by Joseph Flynn
Patti nodded, her face grim.
“That would do it all right. So now, damnit, I don’t see how we can go.”
“Even if we don’t, they could still hit Inspiration Hall for spite.”
Patti put her tea cup down, closed her eyes and clenched her free hand.
“I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want Andy … his memory scarred that way.”
Andrew Hudson Grant had died in the explosive blast of a rocket propelled grenade. Having a museum his legacy had helped to build also blown to bits would reopen the wound in the worst way possible. That thought ran through Patti’s mind, until she blinked and looked at McGill.
“How would anyone other than you know I was planning to go to Inspiration Hall?” she asked. “I haven’t even told Galia.”
McGill knew that, having seen the schedule Galia had given him.
He’d been able to come up with only one answer, a dispiriting one.
He said, “You haven’t told anyone in the White House what you were thinking?”
“Only you, just now.”
“What about at The Grant Foundation? Did you tell anyone there?”
That was McGill’s second question.
Hearing it left Patti looking stricken.
I-495 — Capital Beltway
Doctor Bahir Ben Kalil, personal physician to the Jordanian ambassador, cruised in the Virginia express lanes of the Beltway in his black Porsche 911. Next to him sat Representative Philip Brock. Ben Kalil didn’t have an E-ZPass for his car; he had something better. Diplomatic plates. The Virginia State Police working the Washington suburbs knew better than to hassle diplomats. Their immunity was all but absolute.
In fact, when a foreign poobah obeyed the speed limit, as Ben Kalil was doing, the highway cops took it as a sign of respect and rarely even let themselves be seen in a diplomat’s rear view mirror for longer than a heartbeat. Ben Kalil and Brock, on the other hand, were free to observe closely any vehicle they might find suspicious. At that moment, shortly before midnight, traffic was light and no other driver appeared to have anything in mind besides getting home.
The two men felt free to speak candidly.
His genitals still smarting from the blow Roger Michaelson had delivered to them earlier that day, Brock said, “I have to admit, I’m getting a bit edgy. I’d almost like to move things up. Get the job done sooner rather than later.”
Ben Kalil flicked a glance at his passenger.
“So you’ll call the president and ask her to move up her visit to the new museum?”
“Yeah, sure. She’ll never suspect a thing.”
Both men chuckled.
Ben Kalil asked, “This is just a moment of intuition you are feeling, my friend?”
What Brock was feeling, if someone could take a shot to his nuts in the gallery of the House of Representatives, there was no telling what else might go wrong.
But he said to Ben Kalil, “More like I’ve been thinking even John Wilkes Booth must have had a moment of stage fright before he shot Abe Lincoln.”
“Yes, but if I remember my reading of your country’s history, after Booth took his shot, he yelled, ‘Sic semper tyrannus.’ Thus always to tyrants.”
Brock was impressed. Ben Kalil was not only a doctor and a jihadi, he’d also taken Sun Tzu’s advice to heart. Know your enemy. Wouldn’t do to underestimate the guy.
“Yeah, well, knocking off a president was a lot easier back then,” Brock said.
Ben Kalil had to agree with that.
“If you are right, if you have perceived a threat to our plan at some subconscious level, we might well move to our first alternative. It would be less glorious, but a spectacular blow nonetheless.”
“Yes, it would,” Brock agreed.
Plan B was an attack on Inspiration Hall while Patricia Darden Grant was elsewhere.
Bringing enough of the building down that the rest would have to be demolished.
Using the Timothy McVeigh truck-bomb model.
Only this time the driver was prepared for in-the-moment martyrdom.
“Let’s think about it a little more,” Brock said. “Maybe we can go for all the marbles.”
The two men began a second circuit of the Beltway.
Dumbarton Oaks — Washington, DC
Galia Mindel lay in bed, propped up against the headboard, rereading the latest report sent from one of her spies in the capital media pack. She’d learned only moments ago that Roger Michaelson was back in town. Had been given a job to do political commentary by WorldWide News. She hadn’t seen that one coming.
Galia would have bet Michaelson was a spent force politically.
Hugh Collier had hewed to a more moderate point of view since taking over at WWN from the late Sir Edbert Bickford. So his hiring of Michaelson was also a surprise. The sudden change had to mean something hostile was afoot at the network.
Her spy thought Representative Philip Brock was involved in Michaelson’s return. The man had been the one to raise Michaelson’s name on Didi DiMarco’s MSNBC show. Yes, but Brock was also the one who suggested that enough Republicans might be pried away from their alliance with True South to work with the Democrats in pushing centrist legislation through Congress.
Galia put her reading material on the nightstand and turned out the light.
She’d also seen the possibility of splitting the right-wing coalition in the House. So she had to credit Brock with some degree of political acumen and cunning. But she hadn’t thought the time was quite right to move on the idea. Brock might well have quashed the possibility by going public with it early.
Of course, that might have been his goal.
She had a feeling the relative newcomer to Congress was playing a deep game.
Michaelson, she still felt, was little more than a pawn.
Drifting off, she felt it was too bad she couldn’t directly hire James J. McGill to snoop on Representative Philip Brock … but she could at least point McGill in Brock’s direction.
Saint Colm’s Rectory — Saugus, Massachusetts
Father George Mulchrone left the front door to the rectory unlocked so he might hear the confession of the man who’d called him five minutes earlier. He couldn’t offer the sinner reconciliation with the Lord at the parish church for the simple reason that the archdiocese had sold the church ten years ago and it had been replaced by a low-rise office building.
His excellency, the archbishop, had allowed Mulchrone to purchase the rectory as his retirement home. The price had been modest and Mulchrone had raised the sum by pooling his meager savings with donations from family, friends and former parishioners. As part of his deal, and as a means to avoid property taxes, the archdiocese recognized the premises as an “outpost of ministry.”
That was, Father Mulchrone had approval to offer the comfort of four of the church’s seven sacraments to those who might seek them. He was allowed to baptize new members of the faith, hear the confessions of those who had strayed, marry (heterosexual) couples with the case-by-case approval of the archdiocese and anoint the (deathly) ill.
As he had no church in which to celebrate a mass, he could not offer the Eucharist nor perform the Confirmation of young adults. It went without saying that he wouldn’t ordain new priests, as that was the prerogative of higher clergy.
Mulchrone’s budget allowed for a neighborhood widow to cook dinner for him, and for the woman’s sister to tidy up the house every other Monday. Both of those good women were long since asleep in their own homes when the priest took the call asking him to hear a confession. The hour was late, but it never entered Mulchrone’s mind to put the man off until the morning.
Letting someone face the perils of damnation for even a moment longer than necessary just wasn’t in him. After telling the caller that his front door would be unlocked, the priest went into the large closet in the foyer. It had been divided into two equal parts with a seat for him and a kneeler for the penitent. A screen of sturdy black mesh allow
ed for communication while concealing the appearance of Mulchrone and anyone seeking absolution.
Mulchrone illuminated a small red light outside the makeshift confessional to indicate his presence within. He had to wait only a few minutes before he heard his front door open. The caller stepped into his half of the confessional. Mulchrone smelled body odor, tobacco and … fear, he thought.
“Are you all right, my son?” the priest asked.
“I’ve been better.” The voice was deep and hoarse and there was anxiety in it. “You know who I am, Father?”
“I assume you’re the man who just called me.”
The truth was, Mulchrone recognized the man’s voice. His odor as well. They hadn’t been introduced or spoken to one another at the meeting in Virginia, but each had taken notice of the other.
“That’s right. But do you know my name?”
“I know that you are a brother in Christ. That is enough for me.”
There was no commandment saying: Thou shalt not equivocate.
“Well, I am that. I’m not Catholic, though. Do I still get that promise what I tell you goes no further?”
“Of course. Anything you say here remains with me alone.”
Mulchrone thought to add he couldn’t confer sacramental absolution, but he decided to keep that to himself. He’d answered the man truthfully. Or mostly so.
“That’s reassuring, but what I want is for you to pass my message to our friend in Washington. You know the one?”
“I do.”
“Tell him things are getting out of hand. Arlo Carsten has been arrested. We’re going to try to bring things off the way we planned, but it’d be smart to have that fella with the truck up and running, too.”
“I see,” Mulchrone said.
“Yeah, it sucks, pardon my language, and that’s not the half of it. Let me ask you something, Father. Does it bother you at all that the guy with the truck is from the other side?”
“It bothers me that things have come to this point at all.”
“Ain’t that the truth? Well, with any luck, we’ll be able to hit our targets from above and at street level, too. And that’ll set everything right. Assuming those suckers from the other side take all the blame, the way they’re supposed to. Okay, Father, I gotta go. Give me two minutes to get out of your house and drive away.”
“All right,” Mulchrone said.
He heard the man step out of the confessional. The front door of the rectory opened and closed. An engine turned over and a car drove away.
The priest stayed where he was. He had prayed long and hard that moral order would be restored to the country he loved almost as much as his faith. But things only got worse. The decay accelerated. The faithful grew old and died. The young did not replace them. Churches and parochial schools closed. The call for sincere ministry went all but unanswered. He felt he was watching his world crumble before his eyes.
He didn’t think anything would ever be set right again.
He didn’t even feel he had the right to confess his own sins.
Without absolution, he was certain he would never see salvation.
Maybe the best he could hope for was to see a lot of old friends in hell.
Four Seasons Hotel — Washington, DC
Lying in bed, as he was at the moment, Yves Pruet was not given to wishful thinking. Foreboding far more frequently occupied his drowsing thoughts. He was sure that he would be dismissed from his position as an investigating magistrate soon after he returned home. The only reason he’d not been sacked sooner, he was sure, was some enemy in the new government had wanted him to get his hopes up. To think that all of his offenses against the dignity of those he’d failed to recognize as his superiors in government and society would be forgotten. Swept away by the passage of time and the press of new affairs.
Pruet thought no such thing.
He knew his enemies only hoped to inflict the greater pain of allowing him false hope.
Then they would crush him professionally and in any other way they could.
His government pension had been earned years before. Unlike so many people these days, though, he did not live for his retirement. He felt most alive when engaged in his work. Bringing some small measure of justice to a world inclined to turn a blind eye to crimes great and small. Stealing his pension from him would be petty theft for those who hated him.
He might have intended to put up a fight if he needed the money. His rapprochement with Papa, however, had relieved him of that burden. Not that he wanted to go into the business of making cheese any more than he had as a young man. Which was to say not at all. Nor would he be content to be given an allowance at his age. That would be an embarrassment.
Perhaps he might have to play his guitar on the Metro for the spare change of tourists, as his ex-wife, Nicolette, had once forecast. Should that become the case, he could imagine his former beloved gathering all their former friends, dressed in their finest attire, to watch him as he played, calling out requests and tossing one euro coins at him. Perhaps he could get a monkey to collect their offerings. That would entertain them all the more.
Then Pruet had hit upon an idea that amused him. Papa had finally come to understand that he was a first class investigator. He’d underwritten the trip to America for him and Odo. He’d even taken a personal satisfaction in helping his son with his inquiries. So, might Papa agree to fund his son in opening his own private investigations agency?
Such a thing would have been impossible for Papa to imagine a few years ago. It wouldn’t have been a socially acceptable thing to do. But Papa had been quite impressed that he had been invited to dine, twice, with the most famous private detective in the United States, James J. McGill, once in Paris and once at the White House.
No one else Papa knew, even in his rarefied social circles, could claim that distinction. He had heard that Papa had told his posh friends that Yves was a personal friend of Madam la Présidente. To his own astonishment, Pruet had realized that was true. The lovely Patricia Darden Grant did enjoy his company, as he did hers.
So, with Odo and Gabriella Casale as his colleagues, it would only be sensible for Pruet to form a professional allegiance with the president’s henchman. They would cooperate with each other, help one another whenever the occasion arose. Papa should have no trouble investing in that new business venture.
From outside his bedroom door, Pruet heard Odo cease his snoring. His Corsican friend had his own bedroom, of course. Tonight, though, he insisted on sleeping on the sofa in the living room of the suite. He’d said he wanted to be closer to Yves in case any intruder might think to visit them. It was just a feeling he had, Odo said.
Pruet chose not to doubt Odo, even at the cost of listening to him snore.
Now, that Odo had given Pruet a respite, the magistrate knew it was time to take his own rest. Having a new plan for his coming years, he relaxed and started to drift off. Then his mind formed another idea, even more compelling than the first.
It was a thought of poetic justice.
How he might punish Laurent Fortier.
By a means even more terrible than killing him.
The President’s Bedroom
The most powerful woman in the world lay sleeping in McGill’s arms. Looking at her, he was struck by the fact that every night Patti achieved the impossible. She looked even more beautiful asleep than awake. Her open eyes were gems not to be missed, but when her eyelids fell, he could see how she must have looked as a young girl, how she would look as an old woman. Both aspects bound McGill ever closer to her.
There was no way in the world he would let any act of violence steal her from him. Not now, not ever. Any such attempt would have to go through him first. Taking a sudden deep breath, Patti rolled out of his embrace, turning her back toward him. Letting him know, unconscious though she was, that he should get his sleep, too.
Most nights, McGill would have taken his cue.
That night, his mind wasn’t ready to be
stilled.
He lay on his back looking up at the ceiling, sorting his priorities, making his plans.
That was when he realized he would need an extra set of eyes when he visited Inspiration Hall with Yves Pruet in the morning. Not so many hours from now. For anyone else, finding the person he wanted might be a tall order. With the resources of the White House behind him, though, he was sure he’d find exactly the person he’d need.
Reassured, he closed his eyes and put an end to a very trying day.
Chapter 7
McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown — Saturday, January 12, 2013
McGill sat behind his desk. He’d been awakened early that morning by a gentle tap on his shoulder from Patti. Still groggy from sleep, she told him, “There’s a call for you.” Her lack of wide-eyed alarm told him the kids were all right.
McGill took the receiver and said, “This better not be a telemarketer.”
After a beat, a voice replied, “This is Deputy Director DeWitt.”
“Up all night, are you?” McGill asked.
“As a matter of fact.”
“You couldn’t talk to me when I visited your office, but now you have something to say to me?”
“Only if you want to hear it.”
That tease provoked a greater degree of consciousness in McGill.
He thought to ask, “By any chance, has Chairman Mao gone back up on your wall?”
Another pause ensued, followed by a question. “You don’t read minds, do you, Mr. McGill?”
“Not as often as I used to, but I still have my moments.”
“Yes, the Warhol serigraph is back on display.”
McGill’s mind brightened another notch. DeWitt contacting him now presented him with an opportunity. He asked, “Does the Bureau’s art crime team have a consultant on call who can spot forged paintings for you?”