Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion

by Joseph Flynn

  Sir Robert almost smiled.

  He said, “He won’t be able to speak publicly for months.”

  “I’m sure there are those who will step forward in his place.”

  Hesitating as he raised his cup, Sir Robert agreed, “Yes, that will doubtless be one of his foremost concerns. The United States may, in fact, have effected a change of government in the United Kingdom.”

  “Karma,” Galia said, “after the prime minister tried to intrude on our election. But you do think the special relationship between our countries will survive.”

  “I daresay it will.”

  “Is there anything else I might help you with this morning, Sir Robert?”

  The knight put his cup and saucer down and picked up his attaché case. He opened it and withdrew a sealed manila envelope. He handed it to Galia.

  She saw that it was addressed to Captain Welborn Yates.

  Sir Robert said, “Her Majesty, with regrets, must decline the invitation to attend the marriage of Captain Yates and Ms. Kira Fahey. She expresses her hope that the happy couple will understand. A gift will be delivered at the appropriate time.”

  “I’m sure they’ll understand. I’ll see that Her Majesty’s message reaches them.”

  A twinkle appeared in Sir Robert’s blue eyes.

  “Have you found me out yet, Galia?”

  She didn’t even pretend that she hadn’t had him investigated back to the day he was born.

  “You cover yourself very well, Sir Robert, but, yes, I know you’re Captain Yates’ father.”

  “A very proud father. The young man has done quite well for himself. I do admit I aged an extra ten years when I learned of his accident. It was quite the task not to rush to his bedside.”

  Galia nodded. She understood why he’d been unable to go.

  “You couldn’t embarrass Her Majesty. Making public your affair with Captain Yates’ mother.”

  “Yes, exactly.” He paused for a moment’s reflection. “I don’t think I’ll be giving away anything to say that my place in the firmament will be changing shortly.”

  “The president and I have guessed that things are in flux.”

  “Speaking only for myself, I’ll be at something of loose ends. For the first time in my adult life, I’m a bit unsure of where I belong. I have to say, without any deprecation to you, that was why I behaved impulsively when I brought you home after dining with you.”

  “That was why you kissed me,” Galia said.

  Sir Robert nodded.

  “It was quite a kiss anyway,” she told him.

  He smiled. “For me as well, and motivated as every kiss should be, by an irresistible impulse to be close to someone you find compellingly attractive.”

  Galia felt the sudden need to blink rapidly.

  “Thank you,” she said through a constricted throat.

  “When she left England, Marian—Welborn’s mother—told me to forget about her, get on with my life, find someone proper to marry. I was never able to do that. Never gave it any serious consideration. But the night I dined with you, that was the first time I was tempted.”

  “Then you thought about it,” Galia said, “and you decided you wanted to attend your son’s wedding with his mother on your arm.”

  Sir Robert nodded. He gestured to the envelope Galia held.

  “There’s something in there from me as well. Something to help Welborn with a case he’s working on. I worked through the night to get the information.”

  The knight smiled when he saw Galia grow tense.

  “Please, Galia, don’t worry that I’ve planted a mole in one of your intelligence agencies. The lad talks to his mother; his mother speaks to me. A person of interest to him travels here to London and to Hong Kong on a regular basis. I’ve documented that person’s activities for him.”

  The tension drained from Galia.

  “I really wouldn’t put you in a bad spot with the president,” Sir Robert said.

  “She isn’t the one who worries me.”

  “Then who? Oh, yes, of course. Mr. James J. McGill.”

  The Hideaway, Paris

  3

  There was a big Irish-looking guy, wavy black hair, blue eyes, and pink cheeks, standing inside the front door of the pub when McGill and Gabbi came downstairs that morning. Neither of them had ever seen him before.

  “And you are?” McGill asked.

  He moved slightly to the man’s left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabbi flank the man to his right.

  “I might ask the same of you, only I was told not to.”

  “Your name,” McGill repeated. He didn’t reach for his gun, but he was already planning attacks and defenses. He sensed Gabbi was, too, and made allowances to coordinate with what he thought she likely might do.

  The guy saw what they were doing. He held up his hands. Which might be a gesture of placation. Or it might be the first move of his counterattack.

  “Me name’s Ronan Walsh,” he said.

  “Where’s Harbin?” McGill asked.

  “Takin’ a kip in the back room.”

  Reasonable if he’d been up all night. Perfectly acceptable—if they’d known the guy.

  “You use escrima sticks, too?” McGill asked.

  “I’m not particular. Anything that comes to hand, or me hands alone.”

  McGill nodded. A kindred spirit. But still an unknown quantity.

  “Harbin called me,” Walsh said. “Asked me to stand in while he rested a bit.”

  “Did he warn you a big, ugly sack of shit might come calling? McGill asked.

  “He did.”

  “And you’re ready for that?”

  “I am.” But he didn’t have Harbin’s shotgun.

  At first glance, McGill couldn’t see that Walsh was carrying any kind of weapon, but blades were easy to conceal. As were piano wire, caustic crystals … and pins? The guy wore a button on his blue nylon jacket with an image on it of the Irish rocker Bono flashing the peace sign. The pin holding the button in place had to be two inches long. Dip that in something toxic, stick it in somewhere soft and…

  McGill said, “You like U2?”

  Walsh knew what he was being asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” he replied. “They’re deadly.”

  “Let’s take a walk to the back room,” McGill said.

  “I was told not to leave the door. Not even to empty meself.”

  “Every plan calls for adjustments,” McGill said.

  That was the decisive moment. Conflict or cooperation was about to ensue. Without seeing it clearly, McGill had the impression Gabbi had taken a half-step back and had gone up on her toes. He stayed right where he was.

  “And what if the big divil in need of a bath comes callin’?” Walsh asked.

  “I’ll shoot him,” McGill said. His tone left no doubt he was telling the truth.

  Gave Walsh a clear idea what might happen to him as well.

  “Would ye like me to lead the way?” he asked.

  “That would be best for everyone,” McGill told him.

  Walsh shrugged and moved forward, slowly, as McGill and Gabbi stepped back to give him room, but not too much. He knocked on the door to the room where he’d said Harbin slept and opened it a crack.

  “Hey, Harbin, ye didn’t tell me there’d be a bloke an’ a bird threatenin’ to muss me hair.”

  Harbin’s groggy voice responded, “Merde.”

  McGill told Walsh, “Step away from the door.”

  He had his gun on the man now. The two men gave Gabbi room to step forward. She looked into the room and saw Harbin stretched out on a cot, a blanket draped over him.

  “Comment allez vous?” she asked.

  How are you? McGill knew that one.

  “Trop fatigué pour ètre utile à vous, ma chere.” Too tired to be of use to you, my dear.

  McGill didn’t catch that, but he was reassured when Gabbi smiled and closed the door. He put his gun away. He saw Gabbi remained alert in cas
e Walsh had taken offense.

  “Sorry,” McGill told the man, “but you can’t be too careful.”

  “Not a problem. You can buy me a pint somewhere down the road.”

  He smiled at Gabbi, telling her she could relax. But she didn’t, not entirely.

  “Tell Harbin to give me a call when he wakes up, will you?” McGill said.

  Gabbi gave him the number for her mobile. Walsh opened the door for them and locked it behind them. He was back on the job.

  They got in Gabbi’s Peugeot and drove off, heading to Pruet’s office.

  “Harbin never mentioned that guy to you before?” McGill asked.

  “No.”

  Gabbi stopped for a red light, and McGill looked at her.

  “What’s your training in self-defense?” he asked.

  “Aikido and Krav Maga.” The latter being the Israeli end-a-fight-fast discipline. Before McGill could ask if Gabbi was any good, she told him, “I watched the way you put Glen Kinnard down. I would’ve done it pretty much the same way.”

  The light turned green and Gabbi put her eyes on the road and her foot on the gas.

  McGill asked, “You ever do any work with escrima sticks?”

  “I’ve worked out with Harbin a bit,” she said.

  Sounded like an understatement to McGill.

  “That’s good,” he said.

  Gabbi’s skills fit in with his plans. He felt better about asking her to join him, Odo and Harbin. Made him think, too, if he approved of Gabbi knowing how to defend herself, and to take part in an assault on a giant, he really shouldn’t be so reluctant to teach his own girls Dark Alley.

  Magistrate Pruet’s office

  4

  It looked to McGill and Gabbi as if the magistrate were putting up a jigsaw puzzle on the wall. That or doing the installation of a mosaic, Odo handing him one piece at a time which he affixed to the wall with some adhesive goo that had been given the scent of lemons. The impression McGill got was that a young Pete Townshend had wound up and smashed a delicate guitar into a million pieces. From which Pruet was trying hard to restore some sense of order.

  Only this instrument was never going to be whole again.

  Pruet turned to his guests and told them, “If the government objects or assigns me to a new space, I will have this section of wall removed and take it with me.”

  “Maybe donate it to a museum after you die,” McGill suggested.

  The magistrate’s face, which had been dour, brightened.

  “The thought had never occurred to me, but I know just the curator. Merci.”

  He gestured to his visitors to sit. He took the seat behind his table.

  Odo remained standing.

  “The Undertaker?” Gabbi asked, gesturing to the vandalized guitar.

  “Ma femme,” Pruet said.

  “Your wife?” McGill asked, not sure he had it right.

  But glad he’d never made Patti or Carolyn that angry. Patti, especially.

  “Soon to be ex-wife, on very favorable terms,” the magistrate said. Looking at Gabbi, he added, “But you are right; The Undertaker did visit my apartment last night. Fortunately, he had departed before I arrived.”

  Pruet told them of finding the monster’s reek throughout his home, and his wife in the safe room. He did not detail his discussion with Nicolette and neither McGill nor Gabbi was gauche enough to ask for specifics.

  “You summoned M’sieur Sacripant, of course,” Gabbi said.

  The magistrate shook his head. “I had given Odo the night off. After I put Nicolette in a taxi to the Ritz, I returned to my apartment and threw open every window. I turned on every light and collected every piece of my guitar I could find.”

  McGill saw that Odo was now the one shaking his head.

  But the president’s henchman understood Pruet.

  “You had a gun,” he said. “You hoped someone would come to your door and give you the excuse to shoot him.”

  “A number of candidates came to mind,” Pruet admitted.

  Wondering if he’d been one of them, McGill asked, “You still want me to go?”

  “I have reconsidered,” the magistrate said. “Examining the failure of my marriage, I came to have a sense of the success of yours. For your wife, the most powerful woman in the world, to accede to your choice of occupations, there must be an intuitive bond between you. She must know the risk inherent in what you do, as you must realize the danger of her position. I do not think she would hold anyone else responsible should…”

  Pruet did not finish the thought, only shrugged.

  But McGill gave it voice. “Should I get it in the head.”

  “As you say.”

  McGill turned to Gabbi. “Will you and Odo please give me a moment alone with the magistrate?”

  Gabbi got to her feet and looked at Odo, who, after receiving a nod from Pruet, accompanied her from the room.

  “My sympathy on the guitar,” McGill said. “It’s clear how much it means to you.”

  “You play?” Pruet asked.

  “I sing.” Off the magistrate’s look of surprise, he explained, “My mother is a voice teacher.”

  Pruet smiled. “You are not at all what I expected.”

  “It’s useful to have people underestimate you, but you know that, don’t you? When you looked at the file on Diana Martel you saw something that bothered you. Something more than just having an oversized thug in the picture. I didn’t call you on it at the time, but I bet you saw … well, someone politically big. Someone who could tell The Undertaker where you live. And give him reason to think a street criminal like him could get away with going after a magistrate.”

  Pruet steepled his hands and stared at McGill.

  “My guess,” the president’s henchman said, “you’re looking at another scandal. Maybe not exactly an interior minister stealing government money, but something of that scale. Another guess is it could clear Glen Kinnard, if you could ever make it public”

  “M’sieur Kinnard was moved once again this morning, to better quarters, with more freedom of movement, and the satellite television system he requested.”

  McGill took a moment to ponder that.

  He said, “Creature comforts are fine, but until you put him on a plane to the United States, don’t reduce the number of cops guarding him.”

  “No?”

  “No. He’s the kind of guy who could get himself into more trouble.”

  Pruet picked up his phone and made a call, his French far beyond McGill.

  “Is there anything else you wish to tell me, m’sieur?”

  The president’s henchman looked at his watch. “Diana Martel should be delivered out front within the next fifteen minutes.”

  Pruet chuckled. “You are a marvel.”

  “That’s just the half of it. I’ve got an idea how to bag The Undertaker, too. That’ll help with whatever your big problem is, won’t it?”

  Pruet stood without saying a word. He went to his filing cabinet and from the top drawer took a bottle of cognac and two snifters. He poured for both of them and handed a glass to McGill.

  “Vive l’Amérique,” he toasted. Long live America.

  McGill didn’t like cognac, but to refuse the drink would have been unfriendly.

  Unpatriotic, too. He stood and took his cognac like a man.

  Quai d’Orsay, Paris

  5

  “That crafty old bird,” McGill said with a smile.

  By the time he, Gabbi, Pruet and Odo had stepped out the front door of the magistrate’s office building, there was a UPS truck parked at the curb. There was no driver anywhere to be seen, but the kid who had tried to sell him the gold ring was nervously shuffling back and forth in front of the truck. When he saw McGill he did a double-take at his new look, realized McGill was still the man he wanted, and hurried his way.

  Then, as if remembering a critical step in a hastily memorized script, he stopped abruptly and bent over as if to pick up something from the
sidewalk. Eyes wide now, he held up a key.

  “Look what I have found, m’sieur,” the kid exclaimed. “Who knows what it might unlock? A vault of treasure perhaps.”

  McGill plucked the key from the kid’s hand.

  “That was the case,” he said, “you’d have to sell me a treasure map, too. So I could know where the vault was.”

  The kid couldn’t keep a grin off his face; he’d have to remember that one.

  “Lucky for us,” McGill told him, “this key is stamped UPS. Think that could be a coincidence?”

  The kid shrugged. “You could look. Perhaps someone has sent you a package.”

  Odo started to close in, but McGill shook his head. That slowed the Corsican down. Another shake of the head from Pruet brought him to a stop.

  McGill said, “Let’s hope the package hasn’t been damaged.”

  The kid almost said something but bit his tongue.

  McGill walked over to the back of the truck. The kid followed, not wanting to be far from the cash he expected to come his way. The president’s henchman looked at the boy, decided it was safe to proceed, put the key in the lock and turned it. Opened the back of the truck.

  As he’d predicted, the hostage was unconscious, bound hand and foot with duct tape, but alive, breathing easily, and showing no signs of abuse.

  “Oh, look, sir,” the kid said. “The lady even has her purse with her.”

  There was not a centime to be found in that purse but there was a photo ID card, conveniently showing that the unconscious woman was indeed Diana Martel.

  McGill took six hundred euros out of his pocket and handed the money to the kid.

  “The deal,” he told him, “is half for you, half for grandma.”

  The boy smiled. “She is giving me four hundred.”

  “How come?”

  “She said you were the first gadjo ever to make her laugh, asking if she gave discounts.”

  Gabbi stepped forward.

  “You better go,” she told the kid. “Your girlfriend’s getting nervous.”

  Gabbi nodded to the corner of the block where a young girl stood watching, ready to run at the slightest provocation.

  The kid stuck the money in his hip pocket and struck a proud pose.