by Joseph Flynn
McGill shook his head, remembering how the Taliban dynamited the two giant Buddhas in Afghanistan. “What a world,” he said, “and this is what Pruet’s family is caught up in.”
“So it would appear.”
“How should I handle this?” McGill asked.
Patti stopped and looked her husband in the eye. “Knowing you, you’re not going to extend your regrets to Yves and beg off.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Would you mind giving me a daily update? I can let you know if you’re about to put a foot in something stinky. But I’d rather not lay things out in detail, if that’s not necessary.”
McGill agreed. “That works. Too much information might make me feel hemmed in. Stifle my creative impulses.”
Resuming their walk, Patti said, “Can’t have that.”
“Shall I give M’sieur le Magistrat your regards?”
“Better than that, invite him to dinner.”
“Let the word spread through town the two of you are buds.”
Patti smiled. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Linnean Avenue, NW — Washington, DC
Welborn Yates was in his daughters’ bedroom doing dirty-diaper duty, while Kira was in the kitchen uncapping jars of organic goo for the twins’ dinners, when the doorbell rang. Welborn called out, “I’ve got it,” and tapped the control that brought up the view from the front door videocam. He saw a face he’d come to know from his years at the White House, former SAC Celsus Crogher.
Prior to becoming a father, he’d thought Crogher would make an excellent bogeyman, so deathly pale and filled with barely restrained menace, with which to frighten children into proper behavior. Having held his infant daughters in his arms, cooed to them and watch them fall into blissful sleep as Kira nursed them, he discarded the idea of using anything but sweet reason and maybe a firm tone of voice to guide them through life.
He keyed the intercom and said, “Good evening, SAC Crogher. What brings you out this way?”
“I’m here to pick you up. Galia Mindel says we should head out tonight.”
Whip smart, Welborn understood the implication, but it still registered in his mind as a question. SAC Crogher was going to be his partner? He was certainly white enough, but hardly came across as a Southern. Giving it just a moment’s thought, Welborn couldn’t really place what part of the country Crogher and his forebears might call home.
“You still there, Yates?” Crogher asked.
“Yes. Just changing diapers.”
Welborn saw a look of incomprehension appear on Crogher’s face.
“My daughters,” he elaborated.
That made only marginally more sense to the SAC, the idea of having children and tending to their needs.
“I’ll be right down,” Welborn said.
“Who’re you talking to?” Kira called up to him. “The goo is just about room temperature.”
Welborn decided it wouldn’t be comforting to his better half to have her open the door to the pallid figure who used to protect the president. She knew him by sight, of course, having spent almost four years working in the White House, but Welborn doubted they’d exchanged ten words. What she knew of SAC Crogher was that he’d worked in a dangerous world she didn’t like to think about.
Welborn opened his front door and was pleased that his baby girls didn’t recoil at the sight of Crogher. He was the one who took a step back when both infants reached a hand out to him.
“What do they want?” Crogher asked.
Welborn said, “I’m not sure, but my guess is a boyfriend the other one won’t steal and bragging rights the other can’t match.”
Crogher looked as if Welborn were speaking Swahili.
“I mean now,” he said.
“That I can’t tell you. They’re pre-verbal and I’m post-gurgle.”
Crogher started to have a bad feeling about what he’d let himself in for.
Things didn’t get any better when the front door was opened wide and Kira saw who had come calling. She immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion, which only agitated Crogher.
“Something happened to the president?” Kira asked.
Missing her inflection, Crogher replied, “What happened to the president?”
Welborn stepped between them before things got out of control. He handed Aria to her mother and looked at Crogher. “Nothing has happened to the president,” he told Crogher. Turning to Kira, he said, “SAC Crogher has come for me. I have to go.”
“Now?” Kira asked. “Before we’ve fed the girls, bathed them, put them to bed?”
Welborn asked Crogher, “Can you spare one more hour?”
The request seemed reasonable to Welborn.
The man had showed up at his house unannounced.
“It’s not me you’ll keep waiting,” Crogher said.
Welborn understood. Crogher had said Galia Mindel had sent him.
“She’ll understand,” Welborn said.
Or she could find herself another boy, he thought.
Then he asked Crogher, “Have you heard from Holmes about this?”
The former Secret Service agent stiffened.
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“We should probably talk later,” Welborn said. “Where will we meet?”
Crogher scribbled an address on the back of one of his old business cards, gave it to Welborn. He read it and gave it back, avoiding an attempt by Callista to grab it. Told Crogher, “You probably ought to get rid of those cards before we head out.”
Crogher wasn’t used to having people tell him what to do, but he understood the logic and nodded. He walked back to his vehicle, a late model stripped down sedan that screamed government vehicle or maybe rental car. No way was it a good ol’ boy’s ride. For that matter, neither was Welborn’s Porsche Cayman.
Closing the door, he and Kira took care of their girls’ evening routine.
Even managed to sneak in a quickie, Welborn kissing Kira’s tears away.
He promised he’d be careful.
He almost added that she shouldn’t be surprised if the purchase of a used pickup truck appeared on their next credit card statement. Then he changed his mind. Too much information would only worry Kira more.
Besides, he should pay cash for the truck.
The Constellation Club — Washington, DC
The club’s dining room was uninspired. The bar was nothing short of magnificent. Both were reserved for members and their guests. The club had been part of the Washington establishment scene long enough to have counted Mark Twain and Teddy Roosevelt as members.
A wag, not Twain, had once said the Constellation Club hearkened back to a time when people expected politicians to be modestly intelligent and judges to be relatively honest, but to operate in the black membership requirements had to be relaxed.
As if to validate the quip, Senator Howard Hurlbert, True South, Mississippi and Representative Philip Brock, Democrat, Pennsylvania had cleared the membership bar and sat with their drinks at a quiet, remote, softly lit corner table. Many a sly legislative deal and an illicit romance had been hatched at that very spot, but Hurlbert and Brock conspired on a far more serious matter.
Assassination.
Each waited for the other to speak first.
Having a lesser character and what he felt to be the greater grievance, Hurlbert gave in first. “They killed Bobby Beckley, you know, the Grant Administration did. I wouldn’t be surprised if that bastard McGill did the job himself. Probably screwed that Indiana elector senseless, too, before she cast the vote that put his damn wife back in the Oval Office.”
Brock sipped his drink and grinned. “Must be quite a man to accomplish all that. He doesn’t change into blue tights and a red cape before he goes to work, does he?”
Hurlbert glowered. He had come within one vote of becoming president. He shouldn’t be mocked by anyone, much less a second-term member of the House. Millions of people still held the opinion he should be the
one taking the oath of office less than two weeks from now. A new activist group called American Right 2013, aka AR-13, had sought him out to lead a Million-Man Shout Down at the inauguration.
Their idea was to occupy the half-mile of the National Mall closest to the Capitol. When it came time for Patti Grant to take the oath they would drown her out with shouts of thief, fraud, cheat and several other choice words. No one would ever hear her pledge to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution.
Having failed to meet that requirement, they thought, she couldn’t be a real president.
It pained Hurlbert greatly, but he had to tell the oath deniers that the public swearing in would be only a ceremonial event. The actual oath of office would take place on Sunday, January twentieth as specified by the Constitution. That event would occur inside the White House and there would be no chance to shout it down.
Even the damn calendar was working against him, Hurlbert thought.
He did, however, urge the oathers to shout their protests at Patti Grant when she did make her public appearance. There was no law against raising your voice outdoors. They should give it their all. Hurlbert saw that his followers regarded his advice as weak tea.
They wanted him to lead the charge. To storm the ramparts.
Frontline confrontation, though, was never his style. That was where people got clubbed, tased and gassed. In the event of a stampede, they even got trampled to death. Hurlbert said that he had to preserve his dignity for a possible future run for the White House.
Nobody had laughed aloud. Not yet. But he felt it wouldn’t be long before his name became a joke of historical proportions. “You remember ol’ Hurlbert? Poor bastard came within a whisker of the White House. After that, though, his new party collapsed, his wife left him and took all his money and he went to work as a greeter at a Biloxi casino. Shaking strangers’ hands was all he had left of his old life.”
A paranoid fantasy, maybe, but with each passing day, Hurlbert was ever more sure his worst fears would be realized, if he was even lucky enough to find a casino that would have him. They might figure he was bad luck and turn him away.
Far better to go out in a blaze of … probably not glory.
Notoriety would do.
He would have his defenders. Wouldn’t he? Surely, he wouldn’t be completely abandoned.
With a start, Hurlbert became aware Brock had just said something similar to what he been thinking. He asked, “What did you say?”
Brock told him, “I said you could probably peddle that horseshit if you don’t leave your fingerprints all over it.”
Straining to maintain some stateliness, Hurlbert asked, “What exactly do you mean?”
“Your fairy tale about McGill killing Beckley and banging Sheryl Kimbrough. Half the people who voted for you are —” Brock was going to say ignorant assholes, but he didn’t want Hurlbert to get his back up. “Highly suggestible.”
Just hearing the name of the faithless elector, Kimbrough, set Hurlbert’s teeth on edge.
The idea of using her to ruin McGill’s name, though, held great appeal.
If he and Brock couldn’t manage the real thing, for some reason, character assassination would be the next best option. Taint Patti Grant’s legacy by making her husband a toxic figure. Yes, that idea was fascinating. Hurlbert felt a smile form on his face.
His moment of uplift lasted only until he saw Brock smirking at him.
Who was this bastard sitting so close to him, Hurlbert wondered.
How had they become partners in treachery? That question, he could answer. Brock had approached him. Offering his sympathies. Commiserating with him on being the victim of the greatest political theft since Lenin stole Russia from Czar Nicholas.
It wasn’t long before Brock turned the conversation to encouraging him to find ways to seek retribution. Hurlbert couldn’t honestly remember, though, who first brought up the idea of killing the president. He might have been the one.
The two of them had been drinking, more than a polite glass or two.
One thing Hurlbert was sure of, he hadn’t asked Brock the most basic of questions.
So he brought it up now. “Why did you get into politics?”
The congressman told the senator, “I’m not musical, but I love having groupies.”
Despite his sour mood, Hurlbert had to laugh.
Brock’s answer rang true to him. So many people in Washington longed for the perks of being a rock star: celebrity, power, money and sex. So few had put in the time to take music lessons.
Reassured that Brock was a kindred spirit, the two men got back to discussing the possibility of making an attempt on the life of Patricia Darden Grant.
The National Mall — Washington, DC
The Mall stayed open to the public twenty-four hours a day. Park rangers, however, knocked off at 11:30 p.m. It wasn’t always the wisest of ideas for either tourists or District residents to pay casual visits well after dark. The Metro cops worked around the clock, but the police department was not exactly overstaffed with patrol officers, and muggers tended to be opportunists, robbing when the robbing was good.
Galia Mindel, in the company of Welborn Yates and Celsus Crogher, was not concerned about random thuggery. Looking at the construction work for the upcoming inauguration that had already begun outside the West Front of the illuminated U.S. Capitol, she worried on a far grander scale. Welborn and Celsus, having seen the video showing the drone killing of the president and McGill on a tablet computer Galia had brought with her, now shared that trepidation.
After having summoned both men earlier in the evening, the White House chief of staff had to keep them waiting after being detained by other duties. Galia said it would be better that they meet after the park rangers went off duty anyway.
She apologized for the delay.
Celsus thought the apology was unnecessary.
Welborn appreciated it.
Galia turned away from the Capitol and looked at her two companions.
“We can’t let anyone even come close to killing the president, gentlemen.”
“No, ma’am,” Welborn said.
“Coming close would encourage others,” Crogher said.
“My thought exactly,” Galia replied.
“Where are SAC Crogher and I headed, ma’am?” Welborn asked.
Galia told them, “A meeting was held this morning at a hotel in Newport News, Virginia. Its public purpose was to insult the president and raise funds for her political opponents. Both of those goals are standard practices in party politics and Constitutionally protected activities. But after the public meeting there was a small private gathering. Among its participants were a member of Congress from Pennsylvania, a retired cleric from Boston, a banker from Dallas, a former NASA project director from Florida, and the so-called commanding officers of two militias, one from Louisiana and the other from Michigan.”
Both Welborn and Crogher understood the implications.
A cabal had been formed, one that implied violence.
“The Secret Service knows all this?” Celsus asked.
“I just briefed SAC Kendry,” Galia said, “that’s why I was late for our meeting.”
“Then she should be handling this,” the former SAC said.
“Handling what?” Galia asked. “Investigating a perfectly legal gathering of the president’s political opponents? That might be just what the other side wants. A chance to claim the president is a tyrant who’s trying to establish a police state.”
Welborn said, “There’d be a much better chance of a leak if we did this by the book.”
Galia nodded.
For a long moment, Celsus Crogher closed his eyes. He stood so still Galia and Welborn thought he might have fallen asleep on his feet. The onset of narcolepsy perhaps. Just before either of them could call his name, he raised his right hand as if to ask a moment’s indulgence.
As he lowered his hand, he sighed and opened his eyes.
“
You’re right, Ms. Mindel,” he said. “A situation like this requires subtlety. A regimented approach would not only be seen coming, it likely would make things worse.”
Galia leaned forward to see if Celsus was playing some sort of trick on her.
“Are you all right, SAC Crogher?” she asked.
He said, “That’s just the thing. I’m not a special agent anymore, and I’m not in charge of anything. Near the end of my time at the White House, I was starting to change the way I saw things. Once I retired, though, my sense of organization was all I had to hold things together.”
Galia had sometimes wondered what she’d do with her life after the president left office. She could empathize with Celsus. Still, she had to know if he’d be up to the task at hand.
“You think you’ll be able to do this job safely and effectively?” she asked.
“I do. Certainly better than if I tried to be the man I used to be. No question I’ll be less of a pain in the ass to Captain Yates.”
That led Welborn to ask, “What caused these changes at the end of your career with the Secret Service?”
Crogher hesitated to say, but then he realized he had no reason to be embarrassed.
“I started taking dance lessons.”
“Because?” Galia asked.
“The president said she’d like to dance with me at the inaugural ball. Right after she dances with Hol — with Mr. McGill. After the first dozen or so lessons, my instructor managed to get it through my thick skull I was going to have to loosen up or I’d embarrass both myself and the president. As I got into the flow of the dance, it took some of the starch out of my thinking.”
Galia and Welborn looked at each other. Both smiled.
“You’re still tough as nails, right?” Welborn asked.
“Ten-penny nails,” Crogher said.
“You don’t mind my asking,” Welborn continued, “what part of the country do you come from?”
“Casper, Wyoming.”
Welborn did his best to keep a straight face.
The whitest man he’d ever seen came from Casper?
He covered up by asking another question.
“Don’t people out that way have a little different tone to their voices?”