by Joseph Flynn
Hearing that idea expressed aloud set McGill back in his seat.
“You think there’s a real chance of that?” he asked.
Galia gave him the numbers. “The GOP and True South hold fifty-four seats in the Senate; they need sixty-seven to convict. Persuading thirteen Democrats to vote with them might seem like a reach, but fourteen of them are up for reelection in 2016. Four of those fourteen looked like losers before the president was impeached. I expect them to defect shortly.”
McGill would have cursed if Sweetie wasn’t there.
Instead, his face grew red and he looked as if he might ask Galia for the names of the four would-be traitors. The better to rearrange their facial features sooner rather than later. But he took a deep breath and let his anger dissipate as he exhaled.
“Even if those four change sides, that means the other side would still have to get nine out of the ten Democrats up for reelection to get to the two-thirds majority,” McGill said.
Galia nodded. “The thing you have to remember is the president has been a Democrat for a very short time. She doesn’t have a lot of long-standing friendships in the party. She doesn’t have a history there to rely on. And as you no doubt know any politician’s first loyalty is to keeping his or her seat.”
McGill’s face went slack. “You truly think Patti might be convicted?”
“I think it’s within the realm of possibility … but I also think the other side might push for and be satisfied with a resignation.”
“Like Nixon,” McGill said.
“Yes.”
McGill asked Sweetie and Deke to step out. They left without objection.
“Galia, you don’t have to say a word. I’m just going to look you in the eye. I’m going to see whether you have a plan to prevent both a conviction by the Senate and any chance that Patti will be forced to resign.”
The chief of staff kept her face impassive, but her eyes burned fiercely.
Telling McGill: Damn right I do. Good thing you saved my keister.
McGill nodded, satisfied.
“One more thing, sir.”
“What’s that?” McGill asked.
“I have a case for you to work, in California.”
McGill’s Hideaway — The White House
“Looking on the bright side,” the president told her husband that evening, “you’ve been wanting to get out of Washington for some time now.”
McGill had just lit a fire in the last remaining wood-burning fireplace in the executive mansion. The night outside was as cold and dark as his mood. Satisfied that he’d done a good job getting the blaze alight, he turned to look at Patti. She sat on his long leather sofa and extended a glass of Italian brandy to him. Oak aged, very smooth and mellow. Had a soft, fruity aroma.
Even at this stage of McGill’s life in the White House, it was far from his usual drink.
But it didn’t seem like the time for a beer.
McGill accepted the glass and sat next to his wife, close enough that their shoulders, hips and legs touched. That was the kind of warmth McGill needed. After a sip, though, he had to admit the brandy wasn’t bad either.
“Are you talking about Galia sending me off to the West Coast or the prospect of the both of us finding new lodgings?”
Taking a moment to consider, Patti said, “Both, I suppose.”
McGill looked his wife in the eye. “You seem to be handling the adversity of the situation with uncommon grace. Even for you, I mean.”
Patti nodded. “I’m trying to come to terms with the situation. Looking at the worst that might happen.”
“Being removed from office.”
“That and, who knows, facing possible criminal prosecution, if I get booted out of here.”
McGill’s jaw dropped. That idea had never occurred to him. It had been Attorney General Michael Jaworsky’s opinion that there had been no way for the president or anyone else to have foreseen the tragic events that took place in Erna Godfrey’s prison cell and, therefore, there was no criminal liability. Jaworsky’s disinclination to prosecute had spurred the House to begin its impeachment proceedings.
So how could —
Patti told McGill how. “Erna Godfrey died on federal property, giving the federal government jurisdiction. There’s no federal statute of limitations on homicide. Even though Attorney General Jaworsky saw no criminal liability for me or anyone else, if the next president comes from one of the parties that want to remove me from office, the new attorney general might take a different view of things.”
The very idea left McGill speechless.
“Take a sip of brandy,” Patti told him. “It’s not likely that will happen, but I’d be foolish not to be ready for the possibility. You know, just in case.”
“Yeah,” McGill said. He knocked back the brandy like it was a shot of cheap booze.
The president forced a smile. “Maybe we could contact Tyler Busby’s travel agent.”
The billionaire fugitive, wanted in connection with the would-be attempt on the president’s life at Inspiration Hall, had been on the run for a year now, and all the police, military and espionage assets of the United States and its allies had yet to find him.
“It’d be just our luck that she’s retired,” McGill said, playing along.
He poured more brandy for Patti and himself, limited his consumption to a sip.
“There’s the man I love.”
“The one who’d best serve you by beating it out of town.”
“Well, Galia gave you a case to work, right?”
McGill nodded. “There’s a turn of events I never thought I’d see.”
“Why not? Galia can’t know someone in need of help?”
“Of course, she can. I just thought … well, we have made peace more than I ever thought we would, Galia and me.”
“I hear you’re getting on well with Celsus these days, too.”
Celsus Crogher was the former head of the presidential security detail, now retired from government service and doing well in the private sector providing executive security services.
“Far from bosom buddies,” McGill said, “but we share a measure of mutual respect.”
“No doubt owing to your personal charm and professionalism.”
“No need to butter me up,” McGill said. “I’ve already said yes to Galia.” He took another sip of brandy and studied his wife. “But you were sure I would, weren’t you?”
“To a near certainty, yes.”
McGill studied Patti Grant’s face, an exercise he never found tiring.
“There’s more to this case than Galia told me, isn’t there?” he asked.
“I certainly hope she gave you only the basics. Your discussions with the White House chief of staff aren’t privileged. Conversation with your dear wife, however, is legally protected.”
“Damn right. So what’s the nitty-gritty here?”
“You start. Tell me what Galia told you, and I’ll fill in the rest.”
“She said a person or persons unknown made off with the frozen future family of a friend when a fertility clinic in a high-end L.A. neighborhood was robbed. The friend, Mira Kersten, was a former protégé back when Galia managed campaigns for New York pols.”
“It’s Ms. Kersten’s fervent hope that the stolen embryos have been kept viable.”
“Understandable. Why’d she bank them? She was facing medical treatment that would result in infertility?”
“Not that I’ve heard, no. My understanding is she wanted to take advantage of youthful ova, ones more likely to produce healthy children, until she was … at a better time in her life to bring them to fruition.”
“You’re kidding,” McGill said.
Patti shook her head. “Such planning is far from uncommon these days, but Ms. Kersten was ahead of the curve by several years.”
That raised the obvious question for McGill. “Her husband, boyfriend or whoever was on board with that?”
Patti put her brandy glass d
own. “With your charming aversion to the nuts and bolts of Washington politics, you don’t know who Edmond Whelan is, do you?”
McGill shook his head.
“You do know the function of a legislative whip, though, right?”
“Sure, vote counting is something they teach in Chicago kindergartens. The whip is the guy who counts the votes for pending legislation and gets the troops to fall into line with the party boss’s desires. Threatens dire consequences when necessary.”
“Exactly. Only the fragmentation of the political right in Congress has made it hard to truly scare people, especially in the House. Committee assignments aren’t the plums they once were; ideological purity reigns. But if anybody can bring order to the mob —”
“Hold on a minute,” McGill said. “If this guy Whelan is a big elected poobah, even I should have heard of him.”
Patti smiled. “That’s the thing. He’s never been elected to any office. He’s the chief of staff for the House whip. They call him the echo of the whip because he supposedly mouths whatever his boss says. In reality, it’s the other way around. Whips come and go, but Ed Whelan stays in place. He’s a master strategist. The other guys just read the lines he writes for them.”
“Sonofabitch,” McGill said, “that’s some system we’ve got.”
“Yes, well, the Founders couldn’t think of everything. Or they had more moral fiber in their diet back in the 18th century. Anyway, can you now guess who was married to Mira Kersten?”
McGill knew how to respond to a spoon-fed line. “Whelan. He’s the dad. Half of the stolen genetic material is his. Does that mean he has equal legal rights to the stolen goods?”
The president sighed. “That would be subject to any legal agreement between the two parties, I think. But the kicker is Mira’s stored ova weren’t fertilized exclusively by Mr. Whelan. I think those of different paternity are the embryos she’d most like returned.”
McGill put his glass down now. He didn’t want any more alcohol fuzzing up his ruminations. Patti waited him out in silence.
“There’s still more to this, I think,” he finally said. “If Whelan is such a schemer for the other side, and he wants to ruin your life, well hell, maybe he stole the frozen goods out in California because … Mira Kersten has something he wants. Getting her embryos back is the quid pro quo.”
Patti Grant nodded. “Just what she suspects.”
“Could Whelan be the mastermind behind the effort to impeach and convict you?” McGill asked.
“Maybe not the mastermind, but he probably is at or near the top of the cabal.”
“And he’s hard at work right now,” McGill said.
Patti shook her head. “Actually, no. He’s taken a leave of absence. He hasn’t been seen in Washington for over a week.”
McGill said, “Maybe that’s putting a crimp into the opposition’s plans. In any case, finding out how the opposition plans to try their case in the Senate would be useful.”
“We can only hope.”
“And Mira Kersten doesn’t have whatever it is Ed Whelan wants from her?”
“According to Galia, no. And Galia’s very good at hearing words that don’t ring true.”
In the chief of staff’s job, she had to be, McGill knew.
“So the real job here for me is to find both the kids on ice and whatever it is Whelan wants.”
“Yes.”
“You could have just come to me, you know,” McGill said.
“Galia’s intercession is your cover.”
“Yeah, but you could have whispered the story into my ear.”
“I wasn’t sure I wanted you involved at all.”
A rueful grin crossed McGill’s face. “But then I threatened to beat up all of Congress, if necessary, and things changed.”
The president nodded. “Yes, I took that as a sign.”
Chapter 3
The Verizon Center — Washington, DC, Saturday, March 21, 2015
Jean Morrissey, the vice president of the United States, wore an ice hockey uniform from her alma mater, the University of Minnesota. She’d outbid everyone else for it in a silent auction. While the uniform was new, her skates were the ones she’d worn during her collegiate playing days. Some women concerned themselves with keeping the same dress size from their younger years; Jean contented herself that her skates still fit. Her dress size, no big deal to her, had actually gone down a notch.
She’d lined up a half-dozen pucks on the blue line, facing an open net. The Washington Capitals, the NHL team in town, had graciously agreed to let the vice president rent an hour of ice time whenever they were on the road. The blue line was 64 feet from the goal line; the puck centered in front of the goal net was the shortest and most direct shot. The others to the right and left were longer shots with more oblique angles.
Jean started her rush, skating full speed, out of the opposite end of the rink. In college she had played defense, but she’d patterned her game on that of Bobby Orr. He’d not only won eight straight Norris Trophies as the NHL’s best defenseman, he was also the only defensive player ever to win two scoring championships. He’d accomplished his all-around excellence with great skating speed and nearly magical stick-handling ability.
When she was an adolescent player, Jean had wanted to marry Bobby Orr. As she matured, she realized that was just a fantasy, but she always wore the same number he did — 4 — in his honor. Word of that had apparently gotten back to Orr. After a game against Wisconsin in which Jean had scored a hat trick — 3 goals — she’d gotten a note from Boston.
Jean, you’re too cool for school. — Bobby
The future vice president immediately had the message framed.
It hung on a wall of her office in the White House.
Zipping past the only other skater on the ice, Jean hit the puck on the right end of the blue line with a resounding slap shot. The black disc became a blur rocketing through the air. It hit the upper left inside corner of the net. Not pausing to admire the shot, she skated backward to the next puck, flicked a wrist shot just inside the right post of the net. Working her way down the line of pucks, she alternated slap shots and wrist shots. All of them found the back of the net.
Adding a twist, she took the last shot backhanded.
It, too, flew into the goal.
FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt glided up to Jean. Not possessed of an athletic uniform, he wore hockey skates, blue jeans and a sweatshirt with the Bureau’s logo and the legend: G-men never sleep. We keep the bad guys up all night.
He said, “I think you might have a gift for this ice hockey stuff, Ms. Vice President.”
“Yeah, well. It’s harder when there’s a goalie in front of the net and and a lot of other people flying around between you and her.”
“Your scoring record leads me to believe otherwise.”
DeWitt smoothly skated away, backward and smiling.
Jean laughed and followed him. “You move like a figure skater.”
“Should I get that other kind of skates?”
She closed the distance between them. “You do and it’s over between us.”
“Not before I get you on a board out on the Pacific.”
They’d come to an agreement sports-wise: The deputy director would learn to ice skate; the vice president would learn to surf.
“A deal’s a deal,” she agreed. Then she frowned. “Although I’ll probably get some grief from the Secret Service about that.”
“Really?” DeWitt asked.
“I’m not saying they can stop me. It’s just that …”
The deputy director understood the need for people is high government posts to keep their secrets, especially when you were just a heartbeat away from the Oval Office. He extended an arm to Jean Morrissey, saying, “If pairs skating won’t ruin your image.”
“There are agents watching us, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
The Secret Service people were in the stands, at every entrance t
o the seating bowl and surrounding the exterior of the building.
“Oh, what the hell,” Jean said. she took his arm.
Hanging on to her stick with the opposite hand.
They skated leisurely around the perimeter of the rink.
DeWitt said, “Not that you have to tell me, but is there any reason the security cocoon will get any more oppressive than it already is?”
She gave him a look. “The FBI hasn’t heard that the president’s been impeached?”
The rhetorical question brought DeWitt to an abrupt halt. “The president is going to resign?”
Having also stopped, Jean said, “What? No. Never, I hope.”
DeWitt heaved a sigh.
“Is that the sound of relief?”
“Yes, I voted for the president twice.”
They resumed skating. Their relationship had taken on more than a professional dimension after the vice president had asked the deputy director to be her escort at a state dinner. She’d filled in for an absent Patricia Grant and needed a date. DeWitt had obliged.
He’d been cleared for one of the highest jobs at the FBI, but the Secret Service examined his life all over again. Nothing personal. Just due diligence. That and the guys who labored for the Treasury Department — the Secret Service — didn’t entirely trust the people at the Justice Department — the FBI.
DeWitt had come out squeaky clean, but the process had turned up one thing Jean Morrissey hadn’t known. So she’d asked her date for the evening, “How do you get away with having a portrait of Chairman Mao on your office wall?”
“The Bureau is short of linguists. As to having Westerners with at least a partial grip on the culture over there, we are few and far between. Me and a few Mormons who studied for and got turned down on their request to do missionary work in China.”
Later in their burgeoning relationship, DeWitt had added, “I think the Bureau’s going to lose one of its China specialists.”
“Who?”
“Me. I’m burning out. When I wrap up the cases on my desk, I think I’m going home.”
