by Joseph Flynn
Patti slipped into the swirling water next to McGill.
“There, now you can’t see a thing other than my smiling face.”
“Yeah, but there’s what I’ve already seen.”
“You were saying an editorial change at WWN might be a ploy, and when we’re done talking shop we might turn to personal matters.”
The former actress having clearly explained his motivation, McGill moved on.
He said, “You were the one who told me the October Surprise is a classic move in a presidential campaign. So what if Sir Edbert is only pretending to make himself look like a good corporate citizen, an evenhanded supplier of news instead of a partisan propagandist, to bolster his position in court. Then, once the verdict comes in, he’s free to either revert to form or get revenge for being found guilty. In either case, that October Surprise would really be a surprise.”
Patti put her head on McGill’s shoulder and thought about that.
She looked up at him and asked, “By any chance, are you channeling Galia these days?”
“Are my hips getting big?” McGill asked.
He got an underwater pinch for that one.
Securing his wife’s hands, he said, “I can be a devious thinker, too. You Washington types don’t have a monopoly on that.”
“No, but we’re pretty good at it. May I have my hands back?”
McGill let go, but didn’t relax until Patti kissed his cheek.
“I’ll be good,” she said.
“What sort of deviousness were you referring to just now, if it isn’t a state secret?”
“It’s only politics, but let’s keep it between us.”
McGill nodded his assent.
“In my talks with the Democrats, I allowed them to think I’d select Roger Michaelson as my vice president.”
McGill said, “And you promised I wouldn’t pummel him again?”
“That topic didn’t arise; I think it’s understood.”
“So you’re about to pull the rug out from under old Roger?”
“Not overtly. But here’s something that’s not general knowledge yet. Governor Jean Morrissey of Minnesota is also considering a run for the Democratic nomination. What would you think if I, quietly, through third parties, directed resources her way?”
“To what end, that she’d come in second to you but ahead of Michaelson?”
Patti nodded.
McGill said, “That’d be a fine needle to thread, wouldn’t it?”
“I think I can do it.”
“You’ll run the idea by Galia?”
“Yes.”
“And the result would be the first all-female presidential ticket?” McGill asked.
“How’s that for a shocker?” Patti replied.
“You’ve got my vote, of course. Better Morrissey than Michaelson. I imagine it would have lots of women cheering, but how —”
“Will it play with most men? It won’t with any man who wouldn’t vote for me anyway. Of the rest, like you, I think most will stick with me. I should pick up more female votes than lose male votes.”
“Could give you a powerful lobbying position with Congress after the election, too. You could rally most of the women in the country for issues you’d claim will directly affect their well being.”
Patti smiled. “You’re really becoming quite the student of politics.”
She swung a leg over McGill, sat astride him.
“We’re done talking shop?” he asked.
“Just about. You’re not going stir crazy up here at Camp David, are you?”
“I love the time I spend with Kenny but, God willing, he’ll be returning to a more normal life soon. Once he goes home, I’m not going to hide out here. I can be useful to others. See Ms. Galia Mindel for a reference. I do hope Byron DeWitt and company can catch Damon Todd, but there’s any number of bad guys who need an application of justice.”
“Deputy Director DeWitt has informed me that the first move has been made to snare Dr. Todd.”
McGill held up a hand and crossed two fingers.
“Anything else?” he asked.
Patti leaned into McGill and told him, “I’ve lost my train of thought.”
Dude’s Sports Bar — Wilmington, Delaware
The following Monday evening, Damon Todd, Arn Crosby and Olin Anderson had their coming out party at a “great little local bar,” according to the review on Google, on the corner of Union and Fourth. The beer was cold, the service was friendly and nobody paid untoward attention to the three men from out of state. But then as Anderson had put it, “Nobody’d ever think of looking for anyone in Wilmington. Bin Laden would be alive today if he’d hidden out in Delaware.”
Nonetheless, they’d all taken precautions to alter their appearances. Dye, facial hair, baseball caps and in Anderson’s case makeup to render the scar on his forehead less obvious were all put to use. To Todd’s surprise, the former covert operatives did a passable South Boston accent to go with their Red Sox caps. Todd’s cap featured only a Nike swoosh. So he went with inflectionless California tones.
They hadn’t left their retreat in the Virginia woods because of cabin fever.
Well, not just because of growing claustrophobia.
They were out trying to learn why Lydell Martin wasn’t behaving the way Todd had programmed him. That was of particular concern to Crosby and Anderson as Todd had made them new and improved versions of their former selves. They liked the fact that they felt mentally sharper and physically stronger than they had in years, but the idea Todd might have installed faulty software in their heads, too, was not comforting.
They hadn’t talked about it, but Crosby and Anderson each had the idea they should kill Todd, leave his body on a bench next to a bus stop and hope their offering to the powers that be would buy them a measure of leniency if not outright forgiveness. Thing was, they weren’t able to conspire. That should have been the most natural thing in the world for two guys like them. As much blood as they had shed together, they couldn’t tell their barbarities apart.
Each time one of them came close to acting on the idea a question popped up in his head: What if this fucker has set a booby-trap in my brain that only he can defuse?
If that was the case, and they killed Todd, then where would they be?
Todd had, of course, left that warning in their minds, while they’d been drugged on ketamine hydrochloride. Not that they could recall that. Things that happened in the K-hole really stayed in the K-hole.
Despite everything, Crosby and Anderson both thought it would be a good idea to see just what had gone wrong with Lydell Martin. That might help them determine how much trouble they were in. Might give them a clue what they could do about it. So they all went to Wilmington.
The waitress, a honey who had to be pushing forty but was still looking good, especially to two guys who hadn’t enjoyed any female company in years, brought their burgers and fries and another round of brew.
“You guys need anything else, give a yell,” she said and walked away.
Todd was the only who didn’t watch her backside depart.
Crosby and Anderson noticed his lack of interest.
“You don’t play for the other team, do you, Doc?” Anderson asked.
“Am I gay? No, but I set my sights a bit higher.”
Todd’s thoughts — other than those directed at Lydell Martin and James J. McGill — were focused on Chana Lochlan. He definitely wanted to renew acquaintances with her.
“Why be fussy?” Crosby asked. “Couldn’t you fix up any old girl?”
Todd chose to ignore the implicit criticism.
He said, “We’re here to do business, remember?”
Both of his companions nodded. Truth was, Crosby and Anderson were impressed by what Todd had set up. Damn CIA had been dumber than shit not to make use of Todd’s talents.
Todd wanted to see what Lydell Martin’s problem was, but maybe some bright guy at the Agency had made a good guess how the three of them had gotten
away from the Funny Farm. As a next step, the hunters might have spotted the truck driver who’d made those big career moves, figured he’d had some help getting ahead in the world. That would have taken sharp thinking, but it could have happened, and it was always a mistake to underestimate the opposition.
So unless they wanted to be dicks who got caught easy, they had to take precautions.
They wouldn’t go poking around the truck depot where Martin worked, just up the turnpike in New Jersey. They’d stayed in Delaware where they were only three guys having a bite to eat. Not bothering anybody, blending right in.
What Todd had done was send four of his friends to birddog Martin. Each of them, two men and two women, was a successful person with no criminal record. All of them drove different makes of upscale cars. Each car was painted a shade of gray meant to deflect attention rather than attract it. Each friend had a smart phone with a video camera.
The four of them — coming from different directions, separated by quarter-mile intervals — had been instructed to cruise past the depot as the office staff left work.
They emailed their video clips of workers departing the depot to the iPad Todd concealed behind the open newspaper he was pretending to read. Once the clip was received it was acknowledged and the friend deleted it from his or her phone. Then he or she circled back from another direction and made another pass by the depot, taking more video.
The great thing was, even if some cop, fed or spook nailed one or all of Todd’s friends, they would have no conscious recall of what they’d been doing. They could be water boarded and they wouldn’t give up anything. Their root personas, the upgraded versions of whom they’d been since birth, the ones the authorities would find, were dissociated from the covert personalities doing all the dirty work.
Crosby and Anderson thought this was the greatest thing since complimentary call girls.
“Got him,” Todd said softly.
The two former spooks had been contenting themselves with their food and beer — Todd hadn’t touched his — but both were eager to see the video that was coming in. Like children who had been well drilled in table manners, though, they’d waited their turns.
Todd sent a musical cue — the melody line from Sting’s “Every Breath You Take” — to all four friends, instructing them what they should do next. After making sure the waitress wasn’t hovering nearby, Todd slid the iPad over to Crosby and Anderson.
Concealing the computer between them, they hunched over and watched the video. Sure enough, there was Lydell Martin. He was wearing a suit, not jeans and a flannel shirt. He had a new beard now, one of those three-day shadow things. Whatever he’d had before as his personal wheels, a pickup maybe, had been traded in for a Mercedes sedan — painted gray.
That was when it clicked for Crosby and Anderson. They looked at each other, thinking the same thing: Mistake. Martin’s car fit too neatly with those the friends were driving. The one they were driving, too. The pattern was easy to see now. They should have picked it up right off. Would have if they weren’t so rusty. Their oversight told them something about Todd, too.
He might have been smart as hell in his own way, but he was an amateur in fieldcraft.
Thing was, they couldn’t bring themselves to say anything about it. Not to each other. Not to Todd. That didn’t mean Todd couldn’t see the looks on their faces.
“What is it?” he asked. “Is something wrong?”
They should have told him. They wanted to tell him. They couldn’t.
Todd’s own safeguards were preventing him from gaining information he needed.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Crosby said. He slid the tablet back to Todd.
“Not a thing,” Anderson confirmed. “We got the bastard.”
The four friends would follow Martin home, watch every move he made, rotating positions as they tailed him. They would relay Martin’s address to Todd. Tell him if it looked like anyone was with Martin in his dwelling or watching the place. Then they’d go their separate ways, retire for the night and wake up thinking they’d spent the prior evening at home.
If there was no sign of a trap at Martin’s house and he appeared to be home alone, Todd, Crosby and Anderson would pay him a visit. If he had company they’d come back another time.
Crosby settled their bill with cash. Anderson got Todd’s permission to chug his beer and ask for a doggie bag for his uneaten burger and fries.
Crosby felt things were starting to come apart and didn’t like it. He made a move sly enough for Todd not to notice. He left a big tip. The kind that would make any serving person take a good look at a customer. Crosby was able to call attention to the three of them because there was no prohibition in his head about conspiring with a third party.
Learning he had some freedom of movement made Crosby smile.
When the waitress saw the size of her tip she smiled back at him.
Told all of them to come back again real soon.
As they reached the gray Omni that they’d borrowed from Fletcher Penrose, their host in Virginia, Todd stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been gnawing at the looks of doubt he’d seen on Crosby and Anderson’s faces. Something was definitely wrong.
Crosby opened the driver’s door to get behind the wheel.
The dome light went on, illuminating the interior.
That was when Todd saw the problem.
Fairfax Road — Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania
Deputy Director of the FBI Byron DeWitt sat at the kitchen table of the house on Fairfax Road. The house sat at the rear of a large lot. It had spacious yards in front and to each side. Close behind the house was a thick stand of trees, separating it from the neighboring house on Lakeview Avenue. The bureau owned both houses. The two structures were connected by an underground passageway that didn’t appear on any building permit records.
The houses were used as temporary shelter for witnesses testifying on behalf of federal prosecutors in nearby Philadelphia. The protected persons would enter one house and exit through the other. Each house was guarded around the clock by a minimum of two special agents.
DeWitt stood up as Lydell Martin entered the kitchen.
He shook the man’s hand and said, “The government deeply appreciates your help, Mr. Martin.”
Martin said, “I don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t know how I stopped slacking off all the time and finally got my ass in gear. What I do know is I like the new me. My wife loves the new me. We want to keep things going the right way. So I’m trusting you to explain that this embezzlement stuff was all a ruse for … whatever it is you’re doing.”
“You have my word, sir,” DeWitt said.
Martin added, “If it has anything to do with what turned me around, I hope you guys can bottle it. My wife wants to know where she can get hers.”
“We’ll keep that in mind.” DeWitt opened a door to the basement. “You’ll find a special agent downstairs. She’ll see that you get home safely.”
Martin gave DeWitt a wave goodbye and was gone.
The deputy director closed the door to the basement behind him.
He went back to sitting at the kitchen table, resumed studying the video feeds that had been sent to his tablet computer by his people in the field. For this operation, he’d chosen to use only female special agents. His guess was Todd and the two heavy hitters from the CIA would be watching for big guys with short hair trying to pass themselves off as civilians.
Female agents were much more credible posing as everyday people.
To be politically correct, of course, he’d said they were better actors.
They were also sharp enough to notice the four vehicles doing an automotive do-si-do around Lydell Martin’s place of employment. At the far edge of probability, that might have been a coincidence. Looking at things more closely, noting that all the cars were of foreign manufacture, priced between sixty-five thousand and one hundred thousand dollars and muted gray in color, coincidence was dismissed as a pos
sibility.
Especially after it was seen that Lydell Martin’s car was a bird of the same feather.
DeWitt’s people had captured both profile views of the four drivers in the suspect cars and their license plate numbers. Within minutes, the bureau had the drivers’ names, addresses and occupations. Their lines of work included: managing partner of a Philadelphia law firm, publisher of an online financial newsletter, chief of surgery at an area hospital and a dean of admissions at a prestigious university.
Damn list read like —
DeWitt’s cell phone beeped to signal the arrival of a text message.
A gray Audi sedan was approaching the house.
The deputy director was the stand-in for Martin. They were close to the same size. DeWitt’s head of hair was fuller, but he’d gelled it back tight. In silhouette, on a window shade, he should be able to pass. If Todd, his cronies or a combination thereof entered the house, they’d be captured, first on video and audio, and then by agents bursting in through the back door and up from below through the basement door.
Just in case that left any room for error, DeWitt held a gun on his lap, under the table.
He’d be able to shoot the legs out from under a man without moving.
But he received a call on his cell.
A special agent told him, “The gray Audi signaled a turn into your driveway, but it’s just sitting there on the street. Looks like cold feet. We might have a runner.”
DeWitt didn’t hesitate. “Take them down now.”
Mango Mary’s — Key West, Florida
Alice decided to reopen for business, after she’d bought a Sig Arms P250 compact semi-auto and spent hours at a firing range getting comfortable and reasonably accurate with it. She wore the weapon openly in a Galco shoulder holster. She also donned, under her aloha shirt, a Savvy concealable body armor for women vest with three hundred and sixty degree bust protection. All in all, she felt ready to meet the public.
Thinking the Original Mango Mary, one tough woman, must be smiling somewhere.
Alice had alerted the cops that the door to her bar would be open again and they were keeping a close eye on the place. The broken windows, furniture, mirrors and glassware had been replaced, but there were still bullet-holes left, right and all over the place. So Alice put a sign outside the front door: Shootout Specials, all drinks half price until repairs are made.
