by Joseph Flynn
Welborn drew the obvious inference from someone’s hefting a box of books.
“You’re moving, ma’am?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You got the job in Tennessee?”
“I did.” Definitely a smile in her voice now.
“Congratulations, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. But we agreed the last time we met you’d call me Arlene. ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel old.”
“Won’t make that mistake again, Arlene.”
“I’m packing my belongings, Lieutenant, far more carefully than any movers would ever do, and I’m toasting my good fortune with real French champagne. If you’re a careful packer, too, why don’t you come over and join me?”
He knew her good mood was boosted by the bubbly. And no, he certainly wasn’t going to Falls Church to help her pack. Because Arlene Cowan was still Mrs. Dexter Cowan, and he wasn’t about to fall into the trap of committing adultery while investigating an adultery case. Besides which, Kira would kill him.
“I’m all thumbs, Arlene. I have to stay away from anything marked fragile.”
She laughed deep in her throat. “I bet there are a few exceptions.”
He felt a new sympathy for military personnel who fell prey to human weakness. But he said, “Arlene, you mentioned just now you thought your lawyer might be calling.”
Her voice changed, taking on a guarded note. “Yes, I did.”
“Pardon me for asking, but would that be about those negotiations you mentioned to me?”
“Yes.” She sounded even more cautious.
“I have something to tell you that will have a bearing on that.”
He could almost see her bracing herself. She had no answer for him.
“If it’s all right, Arlene, I’d like to stop by your house later tonight. Tell you in person.”
“I should probably stop drinking, shouldn’t I?”
“I think that would be a good idea,” Welborn said.
A PAUK II Class corvette flying the ensign of the Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria, a.k.a. the Cuban Navy, and emblazoned with the proud name of José Marti, weighed anchor and steamed away from the windward side of the Isla de San Andrés, a speck of land in the Caribbean Sea belonging to Colombia on which the United States held a ninety-nine-year lease. A course was laid in that would take the vessel to the territorial waters of Costa Gorda, a mere sixty miles distant.
The vessel had been built in Russia in 1989. The original buyer was supposed to have been Fidel Castro’s government in Havana, but the Cubans, as ever, had no hard currency. So the Kremlin decided to sell the craft to a gentleman who had a purchase order from a revolutionary movement in a southern African country and a bank account in Switzerland.
That arms dealer had, in fact, been a CIA agent. Langley thought it might come in handy someday to have a spot-on stand-in for one of Castro’s coastal patrol craft. The original José Marti had been moved the preceding year from its normal anchorage in Havana Bay to Cienfuegos for refitting. Using parts from ’57 Chevys, wags from the U.S. Navy said.
As with the real Marti, the impostor displaced 485 tons, was 184 feet long, 33 feet wide, and drew 11 feet of water. It could make a top speed of 32 knots or cruise for 2,400 miles at 14 knots. The ship could knock helicopters out of the sky with its SAM missiles. Other watercraft could be attacked or repelled with either its 76mm gun capable of firing 120 rounds per minute up to a distance of 8 miles, or for close-in work its 30mm gun, which fired 3,000 rounds per minute up to a distance of .5 miles.
Best of all, not even the marineros cubanos who still sailed for and defended their revolution would have doubted it was one of their ships.
But unlike the twenty-six sailors and six officers who saluted Fidel, or at least his memory, aboard Cuban corvettes, this craft was manned by only a dozen U.S. Navy personnel. Along to provide muscle and firepower if things went wrong was a team of eight SEALs.
Also unlike its Cuban counterpart, this iteration of the Marti was in continuous encrypted communication with an Air Force AWACS aircraft, a CIA U-2, and an NSA spy satellite.
All this deception and technology was being employed for one reason.
The president of the United States had ordered the faux-Marti to attack the military base in Costa Gorda that her predecessor in the Oval Office had bankrolled for the anti-Castro community in Miami. He’d needed the Cuban vote in South Florida.
Patricia Darden Grant didn’t.
Chapter 34
The Reverend Burke Godfrey crackled with nervous energy. He was sure that if his hair hadn’t been shellacked into place, every last strand would have been standing on end. As it was, he paced the twenty-by-ten-by-two-foot stage his people had brought with them to Lafayette Square from Richmond. Stage right, there stood a lectern draped with a white silk cloth on which a cross sewn with threads of 24K gold shone forth. Atop the lectern was a cordless microphone for the reverend’s use. Its output could be amped up by an audio technician working from cues, both scripted and visual, at a soundboard placed front row center, if there’d been anything but lawn seating.
If anyone had been sitting, and nobody was. Everyone stood and swayed. Many listened to podcasts of Reverend Godfrey’s favorite gospel music. Others listened to choirs furnished by their own imaginations.
Mirroring Sweetie’s wardrobe choice, Godfrey was dressed head to toe in white: suit, shirt, tie, and shoes. He couldn’t match her blond hair, though. His was dark brown, cosmetically silvered at the temples. He wasn’t as lean as she either. No disciple of Dr. Atkins, the reverend liked his carbs in large numbers.
The summer sky was darkening not only from the sunset but also the arrival of storm clouds, portending the possibility that divine judgment might soon be loosed upon the land. Anticipating official interference if he brought too many of his followers — and thousands had wanted to come — Reverend Godfrey had selected only 250 of his flock to be in attendance. Every one of them was devout. That was, they attended his Sunday services faithfully and gave freely when they did. A canny man, Godfrey hadn’t chosen his most affluent believers but the most zealous. The ones he’d seen from his pulpit whose faces showed the clearest devotion — to him.
All the others who’d wanted to attend would also see what transpired. The reverend had brought three videocams to provide a live webcast, and lighting people to show him in, well, the best possible light. Downloads of the coming clash would soon be on sale for those who had missed it live.
The stage lights were already on, as the sky continued to darken.
All of Reverend Godfrey’s stagecraft, ironically, made it far easier for the two less obvious videograhpers sent by the White House to do their work. The same benefit pertained to the special agent Celsus Crogher had independently assigned to record the event.
Added to the other advantages he’d given himself, Burke Godfrey had made sure he was the first to arrive. That way it would seem as if the cursed woman who’d helped send his Erna to Death Row was entering the reverend’s own temple. He and his people would be there waiting for her, to fling the defiler from their holy gathering.
The only problem was, with all the other things he’d had on his mind, he’d forgotten one very important detail. He hadn’t gone to the bathroom before taking the stage. Back home, where his routine had been set for years, he always relieved himself right before he started a service. It was just common sense. But tonight he hadn’t remembered. And where the day had been warm, the night, with the arrival of the storm front, was turning chilly. The air was getting damp, too. Of course, he was also tense as he awaited a battle he was sure would be a preview of Armageddon. All in all, his bladder already felt uncomfortably stretched.
What was worse, that damnable Margaret Sweeney was late. No telling when she might arrive. If cowardice kept her away completely, all glory would be his. But not if he soiled his beautiful white pants. His pacing before the crowd became more urgent.
Finally, the T
V professional in him, if not the preacher, dictated that he momentarily abdicate his stage. He lifted a hand to his congregation, smiled, and said, “I’ll be right back, brothers and sisters. Until I return, say a prayer for our sister, my precious wife, Erna.”
He hopped off the back of the stage, careful not to slip, and headed for one of the Port-a-Potties his people had brought with them.
A fine mist began to descend, adding to the chill in the air. Standing at the curb of Pennsylvania Avenue, on the edge of the crowd, McGill gathered Caitie into his arms. He wore a windbreaker, jeans, and sneakers. He had a Chicago White Sox cap pulled low over his face. No one gave him a second glance. Caitie wore a hooded sweatshirt; no one paid attention to her either. On McGill’s right was Deke, not saying a word but scanning each face in the gathering, searching for madness in the eyes of anyone who might be looking to make history with a handgun. Parked up the street, Leo had the Chevy’s motor running.
McGill surveyed the crowd, too. To his surprise, he spotted Welborn Yates dressed in casual civilian clothes. The lieutenant met McGill’s eyes and gave him a tiny nod. As a federal agent, McGill had no doubt that Welborn was armed; but his gut told him Welborn was there of his own accord, not at Patti’s direction. McGill turned and whispered into Deke’s ear, advising him of Welborn’s presence. Deke took note of the young Air Force officer, nodded, and went back to looking for assassins.
McGill dropped to one knee, looked Caitie in the eye, and spoke quietly.
“It’s still okay to change your mind,” he said.
She shook her head.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“Positive, Dad. I’m going to be all right.”
The cool air and the mist had turned Caitie’s cheeks pink. She looked impossibly pure and beautiful to him. Of his three children, Caitie was the one who most resembled her mother. His anxiety doubled when he thought of Carolyn. Where in God’s name could she be?
His daughter sensed his disquiet. She laid a palm against his cheek as if she were the adult comforting him, the child. There was an air of serenity about Caitie at that moment. He could see it in her gaze. It only served to unnerve even him more.
“Really, Dad, I’ll be fine,” Caitie told him. Then she smiled. “Oh, look, there’s Sweetie. Isn’t she beautiful?”
The Reverend Burke Godfrey leaped nimbly back onto the stage, skidded on the now-slick surface, but caught his balance before he did a pratfall. When he looked up, he thought he saw an angel. All white and golden and glowing. There was a halo where the lights hit the mist around her blond hair. He’d have been happy to have such a creature greet him at the gates of heaven.
As long as she wasn’t Margaret Sweeney.
The crowd had parted for her like the Red Sea before Moses. She stood maybe thirty feet from the stage. Godfrey had warned his people not to curse this woman, and certainly not take the name of the Lord in vain. Not with his three videocams going. It was clear that this admonition had been superfluous, at least for the moment. The most credulous members of his flock stood in silent awe of the woman they had been taught to denounce.
The reverend couldn’t have that. He crossed the stage and seized his microphone.
“You wanted to see me,” his voice boomed. “Well, here I am.”
Sweetie looked closely at Godfrey. The anger on his face was easy to see, easy to understand. The man was looking at a sworn enemy. He wasn’t of a mind to turn the other cheek. It would have been easy for her to tear into him, too. She’d seen what Erna Godfrey’s missile had done to Andy Grant.
But Sweetie brought to mind the picture of the Cathedral of Cologne.
It wouldn’t serve anyone’s interest to let things get to that point.
“I respect all life,” Sweetie said. Unaided, her voice carried through the heavy air, rang clear to all those present. “The measure of our days should be set by God, not man.”
Godfrey took note, uneasily, that several members of his congregation were nodding. But why shouldn’t they? He might have said those words himself. In other contexts, he had said much the same thing. At least about unborn children. But he hadn’t come to Washington that night for an ecumenical hootenanny.
“Then I’m sure,” the reverend rebutted, “you’ve used your influence with your good friend Mr. James J. McGill and his wife, the president, to spare the life of my dear wife, Erna.”
TV crews from three network affiliates had arrived to join the row of lenses recording the moment, broadcasting it live to the nation. All of them had caught what was an obviously heartfelt plea from Reverend Godfrey for the life of his wife.
The television was on in the game room of the Aspen Lodge at Camp David. Patti, Abbie, and Kenny sat watching. Patti watched impassively; Abbie’s face was soft with empathy; Kenny shook his head, feeling no mercy for Erna Godfrey at all. To hell with her.
Sweetie said, “No, I haven’t. Not in person. I know how the president has suffered from the death of her first husband. I held her in my arms the morning after he was killed. I felt her tears against my face. I prayed with her for the repose of Andrew Hudson Grant’s soul. Just as I include in my prayers the plea that the president will find enough of God’s grace to commute Mrs. Godfrey’s sentence. Just as I pray that no one in our country will be executed.”
Far from placating Burke Godfrey, Sweetie’s words enraged him. He pointed his free hand at the heavens, and the soundman took his cue, boosting the reverend’s volume.
“Commute? I’ll hear no talk of commutation. Erna must be pardoned. Erna must be freed!”
“Free her! Free Erna!” the crowd echoed, louder than Godfrey himself.
After allowing the chant to continue just long enough, the reverend took the vocal baton back from his followers. “How dare you compare a woman who was following God’s commands to the vile filth that rapes and murders and fills our prisons?”
“How dare you? How dare you?” echoed the faithful.
The Richmond congregants had found their footing. Established their rhythm. Their enemy stood before them, and they recognized her for who she was.
The chance of violence was escalating quickly.
Sweetie showed no sign she even noticed. She stepped forward, came to within ten feet of the stage. Her voice was as true and clear as ever. Even though her pitch was now more intimate, her words reached everyone. Without the slightest quaver of fear.
“And how would you know that, Reverend Godfrey? How would you know that your wife received a command from God? Were you present when He spoke to her?”
At Camp David, the McGill kids watched with wide eyes; the president leaned forward, intent on not missing a syllable of Godfrey’s response.
The reverend almost shouted out his reply. But then his face twisted into a terrible grimace as if he were having a seizure. His expression was so tortured that it brought an audible gasp from his followers. His personal physician, who traveled everywhere with him, started forward. But the televangelist, bracing himself on the lectern, managed to wave him off.
Burke Godfrey realized, his knees still weak, how perilously close he’d come to falling into this evil trap. He was not used to having his word questioned when he preached. Especially not by someone who’d been a cop.
If he’d admitted that, yes, he’d been present when God spoke to Erna, or claim, as he’d intended to do, that God had spoken to her through him, he’d have confessed in front of the world that he’d been part of the conspiracy that had taken Andrew Grant’s life. He wouldn’t be able to free Erna then. He’d be on Death Row with her.
But he was not a man without cunning.
He pivoted to turn near disaster into triumph.
“What just happened here,” he said in a well-amplified whisper, “what each of you has seen with your own two eyes, is that God has spoken to me this very instant.”
Sweetie jumped on that before the reverend could expound.
“Is that so? When I feel God’s presence in m
y life, it fills me with an overwhelming joy. You, Reverend, looked like you experienced a grievous pain. We all saw that with our own two eyes. Did God ask you to do something that tried your soul?”
“No, damn you, He did not!”
This woman, this demon, was an affliction not to be borne. If he’d had her in private, he would have seen to it that she suff — He realized with no small measure of horror that he had spittle on his chin. The lights had to be catching the reflection; the cameras had to be capturing the image. Let it continue, and he’d look deranged. He made as graceful a save as he could. He frequently used a handkerchief to blot his brow when he preached; he did so then, deftly wiping his chin as he brought the cloth down.
Accustomed to reading the mood of his flock, he saw that they were looking at him with unfamiliar doubt. He’d done something wrong, but what? Then he understood. The night was growing colder; they were all but shivering … and he was burning inside, sweating. He made another pass with his handkerchief.
“What God just told me,” Godfrey said in a soft voice, “confirmed what I already knew.” He lowered his head briefly. “He said that my Erna is sentenced to die, and millions of unborn children will die” — he looked up at the crowd — “and all manner of evil will occur because too many sinners, too many of His enemies, hold the reins of power.”
He cast his gaze directly at Sweetie.
Who looked right back at him.
“What are my sins, Reverend Godfrey?” she asked.
“You support the killing of the unborn,” he jeered from the stage.
“I don’t.”
“You support those who do.” Once more the preacher jabbed a finger at Sweetie. “Your guilt is as theirs!”
Some of the more zealous members of the crowd surged toward Sweetie.
To his great surprise, Putnam Shady grabbed a man and yanked him back.
