Jim McGill 05 The Devil on the Doorstep

by Joseph Flynn

  Now, as they faced a second four-year term in the White House, he thought, “Why us?”

  In all his years as a sworn police officer, he’d never done anything worse to anyone than flatten a nose. Since moving to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he’d killed two men, one of them intentionally, the other to save Galia Mindel’s life.

  Well, if he wanted to rationalize things, he’d saved his life, and Sweetie’s and Elspeth’s, when he threw a madman out a window. So he could justify his actions in both cases. That didn’t keep him from having the faces of both John Patrick Granby and Damon Todd come to mind when he wasn’t busy thinking of something else.

  Having those two to contend with for the rest of his life was bad enough, but with hostile crazies threatening to kill Patti and his kids it wasn’t hard to imagine adding to his body count. The name Harlan Fisk was at the top of his potential hit list.

  Goddamn the man.

  He involved his own child in a plot to kill the president and thought she should skate on that or McGill’s kids would pay with their lives? The SOB needed to be firmly instructed on the error of his ways. As stupid and vile as his actions had been, the lesson might well be terminal. The thing was, McGill didn’t dread being the one to administer it. If Fisk didn’t see the light in short order, show actual penitence, McGill thought there might be satisfaction if not pleasure in putting him out of his miserable existence.

  Make an example of him that would not soon be forgotten.

  You come at me and mine, this is what will happen to you.

  That thought made McGill muffle a harsh laugh with his hand. What was that saying Pruet had shared with him? The devil on the doorstep. McGill had the satanic bastard sitting on his lap, purring like a tabby cat as McGill’s rage stroked him.

  McGill had told the White House switchboard the president would not be taking any calls that night. But the phone he held in his hand started to ring. Someone who had the direct line and knew the coded suffix for the president’s bedroom. A very short list. McGill tapped the answer button in less than a second.

  He saw that Patti remained asleep.

  He looked at the caller ID. Welborn Yates.

  “Yes,” McGill said softly.

  “Mr. McGill? Sorry to disturb you. I just heard from a military friend on the Mall. Harlan Fisk and his militia are surrounded. We have air support overhead. But they haven’t put down their weapons.” Welborn took a deep breath. “The brass on the scene haven’t relayed this information to the White House yet, as far as I know, but Fisk says his people are going to shoot it out with our guys unless … unless he gets to talk to the president or you.”

  Easy choice, McGill thought.

  “I was just thinking of Mr. Fisk,” he said. “Tell him I’ll be right over.”

  Four Seasons Hotel — Washington, DC

  Yves Pruet was softly playing Chopin’s Nocturne in C-Sharp Minor. The piece had been written for the piano, but the magistrate managed it quite nicely on the guitar. He knew his playing did not rise to the level of a virtuoso, but it was not far from it. The guitar M’sieur McGill had lent him had a lovely tone. A Martin, borrowed from a young fellow at the White House, he recalled. Pruet would have to get his name, send him a token of appreciation.

  He glanced over at the living room sofa where Odo lay drowsing. After returning from their walk that evening, neither of them had decided to retire for the night, as if they’d both anticipated that their sleep might be disturbed. Pruet had continued the discussion of going into the private investigations business and affiliating himself with M’sieur McGill.

  “Of course, I will need help,” he told Odo.

  His bodyguard had yet to commit himself to the idea.

  “I will find you a wonderful secretary,” his friend replied.

  “I was thinking of someone with practical experience.”

  “A police secretary then.”

  “Very well, if you are not interested,” Pruet said.

  “I would have my own office?” Odo asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Slightly smaller than yours naturally, but with an equally good view.”

  “Perhaps just a bit more off center.”

  “My salary will be respectable?” Odo asked.

  “Assuming anyone wants our services, yes.”

  “We will both take all the usual holidays?”

  “As any good Frenchman would,” Pruet said.

  Odo nodded in approval. “I think we could make a go of it. Associating ourselves with M’sieur McGill will lend us a good measure of prestige, but …”

  Odo paused to think.

  “But what?” Pruet asked.

  “We will need a woman. No, two women.”

  Pruet looked at his friend, not quite sure what he was proposing.

  Odo told him. “We will need a female investigator to provide us with a woman’s insights into our investigations, and we will need someone to run our office.”

  “D’accord,” Pruet said. “You are a born executive.”

  “I have my moments,” Odo allowed.

  He stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes. Pruet picked up the guitar and began to play. Softly. At a level that couldn’t possibly disturb any other guest of the hotel. Also, his selection of compositions was meant to aid sleep not disrupt it.

  Just look what it did for Odo. Finishing the Chopin piece, the magistrate felt as if he might finally be ready to turn in for the night. Then, of course, the phone rang.

  He picked up the receiver, saw that Odo now had his eyes open, was sitting up, ready to jump into action in a heartbeat.

  “Oui?” Pruet said.

  “M’sieur le Magistrat?” a feminine voice said. “SAC Elspeth Kendry. M’sieur McGill, est-il avec vous?”

  SAC Elspeth Kendry calling. Is Mr. McGill with you?

  Speaking English, Pruet replied, “I’m sorry, special agent. He is not here. Is something the matter?”

  Pruet heard the note of irritation in her voice as she said, “Sometimes Mr. McGill forgets to leave word of his movements.”

  The magistrate could easily imagine the problems the president’s henchman would present to those who sought to be his minders.

  “If I should see him, would you like me to let him know you called?” Pruet asked.

  “Thank you, no. I’ll find him and have a chat soon enough. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  “C’est rien,” Pruet told her. It’s nothing.

  “Who is not here?” Odo asked.

  Pruet told him, and asked, “Odo will you please turn on the television? A news channel.”

  Odo found CNN, an American station available in Paris.

  The magistrate and his bodyguard saw a view of two groups of soldiers, one surrounding the other. The men encircling the others looked tense but professional. The trapped group seemed scared and likely to either shoot or bolt. Hovering helicopters cast harsh light on all those below. Individual faces came into view, many of them revealing twitches and tics.

  A caption at the bottom of the screen read: Standoff on the Mall.

  Then the camera angle changed abruptly and a troubled newsman appeared and told his audience, “Our aerial reporting crew has just been ordered to leave the area, the sky, over the mall by the military. We’ve been told that it’s for reasons of their own safety, so they won’t risk being shot down by gunfire or surface-to-air missiles. But without an overhead view and with access to the Mall being denied at street level, there will be no news cameras to cover this crisis.”

  “This does not look good, Yves,” Odo said, turning off the TV.

  “Not at all,” the magistrate agreed. “So where else might M’sieur McGill be?”

  The two Frenchmen headed for the Mall, Pruet making Odo leave his gun behind.

  Southeast Gate — The White House

  SAC Elspeth Kendry, muttering to herself, headed out of the White House grounds in an armored black Chevy Suburban. She wondered if her predece
ssor Celsus Crogher had once been a bronzed god, leached of all his pigment by four years of having to deal with James J. McGill.

  How the hell could the man who was married to the president, and the father of three young children, charge off without notice into what might turn out to be the worst act of armed conflict on American soil since the Civil War? That was what SAC Kendry wanted to know. Christ, for all she knew, Madman McGill might intend to draw all the hostilities his way.

  That’d be just like him.

  It wasn’t just McGill who’d made her crazy. What the hell was she going to do about newly reinstated Special Agent Donald “Deke” Ky? She’d tried reaching him. Her call went to voice mail. Shit. That wasn’t ever supposed to happen with one of her agents.

  Then again, she hadn’t checked her email before running out of the building.

  Maybe Special Agent Ky had resigned again. Given her two seconds notice. Was once again a gumshoe working directly for the man whose neck she wanted to wring. Only she knew she couldn’t take him. As tough and well-trained as she was, McGill was bigger, stronger and knew more dirty-fighting tricks — techniques, if you wanted to be polite — than anyone she’d ever met. And that was saying a lot.

  She supposed she could just shoot him. Not fatally, of course.

  Just hobble him. Slow him down a little.

  That might put a crimp in her career plans, though.

  Shit, shit, shit, she —

  Slammed on the brakes as she was cut off just before she reached the Hamilton Place access road to Fifteenth Street. Some suicidal jerk in a Mercedes SLK hardtop had stopped directly in front of her. Elspeth had her door open and a hand on her sidearm when the driver’s window on the SLK went down and she saw Deputy Director Byron DeWitt with his hands meekly raised in a gesture of surrender.

  Elspeth heard footsteps charging up from behind her. She saw three uniformed Secret Service officers coming her way to provide backup. She shook her head and help up a hand. “It’s okay,” she said, “he’s one of us, almost. FBI.”

  Those last three letters told the uniforms all they needed to know.

  Uttering perfectly audible deprecations, they returned to their post.

  Turning back to DeWitt, she found him out of his car and standing three paces from her. Elspeth said, “I’m in a helluva hurry here. You want to get your car out of my way?”

  DeWitt said, “Sure, right away. I’ve just come from hearing the confession of an entirely believable plan to assassinate the president, but I’ll find someone else to tell.”

  Elspeth ground her teeth.

  “Move your car and get in mine. You can talk while I drive.”

  “All right. Where are we going?”

  “The Mall. They’re throwing a party and we’re going to crash it.”

  The Residence — The White House

  Galia Mindel didn’t know where she was when her secretary woke her. She lay on her office sofa right where she’d fallen asleep. Once that fact registered, Galia knew something awful must have happened. She wouldn’t have been disturbed otherwise.

  Without saying a word, Ginny, her secretary, turned on the television.

  The sound was off but the caption, Standoff on the Mall, told the story.

  Galia asked, “Does the president know?”

  “I called the Residence. Blessing told me Mr. McGill left a strict do-not-disturb order.”

  “Damn,” Galia said. Then she caught the underlying message. “What do you mean left?”

  “Blessing didn’t explain, but SAC Kendry called a few minutes earlier to ask if Mr. McGill was with you? I said no, and she cursed none too subtly. I thought I’d better see if anything was going on out there in the world.”

  Meaning beyond the White House perimeter, Galia knew.

  She looked back at the TV screen. Had no doubt where McGill was.

  Galia said, “Thank you, Ginny. You did exactly the right thing. Hold down the fort.”

  Her secretary nodded, but Galia was already hurrying off to the Residence. Like anyone with a cursory knowledge of the Second World War in Europe, Galia knew that Germany lost the opportunity to launch an effective counterattack on the Allied invasion of Normandy because nobody wanted to wake a sleeping Hitler so he could give the go-ahead.

  Galia didn’t think matters were quite that momentous now, but who knew?

  Maybe the High Command in Berlin had thought: No big deal; we’ll get ’em tomorrow.

  She bullied her way past the Residence staff and the Secret Service. She caught absolutely no grief from the president for waking her up. The two of them sat side-by-side and watched an anchorman sum up the situation for two minutes.

  Then the president said to Galia, “Get me a line to whomever is in charge on the Mall.”

  The Mall — Washington, DC

  Deke Ky showed his Secret Service badge to get McGill and himself past the outer perimeter of Metro Police lines at the Mall. Civilian federal law enforcement personnel did double-takes when they saw McGill, but none of them tried to stop him either. The frontline Special Operations Command Marines needed a word with him.

  “Who’re you again?” First Lieutenant Quentin Cole asked.

  McGill patiently repeated, “James J. McGill.”

  “And who’re you with?”

  “The president of the United States,” Deke snapped. He was tense enough, helping McGill get through this minefield of government personnel. He didn’t need the military gumming things up. “Mr. McGill is the president’s husband.”

  McGill nodded. He told the lieutenant, “Mr. Fisk asked to see me. He’s also threatened to kill my children. I’m here to change his mind.”

  Lieutenant Cole looked McGill up and down. “Are you armed, sir? I ask because we know that Fisk fellow …” Cole inclined his head. “That’s him right over there. He has an assault rifle in his hands and a knife fastened to his leg.”

  McGill looked at Fisk. Judged him to be a bit younger than he was. Maybe an inch or two taller, thirty pounds or so heavier. He watched the way the man shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back. Saw how he carried his carbine. Took note of the tension in his hands as he opened and close his fingers around the weapon.

  The guy was on edge. Knew he stood a better chance of dying than seeing another sunrise.

  McGill said, “I’m unarmed, Lieutenant.”

  Deke leaned forward and whispered to McGill, “SAC Kendry just arrived at the perimeter. You want to make your move, you’d better do it quick.”

  McGill nodded and told the young Marine officer, “I’m going to talk to Mr. Fisk now.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to change his mind, sir?”

  “I’ll either persuade him, Lieutenant, or I’ll beat him into the ground.”

  Lieutenant Cole saluted McGill and received one in return.

  Then McGill headed straight for Fisk.

  Lieutenant Cole told Deke, “That sack of shit over there tries to use anything but his bare hands to defend himself, I’m gonna smoke his ass.”

  Deke didn’t place much faith in the power of persuasion either.

  He said, “Me, too.”

  Florida Avenue — Washington, DC

  Sweetie and Putnam had brought his niece — their prospective adopted daughter — home the previous evening. Maxine had been anything but eager to leave her grandparents, Cissy and Emory Jenkins, but the old folks had told her she’d have to get ready to go back to school soon. Well, to enroll in a new school, that was.

  The thought of losing all her school friends, too, reduced Maxine to hysterics.

  Sweetie longed to comfort the girl, but Maxine wanted no part of her. Tall, blonde and formidable, Sweetie looked nothing like her pert African-American mother. The very idea of being turned over to Sweetie terrified the child.

  The situation might have been hopeless, had it not been for Putnam. He stepped up when no one else could. He took a seat on the Jenkins’ living room sofa and extended his
arms to Maxine. She stared at him a good, long time. Sweetie thought she might flee from the room, maybe even the house, but with tears rolling down her cheeks she told Putnam, “You look like my daddy.”

  Putnam said, “I do?”

  He saw Cissy and Emory nod. Maxine did, too.

  “I didn’t know that,” Putnam said. “The last time I saw my brother, he was a baby. That was when my parents left me.”

  Sweetie saw Putnam’s eyes moisten.

  “Why’d they do that?” Maxine asked.

  “They were in trouble,” Putnam said. “They did some bad things and had to run away. They didn’t want me to have to run, too. So they left me with your grandma and grandpa.”

  “You never got to see your mama and daddy again?” Maxine asked.

  Putnam shook his head, and Maxine ran to him. He embraced her and she said, “I’m so sad, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, it’s very hard, but Margaret and I will do everything we can to help you.”

  Maxine gave Sweetie a dubious look, then buried her face in Putnam’s chest.

  “Can we at least live in Baltimore?” the girl asked.

  “We can visit every weekend,” Putnam said. Looking at Sweetie, he added, “And your friends can visit us in Washington.”

  Sweetie nodded.

  Maxine looked at her grandparents and asked if they’d visit, too. Cissy and Emory promised they would. After a tearful goodbye, the three of them left for Washington. Sweetie drove. Putnam sat in back with an arm around Maxine.

  They put Maxine in their guest bedroom. Sweetie took Putnam aside as Maxine put up some posters and otherwise decorated her new quarters. Sweetie said, “Maybe I should stay downstairs in my old place just for a while. Give you time to help Maxine adjust.”

  Putnam said, “No damn way. Max will come to need you soon enough, and I need you right now. Max will come around, Margaret, I know she will.”

  They took the child for a walk, bought her dinner and an ice cream cone.

  Sweetie didn’t want Putnam calling the girl Max unless she was agreeable.