The President's Henchman

by Joseph Flynn

  General Altman was seated behind his desk, speaking on the phone. Seeing the man up close, Welborn thought he looked too young to have all those stars. His hair was still dark, his jaw was still firm, and the lines around his eyes only made him look like someone you didn’t want to rile. Someone Hollywood would put in a movie.

  The general looked at Welborn now as he continued to speak. He had his right hand cupped around the receiver’s mouthpiece, and his voice was too low to hear, but Welborn had the uneasy feeling he was the topic of conversation.

  The general put the phone down and returned Welborn’s salute. But he did not put him at ease. And Major Seymour’s breath, hotter if anything, continued to take the starch out of his collar.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I take a few minutes of your time.”

  “No, sir. I’ll apologize to Colonel Linberg for my tardiness.”

  The general smiled, but it only confirmed Welborn’s earlier impression: Here was a man you didn’t want to cross. “Don’t worry about the colonel,” he said. “She’ll keep.”

  The general picked up a pen and began to make a note on a pad of paper. With his pilot’s eyesight, Welborn could see the precision of the general’s handwriting. And even a name, written upside down from Welborn’s point of view: Merriman.

  He decided it was better not to snoop on the general and looked away.

  “How do you like your office at the White House, Lieutenant?” the general asked.

  When Welborn looked back, he saw General Altman was staring directly at him, and he immediately felt there was no good answer the question. But he said, “It’s more than I ever expected, sir.”

  The general smiled again, giving Welborn the feeling that he had already crossed this man.

  “More than any of us expected. A nice temporary billet for you but a problem for me.”

  “Sir?”

  “Having you outside your normal post at Andrews adds one more step to the process. Reporting the progress you make on your investigation becomes more time-consuming, if nothing else. And if someone, say the president’s chief of staff, tries to manage the outcome of your investigation for political reasons, it could conceivably hurt the Air Force. Possibly even your career, should the politicians decide they need a scapegoat.”

  Welborn made an effort to keep his face impassive.

  “We wouldn’t want that to happen, would we, Lieutenant?”

  Major Seymour’s breath felt like a draft from a blast furnace now.

  “No, sir.”

  Altman’s voice changed tone, became almost paternal.

  “I think a mistake was made assigning a new man to this investigation, Lieutenant. I’m taking you off the case. You will return to your desk at Andrews. I’ll inform the president that a senior investigator will be taking over, and he will need to work out of OSI headquarters.”

  Welborn closed his eyes briefly, a silent comment the general did not miss.

  “Something wrong, Lieutenant?”

  “If I may, sir?” Welborn raised his briefcase by a millimeter.

  The general looked past Welborn to Major Seymour, who looked at the briefcase and suddenly wished he had allowed the lieutenant to open it.

  “You have something to show me?” the general asked Welborn.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Altman nodded and Welborn opened his briefcase, withdrew an envelope, and handed it to the general. The envelope was White House stationery; so was the sheet of paper it held. As the general read the message from the Executive Mansion, his face grew red. When he finished, he carefully folded the sheet of paper, placed it back in its envelope, and returned it to Welborn.

  “Do you know what that message says, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you agree with it?”

  “It’s not my place to agree or disagree, sir.”

  “You’re right about that. Tell Major Seymour what the message is.”

  “Major, the message General Altman just read is from the president. It states that I am not to be relieved of my duties in the investigation of the charge of adultery against Colonel Linberg. Nor is any other investigator from OSI to be assigned to work with me. Furthermore, I am to report my progress to no one other than the president. If any superior officer tries to countermand these orders, I am respectfully to refuse such a countermanding order and immediately refer that superior officer to the White House.”

  After a moment of disbelieving silence, General Altman said in a deadpan voice, “So there you have it, Major. The chain of command on this matter now consists of only two people: the president and the lieutenant. Quite an extraordinary concept. Overthrows more than two hundred years of military tradition in this country. For purposes of his investigation, Lieutenant Yates now outranks every general in the Pentagon.”

  Those words had no sooner been spoken than Welborn felt Major Seymour’s fiery breath withdraw from his neck.

  “What do you think of that, Lieutenant?”

  Welborn felt a chill, and not just from Major Seymour’s sudden distance.

  “It’s not my place to have an opinion, sir.”

  “No, it’s not. For that matter, it’s not the major’s place, nor mine, to have an opinion of any order we receive from the president.”

  The general’s statement was entirely appropriate. Would look irreproachable if printed in a newspaper. But it didn’t come close to matching the look on his face.

  “I think we’ve taken up enough of the lieutenant’s time, Clarence,” the general told the major. “I don’t want to speculate about what else he might have in his briefcase.”

  Welborn could almost hear the major wince, and the cold settling into Welborn’s bones deepened. The world was turning upside down. He tried to restore a semblance of normalcy by snapping off a picture-perfect salute. But the general’s response was only halfhearted.

  Even so, Welborn executed a parade-ground about-face. Major Seymour held the door open for him. As he started for it, the general had one more question.

  “Lieutenant?”

  Welborn turned crisply once more.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You don’t have to answer, but I’m curious: Did you vote for her, the president?”

  Welborn took a deep breath. Refusing to answer would be giving his answer, only in a cowardly silence. He let the breath out.

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  Major Seymour closed the door behind Welborn as he stepped out of the general’s office. Then he grabbed Welborn’s upper right arm, and treated him to another round of his preternaturally hot breath. This time on Welborn’s ear.

  “Four years or eight, administrations come and go,” the major said quietly. “You want to make the Air Force your career, Lieutenant, you better remember that.”

  Welborn turned to look the major in the eye. And he flexed his arm. At the Air Force Academy, he’d developed a passion for free climbing in the nearby Rocky Mountains. He was told going in that if you took up a hobby where your life could literally hang by your fingertips, you’d better have some serious upper-body strength. Being able to do a set of a hundred pull-ups, it was suggested, was reasonable preparation. Which had seemed like something not even Special Ops crazies would demand of themselves. Now it was part of his daily routine.

  Major Seymour was no office commando, but his grip on Welborn’s arm started to slip and when the futility of trying to hang on became obvious, the major let go.

  Welborn saluted him and went to find Colonel Linberg.

  He needed an MP to help him. He got lost on his second turn. Rather than wander around and waste time, he knocked on a door, went inside, and asked for help. His mother had taught him there was nothing wrong with a man asking for directions. Women appreciated men with common sense. The MP was dispatched to make sure Welborn didn’t have to ask for directions at any door where he wouldn’t be welco
me.

  Colonel Linberg’s tone was hardly welcoming, but when he knocked, she said, “Enter.”

  Welborn stepped into an office that was a tenth the size of General Altman’s. The only furnishings in the room were the desk Colonel Linberg sat behind and the chair she sat upon. Both looked old enough to be on exhibit at the Smithsonian. On the desk in front of the colonel was an open copy of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Next to it was a pad of lined paper.

  The colonel, apparently, had been assigned the duty of copying the UCMJ in longhand. She was far from finished with her task. Her career, however, appeared to be over. Nonetheless, Welborn saluted her as smartly as he had the Air Force chief of staff.

  “Lieutenant Yates, OSI, to speak with the colonel, ma’am.”

  His sense of punctilio seemed to lift her spirits, and she returned his salute sharply.

  “I’d offer you a chair, Lieutenant,” Colonel Linberg said, “only I don’t have one to spare.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She gave him a long look. “Are you here to ask me all sorts of embarrassing questions, Lieutenant?”

  “Embarrassment is not my purpose, ma’am.”

  “But if it happens anyway …” Colonel Linberg held up a hand. The one holding her pen. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Your conduct has been entirely professional. I’ll see if I can comport myself on the same level.”

  She put her pen down and folded her hands on the desk. Like a schoolgirl about to pray, Welborn thought. Or a defendant awaiting the reading of a jury’s verdict. In either case, she seemed determined to meet her fate without flinching.

  Which only added to her attractiveness. Light brown hair cut short, but stylish, for military utility. Clear blue eyes. Strong straight nose. Generous mouth. The colonel was a looker.

  “Are you trying to peer into my soul, Lieutenant?” she asked Welborn.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered evenly. “That’s a class they make us take at Glynco these days.” Glynco, Georgia, was the site of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.

  He had her there for a moment. Then she smiled. As much as she was able.

  “You’re joking.”

  “About Glynco, yes, ma’am.”

  “But not about something else?”

  “Outside of class, I was told it’s a good idea to pay attention to a face in repose, like yours was just now. That’ll give you a baseline, make it easier to know when someone’s telling you the truth.”

  “Or lying.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Have you had breakfast?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “I’d like to conduct this interview …” Welborn looked around the tiny office. “… somewhere else. Outside the building. Where we can speak freely. I thought you might be hungry.”

  Colonel Linberg frowned and pulled a brown paper bag out of her desk.

  “I’m tasked to stay in this office until 1700 hours, including lunch.”

  “I understand, but my investigation takes precedence over any other duties you may have. If anyone questions your absence, you may refer them to me.”

  This time Colonel Linberg smiled broadly.

  “Refer them to you? And who cuts your marching orders, Lieutenant?”

  “The president, ma’am.”

  Welborn drove Colonel Linberg to a place he knew in Alexandria where they offered a selection of gourmet coffees and fresh pastries. It would be the second time that day he would be eating and conversing with a good-looking older woman. The first time had been breakfast with the president at the White House.

  That was when she’d given him the letter he’d shown to General Altman.

  Pretty damn smart to look ahead and see that the brass might try to replace him.

  The president had also been the one to tell him to conduct his interview with Colonel Linberg outside the Pentagon. To tell him to use a face at rest as a point of comparison for the expressions a person might later reveal. To use carefully chosen humor to establish a rapport with his subject.

  Welborn had listened carefully, another of the virtues his mother had taught him, and was pleased that he’d been able to put all of those instructions to good use.

  He’d wondered, at the breakfast table, how the president had come by all of her advice. Then he remembered that whatever else she was, the president was also a cop’s wife.

  Chapter 7

  Leo was driving McGill to a high-end health club on New York Avenue called Corporate Muscle. It was close enough to the White House to be an easy walk. On a gorgeous day like that Wednesday, McGill would have preferred to walk. It had been several weeks since he’d been out and about on foot; the media was no longer stalking him. He told Deke Ky they would have to stretch their legs later on.

  “You know the president talked to me personally, before SAC Crogher approved me for this duty,” the special agent said.

  That was the first McGill had heard of it.

  “She wanted to be sure I was ready to sacrifice my life to save yours.”

  “I thought all you guys were.”

  “We are. But she wanted to hear it from me directly.”

  “And you convinced her?”

  “I asked the president to call my mother. She did. My mother told the president that she’d given me orders to protect the president’s henchman at all costs. All costs. The president thanked my mother and has never doubted me from that moment on.”

  “Your mother told you to sacrifice yourself for me?” McGill asked.

  Deke nodded.

  McGill’s own mother, a voice teacher, had taught him to be honest, respectful, and how to sing on key. He’d always thought that had been enough.

  “So, you’re telling me you don’t want me to take any more walks?”

  “I can’t tell you anything except when to duck.”

  Deke almost added a “sir” to the end of his statement, but McGill had asked his bodyguard to speak informally — and frankly — unless Crogher, the media, or some other potential troublemaker was around.

  “But you’re getting at something,” McGill said. “What is it?”

  “You carry a gun. I’d like to know how well you shoot.”

  Entirely reasonable, McGill thought.

  “We’ll go to the firing range, and you can see for yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  McGill thought of his children. “You think my threat level is elevated, too.”

  “You’re working now.”

  “You didn’t anticipate that?”

  “For a while, it didn’t look like it was going to happen.”

  Leo pulled the Chevy to the curb outside the building that housed Corporate Muscle. McGill caught his eye in the rearview mirror.

  “Leo?”

  “My mother’s Jewish. I had to quit racing NASCAR for her.”

  “So you won’t die for me?”

  “No, but I’ll shoot someone if I have to.”

  The manager of Corporate Muscle was absolutely delighted to see McGill walk through the door and struggled bravely not to shed a tear when he told her he was there to meet someone, not sign up for a membership. She cheered up when he let her buy him a freshly made cup of veggie juice and autographed a napkin for her.

  The juice bar was separated from the workout area by clear plastic walls, and Deke’s stoic mien and head-on-a-swivel wariness kept anyone else from approaching their table.

  McGill unabashedly watched Chana Lochlan go through her workout. She had a female personal trainer to guide her, but Chana looked like a natural athlete who knew exactly what she was doing. Didn’t need fancy workout togs either. Plain white sneakers, anklet socks, gym shorts, and a UCLA softball team T-shirt. She was pushing 160 pounds on the chest-press machine — at least 20 pounds more than her body weight, McGill estimated.

  “Didn’t think she was that strong,” he said.

  Deke glanced Chana’s way.

  “These places attract really competitive people. There’s
an affiliated club called Political Muscle. You should see them bust a gut in there.”

  McGill grinned.

  “What about you federal law enforcement types? You have your own gym?”

  Deke looked at McGill, and said with a straight face, “Yeah, we call it Killer Muscle.”

  Chana finished her workout just when she’d told McGill she would, spotted him, and came over to his table wearing a towel around her neck. Deke vacated his seat for her and took up a position that guaranteed McGill’s privacy.

  The newswoman sat down and wiped the sweat from her brow. She was flushed from her workout, andMcGill thought she came closer to Patti’s level of beauty than he’d first believed. It wasn’t hard to imagine someone becoming obsessed with her.

  “We didn’t talk about money,” Chana told McGill.

  He shrugged. “I’m new to the business world.”

  “How’s five hundred a day plus expenses sound?”

  McGill knew Washington lawyers, the fancy ones, made five hundred dollars, or more, per hour, but he still hadn’t checked out the local rates for PIs.

  “Okay. If that’s too much, I’ll give you a rebate. If it’s too little, we’ll call it an introductory discount.”

  She smiled. “No offense, but I hope I won’t be needing your services again.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t depend on repeat business.”

  “I have the information you asked for: The list and the bio are in my locker.”

  “Which is locked, not just watched over by an attendant, right?”

  “Right. You really are careful, aren’t you?”

  McGill sighed. “Maybe not as careful as I should be. Or possibly you’re not. In either case, a word of disclosure is in order.”

  He told her that Galia Mindel knew he was working for her. Which meant the White House chief of staff had either bugged his office, or she’d heard about it from someone at World Wide News. The latter possibility justified Chana’s precaution of meeting with McGill at her gym instead of her workplace.

  In either case, McGill related, he’d spoken personally with Ms. Mindel and left no doubt that McGill Investigations lay outside her professional purview.