by Joseph Flynn
The world grew more surreal by the day.
To underscore that point, McGill’s cell phone rang. He’d forgotten to turn it off, as he usually did upon entering the Oval Office. He was about to let the call go to voice mail, but he saw it came from Leo, who never called unless a situation was critical.
He asked the president, “May I?”
She nodded. McGill clicked the answer button and said hello.
“Boss, we got one helluva situation over here at the Four Seasons. I’d swung by to pick up Odo Sacripant and give him a ride to the airport, the way we discussed. Well, I pulled into the hotel driveway just ahead of this medium duty box truck. Thing was, it had about three tons worth of a fertilizer bomb inside.”
“Jesus Christ,” McGill said, scaring both the president and her chief of staff.
“Yeah, if that damn thing went off, they’d be working three shifts at the casket factory, and I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
“The bomb was disarmed?” McGill asked.
“In a manner of speaking, yeah. Odo got a feeling something wasn’t right. He stepped out in front of the truck and plugged the driver four times. The guy died with a cell phone in his hand. The feds think it was the bomb trigger.”
It had been that close? McGill plopped down on a sofa.
The president rushed to join him. Galia hovered over both of them.
“Boss, Odo said you gave him the gun he used. That’s what he told me. To everyone else, he doesn’t know a word of English, and his French ain’t all that good either. He did exactly the right thing, but he had to unload on the guy before he had proof of what he was gonna do.”
McGill turned to the president. He was about to tell her another pardon might be needed, but he changed his mind.
“Boss, that ain’t all,” Leo said.
“What else is there?”
“Even without the bomb going off, only one thing stopped that truck from ramming the hotel. Boss, you, me and Deke? We’re gonna need a new car.”
The Residence — The White House
Patti intervened directly before Odo Sacripant was questioned by either the Metro Police Department or the FBI. He didn’t have diplomatic immunity; he had something better. Someone who could make all his problems go away with the stroke of a pen. To law enforcement, however, the president said she knew how to speak the Corsican dialect of French and might be helpful in clearing things up before an international misunderstanding could arise.
McGill, who’d been listening in, told his wife, “You’ve been in politics too long.”
But now he was the one who took Odo aside for a moment and spoke to him privately. Having delivered his message, McGill extended his hand to the Frenchman. Odo shook it and then embraced McGill and kissed him on both cheeks.
The First Couple and their guest had dinner in the family dining room: porterhouse steak, Chicago style mashed potatoes, fresh steamed broccoli and a chocolate sundae. Odo had requested a typically American dinner. As a bow to France, they drank a 2007 Les Lézardes Syrah with their meal.
“When I tell my wife of sharing this occasion with you and M’sieur McGill, Madam la Présidente, she will not speak to me for a month. She already thinks I’m far too lucky for my own good, and this will only confirm it,” Odo said.
The president put a hand on Odo’s forearm. “After saving an untold number of American and other lives today, M’sieur Sacripant, you and Madam Sacripant, and your children, are welcome to dine with us anytime you care to visit Washington.”
Odo beamed. “You are much too kind, but I will accept your invitation because it is certain to fill M’sieur le Magistrat with envy.”
McGill and Patti laughed.
“Yves is always welcome here, too. Have you heard from him after he returned to France?”
“Oui.”
He told them of the capture of René Simonet.
“Unfortunately, he didn’t find the Renoir belonging to the Pruet family, and M’sieur McGill tells me that it wasn’t found at Hiram Busby’s home either.”
“I have an idea where it might be,” McGill said.
“As do I,” Odo offered.
Together they said, “New York.”
Forsaking a digestif, McGill made a phone call to Detective Louis Marra of the NYPD Major Case Squad.
“Would you be up for doing me a small favor or two, Detective Marra?”
“Happy to. What do you need?”
“You think you could take a run past the Duvessa Gallery? Make sure the lights are still on.”
“I can answer that right now. I heard a rumor last Friday that Duvessa was going someplace warm for the rest of the winter. Galleries don’t close in this town on a personal whim like that, so I decided to have a look. Sure enough, place is dark, no lights on at all.”
McGill thought about that. Byron DeWitt had shown him a photo of Duvessa Kinsale with former Special Agent Ozzie Riddick. Riddick was still under arrest and in a hospital bed. Right there in Washington.
“You coming to town soon, sir?” Marra asked.
“Not me, but my friend Odo Sacripant might be there tomorrow. That’s the other favor. Would it be all right if he checks in with you? You might help him get around town a little.”
“Any chance we might recover some stolen art?”
“I think there’s a good chance.”
“Always happy to help out,” Marra said.
The President’s Bedroom
McGill and Patti both hoped they’d be allowed to sleep through the night. McGill was in his pajamas and Patti was still in her bathroom when the phone rang. McGill groaned.
He picked up the phone anyway.
“Dad, it’s me. Patton’s First Army and I are back in town.”
His beloved elder daughter, Abbie. Who needed a small history lesson.
“General George S. Patton commanded the Seventh Army in Sicily and the Third Army in France and Germany.”
“Yeah, okay. I bet neither of his armies had as many guys as mine does.”
Of all his children, Abbie was normally the one who complained the least about the burdens of dealing with her security cocoon. He wondered what was up.
“So you’re safe and sound but disgruntled?”
“Exactly. We all saw what you did on the Mall early this morning.”
The media had not been present, but cell phone videos were on YouTube.
“By all you mean your mother and your siblings?”
“Lars, too.” The second husband of McGill’s ex-wife, Carolyn. The kids’ stepdad.
“Sure, Lars, too. It all worked out okay, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, but the first time Mom saw the video she didn’t realize she was watching a recording. The outcome, what with all those guys and their guns, was in doubt.”
“She was scared?”
“We were all scared, even after we knew you were okay. You could have gotten hurt or killed.”
Abbie was right, of course, but McGill asked, “Would you believe I did it for you, and for Patti?”
“Of course, I would. Why else would you do it? Doesn’t mean we can’t be scared or it won’t give us nightmares.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I felt I had to do it.”
“I know, but we’re all still mad at you.”
“Because of the risk I took.”
“That and we haven’t received our invitations yet.”
“Invitations?”
“To Patti’s second inauguration. We’re going to be there, right?”
“Your mother and your siblings?”
“And Lars.”
“Of course.”
McGill lapsed into silence. He wondered if he should show his kids, his ex-wife and her husband the video the Secret Service had done. In which he and Patti got blown up.
“Dad?” Abbie said.
“Yes?”
“Caitie and I spoke on the phone. She says she’s going to the inauguration, like it or not. She says she’s
already got the movie studio to agree to provide her with a private plane to fly her to Washington. She says she’s going to show up and see who will dare to stop her.”
McGill blinked. He could imagine his youngest child doing just that.
Who would stop her? Other than him or Patti, no one.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Where does Caitie get off behaving like a diva? She thirteen years old. She hasn’t even finished making her first movie yet.”
“That’s just who she is,” McGill said.
“Yeah, well, when Caitie shows up, I’m coming with her. I want to see who’ll try to stop me, and if we both come, you know what Kenny will do.”
“He’ll come, too.”
“Right, and no way Mom will stay home with the three of us there.”
“No, she won’t.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Make sure I don’t forget Lars’ invitation,” McGill said.
Chapter 9
White House Press Room — Monday, January 14, 2013
Aggie Wu, the president’s press secretary, told the assembled newsies that the president and James J. McGill would both be speaking to them that morning but neither of them would be taking any questions. Aggie said she would be handing out copies of both statements, and there would be elaborations on what the president would say. Unspoken but understood by every reporter in the room was that if anybody didn’t like her ground rules, they could be replaced by bloggers.
Like the smart children they’d once been, and occasionally still acted like, the newsies would save their grumbling for when they were back at the office or out tippling a few drinks.
The president entered the room followed by McGill. She stepped behind the lectern with the presidential seal on it. He took a seat at the side of the room.
The president gestured for the newsies to sit and began.
“I’m here today to speak to the American people of two matters of grave importance. The first is the murder of Senator Howard Hurlbert who was shot to death in his Virginia home. This was a vile and cowardly act. The perpetrator will be found, tried and punished as the appropriate court deems fit. The sooner this happens the better it will be for all of us. We will, however, not rush to judgment merely to ease the anger and heartache caused by Senator Hurlbert’s death. The first order of business for those investigating this crime will be to get things right.
“As to who will lead that investigation, it will be the FBI. Killing a member of Congress, by law, is a federal crime. So is killing a member-elect of Congress. So is killing a member of the president’s cabinet or a cabinet nominee. And, of course, so is killing the president or the vice president.
“The law has been written this way to demonstrate that an attack on the individuals who embody the federal government is an attack on the nation as a whole, not just any state or region. There is no question that the FBI is the right law enforcement agency to bring Senator Hurlbert’s killer to justice. I am sure once that has been accomplished the misgivings some people might have about how the matter is handled will be laid to rest.”
The president had no trouble seeing that every reporter in the room wanted to jump up and ask, “What if it isn’t handled to everyone’s satisfaction? What if misgivings persist?” But Aggie had well and truly put the fear of banishment into them. Not a peep was uttered.
“Moving on,” the president said, “I’m sure most of the people in this room are aware there was an incident involving the shooting of a truck driver at a local hotel yesterday. What I now have to tell you, and the country as whole, is the truck was filled with a bomb large enough to have brought most of that hotel down. The driver was a would-be suicide bomber.”
That made all the newsies sit up straight. Now, they were dying to ask questions.
The look on Aggie’s face told them: Better not.
The president continued, “It was a matter of great good fortune that a member of a police service of an allied country was on hand, saw the situation for what it was and killed the driver before he could detonate his bomb. That official was debriefed by the FBI earlier this morning. The information the FBI received was forwarded to government officials in the driver’s home country. We expect the investigation there to lead to those ultimately responsible.
“Mr. McGill will now provide you with a few more details regarding this potential attack. For reasons of protecting the integrity of an ongoing investigation, he will speak only of matters that pertain to his direct involvement.”
The president stepped to the side of the room. McGill took the microphone from its holder, stood to the right of the lectern. Nobody was going to get a photo of him standing behind the presidential seal. Or some creep somewhere would assert he was plotting to be the next in line.
“What I have to say is simply this: I gave the handgun to the foreign police official that he used to kill the terrorist. I did so because the official was in our country on another matter, a personal concern. He expressed the feeling to me that he might be in danger. He is a person who stood at my side in a moment of great danger. I knew he could be depended upon to act responsibly. As it turned out, he acted heroically.
“Even so, I should not have done what I did. I appeared this morning before a local magistrate. Taking the entirety of the situation into account, she sentenced me to forty-eight hours in jail, a suspension of my private investigator’s license for thirty days and a ten thousand dollar fine. I wrote a check for the fine this morning; I will surrender myself to serve my sentence as soon as I’m done here today. Thank you.”
With that, McGill and the president left the press room.
Between learning of a thwarted terrorist attack and hearing the president’s husband was going to jail, the investigation of Howard Hurlbert’s murder got a little breathing room from the media.
Rayburn House Office Building — Washington, DC
Sitting in his office, his feet up on his desk, Representative Philip Brock (D-PA), clicked off his TV, having just seen the president and McGill exit the press room.
“Damn, these people are good,” he whispered to himself.
Howard Hurlbert’s murder, a story he thought would dominate the news for weeks, got shoved aside the same morning the story broke. McGill, in a period of twenty-four hours had not only battered the leader of a large group of armed men, he’d also had a hand in preventing a horrific terrorist attack. Then, the cherry on top, he proved what a regular guy he was by copping to the gun charge and taking his punishment like a man.
The truck bomber must have seen or been warned off of attacking Inspiration Hall. Looking for a secondary target was the natural thing to do. But how he came to choose a luxury hotel where a foreign cop was staying, a guy who just happened to have a gun courtesy of McGill, a guy who stepped up and saved the day, Brock would never know.
He might have ascribed it to divine intervention, if he was a Catholic for anything more than political advantage.
The drones with their missiles were still out there, but the way things were going, Brock would bet the president’s second inauguration was going to come off without a hitch.
Thinking about the brains, ruthlessness and luck of the other side, he wondered if he was overmatched here. The president said she’d get him for killing old Howard. Would she?
Would McGill help her do it?
Brock chuckled to himself. Took out the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon he now kept in his desk. Damn thing had been hard to come by. The taste, though, was worth the effort. He poured himself a glass and raised it.
The great thing about being an anarchist, he thought with a grin, life was never dull.
In a quiet voice, he said, “Game on.”
Union Station — Washington, DC
Odo Sacripant waited to be called to board the Acela to New York. He could have flown but he preferred to see the countryside from ground level. He mused on the bargain he’d struck with M’sieur M
cGill. He’d told the FBI he had been fearful — no simple admission for a Corsican — and in turn M’sieur McGill would take all legal responsibility for the matter.
On the television in the waiting area for the train, Odo had just heard from M’sieur McGill’s own mouth what the punishment had been. Two nights in jail? Unpleasant, but he was sure the president’s husband would be given far from the meanest accommodations. The loss of a month’s income and the ten thousand dollar fine? Something like that would cramp the Sacripant household more than a little.
M’sieur McGill had made it seem like a trifle, the way any strong man would.
Of course, he was married to a very rich and powerful woman.
That eased a great many pains. Still, the next time M’sieur McGill came to Paris, Marie would have to cook for him. Madam la Présidente, too, if she wished to come to dinner.
Business class passengers were called to board the train, and Odo stood.
As he did, the young art expert from Inspiration Hall walked over to him and extended a hand in greeting. Odo shook it and asked, “M’sieur Winger, you have come to see me off?”
Ethan Winger smiled and said, “Maybe. I’ve come to ask if you can identify M’sieur Pruet’s Renoir as genuine, if you find it.”
Odo said, “You make a good point. I cannot, but won’t the police in New York have their own experts?”
“Sure, they will. But Mr. McGill thought you might like to have your own, me.”
“Oui, naturellement. You have a ticket?”
“I do.”
“Bon. Partons.” Good. Let’s go.
And away they went.
Central Detention Facility — Washington, DC
McGill’s first and only jailhouse visitors were Sweetie, Putnam and Maxine. Per his VIP status, McGill was allowed to remain dressed in his own clothes rather than a prison jumpsuit. He also had a one-man cell with Deke Ky or another Secret Service special agent sitting directly outside of it to make sure no jailbird tried to achieve historical notice by sticking a shiv into the gizzard of the president’s husband.