by Joseph Flynn
He hung his head and sobbed. It was all over for him. He was never going to have another happy moment in his life. His only concern now was how to minimize the pain.
He forced himself to look up, fear in his eyes that the woman might do something awful to him. Despite that, he forced himself to say, “It’s the president. She’s the target.”
Arlo thought the admission would make him feel better, be a relief of some kind. Far from it. The cowboy in the suit looked as if he might strangle him where he sat. The other two might be happy just to watch. But nobody made a move.
Trying to explain his reasons for an attempted presidential assassination, he said, “The damn woman cost me my job, the only work I ever cared about. She ruined my life.”
Arlo thought he had a nice tone of sincere outrage going, but when he saw the look of pure murder in the cowboy’s eyes, a squeak of terror emerged from him. He tried to pull back but his freedom of movement was measured in inches. His cuffed hands ended his retreat.
The cowboy lunged at him and Arlo thought he might have died then if the Air Force guy hadn’t grabbed his friend. Arlo would have covered his face with his hands if only his chain had more slack. Denied that opportunity, he had to face the naked hostility of the other people in the room.
“I’m sorry, all right?” Arlo yelled. “I’m sorry.”
The cowboy pulled free from the Air Force officer and stomped out of the room.
Welborn said in a measured tone. “What can you tell us about whoever it is trying to kill the president?”
“I … I don’t know. It’s going to be a drone attack, but I don’t know where or when. They kept that from me so …” A look of stupefied horror came over Arlo’s face. “So, in case I got caught … Goddamnit! I’d tell you right now if I could.”
The woman told the Air Force guy, “Give me a few minutes with him.”
The Air Force guy gave Arlo a pitying look.
After he left, the woman took a curved dagger out of a pocket.
That and a whetstone. She started sharpening the blade.
It hissed like a snake as it slid down the stone.
Arlo screamed but no one came to save him.
As the woman stepped forward, she scared the pee right out of him.
Rock Creek Park — Washington DC
Yves Pruet and Odo Sacripant were waiting outside of Dikki Missirian’s building on P Street when McGill and Leo pulled up. A cloud cover hid the sun and the air was too chill for comfortable café conversation. But McGill was in the mood for a bit of fresh air.
He got out of the Chevy and said, “Are you up for a brisk walk in the park, M’sieur le Magistrat? Stir our blood a bit.”
“Bonne idée,” Pruet said. Good idea.
The two Frenchmen got into the back of the Chevy with McGill. Leo set out for nearby Rock Creek Park. On the way, McGill handed a Beretta 92 to Odo.
“Strictly as a last resort,” he told Pruet’s bodyguard.
“D’accord. Merci.” Odo slipped the weapon into a coat pocket.
Five minutes later, McGill and Pruet strode through the park side by side. Leo walked point, Odo took the rear guard. The weather being cold and gray, they had no other pedestrian company. The bare trees sheltered no one lying in wait for them. Their conversation belonged to themselves and no one else.
“I spoke with Gabbi Casale this morning,” McGill said. “She said Père Louvel sends his best wishes.”
Not batting an eye, Pruet asked, “To you or me?”
“Both of us. He’s an inclusive guy from what I was told.”
“You are disappointed I did not take you into my confidence?”
McGill shook his head. “We all set our own boundaries.”
“For all the good they do.”
McGill laughed. “You hang out with snoops, you can’t expect much privacy.”
“Odo warned me about that.”
“I’m sure he also told you there won’t be a happy ending if you kill somebody in this country. It would look bad for everybody, but appearances would be the least of your concerns.”
Pruet said, “I’ve asked myself what price I might pay. I’ve yet to imagine one that is too high.”
McGill thought about that. Pruet had just told him he’d sacrifice his life, if need be. He didn’t doubt the magistrate’s sincerity. Gabbi had told him the man who had died trying to stop the theft of the Renoir painting, Charles Louvel, had been a second father to Pruet. Possibly held in even greater affection than the magistrate’s biological father. Someone like that wasn’t lost to violence without provoking thoughts of reprisal.
McGill had no doubt he would feel the same way.
“The devil on the doorstep,” he said.
Now, Pruet’s face showed surprise, before it relaxed into a rueful smile.
“Père Louvel was unusually forthcoming with Madam Casale. For a fellow pledged to a celibate life, he still finds ways to enjoy a woman’s company.”
“Who could blame him?” McGill asked. “But he wouldn’t have talked with Gabbi if you hadn’t given him permission.”
“I took Odo’s warning to heart. I didn’t wish to jeopardize our friendship any more than I already had. I sent word to extend Madam Casale every courtesy.”
“That’s good because Gabbi has an idea how accounts might be settled, back home in France, without you getting your hands bloody.”
McGill’s words brought Pruet to a halt.
“This is more than wishful thinking?” he asked.
“If you’ll settle for something less than Fortier getting his head chopped off.”
The magistrate looked cynically amused. “If my country ever brings back the guillotine, it will be for me.”
McGill said, “All the more reason to give Gabbi a chance. She said she needs connections at the top art schools in Paris. You think you could manage that?”
Pruet remembered Duvessa Kinsale’s claim to a connection at L’École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts. The magistrate felt things about to come full circle, the way criminal cases so often did. For just a moment, he allowed himself the hope that the devil might be kicked to the curb.
“Yes,” he said, “I will help Madam Casale find the right people.”
He was sure Papa would be able to give him names.
“Good. Let me know as soon as you can,” McGill said. “In the meantime, would you like to get an advance look at the museum where Tyler Busby intends to exhibit his art collection?”
Surprised again, Pruet said, “I would like that very much. Can you arrange it?”
“I’m working on it,” McGill said.
McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown
Sweetie sat at her desk in the outer office of McGill’s suite when he walked through the door. Deke Ky and Welborn Yates occupied visitors’ chairs. Welborn was asleep and snored softly. McGill said hello to Sweetie, opened the door to his office and gestured to Deke to be the first to enter. Deke entering a room ahead of McGill was entirely appropriate to the news he brought.
“I’m back on the government payroll,” he said. “Got my seniority back and credit toward my pension, too.”
McGill waved Deke into a guest chair, as he took his own seat.
“Does that feel good or like a step backward?” he asked.
Deke took a deep breath, let it out before answering.
“It’s more like putting on an old suit.” Exactly what it looked like Deke had done. “The fit isn’t quite the same and it’s not really my style anymore.”
“I appreciate what you’re doing for me,” McGill said.
Deke grinned. “Got a bump in pay grade, so that helps a little. Not that I need the money, but the recognition feels good.”
Musette Ky, Deke’s mother, had left a substantial sum and her house to her son before decamping to her native Vietnam. She’d earned her fortune by being the most clever criminal in DC’s Vietnamese immigrant community. Deke hadn’t been pleased about that.
He’d kept his inheritance, but as far as McGill knew had yet to spend any of it.
“There is one consideration I’d like from you for my self-sacrifice,” Deke said.
“Name it,” McGill said.
“I want the same deal military service members get from enlightened employers.”
“You want your old job back when your hitch with Uncle Sam is up,” McGill said. “Consider it done.”
Deke said, “Truth is, I’d like that and a little more. Looking ahead, I can see how you and the president might be a little tired of this town by the end of a second term.”
“Yeah, most likely.”
“So, my point is, I’d be happy to work for Margaret, if she wants to keep the firm going, but I won’t work under anyone else. If you and Margaret both leave, I want to buy the company name from you and run the business as my own.”
McGill felt he must have looked as surprised as Yves Pruet had thirty minutes ago.
“You want to buy my name?” McGill asked.
“I figure it will have substantial value by then. You’ve already put this firm on the map.”
McGill wondered if Deke would think to pay for the naming rights with his misbegotten legacy money. McGill wouldn’t want that. Maybe, he thought, he could maintain a shamus emeritus relationship with the firm. Take a cut of ongoing revenue, consult a bit, but leave plenty of time to spend with Patti and his kids.
“I think we can probably work something out,” McGill said.
“One last thing, if you and Margaret both leave, I’d like your last year on the job to be the transition period where you groom me to take over. You’d still be the boss, but I’d take over the administrative duties so I can be ready when I have to run things on my own.”
McGill smiled. “You’ve really thought this through.”
“I spent some time talking with my dad. He gave me pointers.”
The last McGill had heard, Deke’s father, Talbert Perkins, had been elected sheriff of Charleston County, South Carolina. It was always good to hear of a concerned father giving his son the sage counsel of an older man. McGill hoped his children would always be open to turning to him when they needed advice.
“Sounds like Sheriff Perkins helped you cover all the bases. If Margaret and I retire, you and I will work something out, along the lines we’ve just discussed.”
They shook hands.
There was a knock at the door and Sweetie poked her head into the room.
“Welborn woke up from his nap. May we come in?”
U.S. Capitol — Washington, DC
Former Senator Roger Michaelson sat in the nearly empty visitors’ gallery of the House of Representatives. He never really liked the chamber. Thought it resembled nothing so much as an ant colony. With its castes and classes; Democrats and Republicans, committee chairmen and back benchers. What it lacked was the organizing role of a queen. The figure to whom all were subservient.
In the old days, the speaker of the House filled that role. Not now. Speaker Peter Profitt knuckled under to the coalition of GOP and True South members far more than he led it. His only tool to hold the fractious group together was grinning, mealy-mouthed persuasion. If he had tried to exert top-down discipline by yanking members’ committee chairmanships or assignments, he’d be out on his ear. Speaker no longer. Probably facing a primary challenge or retirement in the next election cycle, too.
What a madhouse, Michaelson thought. Four hundred and thirty-five members, having to raise funds every damn day, given that representatives faced election every other year. The way things were going, Michaelson could foresee the GOP disappearing entirely and soon. The mad-hatter voters in many districts would push scores of Republican members into the True South caucus. That or out of office entirely. The voters in the handful of districts not yet gerrymandered into single-party fealty would impel their representatives to take centrist positions incompatible with right-wing theology.
It wouldn’t take many of those centrists tiptoeing over to the Democrats’ side to give them the majority. Only Michaelson could see a schism coming on the left, too. If the Democrats became namby-pamby middle of the roaders, the die-hard progressives would leave them. The result would be …
Enough to make a man’s head spin, Michaelson thought.
The great irony was, he might still be a member of the House if Patti Grant and Galia Mindel hadn’t beat him in his first run for office. Wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to send them a thank you note. Only Hallmark didn’t make cards with the choice of words he’d use to express himself to the president and her chief of staff.
If they had, he still wouldn’t have sent one.
That bastard McGill might tear him a new one again if he did.
Before Michaelson could dwell on that unpleasant thought, Representative Philip Brock sat down next to him. He slapped Michaelson’s leg and asked, “So what’d you think?”
“Of what?” Michaelson asked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you speaking for the record just now? Must have nodded off for a minute.”
Brock laughed and said, “Yeah, fuck you, too. You still flew all the way across the country and here you are, sitting right where I asked to see you.”
“The body is willing,” Michaelson said, “but the attention wanders.”
Two guys in a pissing contest, Brock thought. Neither of them trusting the other. Welcome to twenty-first century American politics. Even if one guy was no longer in office.
The congressman said, “I don’t flatter myself that you came all this way just to see me. So who bit on the chum I tossed off the back of the boat? Media or think tank? Outside propaganda or inside propaganda?”
“WorldWide News,” Michaelson said.
“You’re going to see them when you leave me?”
“Saw them first. Got a one-year deal to do commentary; buyout for the second year if they decide not to use me.”
“Well, good for you,” Brock said. “Having a job again will get you out of the house, raise your public profile, let you make a little money.”
Michaelson nodded. “Yeah, all because you were such a swell guy and brought my name up for a role Galia Mindel would never let me play in a million years. Honest broker between the right and the left, my ass. You’ve got something else in mind, but I’ll have to find out what that is on my own because you’re not going to tell me.”
“If I intend to use you, why did you come here today?” Brock asked.
“Because you know an old jock like me wants to stay in the game, one way or another, and you knew I couldn’t resist the challenge.”
“That must make me pretty smart,” Brock said.
“We’ll see about that. I know you wouldn’t want anything too obvious, like my becoming your public shill. You’ve got something sneakier in mind.”
Brock did a respectably devilish laugh and got to his feet.
“Maybe I just wanted to challenge you to a one-on-one game of basketball,” he said.
The congressman’s midsection was on a line with the seated former senator’s shoulders. The target of opportunity was too close for Michaelson to miss. He snapped the back of his right hand into Brock’s groin. The move was so quick Brock never saw it, but he felt it intensely.
Getting to his feet, Michaelson kept Brock from doubling over by putting a hand firmly on the congressman’s shoulder. Leaning forward, he whispered into Brock’s ear, “You’re not James J. McGill, asshole. You’d better remember that.”
Brock crouched over, after Michaelson left, his hands on his knees.
Yes, the backfist blow to Brock’s balls had been too fast for its victim to see.
But the tie-clip camera on the guy sitting across the gallery caught it perfectly.
Brock hadn’t planned an assault on his manhood, but the blow worked nicely into his plans.
McGill’s Chevy — Washington, DC
“We told Elspeth that Merilee Parker had seen the SOBs who are planning the president’s assassination go in
to a room with Representative Philip Brock,” Captain Welborn Yates told McGill, “but when Elspeth questioned Arlo Carsten, he said that Brock left the room before the others started talking about committing their crime.”
McGill and Welborn sat in the back seat of McGill’s Chevy.
Leo and Deke were up front. Each of them wore earbuds connecting them to their favorite tunes. So they could plausibly deny overhearing anything that passed between McGill and Welborn. If the time ever came when presidential pardons were required, McGill wanted to keep the number as small as possible.
They were taking Welborn home because he hadn’t seen his infant daughters since Tuesday. Well able to empathize, McGill didn’t want to prolong the separation any longer than necessary. Sweetie had gone off to track down Putnam Shady and have him wangle a pre-debut viewing of the art collection at Inspiration Hall.
“Did Elspeth think Carsten was telling her the truth?” McGill asked.
“She told Celsus and me she was sure of it. Neither of us doubted her for a minute.”
“The interview took place at the FBI offices in Richmond?”
“Right.”
“As far as you know, did anybody from the bureau see or record how Elspeth got Carsten to talk?”
Welborn said, “Unless they’re a lot sneakier than they look, and I don’ think they are, nobody saw how Elspeth did it. Former SAC Crogher got everybody together in the FBI video room, where the camera feed of the interview would go, and made sure no record was created. I had some reservations about working with Celsus at first, but he’s turned out to be something else.”
“How’d he get the FBI to go along when he no longer has any official standing?” McGill asked.
“Oh, he came right out and told them that, but he said he was still quite close to the president, and she’d know if they didn’t play ball.”
McGill gave Welborn a look. “He really did that?”
Welborn asked, “He shouldn’t have?”
“I don’t even do that. Threaten people with my connection.”
“Oh … Yeah, you’re right. I can see where that might not look good. You know, I think Celsus is still trying to sort himself out, between who he was and who he’s becoming.”