It might seem strange to most people, but you learn to live with that possibility. You consciously come to accept that there are reasons for which you’ll risk your life. The president and I have both made it clear to each other the circumstances we consider justifiable for self-sacrifice.”
The reporter from the New York Times wanted to know, “Do you think the president will be up to or even want to make a run for reelection?”
“The answer to both parts of your question is yes. I expect her to recover, run for reelection and be returned to office.”
WorldWide News’ White House reporter asked, “If you had your choice, would the president run for reelection?”
“Not if I have to do any more press conferences.”
The newsies all laughed.
McGill continued, “If I thought there was anyone who had the vision, the intelligence, the charm and the determination to do the job as well as Patti, I’d be doing my level best to persuade her to leave public life. But I don’t see anyone who comes close.”
