by Joseph Flynn
Sweetie had a question for Cheveyo. “How did guys like this ever get into the CIA? Don’t they have to go through psychological testing?”
“Yes, it’s part of a more general screening process, but generalized psychiatric exams do not fit all candidates. If you’re looking for someone you expect to be able to operate efficiently in hostile environments you have to allow for variables that wouldn’t be acceptable in someone doing a desk job.”
McGill said, “If you’re going to ask people to do crazy things, you have to accept they might be a little crazy, too.”
Cheveyo nodded and looked at the faces around the table. “Secret Service agents are willing to be bullet catchers for their packages. Military personnel volunteer to disarm explosive devices. FBI agents and police officers volunteer to work undercover in murderous criminal cartels. None of these activities is something a sane person would do. Unfortunately, sometimes people who track a little too far over the line slip past the screeners.”
Sweetie said, “I wonder how all of us would score on your battery of tests — not that I’m about to volunteer to take them.”
“Neither am I,” McGill said. “So what we’re dealing with are people who don’t mind and might even like spilling blood … and we’re going to give the FBI the first crack at bagging them. We know the bureau has a long history of counterespionage, catching foreign bad guys operating in the U.S., but what about dealing with CIA-trained operatives?”
DeWitt looked at Cheveyo. “You want to tell them or should I?”
“I’ll take a breather. You go ahead.”
The deputy director nodded. “We don’t publicize this, but it’s not top-secret either. The last thing CIA candidates have to do before they’re hired and receive real assignments is to run mock operations in U.S. cities. The FBI is tasked with keeping them from succeeding.”
McGill asked, “Who’s ahead on points, say the last ten years?”
DeWitt said, “There’s a pendulum swing, as with most things. One or the other team might have an exceptional class one year with the reverse being true the next. But over the past four years the FBI has won hands down.”
Sweetie asked, “Would that winning streak have anything to do with you?”
“I have something of an eye for talent,” DeWitt said, “and I tend to take unexpected approaches to solving problems.”
“That’s a long way to go to say yes,” Elspeth said.
“Immodesty rarely endears,” DeWitt averred.
Cheveyo grinned at that. McGill thought the deputy director might be laying it on a bit thick, too. He asked, “You think you can avoid another pendulum swing on this one?”
“Yes.”
A bow to Elspeth, everyone knew.
McGill turned to Daryl Cheveyo. “Doctor, do you have any ideas about how we … how the FBI might start looking for Damon Todd and his new friends?”
Cheveyo said, “The first thing I had to consider was whether Anderson and Crosby have killed Todd. I don’t think they have or we would have found his body by now. There would have been no reason to hide Todd’s body. They would have left it out in the open the same way they did with Arlen Stanwick.”
“But that guy was found dead at the CIA’s training facility. Leaving his body there wouldn’t offer any clue as to which way they were heading,” Sweetie said.
McGill said, “Margaret, you mentioned misdirection earlier. If they had killed Todd, they could have planted him one way and then gone the other. I have the feeling he’s still alive.”
“So do I,” Cheveyo said. “Whatever his flaws, Dr. Todd is smart and resourceful. My feeling is he made his value to Anderson and Crosby readily apparent. Killing him would be discarding an asset. Even berserkers wouldn’t do that.”
“What’s Todd’s biggest appeal for these guys?” Elspeth asked.
Cheveyo said, “His network of friends and his facility with hypnosis, in equal measure, I’d say. Does everyone here know Todd’s background?”
They all did.
“Very well,” Cheveyo continued. “We know he’s helped former students and others become successful in business, government and, my guess is, academia, the arts and philanthropy, too. The problem is, we never learned the extent of his network. Making another guess, I’d say it extends throughout North America and to more than a few foreign countries. It would be highly unlikely that he would not make use of his contacts to provide him and the others shelter and sustenance.”
“You think they all stayed together?” Elspeth asked. “Once they got clear of the net that was first put out for them, maybe Anderson and Crosby wanted to strike out on their own.”
Cheveyo said, “I think from this point on it might be more helpful to call them Crosby and Anderson. I should have put them in that sequence when I first mentioned them. From my reading of their files, I think Crosby would be the alpha member of that pairing.”
The CIA shrink looked at DeWitt for his opinion.
“I agree,” he said.
Continuing, Cheveyo said, “It’s conceivable Todd might have gone one way, or hunkered down, while Crosby and Anderson headed off in another direction. If that happened, they might have been tempted to kill Todd, but I don’t think they would have done that. Alive, he still might remain a resource to be tapped.”
McGill said, “If they’re being hidden by someone Todd knew and helped rise in the world, combing through Todd’s past could give us a list of possible people and places to look at.”
DeWitt nodded. “We can probably find most of the people he went to school with, taught and worked with.”
McGill said, “Then you see how many of them are doing exceptionally well. Todd couldn’t have done his Svengali act with everyone he ever met.”
“Another good point,” DeWitt said.
McGill and Sweetie exchanged a look. A helpful FBI guy was rare; a complimentary one was unheard of. They both came to the same unspoken conclusion. Patti Grant’s shadow was influencing DeWitt. Who knew? Maybe he wanted to move up to the top job in the bureau.
Not crossing the president’s henchman would be a smart move.
McGill asked Cheveyo, “Any ideas on how these guys got away without leaving a trace, Doctor?”
“Kidnapping. That’s what Crosby and Anderson did after all.”
DeWitt said, “There were no missing persons reports in the area of the escape for over two weeks in the aftermath of the breakout.”
Cheveyo told him, “The kidnapped person wouldn’t have to be gone long enough to be missed.”
McGill understood what he meant. “Just long enough for Todd to do his hypnosis number. Grab some cluck and what … get to one of the people in his network who lives nearby. Put the guy, or the woman, into a trance, tell him or her to forget the whole thing ever happened and you haven’t left any evidence behind for the cops to find.”
Cheveyo nodded. “Todd worked with ketamine hydrochloride. It wouldn’t be farfetched to think the people in his network had been instructed to keep some at their homes to be used whenever Todd might drop by. That way he can reinforce the personalities he crafted for them. Or in this case to build one for the kidnap victim.”
Elspeth leaned forward. “You mean Todd would not only let the person they abducted go, he’d also help him to become more successful.”
“Life is full of ironies.” Cheveyo turned to DeWitt. “You might look for someone whose circumstances have improved dramatically since the breakout, not by luck but by dint of their own efforts.”
“That’s good, something we can work with.” DeWitt said. “Here’s something else. None of us feds or local cops who were out looking for these guys saw anything like three men trying to conceal themselves in a passenger vehicle. But if they coerced a ride for themselves in a commercial vehicle where the cab sits high they could crouch out of sight of police vehicles.”
“Good cop thinking,” Sweetie said.
DeWitt gave her one of his polite nods.
&nb
sp; “Thanks. You put that together with what Dr. Cheveyo said about the abduction victim not being gone too long, what we might be looking for is, say, a trucker who experienced an unexpected delay in meeting his schedule.”
“But he probably had a plausible reason to explain the delay, something Todd gave him,” McGill said.
That time, Cheveyo did the nodding.
The meeting wound down with everyone agreeing to McGill’s suggestion that they all keep the lines of communication open because they’d made a good start. Who could say, maybe a truly cooperative effort would be the way they’d put the clamps on Todd and his friends.
But it was only when McGill was walking Sweetie to the helipad without the others that he voiced the question that bothered him most. “What do we do with these creeps after we catch them? They’ve already escaped once.”
Sweetie grinned and said, “We give them some of Damon Todd’s medicine. Put them in hypnotic trances and convince them they’re all lap dogs.”
Aspen Lodge
“I’m going back to work soon, Jim,” Patti said.
McGill had just entered the bedroom he shared with Patti. He’d been talking with Kenny, pleased by the steady progress his son was making, but he hadn’t let himself look too far ahead and imagine it was all smooth sailing from here.
Doctor Divya Sahir Jones, Kenny’s chief oncologist, had warned him and Carolyn that their optimism about their son’s condition had to be guarded. The first hundred days after the transplant, also known as the graft, were critical. Kenny would need lots of rest and everyone had to be on guard against infection because Kenny’s immune system was still weak.
If any sign of infection was found, the doctors would have to treat it immediately. External locations where infections were common were the site where Kenny’s central IV line had been placed, his mouth and his rectum. Having that last area checked daily by a nurse was a continuing indignity that made Kenny grind his teeth.
Besides infection, there were two more possible complications. The first was called graft-versus-host disease in which the cells from the donated marrow attacked the body of the transplant patient. GVH disease was not uncommon. The second complication was even more serious: graft failure. That occurred when the patient’s body did not accept the donated cells.
The rate of failure was low and there had been no sign Kenny’s body hadn’t accepted the bone marrow graft. Nonetheless, the doctors remained vigilant for any sign that all was not well.
McGill was watchful, too. He didn’t have a medical expert’s eye, but he knew his son’s nature more intimately than anyone other than Carolyn. If something went wrong with Kenny, he wouldn’t let it slip past him. So far, though, everything did seem to be going well.
For which McGill gave thanks daily.
At the moment, he had no problem seeing that Patti was a bit wound up.
He slid into bed next to her. She put down the iPad she’d been scanning. The screen now showed a scene of a tropical island, all sunshine, palm trees and translucent blue water. But it wasn’t the thought of a South Seas vacation that was bothering her. It might be one of any number of disasters or tragedies that crossed a president’s desk, or tablet computer, daily.
Patti’s iPad had apps few others had.
“Your understudy is getting bad reviews?” McGill asked.
“No, he’s polling ten points ahead of me.”
McGill frowned. “We can’t have that, now can we?”
“Galia assures me it’s a temporary bounce.”
“As all bounces must be.”
McGill placed an ear against his wife’s chest, listened and nodded.
“Your diagnosis, doctor?” Patti asked.
“Good, strong beat. Not even a sign of fevered reaction to my presence.”
“So you’re clearing me to return to the White House?”
“That or assert your authority in any other fashion you might choose.”
He waggled his eyebrows at Patti and made her laugh.
Got a kiss for his efforts.
“How’s Kenny?”
“Sleeping peacefully when I left him.”
“He made me so happy today it was all I could do not to weep.”
“Ah, the McGill charm, if only we could bottle it.”
“We’ll do something else with it momentarily, but Galia told me Sweetie, Elspeth, Dr. Cheveyo and the deputy director of the FBI visited Camp David this evening. Would you care to brief me on what the five of you discussed?”
“I’ll tell you my secrets, if you tell me yours,” McGill said. “As many of them as you comfortably can.”
“We’d better turn the lights out for this.”
They did and Patti and McGill exchanged their stories. Throwing in another at no extra charge, McGill told Patti about beating up two Marines.
“Dark Alley?” Patti asked.
“A variation thereof with an Irish fighting stick. I’m trying to decide how to handle things now. I thought I might visit Captain Wolford and see how he’s doing, but I don’t know what to do about Sergeant Vasquez. That guy honestly might have killed me.”
“I’ll have a word with the commandant,” Patti said, her voice tightening.
“Are you mad at me or Vasquez?”
“You set ground rules before you started this … contest?”
“No fatalities, I said that quite clearly. Bruising was acceptable.”
“Then I’m not mad at you.”
“I also promised no courts-martial. So any kind of punishment for Vasquez would violate the spirit of that assurance.”
Patti sighed.
“I try not to complicate your life,” McGill said.
“You make me happy. I’ll leave it to you to work things out with the Marines. You agree with my decision to return to the Oval Office?”
“After the thorough exam I just gave you, I think you’ll be all right. You’ll have Nick sitting on Edwina’s lap, won’t you?”
“I’ll have him nearby.”
“I have to take it on faith that both you and Kenny are going to be fine. How do you feel about things?”
“The same way. None of us can live in fear.”
“That’s my president. I would give things just a day or two, before going back.”
“Make it easier for Mather Wyman to reveal his intentions?”
“Exactly. Then show up on the heels of his announcement. Make him think uh-oh.”
“I like Mather.”
“I do, too, more or less. But if he’s going to run against you —”
“Hit him with my Irish fighting stick?”
McGill was silent for a beat. Then he said, “There’s one more thing I have to tell you about that. In the heat of the moment, when I saw Vasquez had tried to kill me, I felt that I should kill him, and the opening was there. So was the temptation.”
Patti reached out in the darkness and pulled McGill close.
“But you didn’t yield to that temptation.”
“I think I’m going to stay here with Kenny. Help him heal. Give the FBI a chance to catch Damon Todd and those other two mopes.”
“A wise decision. I’ll put a choice word or two into SAC Crogher’s ear about respecting your prerogatives when you return.”
“If Celsus gives you guff, whack him with your shillelagh, too.”
“I have the feeling 2012 is going to be quite a year for us, Jim.”
“No doubt. But before then you’ll be able to visit me on weekends, won’t you?”
Patti said she would, and showed him what he had to look forward to.
Number One Observatory Circle
Acting President Mather Wyman ate a late dinner alone at his official residence. Kira had invited him to dine with her and Welborn at their new house on Q Street, but that would have caused a huge inconvenience for anyone who wanted to enter or leave the neighborhood. At Patti Grant’s insistence, his Secret Service detail cast an even larger shadow than hers normally did. The or
iginal intent of the extreme security measures surrounding him was to make sure there would be no chance the late speaker of the House, Derek Geiger, would move into the White House while the president was recuperating from her bone marrow donation.
With Geiger having shuffled off this mortal coil, and the Republicans in the House dawdling about replacing him, the next in line, after Wyman, for the presidency was Senator George Mossman of Hawaii, a Democrat. A decent fellow with a record as a war hero and a reputation for honesty, Mossman presumably would have been a more acceptable fill-in than a schemer like Derek Geiger.
But it wouldn’t have been good for the country to lose an acting president while the elected one was still laid up. So the super-sized security contingent stayed and Mather Wyman ate at home alone. The irony being he could have gone to Kira’s house or just about anywhere else he liked with the smaller security detail he commanded as vice president.
Of course, he might have invited any number of guests to dine with him at the White House. A small family meal with Kira and Welborn would have gone uncriticized and probably unnoticed. A larger gathering with fellow politicians and celebrities would have caused an uproar and been deemed to be in bad taste. Too pushy by far.
The president, after all, was recovering from a lifesaving act. He might be leading Patti Grant in the polls at the moment, but he was sure that the minute she appeared in public his lead would disappear, and if Kenny McGill were at the president’s side, she’d leave him in the dust.
With a mild sense of surprise, he realized this was the first time since his race to be reelected as governor of Ohio that he gave a damn about public opinion polls.
He’d enjoyed his two terms as governor. He’d balanced the state’s budget without crippling services for the poor. He’d recruited businesses and well-paying jobs to the state the way the Buckeyes landed high school athletes for the university’s football and basketball teams. Shame about the football coach crossing the line and having to resign.
A crying shame about the greatest player in the NBA leaving the Cavaliers.
All of a sudden, despite his best efforts, the mood in the state had turned sour. Then Patti Grant had won the GOP nomination and asked him if he’d like to join her on the ticket and be his vice president. She said she liked his record and his demeanor as governor, called him effective and gracious, a true gentleman.
