by Joseph Flynn
“What is it you’d like to know from me?”
“Where I should speak on the president’s behalf that would leave a lot of space between the two of us. What I should say that might sound good coming from me. How I should dress, if that’s important. Whether to answer any questions that are off topic or just smile and shine the newsies on. Things like that.”
Galia took McGill’s points seriously. He’d clearly given the matter some thought. If the president backed his idea, there would be nothing she could do to stop him. So she might as well have him be an asset not a liability.
The man was attractive, had a certain charm, but …
“You really think you can be an effective surrogate for the president?”
McGill shrugged. “I do a decent press conference, don’t I?”
Galia had to concede that with a nod.
Then she asked, “If you’re successful in your personal goal, is there any possible way you might be discreet about it?”
McGill said, “I’ll keep the mayhem to a minimum.”
God willing, he thought.
Penrose House — Charlottesville, Virginia
Professor Fletcher Penrose was mildly amused to receive a call from the deputy director of the FBI.
“The jig is up?” Penrose asked.
“Which jig might that be?” Byron DeWitt responded.
“The one that led to this call.”
What led to the call was a theory DeWitt had come up with far later than he should have. Asking himself how he would have disappeared had he been the one to escape the Funny Farm possessing the resources Damon Todd had, he arrived at the answer he would have gone to ground with the nearest friend who lived in an out of the way place.
Applying that logic to the database of names and addresses of people whose lives had intersected with that of Damon Todd and had experienced sudden leaps of fortune, the FBI had come up with the names of fourteen people who lived within a radius of one hundred miles of the CIA’s training and confinement facility.
University of Virginia professor of economics Fletcher Penrose had been one of those people. His background check revealed that as a boy he’d been a severe stutterer. His speech impediment had caused him to evade any form of social engagement including participating in class discussions. After one egregious instance of verbal bullying in middle school, Penrose, who was also mocked for his name, was removed from school and educated by his parents.
Knowing their teaching abilities would not be a substitute for a college education, Penrose’s parents brought him to Damon Todd, a psychiatrist whom they’d heard could work wonders. Work one for young Fletcher, he did, though he wouldn’t explain exactly how other than to say his methods involved hypnotherapy.
Not only had Penrose’s stutter disappeared, he became a winning extrovert. His natural intelligence carried him through his undergraduate and grad school years, and his social graces won him influential friends who aided his rise every step along the way. He was currently on his way to the chairmanship of the economics department of one of the country’s top universities.
It was said Penrose was one of those rare lecturers and writers who could make the dismal science entertaining.
Along with his stunning professional success — and in keeping with James J. McGill’s thinking that Todd would tap his friends for funds — Penrose had experienced recent outflows of three hundred thousand dollars from his personal accounts.
The place he called home, however, was hardly inconspicuous. It was a pillared mansion within sight of a road that carried hundreds of vehicles every day. Looking beyond the obvious, though, DeWitt took into account the fact that the Penrose property covered three hundred acres, including woodland, river frontage and —
Why, lookit there, a cabin nestled among the trees, as viewed by Google Earth.
The trees were bare when the mapping satellite had snapped its picture, but when Todd and friends had slipped the bonds of the CIA the trees would have been in full leaf. The cabin would have been as well concealed as a slipper kicked under a bed. Who could ask for anything more?
DeWitt said, “Professor, do you know a man named Damon Todd?”
“Of course, I do. He turned my life around. I owe him everything.”
Couldn’t be any more frank than that, DeWitt thought.
“Have you heard from him in the past year?”
“No, I wish I had. He’s one of those people you long to repay, but as far as I know he’s off helping other people. If you hear from him, please ask him to call me.”
“Sure,” DeWitt said.
Like the deputy director was just another old chum of both Penrose and Todd. No worries that he was with the FBI. Most people got a call from a federal cop, they either wondered what they might have done wrong or how they got caught. Penrose carried on as if DeWitt was just someone who’d called to shoot the breeze.
The deputy director wanted to see how far the professor’s cooperation would extend.
“Would you mind if I stopped by for a visit, Professor Penrose?”
“Not at all. This is getting interesting. Might make a good lecture series story.”
There was that possibility, DeWitt realized. He wouldn’t want the man blabbing in public.
“I’d appreciate your keeping my call and visit confidential for the time being.”
“Of course,” Penrose said.
Too damn cooperative. DeWitt pushed a little more.
“Would it be all right if I brought some bloodhounds with me?”
“I’ll have to write about this. When the time is appropriate.”
“Right. See you soon.”
DeWitt had agents watching Penrose’s house from concealment at that very moment. They had been waiting for a court order to search the property. But now they had the owner’s permission, recorded for posterity. The deputy director gave the agents an order to stop Penrose from going to the cabin. He didn’t want any last-minute housecleaning done.
Penrose never made the attempt. He stayed inside his grand house until DeWitt arrived. He waved the FBI men on as they asked again if they might search the cabin. The dogs found the scents of Todd, Anderson and Crosby inside, as compared to bedding they’d left behind at the Funny Farm.
So now the FBI would have to talk to the professor and find out what he knew.
DeWitt didn’t think that would be an easy task.
He called James J. McGill and asked if he’d like to help.
Wilson/West Realty — Ottawa, Illinois
Special Agent Vincent Gallo would have kept working his desk job, stir crazy though it made him, if the late winter weather in Chicago had been anything near normal. Cold enough to chill an Eskimo and bleak enough to make Edvard Munch break out his paint brush. But it was sunny and sixty. He’d have liked to go to a ball game or even play catch with his son. Instead, he settled for a drive in the country. He motored down I-55 to the turnoff for Ottawa, where Realtor Deanna Wilson plied her trade.
Gallo always wore his wedding band. Somedays he buffed the ring so it would be impossible to miss. Today was one of those days. He remembered Deanna Wilson’s voice when she’d spoken with him. The lady may have been a cop groupie. She might have liked his voice. She could have been lonely just a bit too long.
In any case, he didn’t want her to think he was anything but a man doing his job.
Turned out, he needn’t have worried. Deanna was spending the week in St. John, USVI.
Her partner, Suzie West, was holding down the fort at Wilson/West Realty when he arrived and identified himself. Suzie couldn’t be more than twenty-five. The smile she gave Gallo was more mischievous than amorous. Still, her expression was unusual enough to make a G-man take notice.
“Is there something I should know, Ms. West?”
“You are cute for an older guy.”
“Thank you. My wife says pretty much the same thing.”
Suzi grinned. “I’m not hitting on you. I’ve got my own hunk. But you�
�ve made Deanna all moony.”
“I have?”
“Yeah, but it’s harmless. She keeps talking about moving somewhere with more men. Interesting men. But we do a nice business here so she keeps on saving for the day when she can buy a condo somewhere warm and live off her money.”
“Not a bad plan,” Gallo said.
“It’s a good plan, but she gets pretty horny in the meantime. So she goes on her little vacations, looking for fun. I always give her a dozen condoms. Different colors and textures, you know. Tell her not to do the deed unless her knight wears his shining armor.”
“Okay,” Gallo said. “Do you think you could show me the house on Gentleman Road that Ms. Wilson and I discussed?”
“Absolutely, but there’s something else I’ve got to show you first.”
Gallo was about to hold up a hand, but Suzie saw the apprehension on his face and laughed.
“Not me, silly. I really do have my own guy. I’m going to show you what Deanna did for you.”
Suzie opened the file drawer of the unoccupied desk in the office. She withdrew a manila folder and offered it to Gallo.
“Deanna put this together in case you or one of your people came by. She’s gonna kick herself when she finds out she missed you. Aside from being married, you are about the right age for her.”
Gallo chose not to comment. With Suzie’s permission, he sat down at Deanna Wilson’s desk. He opened the folder and said, “Holy shit!”
“The good kind or the bad?” Suzi asked.
Gallo held up a hand, asking for a moment’s indulgence.
The folder was a gift that kept on giving. Deanna Wilson had written down the license plate number of the car driven by client “Thomas Gower.” Not only that, she’d clipped a picture of the type of vehicle it was. A Buick Enclave in pale gold.
The big prize, though, was the first thing he’d seen: a pencil sketch. It was a dead bang match for the picture of Damon Todd that had been circulated to every FBI office in the country. There could be no question now that Todd had been the man who rented the Ottawa house.
“Is that someone you want?” Suzie asked, looking on over Gallo’s shoulder. “He’s not some sort of crazy killer, is he?”
From the way Gallo had read Todd’s file, that was exactly how he’d characterize the guy.
What he told Suzie was, “You and Ms. Wilson are going to have a couple new people in your office for a while.”
“You? Deanna would love that.”
“Female agents,” Gallo told her. “With others nearby. Probably not me.”
“So this guy is a killer.”
“He’s dangerous,” the special agent conceded. “Did Ms. Wilson draw this likeness?”
Suzie shook her head. “She hired the art teacher at Ottawa High School.”
Damn, Gallo thought. Limiting knowledge of the situation was going to be hard.
He made a phone call to Chicago from his car. Photographed the sketch of Todd and e-mailed it. Texted the information about the license plate and the car. He had Suzie West ride with him to the house on Gentleman Road.
The support team arrived by helicopter forty minutes later.
A plan was laid to trap Todd, Crosby and Anderson, should any of them return.
As the spy cams Crosby and Anderson had set up caught the FBI’s arrival on the scene and transmitted video to Todd’s iPad, that wasn’t going to happen.
New York Times Homepage — www.nytimes.com
The banner ad in the electronic edition of the New York Times bore the headline: The United States Government — Love It or Leave It. Clicking on the expand button revealed an image of the U.S. Capitol and the ad’s body copy:
How many politicians do you hear these days blaming all our problems on Washington? For most people, the answer is too many to count. The way the blame-Washington-first crowd acts, it makes a person wonder why any of them would ever set foot within its city limits. Much less want to spend their careers there.
Would you compete to work in a place you reviled?
Would you raise funds so you could keep working in that place?
Would you work for an institution you insist is destroying our country?
Of course, you wouldn’t. That’s why it makes no sense to vote for anyone who claims that Washington is the problem not the solution. If all you do is bad-mouth the place where you work, you’ll never make it any better.
A private sector business would never hire a disgruntled job applicant. Any company that recruited and retained employees who consciously thwarted the way it was supposed to work would soon crash and burn. If you think about that, it becomes clear exactly what the problem with Washington is.
Our government is being sabotaged by people who hate it and say so proudly.
The way to solve that problem is simple. Vote for candidates who honor and respect the government that the patriots of the Revolutionary War sacrificed their lives to give us. Would those first Americans have voted for a candidate who said, “You know, on second thought, this whole idea of representative democracy is a big mistake.”
That might sound funny, but what the hate-Washington-first crowd is doing to our country is a tragedy in the making. Tell them to go home and stay home. Vote for candidates who value government as an indispensable tool for making your life better.
The ad also ran in the online editions of the one hundred biggest circulation newspapers in the country. Social media sharing sent it viral within an hour of its first appearance. Print newspapers and television stations gave it headline coverage. Talking-head shows talked of little else. Bumper stickers quickly appeared on cars nationwide.
The U.S. Government. Love It or Leave It.
For emphasis, some stickers appended the word motherfucker.
In a matter of days, the idea of expressing contempt for Washington became political suicide. That sent a sizable number of political strategists scrambling for a new way to keep the average American from joining with his compatriots to push the federal government to work on their behalf. The monied special interests couldn’t have that.
Putnam Shady was ready for the push-back with his next ad.
Capital Yacht Club — Washington, D.C.
“Uncle, Uncle, Uncle,” Hugh Collier said, sitting drink in hand opposite Sir Edbert Bickford in the salon of the Poseidon. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
Sir Edbert looked three weeks dead, left out in a warm dry place, his desiccated flesh holding no appeal for the usual scavengers. His mood was worse than his appearance. There was no reason it shouldn’t be. Sir Edbert and his lawyers had spent the day reviewing the case the Department of Justice would be bringing against him.
At Sir Edbert’s age, conviction on even one count of the many the government was contemplating might result in a life sentence. Such harsh justice wasn’t supposed to be meted out against men of his stature. He was a nobleman, by God! At worst, he was supposed to be allowed to buy his way out of a difficult situation with a fine, set at a price that was within reason.
“I’ll outlast her,” Sir Edbert muttered.
“The president, you mean?”
A pronoun was as far as the old man would go. “Her, damnit.”
Hugh sighed. “If that’s your plan, Uncle, you should trade in this floating palace for the Nautilus because your only hiding place will be twenty thousand leagues under the sea.”
“You’re fired,” Sir Edbert said. “Leave this vessel at once.”
Hugh replied, “After I finish my drink. Have one of your crew try to remove me and I’ll break both his neck and yours. Quite possibly yours first.”
“I made you what you are,” Sir Edbert reminded his nephew.
“Then you’ll know I’m not having you on. Uncle, if I was able to find out about this new television channel you’re planning, so will others. Others include the government and the administration that mean to lock you up. You’re only making things worse for yourself. The wise course
is to take shelter behind what WorldWide News has become, the most respected source of televised journalism in the world. Its transformation, and its increase in ad revenue, have been nothing short of staggering. You plead guilty to the least charge against you. You negotiate the shortest sentence and largest fine you can bear to pay. You do a year or two in a minimum security prison, and you come out still filthy rich. You live a quiet, comfortable life, leaving behind you a monument to —”
“I don’t only want to be respected, I don’t only want to be rich,” Sir Edbert growled. “Damn you to hell, I want to be feared.”
Hugh stared at the old man. He finished his drink and stood.
He said, “I’ll see myself out. Please let me know if you come to your senses. Be quick about it, though, you don’t have much time left.”
As soon as Hugh got to his car, he called Ethan Judd.
“You might as well go ahead. The old bastard wouldn’t budge.”
Penrose House — Charlottesville, Virginia
Leaving his house to travel to Washington was where Fletcher Penrose finally dug in his heels. He refused to go unless placed under arrest. If he was arrested, he would invoke his right to remain silent and have his attorney represent him. That being the case, McGill agreed to Byron DeWitt’s request to travel to Virginia.
He brought Daryl Cheveyo with him.
DeWitt made the introductions.
The presence of another academic seemed to calm Penrose.
“Would you like to talk with Dr. Cheveyo alone?” McGill asked.
“He won’t shrink my head, will he?” Penrose asked.
“Only if it gets too big, I suppose,” McGill said.
Penrose grinned. “I use humor in my work, too. You’ve never stuttered, have you?”
McGill shook his head. “For the most part, I’ve been very fortunate.”
“So have I, since Damon Todd helped me. I won’t do anything to hurt him.”
McGill was tempted to lie, say nobody would hurt Todd, but he didn’t. Penrose would see through that. How Penrose would deal with the truth might make dealing with the professor harder for Daryl Cheveyo or it could be a good place for the two of them to start their conversation about Todd.