by Joseph Flynn
She recognized he had become aware of her and asked, “What is that you are playing? A piece from Bach?”
Pruet put his guitar down and turned to her with a smile. “The arrangement is my own. But the composer is Steve Winwood. ‘Can’t Find My Way Home.’”
She looked at him without comprehension, then with the suspicion he was playing her for a fool, finally with acceptance he was telling her the truth. “Popular music? You are reduced to playing rock ‘n’ roll?”
“I am a man of reduced circumstances,” he told her, his smile growing rueful. He picked up his instrument and looked back at the city, a scattering of lights still shining in the darkness. Nicolette stepped forward, leaning against the balcony railing, regarding him bleakly.
“You’ve been ignoring the notes I gave you,” she said. “On how to proceed with your investigation.”
“I’m an obstinate fellow. Beyond that, your notes were no more instructive than fortune cookies.” Pruet had been sorely disappointed by Nicolette’s puerile jottings.
—Do what you know is best.
—There is only one path forward.
—Those who love you won’t lead you astray.
How was he supposed to use drivel such as that in a divorce proceeding against his wife? She hadn’t even had the decency to append her signature to the banalities.
“I’m sure you can read between the lines,” Nicolette said, her eyes reduced to slits.
“There was something between the lines?” asked Pruet, whose vision was perfect. “I will have Odo take me to an eye doctor at the first opportunity. In the meantime, perhaps you could write what you need from me with great specificity and in large block letters, and please sign your full name in a clear hand in case I forget the source of the advice.”
Nicolette looked as if she would like to hurl him off the balcony. Pruet had much the same thought about her, and she was so much closer to the edge. But he contented himself by saying, “You know, my dear, though I often seem preoccupied by my work, I do take note of the world at large.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, I’ve noticed, over the years, the appearances of the women Jean-Louis Severin has escorted to various public functions, up to and including his former wife, Aubine. And none of them has had quite the same look as you. So I am relieved to say I no longer think that you are sleeping with our esteemed president.”
Nicolette knew he was mocking her, and for his part, Pruet was glad he had his guitar to shield him from her.
“I’ve noticed something else from time to time,” he continued. “I’ve seen you comfort, right here in our apartment, various of your friends who’ve had grievances with their husbands. In each instance, as I recall, your advice was to skin the bastard alive. So I suppose I should take some comfort that you only wish to see me play for my supper on the Metro. But it also occurs to me, that through your friends, you must know some of Paris’s best divorce lawyers. Perhaps you even know Marcel Choisy, the avocat for Aubine Severin who held his press conference the other day. Possibly, you hope to obtain his services someday for your personal benefit.”
The magistrate was startled when his wife actually hissed at him. A snake poised to strike. Nonetheless, he took her reaction as confirmation of his surmise. Pushing off against the balcony railing, she’d had enough of his company for one night. She started off on her way to wherever she slept these days. But Pruet caught her by the wrist and held on tight.
When she finally looked at him, he told her. “There is no love left to lose between us, Nicolette, but I tell you now you are swimming in a treacherous current.”
He let her go. She looked at him, not with affection but the fear that he might be right. But her decision had been made and moments later he heard the door slam as she departed.
Pruet started to play, idly dancing his fingers through runs of notes. All of them were complementary, pleasing to the ear, but none suggested a theme he might turn into a pop tune to make him famous and wealthy. He thought he should do a broader study of the American blues canon. Frenchmen, indisputably, also knew times of heartache and reversals of fortune. Perhaps that was where his future as a composer lay. French blues. Les bleus Francais.
That speculation was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.
On the other end was James J. McGill, the president’s henchman.
Another fellow whose wife wasn’t at his side, and had yet to go to bed.
Washington, DC
31
Sweetie said grace before eating dinner with friends and finished with, “… and thank you for our gracious host.”
That one caught Putnam Shady by surprise. In all his thirty-five years, he never remembered anyone thanking God for him. Certainly not his parents. But Welborn Yates and Kira Fahey joined Sweetie in saying, “Amen.”
The four of them sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen of Putnam’s townhouse on Florida Avenue. For their dining pleasure he’d had a couple dozen soft shell crabs brought in from Great Catch, his favorite seafood restaurant in Baltimore. Yes, he’d paid to have the restaurant’s top chef come to town to cook the crabs on site, and steam eight ears of corn, artfully throw together a green salad, and bake a tray of brownies that were an invitation to gluttony.
But all of the hard work—the driving and the cooking—the credit for that belonged to the person who had done the work: Chef LuAnne Bisby Scott. All he’d done, as usual, was to put out some money to impress people. Clearly, he’d impressed Margaret, and he was grateful for that, but he felt guilty about publicly being acknowledged before God when he had done so little. Okay, he had poured the Moët Cuvee he and Kira were drinking, put out an Aviator Lager for Welborn and a Poland Spring for Margaret. Even so, he’d have to do better, and…
That was when it hit him.
Margaret, in her pious way, was manipulating him. The same way she’d gotten him to risk his precious backside when he’d accompanied her to that rally of religious zealots in Lafayette Square, where she had stood up to the Reverend Burke Godfrey. Where little Caitie McGill had shown impressive courage, too. Heck, where he had grabbed the wrist of a yahoo who might have caused a riot by trying to assault Margaret.
He and Margaret had dined out for the first and only time after that epic confrontation. Normally, that would have been the perfect opportunity for Putnam to make a move on his date. Instead, he’d been happy simply to dine with Margaret, to listen to her as she revealed a little bit of her life. He’d responded by telling her a carefully edited bit of his own childhood. Losing his brother. He’d never told any casual acquaintance about that before. But at the end of the night he’d felt wonderful. Laying his head on his pillow, still feeling Margaret’s lips on his cheek from a kiss as chaste as it was memorable. The kiss and Margaret saying, “Thanks for coming with me.”
Okay, so now she’d thanked God for him, and that could only mean—
Sweetie nudged him and asked, “You going to start eating?”
—she was going to get him to do something risky again.
“Yeah, sure,” he answered. He speared a forkful of salad.
“This is a very nice kitchen, Mr. Shady,” Kira told him.
The room was a spacious composition of polished oak cabinets and stainless steel appliances. The floor was slate, and during the day the room was flooded with sunlight. An unlikely place for a conspiracy. After Putnam had learned of the Merriman brothers’ lunch at Tommy T’s., he’d called Margaret at the offices of McGill Investigations, Inc. Told her of Ms. Fahey dining within earshot of two of the president’s foremost nemeses. He had suggested they get together for drinks, discuss the possibility Ms. Fahey might have overheard something interesting. Margaret had said she’d already heard from Captain Yates that Kira would like to speak with her. Putnam had thought that would put the kibosh on his chances of going out with Margaret, but then she’d told him she’d like to speak with him and Kira and Captain Yates in a setting where they wouldn’t
have to worry about anyone eavesdropping. Putnam had immediately volunteered his home, and since it sounded to him like it would be a work-oriented gathering, they could dine in his kitchen.
“Thank you, Ms. Fahey,” Putnam said, “and by the time we finish this bottle of wine, let’s call each other Kira and Putnam.”
The last thing he wanted to do was … well, maybe he did want to try to outflank whatever maneuver Margaret had in mind for him. But he didn’t want to come on too strong to the vice-president’s niece, especially with her fiancé in the room and doing his best not to frown or punch Putnam in the nose.
Dousing that fire before it could grow, the host said, “Let’s see if we can all use our given names. When you’re eating crabs and corn with your fingers, Mr. and Ms. seems a bit much.”
Everyone smiled at that, and the meal and small talk proceeded with everyone growing more relaxed, even Margaret, who in her own mysterious way seemed able to get a buzz going from sparkling water. Putnam wondered if she was able to change it into wine on the way down.
He insisted on rinsing all the dishes and stacking them in the dishwasher; he let Margaret dish up the brownies, with whipped cream and fresh strawberry slices for Kira, Margaret and him, straight up for Welborn. Milk for Welborn and Margaret, the last of the bubbly for Kira and him.
At that point, Sweetie took over the discussion, saying, “Welborn and I are working a case.”
“Unofficially and sub rosa for me,” Welborn said.
“True, but with his customary zeal,” Sweetie said. “The case is getting complicated, to a point where we could use some extra help.”
Everyone knew what was coming next. Putnam could see Kira was almost trembling in anticipation. He, meanwhile, was trying to keep the whipped cream in his mouth from curdling.
Leaning forward, Kira asked Sweetie, “There’s something I can do to help?” She turned to Welborn. “Really?”
Now, it was the young Air Force captain’s turn to look dismayed. “I have nightmares about what the president, the vice president, and our respective mothers would do to me if I let any harm come to you. And that’s nothing compared to what I’d do to myself.”
Kira sat back and looked at her beau. Her eyes sheened with moisture, but her jaw firmed with resolve. “I’m tougher than I look, you know.” She flexed her right arm.
Sweetie gave her a thumb’s up.
Whereupon Kira had second thoughts. “It’s not too dangerous, what you have in mind for me, is it?”
Welborn said, “We’d like you to pretend to be a Catholic. Does that prospect fill you with dread?”
Kira’s face got tight. She thought Welborn was teasing her.
But Sweetie said: “A particularly pious Catholic. One who can pray for hours. Without calling attention to herself.”
“This isn’t a joke?” Kira asked Sweetie.
“No. What you’d be doing is working a stakeout. We’d like you to spend as much time as reasonably possible in a Virginia church. We’d like you to make mental notes about anyone who visits the pastor, Reverend Francis Nguyen.”
“That’s it? Sit, kneel, and pray in a church?”
“Light a candle when you arrive, and gather intelligence,” Sweetie said. “These guys we’re after, I’m pretty sure they’re behind the shooting of Deke Ky.”
Kira drew a sharp breath.
And Putnam gagged on the brownie he was eating.
He had to clear the obstruction with champagne.
Everyone looked at him, and he held up a hand to indicate he was okay.
Turning back to Kira, Sweetie said, “These are seriously bad people, but a woman praying in the public setting of a church, a person they’ve never seen, should be perfectly safe. We’d have to tone down your appearance, though. You sparkle a bit too much now.”
Kira glanced at Welborn, wanting to say something but reluctant, as if not wanting to reveal a secret to her betrothed. Finally, she admitted, “I can look plain if I want to.”
Welborn said, “I seriously doubt that.”
An expression of disbelief that earned him a peck on the cheek.
Sweetie continued, “It would also be good if you had something to really pray for. Father Nguyen, if he sees you, will likely stop by and ask if there’s anything he can do for you. He’s almost certain to see through any deceit.”
To everyone’s surprise, Kira’s face crumpled, and the tears hinted at earlier came in a rush now. Welborn took Kira’s hand and asked, “What is it?”
He, too, now appeared as stricken, thinking she’d kept some grim secret from him.
Kira patted his hand in reassurance and said, “I lost my dad when I was little. He died in a fire. Most of the time, I hardly think of him at all. I have to look at photos to remember what he looked like. But lately … with my wedding coming up…” She turned to look at Welborn. “I really wish he were here to walk me down the aisle. I want him to see how lucky I am.”
Welborn put an arm around Kira’s shoulders.
Sweetie said, “I don’t know what your beliefs are, but you could pray for a sign that your father does know how lucky you are, that he will be with you in spirit when you marry.”
Kira nodded and asked the others to excuse her. Welborn left the room with her.
A moment passed in silence before Putnam said, “Poor kid.”
Sweetie looked at him.
“She’s not up to it,” he said, “I can do the church stakeout.”
Sweetie told him, “I’ve got other plans for you.”
Chequers, Buckinghamshire, England
32
The presidents of the United States and France sat next to each other on a sofa in Patti’s suite at Chequers and looked at the jumbled sheets of paper on the coffee table in front of them. Each sheet was filled with handwritten sentences, strikethroughs, revisions, and marginal notes. Each of them had taken turns writing and editing. The document was written in both English and French. The whole might never have cohered if they hadn’t taken the precaution of writing a page number in the top right corner of each sheet.
Having already decided to turn the world’s major military defense alliances inside out, Patricia Darden Grant and Jean-Louis Severin had decided to take the next step and deny the planet’s most violent strongmen their means of seizing and holding on to power—and their plan was making the two presidents distinctly nervous.
The French president looked at his old friend. “What we are attempting here is to seize a bone from the mouth of a very bad-tempered dog.”
Patti had to smile. “You do have a way with metaphor, Jean-Louis.”
“Billions of dollars and euros, then, if you wish me to speak like an accountant.”
She patted his hand and got up. “I want you only to be yourself. More water?”
He shook his head as Patti picked up the two empty Schweppes bottles from the table. She tossed them in a recycling bin and took another bottle out of a mini-fridge for herself. She returned to the sofa and unscrewed the cap.
“I’m tempted not to use the coaster,” she told Jean-Louis.
He laughed and replied, “It is enough that we formulate our plans under Norvin Kimbrough’s roof. There is no need to be gauche. May I have a sip?”
Patti grinned and handed the bottle to him.
“How about we call this idea The Plowshare Initiative?” she asked.
Jean-Louis lowered the bottle from his mouth and gave it back.
“Bon,” he said. “I like it.”
“There will certainly have to be retooling plans before we can announce this,” Patti said.
“And many economic, medical, and educational aid plans to devise.”
Patti nodded to their paperwork. “A lot more scribbling to do.”
“Fortunately, we have the time. You have more than two years left on your first term and I have four on mine.”
“And we better get this one right if either of us wants to be reelected.”
Jean-
Louis nodded. Then he squeezed Patti’s hand and stood up. “We have made a good start. I thank you, Madam President, for the great opportunity of working with you.”
Patti said, “Could you give me just a moment more of your time, Jean-Louis?”
He took his seat again and waited to hear what his friend had to say.
“Jim and I would like to spend three days, possibly more, together in Paris, after our meetings here in England are over. We’d like to do it as quietly as possible. No formal state affairs. Just a married couple visiting a beautiful city. Passing through like phantoms, if possible.”
A bemused smile appeared on the French president’s face.
“Being phantoms is impossible, of course. Your Secret Service is too corporeal. But it is a beautiful idea, positively cinematic. And for a dear friend and an invaluable colleague, I will tell you this: I will do my best; France will do its best.”
The president of France kissed the hand of the president of the United States.
At that exact moment, the phone rang.
Jean-Louis looked up from Patti’s hand and asked, “Your parents or mine?”
She laughed, reclaimed her hand, and picked up the phone. “Yes?”
After listening for a moment, she said, “Oui. Il est ici. Un moment.” Turning to Jean-Louis, she offered him the phone. “For you. Your friend Pruet.”
Winfield House, London
33
Galia Mindel thanked the Marine who extended a hand to help her board the president’s helicopter, known as Marine One when the commander in chief was aboard. When the White House chief of staff was the sole passenger, it had a different call sign. Hardass One, Galia suspected. She had borrowed the aircraft to return to London to read the report Captain Welborn Yates had prepared for her on the life and times of the Queen’s private secretary, and was now returning to Chequers.
Sir Robert Reed, it turned out, was a Canadian. That had made Galia chuckle to herself. She wondered if Her Majesty had gotten any grief for outsourcing the job to a foreigner.
