The President's Henchman

by Joseph Flynn

  “No, it’s been removed.”

  McGill took it anyway. “I’ll see what I can find out.” Then he thought to ask, “Is the size right?”

  Chana looked him in the eye. “I didn’t try it on … but it appears to be.”

  “May I ask how much your clothing sizes have changed in, say, the last five years?”

  “They haven’t. What are you getting at?”

  “We’re working on the assumption that the caller, now the intruder, is someone who knows about you from a former lover. Someone who was a long-ago lover might think of you … well, as a smaller size.”

  For the life of him, though, McGill didn’t see how she could be any trimmer.

  “I haven’t added an inch to my waist, hips, or thighs since college,” she told him curtly.

  “Commendable,” McGill said. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t narrow the field for us.”

  McGill gestured Chana out ahead of him. Without her seeing it, he handed the green thong to Deke, and murmured, “Stick that in your pocket and don’t lose it.”

  Should some mad assassin be lying in wait, McGill thought, better that the thong be found on Deke than on him.

  Leo had a call waiting for McGill when he, Chana, and Deke got into the Chevy.

  “Forwarded from the White House,” Leo said. “You just missed it upstairs, so it came here. The first Mrs. McGill.”

  McGill gave Leo the address for Chana Lochlan’s Georgetown home, then looked at the reporter. “I’d like to take this phone call and keep it private.”

  She nodded absently, lost in her own thoughts.

  McGill picked up the phone, “Carolyn, is everything all right?”

  “We’re all … fine. I guess. Thanks … for sending Sweetie. That meant … a lot.”

  The message was reassuring. But his ex-wife’s delivery was not. Her pace was so plodding she seemed to be searching for words in a foreign language.

  “Carolyn, what’s wrong?”

  “Huh? Nothing. Just a little groggy. I needed a sleeping pill last night … and after Lars went to sleep, I took another one.”

  “Just one?” McGill asked uneasily.

  “Just one. I woke this morning with a … a revelation. I wanted to tell Lars, but he’d left for work. Then I realized you’re the one I should talk to, anyway.”

  “This is about the kids?” McGill asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Carolyn, I’m so sorry all this is happening.”

  He saw Chana start to emerge from her self-preoccupation, but when he shook his head at her, she turned her gaze out the window.

  “It’s not your fault, Jim … Hell, I voted for Patti myself.”

  “And if you had it to do over?”

  Carolyn’s voice grew heated and with the anger came clarity. “I’d do it again, damnit. What you and I did isn’t the problem. It’s what these other damn people are doing. Okay, I’m going to tell you my idea now.”

  McGill said, “Go ahead.”

  “Why I couldn’t get to sleep last night: I kept thinking what if these people come, and they get past all the cops.”

  McGill told her Secret Service reinforcements would be arriving soon.

  “No matter how many bodyguards there are, what if these bastards get past all of them? And I’m the last one left, the only person between them and Abbie and Kenny and Caitie. How can I stop them?”

  He heard Carolyn start to cry, but then she caught herself, and the hard edge came back into her voice. “Jim, I want you to make me a promise.”

  McGill said, “Anything I can do.”

  “Good. Because I’m not letting anyone kill our kids.” Then she said something that he never could have imagined hearing from sweet peaceful Carolyn. “I want you to find someone who will teach me to shoot a gun.”

  “Talk to Sweetie. Tell her I said it’s okay.”

  He went along just like that. No objections. No arguments that she might be more of a danger than a help. Sweetie would teach Carolyn not only the mechanics but also the morals of shooting a gun. Not that there was any room for moral debate in his mind. Not this time.

  There was just one problem.

  “Keep it hidden, Carolyn.” A former cop’s wife, she knew about gun safety around the house, but there was something more on McGill’s mind. “Because knowing Mom has a gun? That’d be the one thing to tell the kids the threat is real.”

  Welborn Yates was leaning against a tree in the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park outside of Washington stretching his hamstrings, calves, and Achilles tendons when Captain Dexter Cowan pulled into the adjacent parking lot. The captain drove a navy blue Dodge Viper. He parked it on the far side of Welborn’s tan Honda Civic.

  The captain’s car looked like its namesake. Next to it, Welborn’s car looked like a field mouse about to be devoured.

  Welborn had called Captain Cowan the day before to set up an interview, to get his side of the Linberg v. Cowan story. The captain had asked if Welborn was a runner; if so, was he up to running and talking at the same time? A charitable interpretation would be … well, there was no charitable interpretation. The captain was asking how tough he was. How manly.

  Which was perfectly okay with Welborn.

  Welborn’s favorite instructor at Glynco had told him: If some smart-ass wants to underestimate you, encourage the SOB. He wondered if the president knew that bit of lore; he’d bet serious money her henchman did.

  Captain Cowan unfolded himself from his car. Had to be six-three, Welborn figured. He had black hair and eyes that were just about as dark. His face was all chiseled planes but asymmetrical, the product of a sculptor with a vision problem. Or a sense of humor.

  Cowan wore crisp new running clothes: a white T-shirt that said navy where it stretched tightly across his chest, navy blue shorts circling a trim waist, and unscuffed white running shoes.

  Welborn wore old baggy sweats and run-down cross-trainers with paint drippings on them. His shirt did identify his branch of the service, however. USAF. But the lower horizontal bar of the F had worn away.

  Encourage the SOB.

  Welborn properly saluted his superior officer as Cowan approached.

  “Lieutenant Yates, Air Force OSI, sir.”

  Captain Cowan returned the salute and smiled. Nothing asymmetrical there. His teeth were perfect. He extended his hand to Welborn, who took it.

  “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. You ready to go?”

  “You’re not going to stretch first, sir?”

  Cowan laughed, a deep rich sound.

  “No need. With my car’s suspension you can feel every crack in the asphalt. It’s like getting a rolling massage. A vigorous one.”

  The captain gave Welborn a nod and took off down the running path.

  Welborn caught up, making it look like he was laboring already.

  “Five miles okay, Lieutenant?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  They passed a couple of middle-aged jocks, civilians, jogging in the same direction. Cowan gave a polite nod as they went by. Welborn picked up on the cue and waved.

  Once they were out of earshot, Cowan glanced over at Welborn, and asked, “So did Carina tell you I was a liar?”

  “Yes, sir. That was the colonel’s word exactly.”

  Captain Cowan smiled. Ruefully, Welborn thought.

  “And you’re a sworn federal agent. Lying to you is like lying to the FBI: a crime.”

  “That’s also correct, sir.”

  “Well, Lieutenant, then I’ll have to tell you the truth. I did lie to Carina that first night we went out. I told her I was divorced. I wanted her so badly my balls ached, and I said what I thought was most likely to get her into bed with me.”

  Welborn did his best to keep his face impassive, but he was astounded. The last thing he’d expected was a confession. The man was admitting that his preliminary statement had been a lie.

  “I also told her the truth,” Captain Cowan continued.r />
  This time, Welborn couldn’t keep his face from turning red. This guy was jerking him around. But he couldn’t ask the bastard just what he was trying to pull because they were approaching the Great Falls of the Potomac where a large number of tourists, foreign and domestic, were snapping pictures of each other against the scenic background.

  They crossed a footbridge to the Virginia side of the river before Welborn spoke.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But you’ll have to explain that one to me.”

  Cowan nodded. “The first time with Carina was all about sex. For both of us, I think. But the more I was with her, at work I mean, the more I felt for her. Surprised the hell out of me. So I decided I didn’t want her to hate me for lying to her — any more than I already had. Which meant I had to tell her the truth, and I did. Before we went to bed a second time.”

  The captain picked up the pace, forcing Welborn to match it.

  “Are you saying, sir, that Colonel Linberg listened to your confession, forgave you for what you did, and continued your affair with the knowledge that you are married?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Lieutenant.”

  Welborn looked at the other man, but all he could see was his profile. Not the best angle to determine someone’s sincerity … which might have been what the captain had in mind when he proposed they go for a run.

  “Why would she do that, sir?” Welborn asked.

  “Because she understood me.”

  “Sir?”

  “We both wanted the same things: sex with each other and stars on our shoulders. She understood that reconciling with my wife would help my military career. Put a better face on my image. She said, in my place, she’d do the same thing. That was after she got over being angry about being lied to, of course. By then she realized the reason for my confession: I was falling in love with her.”

  “She didn’t think, maybe, you had simply confessed because you’d already gotten what you wanted.”

  “I wanted more of it. I wanted it all the time.” Cowan turned his head to look at Welborn. “Come on, Lieutenant. You’ve met Carina. Is it so hard to believe I’d fall in love with her? Want to be honest with her?”

  Cowan turned his gaze back to the trail ahead. For which Welborn was glad. He didn’t see Welborn turn red once more. It wasn’t hard to for Welborn to imagine how he would feel about the colonel had he actually slept with her.

  He tried to think of something else, and was surprised when Kira Fahey popped into his head. Then he cleared his mind of all thoughts of carnality and got back to business.

  “If you love Colonel Linberg, sir, why did you admit to your affair with her? Why didn’t you deny it? Lie to protect her?”

  Cowan sighed. “My wife had the goods. A note from Carina about an upcoming tryst. I’d left it in my uniform when I took it to the dry cleaner. Mr. Lo, my very conscientious laundryman, found the note before he cleaned the uniform. He pinned it to the plastic bag covering my uniform. My wife picked up the cleaning that day.”

  “Your wife turned you in?”

  “Not directly. She swears she never went to my C.O. Instead, she complained to a group of other officers’ wives. That’s all it took. The Pentagon has a broadband grapevine, Lieutenant.”

  Which would also explain how the other officers knew, the ones Colonel Linberg had mentioned looking at her like gleeful adolescents.

  “You know, Captain, that what you’ve told me today is likely to —”

  “Put an end to my military ambitions? Yeah, I’ve thought about that. But the shit would only get deeper if I lied. So far I’ve only fudged the truth a little. And if the Navy has no further use for me…” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s time to rethink my future, anyway.”

  “Why is it you’re not being court-martialed, sir? Colonel Linberg wasn’t the only party to the adultery.”

  “I’m the prosecution’s witness, Lieutenant. Without me there’s no case.”

  “Colonel Linberg’s note. What about that?”

  “A joke. A prank from a colleague at work.”

  Welborn thought for a moment. “You could have gotten away with it, the two of you.”

  “If we’d both been sure the other wouldn’t talk.”

  “So you love the colonel, but you don’t trust her.”

  Captain Cowan found that one harder to answer. When he did, his voice was quiet. “I was afraid she was too much like me. And look what I’ve done. Will that be all, Lieutenant?”

  “One last thing, sir: Have you been reassigned to new duties; does anyone have you hand-copying the UCMJ?”

  “No.” The captain hadn’t liked that question at all. “I’ve been loafing along so far, Lieutenant. I’m going to run at my normal pace now.”

  “Yes, sir,” Welborn said, keeping up even as the captain increased his speed.

  The race was on, but it wasn’t competitive for long. Cowan had the longer stride, but Welborn was just as fit and fifteen years younger, and when it came to running, youth prevailed.

  So much for letting yourself be underestimated, Welborn thought.

  He got back to the parking lot a good quarter mile ahead of the captain and, being male and a professional snoop, he had to take a peek inside the Viper. It wasn’t the car’s interior that caught his attention, however. It was a note on the passenger seat. An appointment for later that morning. Captain Cowan was going to see someone named Merriman.

  Merriman. The same name General Altman had made a note of in his office. Welborn got into his Civic and headed home to shower and change before going to his office at the White House.

  As he made his way back to Washington, Captain Cowan roared past in his Viper.

  There’d be no outrunning him this time.

  Chana Lochlan had a two-story redbrick town house off Wisconsin Avenue, just above Georgetown University. McGill had learned enough about Washington real estate prices to infer the kind of money his client must be earning to live there: substantial. She ran up the steps to her front door, key in one hand, cell phone in the other. She was talking with her producer, telling him she’d be late to work, but not so late as to cause any problems.

  Chana threw open the door and ran inside. Deke went in next. He never let McGill be the first one through a strange door; he was like Sweetie in that regard. Chana didn’t count. If she plunged headfirst into trouble, that was her worry not Deke’s.

  McGill stopped at the front door. He looked for scratches on the surface of the lock, signs that it had been picked. The lock was a Medeco dead bolt, a serious means of keeping a door barred. There were no scratches on it.

  Deke appeared from within the town house. “All clear.”

  “And Ms. Lochlan?”

  “She closed herself in her office.”

  McGill nodded and went inside.

  His first impression was that he’d stepped into a contemporary art gallery: white walls, abstract paintings, and track lighting. Everything but price tags and signs indicating which pieces had already been sold.

  The furniture was all clean lines and sharp angles. Scandinavian with maybe an Italian accent here and there. Area rugs in white, pewter, and charcoal provided visual texture and a measure of relief from all the unyielding hard surfaces.

  The most striking feature of Chana Lochlan’s home, however, was how damn clean it was. There was not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. Not even a mote dancing in the sunlight that flooded through crystalline windows.

  Deke had also noticed how immaculate their surroundings were. “You could fabricate microchips in here.”

  “Very close to godliness,” McGill agreed.

  At the moment, he didn’t hold out much hope of finding any physical evidence left by the intruder. Then Chana slid open two pocket doors to what McGill had assumed was the dining room but was in fact her office.

  McGill asked, “Everything present and accounted for?”

  “Yes. Thank God.”

  “Nothing there that shouldn
’t be?” The question sparked a thought for McGill. He decided to keep it to himself for the moment.

  “No. Did you think I’d find something?”

  McGill shrugged. “Let’s go see where you found the thong.”

  Being reminded of that brought back the realization that she had let relative strangers into her home, but she firmed her shoulders and led McGill upstairs. On the second floor were two bedrooms opposite each other at the front of the house. Chana opened the door to hers and waved McGill in.

  Ms. Lochlan slept on a sleek platform bed. The rest of the room continued the modern minimalist theme. Except for the wall of bookshelves opposite the bed. It all but groaned under the weight of the volumes it held. Politics, journalism, and … recovering from grief.

  McGill checked each shelf closely.

  Then he turned, and said, “The dresser where the thong was left?”

  Chana opened the door to a walk-in closet next to the bed.

  The space was larger than the bedroom McGill had slept in as a boy. Smelled better, too. And like everything else he’d seen in Chana Lochlan’s home, except for the glimpse he’d gotten of her office, it was spotless.

  The dresser had been built into one side of the closet.

  “Which drawer?” he asked.

  “The top.”

  “Do you mind if I look?”

  “I’ll be downstairs in my office.”

  “Fine.” He waited for her to leave and gave it a few more seconds. Tried to feel if there was any residue of illicit excitement in the air. Peeking through someone’s intimate garments was intrusive enough, but planting such an item, one designed to fire the imagination … McGill thought Chana had every reason to be scared.

  The intruder, he was sure, already felt he had a relationship with Chana.

  McGill looked at the drawer closely, but he didn’t see the slightest blur in its polished surface that might have been a fingerprint. Still, he opened the drawer from the lower left hand corner, using a handkerchief so he wouldn’t leave his own prints behind.

  The drawer held an assortment of panties, brassieres, and unopened packages of hosiery. Each type of garment had its own neat row; each matched up by color and style with the corresponding items in the other two rows. Some of the panties and bras were fairly utilitarian, others were racier. But there were no thongs. No peekaboo bras. No fishnet stockings. Nothing that would have embarrassed Ms. Lochlan should she have to be rushed to the hospital.