by Joseph Flynn
Coleman said, “It might be helpful in getting the Democratic votes we need to convict, if Renshaw doesn’t change her original story.”
Rangel sighed. “Gentlemen, the lesson of this exercise is that impeachment really should be left for serious offenses that are plain to everyone. The least taint of political punishment makes the process counterproductive. What the two of you and Majority Leader Worth want right now is to have the briefest trial and the swiftest vote possible. Let each side vote its interests. The required two-thirds majority necessary for conviction will not be reached. Please believe me that Galia Mindel is saving her biggest guns against wavering Democrats until the last moment. Then she’ll make plain that ending Patti Grant’s career will also be committing political suicide, and tell me, please, how often does that happen?”
“So we just eat a big plate of humble pie and like it, is that what you’re saying?” Profitt asked. “We live through one last year with Patricia Grant as president?”
“Mr. Speaker, with whom would you prefer to deal? A wounded, dishonored Patricia Grant who has no choice but to leave the White House at the end of her term or a fire-breathing Jean Morrissey with two possible terms in office ahead of her and an enraged Democratic Party that will vow to stop at nothing to defeat our nominee next year?”
The speaker sighed and conceded, “You’re right, T.W.”
“It’s still a damn bitter pill to swallow,” Coleman said.
Rangel offered them a measure of consolation. “Here’s what you do leading up to the presidential election next year: You do everything possible to bring Galia Mindel down. If you can do that, you’ll really scare the Democrats. Succeed at that and their top political people will be afraid to sign on with Vice President Morrissey. They’ll think if you can get Galia, you can get them, too.”
“I like it,” the speaker said. “If we can get Galia Mindel, that’ll take a lot of the gloss off Patti Grant’s record, too.”
“Yes, it will. I think there’s one more thing you should work on: Put Chief justice MacLaren under the microscope. See if you can find the least indiscretion. Something we might be able to embroider upon. Having the top seat on the Supreme Court come open would be as nice a gift as a new president from our side could want.”
Washington, DC
John Tall Wolf’s VIP treatment continued when he arrived at Reagan National Airport in DC. James J. McGill’s own car and driver, Leo Levy, were waiting to take him to the White House. Also present was Colonel Welborn Yates, USAF. He told Tall Wolf he was from that armed service’s Office of Special Investigations but he was detailed to attend to the president’s personal needs and worked at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Hearing all that, Tall Wolf gave a soft whistle and asked, “How’d you gentlemen know where to find me?”
Welborn said, “We spoke to your Co-director at the BIA’s Office of Justice Services.”
“Marlene Flower Moon,” Tall Wolf responded.
“Yes. She said to look for you at the best hotel in town, wherever you were working or, if you were traveling, in an executive aircraft. The word she gave us was you’re an exceptional investigator but you do enjoy your creature comforts.”
Coyote knew him all too well, Tall Wolf thought.
“We called the hotel where you were staying with Mr. McGill,” Welborn continued. “When they told us you had checked out, we checked both commercial and general aviation flights leaving Los Angeles.”
Tall Wolf nodded. “Sounds like you’re a fair hand at investigations yourself, Colonel.”
“Thank you. I’ve had the advantage of top flight training, both institutional and informal.”
The BIA man read between the lines. Colonel Yates had been tutored by McGill.
They reached a gleaming, armored Chevrolet sedan waiting at the curb outside the terminal. A pair of airport cops stood watch over the vehicle to make sure it wasn’t towed or stolen. Leo Levy shook hands with the cops and thanked them for their help.
Then the three men were on their way.
“Why are we going to the White House?” Tall Wolf asked.
“The president would like a word with you. Mr. McGill would also like to see you.”
Tall Wolf raised his eyebrows.
“The president?” His tone implicitly asked what that was all about.
“I’m sure she’ll tell you” Welborn said. “Meanwhile, I’ve been asked to brief you about Eugene Beck.”
“Who’s he?” Tall Wolf asked.
Leo piped up. “That fella we were all looking for out in L.A.”
“The embryo thief?”
“Yes,” Welborn said. “I’ve heard he’s told Mr. McGill’s client where she can find her personal property.”
Tall Wolf said, “Up to a point. I spoke with Ms. Kersten this morning. She shed some light upon the case, including the fact that one embryo is still missing. She asked me to keep looking for it. I explained that I don’t take private clients, but I also don’t like to leave a job unfinished. I’m not going to be told to back off, am I?”
“I don’t think so.” Welborn frowned. “I don’t see why the thief would hold back on just one embryo. Is it to hold as a bargaining chip if he’s caught?”
Tall Wolf said, “When he’s caught, if I’m allowed to continue the investigation.”
Leo laughed. “You always get your man, partner?”
“So far. Mostly through dogged determination.”
Welborn said, “Leo and I have read your file, Mr. Co-director. You’ve got more going for you than just persistence.”
“Well, I made good grades in school, and I’ve had some fine training, too.”
“Okay,” Welborn said, “if you’re intent on nailing him, you should know Beck is one dangerous character. He came within a whisker of making Air Force special ops. He drew a paycheck from a private defense contractor after he washed out. I can’t tell you what he did in that capacity, but I will say it was very dangerous work and he always succeeded, too.”
Tall Wolf said, “I’ll take that to mean he’s faced combat or its equivalent, and since he’s still alive and thieving other people likely aren’t.”
“As I said, I can’t speak to that directly, but what I’ve read says Beck likes to whistle a merry tune as he goes about his work.”
“That might mean all sorts of things,” Tall Wolf said.
“None of them especially good,” Leo added.
He pulled up at the Southwest Gate of the White House grounds and talked to the uniformed Secret Service officers. Assured them the big fellow in the back seat was one of the good guys.
Tall Wolf turned to Welborn and told him. “It’s mostly about the leg room.”
“What is?”
“The private planes and luxury hotels. The other amenities are great. But the leg room is a necessity.”
Welborn nodded at the White House as they cleared the checkpoint.
“There’s plenty of that in there.”
Montevideo, Uruguay
Lieutenant Silvina Reyes and Captain Antonio Calvo peered at their respective iPads in the captain’s office. They were reading about the life and times of the fugitive billionaire, Tyler Busby. They’d heard the story, of course, about the planned assassination of the American president. But that was two years ago, and it had happened far away in the giant country north of the equator. So much news was always gushing out of los estados unidos that they had forgotten Busby’s name, if they’d taken notice of it in the first place.
Silvina read English much faster than the captain, so she’d moved on from the press accounts about Busby’s doings to a gallery of Google images of the man. It was surprising to her how consistent the man’s appearance remained throughout the years. Oh, he’d aged, certainly, but not nearly so fast as most other people. For a man in his 70s, he still look looked fit and full of energy. Well supplied with ego, too, she thought.
His hair remained full and only slightly streaked with strands of si
lver. His jawline was firm and his body was lean. His eyes were his best feature, clear and piercing blue, looking like they’d seen wonders and knew secrets others could not even imagine. Throw in his endless access to money, Silvina thought, and there would be women of all ages willing to please him.
The captain looked up from his reading. “The government in Washington wants this man very badly. They would be very pleased with little Uruguay if we handed him to them.”
“You and I might reap a reward as well. Not money perhaps, but advancement. The regard of our superiors and the pride of our fellow citizens. But there is one problem, maybe two.
Captain Calvo sighed. “There are always problems. Tell me the ones you see.”
“Well, we don’t know for sure our informant is reliable. He might simply have made a mistake.”
“Or he is right,” Calvo said, “and Señor Busby is in Uruguay because he made powerful friends in our country before he arrived.”
“Exactamente.”
Uruguay’s government had a reputation for probity, but people were people, and even the best of them could fall prey to stunning lapses of judgment. The two cops knew they’d have to be careful. They didn’t want to see a potential triumph turn into a professional disaster.
Nevertheless, the captain said, “This is worth the risk, something that should be pursued. I’m going to have our people watch this fellow.”
“Dressed as those who might be serving the wealthy.”
Calvo rolled his eyes. “Who was it that made you a nanny?”
Silvina gave her superior a friendly salute.
“You, mi capitán.” She added, “We should alert all our customs people that this gentleman might decide to leave the country at any moment. Busby hasn’t remained free by being careless. Even if he has powerful friends, he may already have an uneasy feeling that the policia are taking an interest in him.”
Calvo smiled. “If he is the man in Punta del Este, he just might. I’ll alert customs.”
“Tell them we especially need our female officers to be on alert.”
“Why women?”
“Busby may have changed many things about his appearance, but I think his eyes will be the same. I think he is too vain to change their color with contact lenses. A woman would notice his beautiful blue eyes more readily than a man would. Tell them to look at the eyes.”
Calvo remembered his premonition that he’d be working for Silvina Reyes one day.
“Sí,” he said.
He made the call to customs and had no sooner put the phone down than it rang again.
The captain listened to the caller and said, “Bueno, bring him in. Yes, to me directly.”
He looked at his future boss and said, “The American you said who was pretending to be a Canadian?”
“Yes?”
“The one who said he was hiding from his brother?”
“Yes, I know who you mean.”
“He was trying to escape. He was just picked up trying to board the ferry to Buenos Aires. He has been placed in custody and will be brought to us here directly.”
Lieutenant Silvina Reyes got to her feet and executed a proper salute.
“Bravo, Capitán Calvo.”
He’d been the one to say if the tip Silvina had received was legitimate the fellow who had provided it, this Mallory hombre, would try to make himself scarce. Someone who could afford to live in Punta del Este wouldn’t be motivated by money. His self-interest was likely rooted elsewhere.
Perhaps Mallory’s thinking might be if a big fish got caught, pursuing the little fish would be less compelling. Only Captain Calvo was not the sort to ignore minnows. They, too, could be tasty.
The two police officials were tempted to hug each other but they settled for shaking hands.
Knowing they might be on the verge of making themselves legends.
Buenos Aires, Argentina
La Avenida Alvear, on which Abra Benjamin’s hotel was located, served as the main thoroughfare for Buenos Aires’ Recoleta District. For shopping, dining or simply being seen, it was the place to be in Argentina’s capital. It also featured the city’s most famous cemetery.
Fitting, Benjamin thought, reassessing the way she’d handled things.
Her opportunity for a serious promotion might be dead and buried.
She strolled the avenue, pretending to window shop in front of designer clothing stores. She thought she would have looked good in several of the outfits she saw, but she was paying particular attention to the reflections in the glass. She didn’t notice anyone either following her or even giving her a second glance. As for the clothes she might have liked to buy, they were priced way the hell out of her budget.
If there was anything that could ruin her day, it was the thought that she’d made a terrible error in judgment on her climb to the top of the FBI ladder. Not that things were a total loss so far. She felt sure Billy Midnight was the pimp catering to Tyler Busby’s horniness, and she’d passed his name and description on to the FBI desk at the U.S. embassy in town.
Byron DeWitt was probably organizing a team to find and watch Billy right now.
Which meant he’d probably get most of the credit for bringing Busby down. Not that he cared about accolades anywhere near as much as she did, but Director Haskins had to be aware that Byron, his right-hand man, had one foot out the door already, and he’d want to do whatever he could to persuade Byron to stay on. Making a national hero of him might just turn the trick.
Thinking of tricks, Abra knew she’d be in a much better position to nail Busby personally if she’d only played nice with Billy and agreed to put out for him. But she just couldn’t do it. The mere thought turned her stomach. Becoming a whore was no part of her job description. Hell, if she had done it and been the one to nab Busby, the sleazy tactic would almost certainly come out at his trial, and then how would she be known?
Special Hooker Abra Benjamin, not special agent.
She’d have to hope that Byron would toss a little credit her way when he got his kudos.
The way the winner of a best director Oscar would thank his production assistant.
Or she could take satisfaction in the simple fact that she’d helped put a bad guy away.
Only where the hell was the joy in that? Where were the promotion, the power, the big bump in pay? The ability to buy just one of the dozen outfits she’d seen in Recoleta that she genuinely would like to own. Who knew Buenos Aires offered such terrific clothing?
Before she started either to cry or beat the snot out of a perfect stranger, Abra decided to get something to eat. The Argentines were big on beef and she thought chewing through a steak might prove therapeutic. Maybe she’d even have a beer with her meal. The concierge at the hotel had told her about a place where American ex-pats hung out: Casa Bar, on Rodriguez Peña 1150. Her iPhone gave her directions and she headed that way.
The place turned out to be a sports bar, insofar as it had a March Madness college basketball game on big-screen TVs. She didn’t mind. It felt kind of good to be back among an American crowd. She placed her order, got a frosted pilsner glass of Coors as a starter, and waited for her meal. She was actually engaged in watching the game, NC State versus Villanova, when a young guy stopped at her table.
“Wendy Wasserman?” he asked.
She looked at him. Took her a beat to remember her cover name.
“Yes,” she said.
He was a nice-looking kid, maybe early twenties, possibly Cuban-American.
His voice and manner were definitely American. He was smiling, but not hitting on her. She was too old for him, a thought that almost sent her back into a tailspin. He extended an envelope to her.
Before accepting it, she asked, “Who sent this?”
“A guy at the bar gave me twenty bucks to hand it to you. Don’t know what’s in it, didn’t ask. But the guy didn’t seem too creepy or I wouldn’t be doing this.”
“Just creepy enough?” Abra asked, taking
the envelope.
“Well … if he’s asking for a date, I’d give him a pass. You can do better, I’m sure. Enjoy your stay in B.A., señorita.”
The kid left, having perked Abra right up. Saying she could do better. Calling her señorita instead of señora. His description of the guy who’d tipped him for the delivery could have fit Billy Midnight. She wondered if the SOB was watching her right now from some dark corner of the room.
She opened the envelope and took out the card. Sonofabitch. It was from Billy, and she was still in the running to nail Busby. The note on the card gave her the time and place where her services would be required. Abra knew she could check with the concierge at the hotel to ask if it was a real address in a good location. The note said she could also pick up an envelope with her payment inside at the front desk.
Without trying to spot Billy, if he was still there, Abra took her pilsner glass in hand and raised it in a salute.
Capitol Hill — Washington, DC
Edmond Whelan strolled through the empty corridors of the Capitol to the suite where his nominal boss, the house whip, had one of his offices, the place where Coleman Carter brought recalcitrant members of the GOP caucus to either cajole or intimidate them into doing the leadership’s bidding, i.e. voting the way they were instructed to do.
More often than not, rank-and-file members were marched out onto the floor of the House and did just what they’d been told. Democracy in action. Well, that was the way things had gone in the good old days.
Customs started to change with Patti Grant’s first election as president. Conservative representatives couldn’t stand her even when she was still a Republican. Her point of view, one of moderation, was supposed to have been consigned to the party’s scrap heap long ago.
Once she became a Democrat, the conservative resistance became open warfare. From the time of the Reagan presidency, party defections went in only one direction: Democrats became Republicans. The very idea that a sitting president could reverse that course was both heresy and a terrifying precedent.
