by Joseph Flynn
“As I told you from the start,” Odo said.
“He will do what any good policeman would do. Look for the truth.”
“D’accord.”
“I saw the painting Gabriella Casale did of M’sieur McGill. It is masterful.”
Odo said, “I am not surprised.”
“She would also be most helpful to him in pursuing an investigation in France.”
“I would not be surprised if she were in Avignon at this moment,” Odo said.
“So the question is, what should we do about that?”
“Call the Louvels.”
“And?”
“Tell them to extend every courtesy to her,” Odo said.
He’d fought the giant under the bridge along with Gabbi, McGill and Denys Harbin. Any of those four would always watch the others’ backs. Pruet had also been there, but he’d been on the bridge not beneath it.
“You’re right, of course,” the magistrate said. “No point delaying the inevitable.”
Dumbarton Oaks — Washington, DC
Galia Mindel didn’t need a heads-up phone call to know that Representative Philip Brock would be on MSNBC that night and mention the name Roger Michaelson. Galia’s spy network had penetrated mass media decades ago and was more efficient than Google Alerts at calling programmed topics of interest to her attention. The must-see TV notation was on her desktop computer, tablet and smart phone that morning when she woke up.
She’d spoken with her sons, Aaron and Josh, earlier that evening. They and their families were all well, thank God. It reassured the White House chief of staff that her own little corner of the world was snug and secure even if it looked like the rest of the planet was swiftly going to hell. She’d let both her offspring know that she had work to do that night. So they wouldn’t interrupt her for anything short of a life-or-death crisis.
She’d also texted her deputy chief of staff, Stephen Norwood, and told him he’d need to handle all calls from anyone short of the president. If he caught a call that needed her personal attention, it would have to wait until after ten p.m.
With all that settled, Galia had her notepad and pen on her lap as she used the remote control to turn on the TV from her bed. She tuned in five minutes early in case there was any cross chat about Brock or Michaelson between Gar Moses, the host of the preceding show and Deirdre “Didi” DiMarco, who would interview Phil Brock. Galia had also set the DiMarco show to record in case she wanted to review any bit of dialogue.
Two minutes before the Moses show ended, Galia’s phone rang.
When it didn’t explode from the look she directed at it, she answered the call.
“Madam president?” she asked.
“Next best thing,” came the reply.
“Mr. McGill. I am really quite busy right now.”
“I’ll be brief then. I need to see the president’s schedule, the real one, starting from tomorrow morning and running through January twenty-first. I’ll be up at seven a.m. I’d like to have it by then. Okay?”
Gar Moses was talking to Deirdre DiMarco, as the baton was passed from one show to the next. Galia thought she heard Roger Michaelson’s name mentioned, but she wasn’t sure. Damnit, she hadn’t wanted to miss a thing.
She also wanted to keep the president’s hard and firm schedule to herself.
McGill would know better than to be satisfied if she told him to get the schedule kept by Edwina Byington, the president’s secretary. That was a tentative outline of the president’s day. Subject to change by whim or necessity. Galia was the keeper of appointments that only catastrophic events would change.
“Galia?” McGill said. “I thought you were in a hurry.”
“Can you tell me why you need that information?”
“Sure, I could, but I’m not going to right now. I could also ask Patti directly and get what I want, but I thought I’d be mindful of your position and ask you.”
Damnit, the chief of staff thought, the man had done the right thing.
“Will you tell me if I need to know?” Galia asked.
“Of course. I had Elspeth bring the photos of Jean Morrissey being targeted to you first, didn’t I?”
“You did,” Galia admitted.
“I’m trying to play nice, Galia, but you know what? I’d like to watch the Didi DiMarco show in a minute or two. So give me an answer or I’ll do things my way.”
He wanted to watch DiMarco? Galia was tempted to hang up on the man.
And she did.
After she said, “Okay, you’ll get it.”
McGill’s Hideaway — The White House
Determined not to lift the ban on having a television in his lair, McGill watched the Didi DiMarco show streaming live on his laptop. Patti entered the room, sat next to her husband and handed him a glass of pinot grigio. He’d have preferred a Goose Island 312, but sometimes, he knew, you drank what your wife was drinking to show spousal solidarity.
Looking at the computer screen, the president said, “Brock hasn’t come on yet.”
“No. Didi’s still doing her buildup.”
Deirdre DiMarco, in her mid-thirties, had already left behind a position lecturing the rising elite at Harvard to bring political enlightenment to the masses via cable television. That and make more money than anyone in academia, while still affecting the blazer and blue jeans look of a grad student ten years her junior and getting away with it beautifully.
“She’s a bit effusive for me,” McGill said.
The president replied, “Overcompensation. She’s sharp as a scalpel. If she skipped the stage dressing, she’d scare off most of her audience.”
McGill looked at his wife.
“What?” she asked.
“How much of that do you do?”
“We’ve been married almost five years. You tell me.”
Before McGill could respond, Didi DiMarco introduced Representative Philip Brock. McGill had his own source of information about Brock’s appearance. Ellie Booker, former producer with WorldWide News, had informed McGill, hoping he’d have a comment for her after watching the program. He’d said thanks but made no promises.
Patti had heard of the interview from Galia.
Only after she’d heard of it from McGill, though.
Her husband having scooped Galia was a thought to conjure with.
Didi DiMarco stood to welcome her guest and greeted him with a handshake firm enough to impress the commandant of the Marine Corps. Brock managed not to wince. He smiled and took his seat. There was no Lucite desk between them, only a reasonable amount of legroom. Didi had explained in many media interviews that furniture shouldn’t be allowed to intrude on a good conversation.
“Welcome to the show, Representative Brock. I’m so glad you decided to accept my invitation.”
Brock said, “Not a problem. Happy to be here.”
The star of the show gave him a wide smile.
One a former guest had characterized as Didi’s “Big Bad Wolf” look.
The better to eat you with.
“Let’s start with the most important question,” Didi said. “Do you regard President Patricia Darden Grant to be legitimately reelected as president of the United States?”
Brock said, “I do. She won the electoral vote; she won the popular vote; the process was found to be without any Constitutional defect by the Supreme Court. She’s our president now and for the next four years.”
Brock sipped from a glass of water that had been placed next to his chair.
“Well, that wasn’t so bad,” he said, “if that was your most important question.”
He refrained from smirking, but every viewer with a background in either politics or the media knew the guest had just twitted his interrogator. For her part, Didi chuckled. As if to say, you poor, sad, foolish man.
“It was far from my only question, Congressman. Would you say your Democratic caucus stands solidly behind the president? Do they share the validity of the presidential election to t
he same extent you say you do?”
“Well, I’m neither the minority leader nor the minority whip in the House. So it’s not my job to either count or line up party members when a vote comes before us. But I still have to think that every Democrat in both the House and the Senate has to stand behind the president because without her we’d all be in trouble. And when I say ‘all’ I mean everyone in the country not just those of us who work on Capitol Hill.”
McGill turned to Patti and said, “I didn’t know he was such a big fan.”
“He’s not. Just keep watching.”
Didi DiMarco said, “You sound like a good political soldier, Congressman, but you’ve voted out of step with your party on any number of issues from birth control to gun control. Many of your critics call you a DINO, a Democrat in name only. You said only two days ago in Virginia that the president didn’t steal the election, it only looked like she did.”
Brock didn’t cross his arms or his legs. Made no attempt to equivocate.
He leaned forward and told Didi, “I also winked when I said that.”
The congressman demonstrated for the camera.
“I was having a little fun.”
“So who were you trying to fool, Congressman? Your audience in Virginia, my audience here tonight or the president?”
“If you’ve met the president, you know there’s no fooling her. I doubt I could put one past you or your audience either. So I hope you’ll allow for the possibility that the people I spoke to the other day also are smart enough to recognize a joke when they hear one.”
Brock’s calm demeanor began to annoy Didi.
She decided to try another tack.
“Let’s assume the Democrats are united behind the president. Your party controls the senate, but you’re the minority in the House and —”
“For the moment,” Brock said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” McGill asked.
Patti shushed him, wanting to hear what came next.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Didi DiMarco asked.
“Well, it’s true,” Brock said, “that the GOP and True South have decided to caucus together at the start of the new Congress, and for the moment that puts us Democrats in the minority. Now, True South will never make common cause with us Democrats, but if our party could moderate its position on some of the more important issues to the country, why, you never know what might happen. Some GOP House members might want to get things done and caucus with us.”
Didi laughed. “You’re serious?”
“I am.”
“What you’re suggesting would turn Congress into Parliament.”
“I know,” Brock said. “The Founders probably wouldn’t like it, but it beats the alternative.”
“And what would that be, Congressman?”
“Gridlock, dysfunction, the world passing us by, laughing as it leaves us behind.”
“Quite the grim picture. Would it be just a happy coincidence that you’re essentially advocating that the country adapt your political point of view to avoid catastrophe?”
“What I’m saying, Didi, is if there’s to be any way forward for our country, it will be found in the center of the political spectrum not at either end.”
Brock took another sip of water.
“This guy’s trying to box you in,” McGill said.
“Not just me,” Patti replied.
Didi asked, “Would it be reasonable to assume you’d like to move up in the world, Congressman? Maybe become the speaker of the House in a new coalition majority there?”
“No, that would not be reasonable,” Brock said. “I’m not looking for personal advantage.”
Didi paused to regroup. No pol advanced the kind of ideas Brock had done without seeking some sort of opportunity. If not directly, then what he had in mind was …
“Congressman, do you have someone else in mind who might help bring about the kind of bipartisan middle ground you’re advocating?”
Brock said with a straight face, “I’m sure there’s any number of people who might be helpful. The one name I’ll put forward, since you’ve asked …” Like he was doing Didi a big favor. “That name is Roger Michaelson.”
“Sonofabitch,” the president said.
“What I’ve heard,” Brock continued, “Senator Michaelson was seriously considered as a candidate to replace Mather Wyman as vice president. We all know that Jean Morrissey got that call, but the fact that Senator Michaelson was even considered shows that the president must value his abilities, and the fact that he’s a good deal more conservative than the president should make him relatively appealing to the GOP.”
“But Senator Michaelson is out of office, out of politics,” Didi said.
“All the more reason he would be seen as an honest broker.”
Didi thanked her guest and that segment of her show was over.
“That Brock guy is dangerous,” McGill said, closing his laptop.
Portland, Oregon
For the first time in his life, Roger Michaelson wanted to kiss another man on the lips. He’d have done it right there on camera, if he’d been there with Brock and Didi DiMarco in New York. Of course, maybe that was why Brock hadn’t had any direct contact with him. He didn’t want to be embarrassed by a foolish, emotional overreaction on Michaelson’s part.
Didn’t want to give anyone the impression they were in cahoots.
The former senator would have to modulate his elation.
Present a sober, serious face to the nation. He had no doubt television cameras would arrive at his house … he was going to say in the morning. But it was only seven p.m. now on the West Coast. He might hear from the local network affiliates tonight.
Michaelson thought he’d better get a coat and tie on.
No, no. That would look like he knew what Brock was going to say. It would be better if the TV people found him looking just the way he was. Wearing a Northwestern sweatshirt, jeans and tennis shoes. Maybe just ask his wife to spiff up a little. She’d appreciate the chance to look her best on camera. Yeah, she should be the one to open the door.
Christ, he thought, I’ve never been given a gift like this one.
He wouldn’t be able to take any money for brokering a peace treaty between the left and the right in Congress. Not right away. But the exposure he’d get should be worth a fortune, especially if he could pull off a power shift in the House. Lobbying firms would be brawling with one another to sign him up.
Michaelson was nearly giddy at the idea of all the good fortune his future might hold when he forced himself to hit the brakes. Just because one junior congressman from Pennsylvania had pitched his name for consideration, that didn’t mean he would get the job. Hell, it would be a long shot that either the Democrats or the Republicans would ever go for the idea of joining forces.
Unless, of course, the TV people did come to solicit his opinion and he made a persuasive argument why the two major parties should work together in a centrist fashion. He thought he could spitball that one. He could also, he was pretty sure, make himself look like the only man for the job.
In a totally self-effacing way.
Modest saviors always went over the best.
Just then Michaelson’s phone rang. He looked at the caller ID. KGW-TV, the NBC station in town. Things were happening already.
His wife called out, “I’ll get it, dear. Are you taking any calls?”
Michaelson replied, “Sure. Why not?”
He never thought to ask why Philip Brock, a near stranger, had singled him out. Not just then. As a former jock and politician, given the least motivation, he tended to think well of himself.
Williamsburg, Virginia
Welborn and Celsus watched the blacksmith’s cottage through night-vision goggles. Their bluetooth headsets allowed them to communicate with each other and with Merilee, who was watching the cottage from the main house. An hour had passed since Merilee had fled the cottage and left her cell phone.
The phone had been rigged to allow the eavesdropping and recording of any call made from it. Their hope was Arlo Carsten would use the phone to call for help. Welborn and Celsus were confident that call would not be made to the police. Arlo had already told them he was part of a group that planned to attack Washington with a “squadron” of drones.
The size of the attacking force had yet to be determined because Arlo had been told six drones had been ordered, but so far only three had been delivered. Each of the aircraft was capable of firing two missiles. The missiles weren’t much to look at but the amount of damage they could do was mind bending. Death was a given to anyone within the primary blast radius.
The six missiles that were good to go, and the twelve they were aiming for, fired in concert at a single edifice built to normal civilian specifications would penetrate a roof, collapse walls, penetrate floors and ignite a conflagration. Anyone close to the point of impact would be blown to bits, crushed by falling building materials or consumed by the ensuing fire.
Even those who didn’t perish immediately might succumb to what the medical people called overpressure injuries. Ears, lungs, intestines and blood vessels were highly vulnerable to shock waves. A person who exhibited no external wounds could easily be dying inside. Pulmonary contusion was the most common cause of death among people who initially survived an explosion.
Besides having received only half the promised drones, the forces planning the attack on Washington now faced another setback with Arlo’s capture. He hadn’t completed training the other two would-be drone pilots. They could fly the birds all right, but it wasn’t a sure bet their missile launches would be dead-center perfect. Arlo was just getting good on the simulator himself.
Welborn and Celsus had been happy to hear that. The big problem from their point of view was that Arlo said he hadn’t been given either the targets in Washington or the date and time of the attack. Pushing too hard for that information would have blown their cover as rustic thugs. So deception had to be their plan.