by Joseph Flynn
He never would have imagined she’d spent the entire time he’d been purging his office getting massaged, waxed, styled, and manicured at SomaFit in D.C. The spa, of course, requested its clients to turn off their phones.
Callie Bao hadn’t decided that Welborn Yates was the man for her — there really was no right man for her — but she thought it would be fun to make his head spin, take him away from his fiancée, and get as many rides in his fighter jet as she needed before growing weary of him.
How could her father ever have guessed that?
What had been easy for Horatio Bao to see, though, was that he had to get rid of Ricky Lanh Huu. Now, given the urgency of the situation, Bao realized he’d have to take care of his underling himself. He called Ricky’s cell number. Heard the first ring.
As long as he was going to bloody his hands on Ricky, Bao thought, he might as well do the same with Francis Nguyen and Bishop O’Menehy. The seal of the confessional, he realized now, was a second-best guarantee.
On the second ring, Ricky answered Bao’s call.
“What?” the young goon asked in a surly voice.
The lack of deference angered Bao, but he pushed his ire aside.
“I need to see you,” the lawyer said in a normal tone.
“Yeah?” Ricky said, his tone of insolence obvious, “Soon as I get myself a bicycle, I’ll be right over.”
He clicked off, leaving Bao to glare at the mute phone in his hand.
Magistrate Pruet’s office, Paris
41
McGill’s pack of attack dogs was all but ready to leave for the hunt when he took Gabbi aside and handed her a small black metal squeeze flask and a black elastic band with which to bind it to a leg, and told her what he wanted her to do as a last resort if things started to go badly for their side under the Pont d’Iéna that night. She gave McGill a long look, seeing now there was a much darker side to the man who made Rice Krispies Treats.
“You’re asking me to do just the first part, right?” she asked.
The president’s henchman nodded. “We don’t want it to come to this, but if necessary, I’ll finish it.”
“Pruet knows?” Gabbi asked.
“I got what I needed from him. He used to smoke a pipe.”
“All right,” Gabbi said. “Good thing I’m leaving State. This wouldn’t look good on my record.”
“Yeah,” McGill said. “You got the gypsies ready to go?”
“For two thousand euros, half up front.”
“Good. We want all the insurance we can get.”
They were about to head out the door when McGill’s ring tone sounded: “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” His cell phone along with everyone else’s mobile, save Pruet’s, was lying on the magistrate’s table. There were no pockets in the unitards they wore.
“Always something,” McGill said.
He told the others to go downstairs; he’d join them directly.
Picking up his phone, he saw that he also had a text message from Sweetie.
We go tonight. Ora pro nobis. Pray for us.
McGill answered the call. “Don’t have a lot of time here.”
He was thinking it might have been one of his children, hoping it wasn’t. He didn’t want to have one of them on his mind in the next few hours. Luck was with him. The caller was Celsus Crogher.
“This won’t take a lot of time,” Celsus said. “I’m only calling to confirm what Holly G told me about the security concessions she got you to make.”
McGill was surprised Celsus hadn’t taken the president at her word.
“Confirmed,” he said. “If you come back.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“Celsus, I really don’t have time now.” McGill had an idea. “Listen, where are you now?”
“D.C.”
“Good. I’ll tell you what. You promise to come back, I’ll see to it you get to put the cuffs on Deke Ky’s shooter.”
“Sonofabitch,” the former SAC said. “You can really do that?”
“Yes or no, Celsus?”
“Yes.”
McGill gave him Sweetie’s cell number and told him to call.
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Sonofabitch.”
“Goodbye, Celsus.”
McGill turned to leave, to catch up with the others, but—
Gabbi, Pruet, Odo, and Harbin were herded back into the magistrate’s office by a squadron of men dressed in black paramilitary uniforms, each holding an automatic weapon. They looked like French special ops soldiers or cops to McGill.
A man in civilian clothes moved to their front. His garb was a designer suit, but he had closely cropped hair and the look of a soldier, too. A senior officer.
He stared directly at McGill.
“M’sieur James J. McGill, I am Colonel Gaetan Millard of the Interior Ministry. Special Security Department. I have an order for your immediate deportation from France.”
Gabbi stepped forward and launched a torrent of French at Millard that made the rims of his small round ears turn red. The only words McGill caught were coup d’etat, but whatever else she was saying was definitely getting under the man’s skin and she showed no sign of letting up.
Out of the corner of an eye, McGill saw a grim smile appear on Odo’s face. He knew just what it meant. The Corsican was preparing to take a run at the guys with the guns. For that matter, so was Harbin. He couldn’t see Pruet, but it wouldn’t have surprised him if even the magistrate was ready to go out in a blaze of glory.
Millard was about to touch off the bloodbath when, having taken all the lip from Gabbi he intended to, he raised an open right hand to smack her. McGill moved in on the man before anyone could blink. He caught Millard’s wrist with one hand, levered the French officer’s elbow with the other hand, twisted hard, forced the colonel’s arm behind his back and held it there in an arm lock.
The sounds of safeties being clicked off a dozen automatic weapons filled the room.
McGill addressed Millard and his men, “If you’re all feeling suicidal, there’s nothing I can do about that, but I guarantee this: you and whoever sent you will suffer worse than we do.”
The president’s henchman wondered how many of the men pointing guns his way understood English. He was hoping someone, Millard maybe, would translate for him. But then a phone sounded.
The ring tone was La Marseillaise.
Arlington, VA
42
Nobody had ever given Ricky the address of Callie Bao’s apartment. As far as he was supposed to know, she lived with daddy, and that fact alone was thought sufficient to keep the likes of him away — and for a long time it did. Then Ricky got to thinking: A hot chick like Callie had to be getting some action somewhere and he didn’t see her taking boyfriends home to Horatio Bao. So being very careful, and glad for once that he had a piece of shit economy sedan that was invisible in traffic, he began to follow Callie around after work.
One Friday night, she led him to a yuppie condo complex. Red brick, four stories high, manicured lawns and mature trees and plantings. Good lighting on the perimeter, the interior walkways, and the underground parking. Security cameras everywhere. He wasn’t going to sneak into that place, but with the leverage he had on daddy, he didn’t need to. He’d press her directory number on the visitor’s phone, tell her what was what, and she’d buzz him in.
That thought pleased Ricky. Being let in just like invited company.
He couldn’t have felt any better if—
Damn! There was his car, parked right out front at the curb. Looked like his car anyway. So many of the damn things on the road, he couldn’t tell for sure. Maybe if he could ever keep the number on his damn license plate straight he’d know, but reading always gave him a headache. Didn’t matter, though, he had the feeling it was his ride. How many times had his hunches ever been wrong? A few times maybe, but not many.
Ricky looked around. A car was coming out of another resident
ial complex across the street. A couple of white yups in a BMW. They didn’t give him a second look as they drove off. Now he had the street to himself. He crept up to the car and confirmed it was his. The windows were cracked an inch; he could smell the interior. Smell himself in there. He took another look around. Nobody close. Nobody even looking out a window.
Could Calli Bao have hired someone to swipe his car, he wondered. What would be the point? Why would she leave it parked in front of her place? A sign she wanted him to come by? Like she knew all along he’d been following her and it turned her on? No, that was bullshit. He wasn’t the kind of fool who believed in shit like that. If Callie Bao knew he’d been tailing her and wanted to lure him someplace, it would be because she’d have people waiting to give him a beating.
If he wanted anything from that girl, he’d have to make her give it to him.
Ricky looked at the car’s door locks. They were all up. From the curb side, he could see the keys were in the ignition. Whole thing felt like a trap to him. Maybe he opened a door, the damn car blew up. Best thing to do was just walk away.
It was the walking part of that idea that was hardest to take.
His feet were killing him.
Then there were things he’d like to get out of the car, too. Five thousand in cash tucked up under the dashboard. The list of Bao’s HBA clients and the amounts of monthly tribute they paid. Pictures of Callie Bao, too. Getting into and out of her car. Always nice views of her legs. Sometimes more than that when her skirts were short enough. Shots of where she lived, right up on the top floor there at the corner of the building.
Ricky had wanted to see what the inside of the place looked like ever since he first followed her there. Fuck it. He was done walking. Far as he knew, neither of the Baos had ever hired anyone who did explosives. It was his damn car, legal title and all. He wasn’t ever going to walk one step more than he had to again.
He scrambled around to the driver’s side and popped the door open, closing his eyes just for a second. When he didn’t get his ass blown away, he slid inside. Oh man … his piece of crap car never felt so good. His feet tingled with relief. He reached under the dash and — yes! — his money was right where he’d left it. He opened the glove box, got Bao’s client list, and the pictures of Callie — quickly counted — were all there.
Still, he didn’t believe for a minute that his car had been stolen for a joy ride and just coincidentally left outside Callie Bao’s love nest. But he didn’t see any danger in reclaiming the use of his car. Not unless a bomb was wired to the ignition. With a respectable ride, he could have used a remote control to turn on the engine, but, no, not…
Ricky thought he better stop having bad thoughts about his car. That might be what had jinxed him. He reached out for the key, closed his eyes once more, and started the car. No big bad bang. If anything the engine seemed quieter than before, almost purred. He gave the steering wheel an affectionate pat. Maybe the car deserved to be washed and waxed. Get a cool new paint job even.
He thought his own needs could use some tending, too. Now, that he was finally off his feet, his stomach was demanding attention. Hell, he was fucking starving. He knew just the place, too. Good cooking, quick service, quiet. He could eat and figure out what was going on and get back to Callie Bao. Her stash of cash had to be a lot bigger than his.
Ricky pulled out, headed for Krung Thep on the Columbia Pike.
Krung Thep restaurant, Arlington, VA
43
Except at public dinners where the faithful were gathered for fundraising purposes, Bishop George O’Menehy no longer said grace before taking his meals. Well, maybe sometimes, silently, if he’d had a particularly good day. Mostly, his prayers of late involved themes of forgiveness and redemption. Giving thanks had fallen to a seldom visited third place.
When he saw Francis Nguyen fold his hands and lower his head. after the waitress had brought appetizers to their table, however, he did likewise. Even so, he kept his eyes open and looked around. The dining space was a simple rectangle with large windows that looked out on the strip mall’s parking area. Only half of the eighteen tables were occupied, Asian diners slightly outnumbering their Western counterparts. Nobody that he could see seemed to be paying any particular attention to the two men in casual attire about to say grace over their meal.
Father Nguyen said, “Lord, we give thanks for this food that will help sustain us, but more than that we rely on thy grace and mercy. May we never lack for the strength to do thy will.”
“Amen,” the bishop said. He’d never heard that iteration of grace before, doubted it had been written by any official Church body, but he found the humble words comforting.
Both men made the sign of the cross and began to eat.
After a moment, O’Menehy looked up and said, “We’re destined to go our separate ways, aren’t we, Francis?”
The younger cleric nodded. He hesitated, then said, “I’ve been asked to help form a new parish.”
O’Menehy sat back stunned, fork dangling from his hand.
“A new parish? In which diocese?”
At the invitation of which cardinal, he left unsaid. Was the hierarchy at some level far above his own taking his troublesome priest away from him? Why hadn’t he been informed?
“No diocese,” Father Nguyen said.
The bishop was even more shocked now.
“Outside the Church?”
“Yes.”
“A Protestant parish then?”
“No.”
Father Nguyen’s answer left O’Menehy confounded. Outside of Catholicism or its Protestant counterparts, what else was there for a Christian? There were the Orthodox churches, of course, but the bishop didn’t see Francis Nguyen in an Eastern Rite church.
“Francis, I’m at a loss here. Please help me.”
“In Massachusetts, the local diocese closed a parish, after the parishioners raised the money to construct a beautiful new church. That left a great many people very angry, especially as the diocese wanted to sell the new building and the several acres of scenic land on which it sits to help pay … to help pay damages awarded by a court in a matter of child abuse.”
O’Menehy dropped his fork on his plate, his appetite gone now. He would have left the restaurant at that moment, if he hadn’t had to remain and play his part in the drama Sweetie had contrived for him and Francis Nguyen.
“The parishioners sued the diocese,” Father Nguyen said. “They claimed they had been defrauded, allowed to pay for the new building so the diocese could get a better price from an Evangelical group that made an offer on the property. The parishioners said they would better any other offer for the new building and the land, but their suit claimed they shouldn’t have to pay twice for the property. I imagine you would have heard of all this, if you hadn’t been preoccupied with your own problems.”
His problems. Recalling them made the bishop shake his head.
“The court has ruled for the parishioners?” the bishop asked.
“The judge required an additional payment of one dollar, but yes.”
“And now these angry people want you to be their priest?”
“Their pastor.”
The conversation was brought to a momentary halt as their dinners arrived.
As the meal was being served, Welborn Yates and Callie Bao arrived. A striking couple combining the good looks of both East and West, they drew far more notice than the two men who had quietly prayed over their food. They were seated at an oblique angle to the clerics, at a distance of no more than twenty feet.
Callie paid direct attention to her date. But the presence and the identities of the bishop and the priest sitting nearby had not escaped her. She was unable to focus on Welborn’s conversation and also hear the specific words Bishop O’Menehy and Father Nguyen were speaking.
But she had no trouble discerning the intensity of the two men’s dialogue.
Sweetie had told the clerics to put on a good show f
or Callie Bao.
Without giving her a moment’s thought, they were succeeding brilliantly.
Magistrate Pruet’s office, Paris
44
Colonel Millard used the distraction of the phone playing the French national anthem to try to wrest himself free from McGill’s armlock. McGill not only resisted the effort, he tightened his hold on Millard’s arm. The conflicting pressures resulted in the colonel suffering an acromioclavicular dislocation—aka a shoulder separation. It was a good one, too. The pop of Millard’s arm coming out its joint was louder than some small caliber gunshots McGill had heard.
The resulting pain made the Frenchman’s knees wobble. McGill was not about to let his human shield drop and leave himself exposed to a squad of guys with machine guns. Guys who had to be losing their patience with him. McGill clamped his free arm around Millard’s upper chest, trying hard not to look like he was choking the colonel. If the guys with the guns thought he was doing that, there’d be no reason for them not to try a fancy shot to take him out.
Before any of the soldiers could misinterpret McGill’s restraint of their CO, a new voice was heard from, speaking French in a commanding tone. It boomed from Pruet’s mobile phone.
“Chacun, reste absolutment immobile.”
Gabbi quietly translated for McGill: “Freeze.”
He gave her a puzzled look: All that for freeze?
She responded: “Everyone stay absolutely still.”
He nodded, pleased to see that the opposition was following orders.
“C’est le Président Severin.” This is President Severin.
McGill was far enough along in his French to understand that. He wondered how … Patti was looking out for him, that’s how. She’d foreseen a problem he’d overlooked, and of course she had friends in a high place who could sort things out fast.
The French president continued, “Pruet, expliquez-moi la situation. En Anglais. Am I making a fool of myself here? Are you and M’sieur McGill sitting in your office sipping cognac?”
