Jim McGill 05 The Devil on the Doorstep

by Joseph Flynn

  The senator had told Brock that his wife had taken the couple back to Mississippi and their main residence when she’d left on New Year’s Day. Bettina could not abide northern winters. Not after she’d been denied the opportunity to become the country’s First Lady. That was the story Hurlbert had told Brock. Caution told Brock to make sure the old soak had it right.

  The apartment above the garage was dark.

  Not even a nightlight showed in case at nocturnal whiz was needed.

  Brock was satisfied the servants were elsewhere. Whether that was true of the grand dame of the house remained to be seen. He backed up the car, stopping it opposite the front entrance. He stepped out, went to the door and rang the bell. Not a praying man, Brock kept his fingers crossed that lovely Bettina was sipping a mint julep far, far away, and Hurlbert hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor already.

  He’d break into the house if necessary, but that was almost certain to trigger some sort of security alarm and force him to hurry. Increase the chances that something might go wrong. “Come on,” he muttered, “come on, you old shithead.”

  He rang the doorbell again.

  Brock wondered if Hurlbert might have forgotten to arm the security alarm. The answer to that question would depend what impulse had the upper hand that night, the senator’s paranoia or his thirst. The way the guy was schussing down the slope of personal destruction, it was a fifty-fifty proposition. Turned out Brock didn’t have to take any special risk. Hurlbert tottered to the door and threw it wide.

  The senator squinted at his visitor through bloodshot eyes. He was smashed but still upright. Brock couldn’t ask for more.

  “Is that you?” Hurlbert asked.

  Brock nodded. He was wearing a fedora over clear lens glasses and a trenchcoat.

  Closing the door behind Brock, Hurlbert looked up at him and asked, “Damn, have you grown some, boy, or what?”

  Brock only laughed, but he was wearing two-inch lifts in his shoes.

  He gestured to Hurlbert to lead the way. In his McLean house, the senator liked to drink in the room he called his study. But the only point of academic interest was whether the old man would drink or spill more of his nightly bourbon. Genteel fellow that he was, though, he had stayed conscious long enough to receive his guest and to put out a second glass so Brock might partake of a drink, too.

  There was enough Pappy Van Winkle in the bottle to be shared.

  Brock had heard how highly regarded and hard to find the brand of bourbon was.

  He was tempted to have a sip, but sensing there was nobody in the house other than himself and the senator, he decided it was best to get on with business and be gone.

  Hurlbert had just taken his seat and finished filling his glass to the brim. He turned to Brock and asked, “Will two fingers do?”

  Brock took a Beretta 92 from his coat pocket and with a gloved finger pulled the trigger three times, shooting Hurlbert in the chest.

  “One finger will do,” Brock said.

  Then he thought: Christ, did I really just say that?

  After not speaking a word. What a dumbass. He’d coached himself to stay silent in case Hurlbert had been dictating his memoirs or some other asinine thing. He clicked the gun’s safety on so he wouldn’t shoot his dick off and jammed the gun back in his pocket.

  He got the hell out of there before he could open his mouth again.

  McGill’s Hideaway — The White House

  McGill and Patti sipped hot cocoa in front of another wood-burning fire. The Michelin Guide would have to find additional stars to rate the cocoa, as they would with most of the treats available at the White House. The woodsmoke from the fireplace was aromatic without being overpowering. The leather sofa was seductively comfortable, as always.

  Despite their deluxe comforts, neither McGill nor Patti felt at ease.

  They’d share the news their respective days had provided.

  Tidings of good cheer were nowhere to be found.

  McGill did bring one hopeful note.

  “Arlo Carsten says this new laser gun the navy has should be able to blast a drone right out of the sky not just blind it. He says it should be a simple matter of rewriting a bit of software so the laser targets Point B on the drone instead of Point A.”

  Patti put her cup down and called the secretary of the navy, told him what she wanted, listened to a reply, issued a new instruction that included bringing a dozen other people into the loop. Told the secretary not to disappoint her and said goodnight.

  McGill took one look at his wife and intuited the gist of the call. “It’s not a quick fix, rewriting computer code for a ray gun?”

  “No, it is not. The weapon you were told about is still not operational.”

  “But there is a beta version?”

  “Yes. The one the secretary of defense thought wasn’t ready yet. It will be deployed overnight. The secretary of the navy was dying to ask me how I’d heard about the weapon, but he remembered who I am.”

  “The commander in chief,” McGill said.

  “That’s right.”

  “So, boss,” McGill said, “are we, in fact, going to look at a new museum and a bunch of phony paintings tomorrow?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “But since your limo might be a target, we’ll take a different set of wheels.”

  “That would be prudent, yes.”

  “Maybe make it an early appearance before the bad guys are fully awake.”

  “I think that would be wise, too. Finish your cocoa and take me to bed, will you?”

  McGill said, “Yes, ma’am. Right away. Before anything else worrisome happens.”

  Billy Goat Trail A — C&O Canal National Historical Park

  The warning sign had it exactly right: 40-Foot Cliff. No Alternative Trail.

  The trail was not recommended for anyone with a fear of heights or who suffered from a poor sense of balance. Absolutely NO bikes or dogs were allowed on the trail. No mention was made about lugging a small corpse up the incline.

  After killing Senator Howard Hurlbert, Representative Philip Brock decided it would be half-assed of him to let Doctor Bahir Ben Kalil live. The good doctor might have been a fervent, if covert, jihadi at the moment, but even tough guys had been known to spill their guts after a few days, weeks or months of experiencing the hospitality of the CIA.

  Ben Kalil could tie Brock to the coming attack on Inspiration Hall. And should Ben Kalil be found out and captured, wouldn’t it be handy for him to have a United States congressman in his back pocket as a co-conspirator? At the very least, giving up Brock would get Ben Kalil a place of confinement with some creature comforts and a promise of no further enhanced interrogation.

  So Brock had showed up at the five-star hotel, where Ben Kalil stayed when in Washington, and said he would drive him to the airport. They could talk about possible future plans on the way. They went to the hotel garage, a corner slot deep in shadow. Helpful fellow that he was, Brock even put Ben Kalil’s Louis Vuitton Zephyr 70 suitcase into his trunk for him.

  Brock was counting on Ben Kalil having designer luggage, something more expensive than most young couples paid for their entire honeymoon trips. He was not disappointed in Ben Kalil’s reaction when he said, “Holy shit, someone has put a gash in your bag.”

  The doctor ran to see the outrage. He leaned over the bag and shouted, “Where, where?”

  Brock hit him a good one on the crown of his skull with a lug wrench, the old-fashioned L-shaped kind. Gave him another clout alongside his temple just to be sure and bundled him into the trunk. Ben Kalil had stood only five-four and didn’t weigh a buck-thirty. He fit neatly.

  Minding the speed limit and other traffic laws, Brock drove to the park. The visitors center was closed for the season. The park cops were suffering budget cuts like everyone else and as Brock cruised past the sign saying the park was closed, with his car’s lights off, no one waved him over to the side of the road and said, “Naughty, naughty.”


  He parked with the car facing the exit and taking one last look around he opened the trunk. He was pleased that the dead man’s thick head of hair seemed to have blotted up all but a few traces of blood and those had fallen on the sheet of plastic Brock had put down. To make sure there was no transfer of blood, saliva or snot to his clothing, the congressman put a plastic bag over his victim’s head and cinched it tight. He pulled Ben Kalil’s body from its resting place and closed the trunk.

  Brock slung the body over his right shoulder, and hoped with all his heart Ben Kalil had packed several bricks of cash in his fancy bag. He’d changed his shoes to a pair of sturdy cross-trainers, not having any lifts in them. His faux spectacles were in the car’s glove box and his trench coat was in the back seat. Now, he wore dark denim jeans, a navy blue sweatshirt and crew cap.

  He had a small flashlight clipped to his waistband, but didn’t think it would be a good idea to carry it lighted in his mouth for the climb. The sky was clear and the stars were bright, but there was only the slightest sliver of a waxing moon to help light his way. Brock told himself he’d just have to concentrate on finding his handholds and footholds; the lack of moonlight would help to conceal his evildoing.

  In a moment of inspired improvisation, he used Ben Kalil’s belt, also Louis Vuitton, to bind the dead man’s right ankle to his left wrist. That turned him into a human loop. Freeing both of Brock’s hands for the climb. With Ben Kalil draped over his shoulders, Brock could pretend that his burden was little more than a bulky scarf.

  Which got really damn heavy by the time he was halfway up the cliff face. Got heavier still with each following foot of upward progress. He started to sweat despite the chill of the night. His heart pounded like a canon salvo Tchaikovsky might have worked into a composition. For one terrifying moment, a wave of dizziness rolled through his head and his eyes blurred.

  He felt certain he was about to topple back to earth from the height of a three-story building. The irony of it, he thought. Ben Kalil would take his revenge after he was dead. But a jolt of adrenaline raced through Brock’s body, all but setting his hair afire. His vision cleared, his balance stabilized and his muscles surged with blood.

  He clambered up the final ten feet of the cliff with the speed and certainty of a mountain goat. He took five steps up the trail and collapsed, Ben Kalil’s remains keeping him from cracking the back of his skull on the rocks. He lay there in the dead man’s embrace until his heart slowed to a pace approaching its normal resting rate.

  A memory came to him: Roger Michaelson smacking him in the balls. Telling him he was no James J. McGill. Turned out that bastard Michaelson was right. If McGill survived the next twenty-four hours, Brock knew he would have to get himself in much better shape. No way was he ready to deal with McGill right now.

  Moving slowly, he got to his feet. He gave a soft hallelujah when he found that his flashlight still worked. Signs posted by the park service ordered hikers to stay on the blue-blazed trail in order to avoid difficult sections. But when Brock reached an area known as Pothole Alley, he once again veered from the straight and narrow of both morality and topography.

  He had to climb over boulders and jagged rocks. The area was also laced with crevasses. The adventurous might hop over these gashes in the landscape, and Brock had thought to do this, too, hoping for just the right spot to dump his former collaborator. But the first cleft he came to was wide enough to give him pause, and then to say, “Fuck it.”

  He eased himself to his knees and shucked his burden. He unfastened Ben Kalil’s belt, spread his limbs and stripped him of his clothing. Taking care, he manipulated the corpse so it went into the crevasse face down. The body banged back and forth on the rocks on the way down. One arm was dislocated almost to the point of being severed, but when Ben Kalil jolted to a stop his face remained hidden.

  It was too cold for bug-life to be active, but Brock thought birds and other scavengers would further obscure the dead man’s identity before anyone in authority could pry his remains free.

  He ripped the labels from the man’s designer clothing and tossed the garments into the crevasse after him. He kept the money he found in a wallet, better than six grand, and Ben Kalil’s identification. Taking care he didn’t slip and fall going down the cliff, he made it back to his car without anybody seeing him.

  He drove back into town, once again being the careful driver.

  Reviewing what he’d done that night, killing two men of high official stature, he wondered how he should be feeling. Guilty or gleeful? He felt neither. He was just going about his plan, to disrupt the life of the United States government as much as he could. Why? Well, because its day had come and gone. Anyone could see that. Hell, the Republicans had made downsizing the government and obstructing its most basic functions their core beliefs.

  He was just trying to move things along faster.

  Well, there was one personal note to his evening’s activities.

  That woman at the cocktail party who was disappointed that he hadn’t killed anyone?

  How would she like him now?

  Lyon — France

  The TGV wasn’t fast enough for Gabbi when she left Paris this time. She used Gianni’s, connections to charter a Dassault Falcon business jet — and charged it to her kid brother. Flying time between Paris and Lyon was only thirty-six minutes. There were times when the compact size of European countries pleased Gabbi no end.

  On the other hand, the flight from Lyon to Geneva, Switzerland took only ten minutes. Gabbi worried about that. She didn’t want Laurent Fortier/René Simonet slipping out of France on her, if he was back in the country.

  If he was elsewhere, her plan was to lure him home.

  Then, thinking of her own home, she called and left a message for the sleeping Tommy Meeker so he wouldn’t think she’d run out on him without a good reason.

  She caught a quick catnap while en route to Lyon and felt a little better for it when she landed. She rented a BMW 528 at the airport and plugged the address Tommy had found for René Simonet into the car’s GPS system. In minutes, she was on her way to Annecy, sixty-one miles away.

  Gabbi had never been to the town so she powered up her iPhone and asked Siri for a quick backgrounder on Annecy. The town was set on the shore of a lake having the same name. It was known for the scenic beauty of its mountain views, woodlands and lake. One of the shortest rivers in Europe, Le Thiou, ran through the town, earning Annecy the title of Venice of the Alps.

  The town had received official tourist classifications as a village in bloom and a town of — perfect — art and history. It sat only a twenty-two mile drive south of Geneva. There was also highway access to nearby Italy.

  Jesus, Gabbi thought, that bastard Simonet had planned well. Left himself all sorts of escape routes in the unlikely event anyone ever caught up with him. But she didn’t fully appreciate the thoroughness of Simonet’s planning until she parked the BMW, got out and took a passerby’s look at the place where the man lived, a four-story peach colored building along the river just off the rue de Marquisats. A stone’s throw from the castle in the middle of the river.

  The place had to be worth millions of euros. Nice digs for an academic who never got around to publishing any of his research. But the building’s pièce de résistance was the shop on the ground floor of Simonet’s hideout: an art gallery.

  Could the man possibly have had any more gall?

  Gabbi took all this in at a glance. She had been trained not to call attention to herself, and walked past at a purposeful pace. Someone who had been called out late at night and was eager to return home. She was barely out of view, had Simonet been looking out one of his windows, when a thought stopped her cold.

  If Simonet fled to Switzerland or Italy, his extradition would be demanded by France, and it would undoubtedly be honored. If Simonet went to Italy he would be returned as a matter of principle, as Italy had made it a priority to recover its own stolen cultural treasures. With Swi
tzerland, the principle would probably be that the Swiss liked to be seen doing the proper thing. In either case, though, there were plenty of villains in Italy and bankers in Switzerland who’d lend Simonet any help he might need to disappear in return for, say, a genuine Renoir.

  Gabbi knew she was going to need help, and lots of it, to put the clamps on Simonet. She found a room at the Hotel de Palais de L’isle and called Père Louvel in Avignon. He’d been sleeping, but he both remembered Gabbi’s voice and knew she must have important news to call at that hour.

  “Est-ce qu'oui, ma fille, comment je peux vous aider?” the priest said. Yes, my daughter, how may I help you?”

  “Father, I’ve found the home of the man who killed your brother, the man who stole the Pruets’ painting.”

  She told him she was in Annecy, had just walked past the thief’s residence. But she would need help to make sure the man did not flee France. Père Louvel said he would come at once.

  “Father, we’ll need more than just the two of us. What I was thinking, those other families you talked to about, the ones who lost their works of art? Why don’t we gather as many of them as possible in Annecy as quickly as we can? They have an interest in seeing this situation resolved, too. And the more people we have on our side, the more likely the authorities will be to do the right thing.”

  Gabbi made that point in case Simonet had cultivated any friendships with the local power structure. She’d bet he had, but if enough families with the stature of the Pruets gathered to form an opposition, they should win the day. Père Louvel understood what she meant perfectly.

  “Madame, votre armée amasse,” the priest said. Madam, your army is massing.

  Chapter 8