The President's Henchman

by Joseph Flynn

  Funny that the deputy director’s should mention singing, Cheveyo thought.

  “Sir, with the press of business, you may not have noticed the erratic public behavior of two prominent persons in town the past few days.” Cheveyo recounted “Lady Godiva’s” ride on the Mall and Congressman Fleming’s fatal aria in the House of Representatives.

  “That was this man Todd’s work?”

  “He won’t admit to it, given Congressman Papandreou’s fatal heart attack, but the two people behaving strangely match the profiles of two of Dr. Todd’s anonymous patients.”

  The deputy director took a moment to absorb this information.

  “And what does he propose to offer us?”

  “His technique for crafting new personalities.”

  “Which he hasn’t told you so far.”

  “No, sir. But he claims he could work with covert operatives. Contrive new personalities for them that they could enter at will, the way an abused child can automatically shift personalities to escape pain.”

  The deputy director finally saw where things were going.

  “An agent who could do that could shift to a personality who didn’t know what his primary personality’s assignment was. He could never give himself away. The information he carried would stay locked up in his head.”

  Cheveyo said, “It would likely be safe from physical torture. Whether it could withstand psychological assaults and the use of drugs is an open question.”

  “Still, it’d give us quite a leg up on where we are now. So what’s your reservation?”

  “As I’ve said, sir, it’s mostly the man himself. I don’t trust him. But there’s also the question of using research that has no legitimate foundation. Dr. Todd has done his work under the radar for the very good reason that no reputable institution would ever have approved it. Using only Congressman Fleming as an example. He sang light opera in college, but he wasn’t going to make anyone forget Pavarotti. To get him to go from good to great, and not have any awareness of it, Todd must have …” That was when it truly hit Cheveyo. “Todd must have led Fleming in a direction of Fleming’s choosing but crafted the personality so that it was completely hidden from his consciousness. It’s clear that Dr. Todd has manipulated his subjects in ways of which they are unaware and to which they could not have given their consent. If it got out that we used such research, it would look very bad for us.”

  The deputy director said, “The sonofabitch is proving himself to us. He didn’t kidnap any of his subjects, did he? Didn’t do anything that would remind people of Josef Mengele?”

  “Not so far as I know.” The hesitation was clear in Cheveyo’s voice.

  “And if he worked for us, it would be under conditions we would control. There’d be no chance of Todd’s playing practical jokes on people. And if he doesn’t go public with what he’s done, and we don’t tell, nobody should be embarrassed by anything.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cheveyo said flatly.

  “I’m interested, at least at this stage. Learn more about the man. Once we get past this damn mess with Cuba, I want to know whether we should forward your report to the president.” The deputy director smiled. “I’d be curious to see what she’d have to say about it.”

  The president summoned the White House reporters from the big broadcast and cable networks. All the newsies knew something had to be up. You didn’t get called in on Sunday afternoon for high tea. The reporters got to their feet when the president entered the room.

  “Please be seated,” the president said. “I’m sorry to intrude on your weekends. But I need to ask you a favor, and I must also ask that you keep my request confidential.”

  She had their complete attention.

  “I’d like you to get in touch with your network presidents when you leave here and advise them that the White House might request all of your organizations to carry a statement from me on very short notice. Possibly not more than a few minutes.”

  “Does this regard an imminent threat to the nation, Madam President?” David Gregory asked.

  “Is it Cuba?” Suzanne Malveaux followed up.

  “Islamic terrorists?” Chana Lochlan asked.

  The president said, “I can’t go into it right now. All I can say is it could be a matter of great consequence. Try not to get ahead of the story on this one.”

  “That could be difficult to honor,” Gregory told her.

  The NBC man sat next to Chana Lochlan. The president could take her in without being obvious about it. Could Jim be right, she wondered. Was this woman a threat to her? Her face did look a bit gaunt, but otherwise she looked … strong. Really strong.

  “Difficult but not impossible,” she replied. “There will be many good stories from this administration … for those who respect the national interest. Thank you all,” she said, dismissing them.

  They rose from their chairs and chorused, “Thank you, Madam President.”

  Patti stole one more glance at Chana.

  If the president hadn’t wanted to check out Ms. Lochlan personally, Aggie Wu would have been the one talking to the reporters.

  “Have you ever heard of anorexia athletica, Jim?” Patti asked.

  Her phone call had found McGill at his house in Evanston. He’d told her it was raining to beat the band there. The McGill clan had spent a lazy day reading the Sunday papers and eating too much rich food. He’d even gotten the kids to play a little gotcha karaoke with him. They all picked songs they thought someone else would sound funny singing. They’d only just finished when the call from the White House came.

  She’d told him about calling in the White House reporters.

  “No, that’s a new one on me,” he said. “Are we talking about Chana here?”

  “Yes. Given your concerns, I wanted to get a look at her without showing my hand.”

  It had occurred to McGill that Patti wouldn’t have called the newsies in for small talk. He said, “I’m sure they thought you had other things on your mind.”

  “They did. We’ll get to that in a minute. But what I noticed about Ms. Lochlan was that she seemed both leaner and more muscular than when we first met. I tried to recall if this was a steady, ongoing process. But the way I reconstruct things it’s a more distinct, more recent development. As if she’s drastically increased her physical routine in, say, the last month.”

  McGill had no doubt Patti’s assessment was accurate.

  “So this anorexia athletica is …”

  “It’s also known as compulsive or obligatory exercise. It’s an addiction. You see it not infrequently in people who have to appear in the public eye.”

  “Models and actors,” McGill said.

  “And the occasional politician, too. I know how to pick my careers, don’t I?”

  “You ever have any problems in that direction?”

  The question was voiced softly, and the answer came after a short pause.

  “No, but there were times when I could see I might be heading that way. That’s probably why I recognized it in Ms. Lochlan, once I took the trouble to look.”

  “What’s the motivation for this obsession? Can’t be for fun.”

  “The reason is to become or remain attractive forever.”

  “To stay the most fabulous face on TV.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But Chana Lochlan’s no fool. She has to know the futility of what she’s doing.”

  “Knowing and accepting can be two different things. People who fall into this compulsion are often high achievers who are unhappy with their achievements. Makes me wonder if Ms. Lochlan is angry or depressed.”

  “Neither of which is good in somebody who gets to see the president regularly.”

  “No, it isn’t. Jim, I know Ms. Lochlan fired you, but I’d like you to keep looking into her situation for me. Discreetly. Can you do that?”

  McGill thought about Abbie’s saying how horrible it would be if someone had made Chana fire him; the situation could turn out like
what had happened to Andy Grant. Now, Patti was giving him the opportunity to get back on the case.

  “Sure,” he said. “I don’t have any other clients at the moment. So how are things with my president?”

  “Difficult. Raul Castro died this morning.”

  Chapter 18

  Monday

  Welborn was about to knock on the doorframe of Colonel Linberg’s Pentagon cubbyhole when he stopped to take note that, unlike the last time he visited, her door was open. As for the colonel herself, she wasn’t busy copying the UCMJ. She had her chair turned sideways to her desk. Her legs were extended. Her hands rested on her midsection. She stared at a blank wall as if it were a window on her future.

  Was she seeing herself as a civilian already?

  Carina Linberg turned to look at Welborn before he ever got around to knocking.

  She knew what he had to say before he opened his mouth. “No RILO.”

  “No, ma’am,” Welborn answered. “The president’s decision.”

  “Has a date been set for my court-martial?”

  Her tone was flat. Not fearful or angry. Whatever happened to her, the colonel wasn’t about to show weakness to him or anyone else. It only reinforced Welborn’s admiration for her. He wasn’t as smitten as he’d been the first time he’d seen her; he knew that something was going on between her and Captain Cowan. He couldn’t help but recall Kira Fahey’s notion that maybe both the colonel and the captain were lying to him.

  And when he’d met with the president, she had rocked his world. Suggested to him him that Colonel Linberg might also have slept with General Altman. So be ready — God help him — to investigate the Air Force chief of staff should she so direct.

  At the moment, though, he simply wondered how a woman as beautiful and intelligent as Carina Linberg had gotten herself into such a mess. What was it that made people screw up so badly? It had to be more than just sex.

  “Lieutenant, are you going to answer my question?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. No, a date has not been set for your court-martial. It hasn’t been determined yet if there will even be one.”

  She nodded, still impassive. “So I’m to be left here indefinitely. Better get back to my duty then.” She picked up her pen, ready to resume her copying. “Please close the door before you leave, Lieutenant.”

  Welborn said, “You can put your pen down, ma’am.”

  She looked up at him, finally showing emotion. Surprise.

  “Per the president’s orders” he told her, “you are relieved of this and all other duties. With pay, of course. Your time will be your own until otherwise notified. You are, however, ordered not to leave the metropolitan D.C. area without permission.”

  “The president’s permission?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be AWOL if I do?” she asked.

  “You will.”

  She gave Welborn a long look. It made him uneasy.

  “Well, Lieutenant, if you had anything to do with liberating me, thank you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Too bad we had to meet under these circumstances.”

  “It’s the nature of my job.”

  Welborn saluted and left. He had asked the president to free Colonel Linberg from both her tedious chore and the Pentagon’s dungeon. He wasn’t trying to help her, though; he was hoping to help himself. Captain Cowan wasn’t about to go near the colonel in the Pentagon. But if she was out and about, and they thought they could arrange a secret rendezvous …

  He would catch them. Only the way the colonel had looked at him now, he had the uneasy feeling she’d seen right through his ploy. He could only hope nobody would guess his next move.

  Welborn was driving Kira’s Audi TT. She’d taken him back to Annapolis the previous day to pick up his Civic only to find that it had, indeed, been stolen. Not towed; they’d checked. Kira had been abashed by the accuracy of her gibe.

  “Who’d want to take that plain old car?” she asked plaintively.

  Welborn knew why if not who. Car thieves stole old Hondas and Toyotas for the value of their parts. Older models got stolen more frequently than new ones. His car had to be cut up and shipped to the four corners of the earth. He felt bad. The little vehicle might have been homely, without an ounce of sex appeal, but it had never failed him.

  He filed a police report. Kira felt so bad by then that she not only insisted he use her Audi, she also took on the chore of dealing with his insurance company for him. Calling from the White House would make things easier, she assured him.

  He pulled his borrowed sports car to the curb in front of a well-kept Colonial in Falls Church, Virginia. As he approached the front door, he saw that all the curtains were drawn.

  Nobody home?

  His records showed that Arlene Cowan, the captain’s wife, didn’t work. But maybe that was before she’d learned about her husband and the colonel. A revelation of that sort could incline a woman to secure an independent source of income.

  Welborn pressed the doorbell. He heard a bing-bong from within the house. Then footsteps. Someone looked at him through the peephole in the front door. He was in uniform. Looking as clean-cut and trustworthy as possible, he hoped. Someone you’d need not fear.

  “Who’re you?” a female voice asked from the other side of the door.

  “Lieutenant Welborn Yates, ma’am. United States Air Force.”

  “Air Force?”

  “Office of Special Investigations.” He held up his ID. “I’m a federal agent.”

  She opened the door. Welborn hadn’t known what to expect of Mrs. Cowan, but he’d assumed she wouldn’t be nearly as attractive as Colonel Linberg. And maybe she wasn’t quite as good-looking, but it was a close call. Made him wonder if there wasn’t a whole generation of good-looking women ten to twenty years older than he.

  Mrs. Cowan had chestnut brown hair, dark brown eyes, a pert nose, a generous mouth. She was more finely boned than the colonel but looked just as fit. Maybe more the sophisticate, in her dark blue suit and pearls, to the colonel’s sportswoman.

  “You realize you’re staring?” Arlene Cowan asked.

  He noticed her accent now. Southern but not quite like his own. A little farther to the west he thought. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to be impolite.”

  She smiled at him, revealing perfect white teeth.

  “The Air Force uniform threw me at first. Then I remembered she’s Air Force.”

  There was no question who she was. Mrs. Cowan looked up the street as if expecting someone’s arrival. Then she noticed the Audi parked in front of her house.

  “Is that little ego-stroker yours?” There was a hint of contempt in her voice.

  “No, ma’am. I drive … I drove a Honda Civic, but it was stolen recently. A friend let me borrow that car for the time being.”

  She relaxed a bit, smiled. “I drive an Accord. Love every dependable, vanilla inch of it.”

  A kindred spirit. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I suppose you want to ask me all sorts of questions.”

  “Only the pertinent sort.”

  She smiled again. “You’re a nice young man. I wish I could help you.”

  “You can’t?”

  “My lawyer and I are in negotiations that require confidentiality.”

  She looked at her watch, started to tap her foot.

  “Do you need to be somewhere, ma’am?”

  “National Airport. The cab that was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago is going to make me miss my plane.” She opened the door wider and Welborn saw two suitcases.

  “If you’d like, ma’am, I’d be happy to give you a ride to the airport.”

  “You have lovely manners, Lieutenant,” she said. “Call me Arlene.”

  Welborn grabbed her bags. Mrs. Cowan locked the front door.

  On the way to the Audi, she told him, “I can’t speak of my personal situation, you understand, but perhaps on the drive to the airport I can t
ell you about a friend of mine.”

  Welborn stashed the suitcases and opened the car door for her.

  “I’d like that, Arlene,” he said.

  Arlene was off to her home state of Tennessee to interview for a very nice job with a Japanese automobile manufacturer that had a plant there. While she hadn’t been employed during her marriage to Captain Cowan, she’d advanced her education greatly, acquiring master’s degrees in both business administration and the Japanese language.

  She’d conquered French and German as an undergrad and Spanish in high school.

  He asked Arlene, “If you get the job, will you and the captain maintain two homes?”

  She favored him with another smile, this one humorless.

  “Let me tell you about my friend, Lieutenant.”

  Arlene’s friend was quite a lot like her. A well-brought-up Southern girl. Educated but firmly encouraged to find a good man and help him become even better. Her role was to buttress her husband’s ambitions and be a catalyst should his ambition ever start to lag.

  She’d filled that role admirably. Even at the cost of not having the family she wanted. But not at expense of letting her mind wither. She yearned for learning the way some people grasped for money. Or others hungered for sex. Problem was, the more she furthered her education, the less her husband liked it. He longed for the sweet simple girl he’d married. He’d come right out and told her so.

  Well, what was she supposed to do? Unlearn all her coursework. Renounce her degrees. A friend had once told her friend, “He wants you as unlettered, unskilled, and unemployable as possible, so you’ll have nowhere to turn but him.”

  For a number of years Arlene’s friend had wanted to turn nowhere else. Her husband was ruggedly handsome and not without charm. But over time his carping got to be tedious. How in the world had he ever thought of her as simple? She flirted with the idea of divorce, but she wasn’t a quitter.

  So wasn’t it a kick in the head when he started littering her life with unmistakable signs that he had a lover? Her friend’s husband was often away for long periods of time on business. She’d sometimes thought he might have had an affair or two when he was far from home. But if so, he’d always been discreet about it, and it hadn’t distracted him from providing her with marital attention.