by Joseph Flynn
“Not even Acting President Wyman?” the Wall Street Journal called out.
McGill had anticipated the question. “Mather Wyman is a good man. He did a terrific job resolving the difficult situation at Salvation’s Path, and he would be a good president. You’ll have to allow for my bias, though, when I say Patricia Darden Grant is in a class by herself.”
Aggie Wu decided that was enough and thanked the newsies for their interest.
She walked McGill out of the room — just as an idea occurred to him.
There was someone he needed to see.
Charlottesville, Virgina
From the cabin in the woods they were now calling home, Todd, Crosby and Anderson all had watched McGill’s press conference. The two former CIA agents looked at each other and then they both looked at Todd.
He asked them, “What do you think?”
Crosby said, “I think you’re right, he won’t be easy to kill.”
“Not impossible, though,” Anderson added.
Todd said, “Is it true there’s nobody who’s impossible to kill?”
Anderson said, “Nah, that’s bullshit. Plenty of assholes die rich and in bed.”
“Stalin died from a stroke,” Crosby said, “in bed, but also in a lot of pain.”
Giving the matter further consideration, Anderson added, “I will say it’s harder to keep a well funded, planned and executed assassination attempt from succeeding these days than it was even twenty years ago.”
Crosby said, “That’s because both information and weaponry are so accessible. It’s just about impossible for anyone, especially big shots, to keep their movements secret, and if you know when, where and how someone will be traveling, and you can lay your hands on the right hardware, you stand a decent chance of making your kill.”
Todd asked, “Without the benefit of study, what would you say the major difficulties would be in an attempt to kill James J. McGill?”
Anderson snorted. “The Secret Service.”
“Those guys are good,” Crosby said. “They learn from history. The Kennedy assassination taught them about long-range shots; the attempt on Reagan’s life has taken away the chance to walk up and plug a guy.”
Todd told them. “I got McGill to come to me alone. He didn’t bring anyone with him.”
The two former agents exchanged another look.
“How’d you do that?” Crosby asked.
“Without saying so, I made him think I’d taken his landlord hostage.”
“His landlord?” Anderson asked.
“He considered the man a friend.”
“You got lucky you were only locked up,” Crosby told Todd.
The psychiatrist stiffened. “What do you mean?”
Anderson said, “What Arn means is hostage takers are a sniper’s favorite target. Pop the sucker and celebrate with a beer. And that’s if the hostage doesn’t get the drop on the guy who grabbed him.” He paused briefly and added, “I bet McGill had a chance to kill you, didn’t he?”
Todd took a deep breath and let it go slowly.
“I thought I had the chance to kill him first, but yes. He could have shot me.”
Both former agents nodded their heads.
“The SOB was quick, wasn’t he?” Crosby asked.
“Did he show a preference for a weapon other than a gun?” Anderson wanted to know.
Todd told them, “He was very quick. I tried to hit him with a baseball bat. I aimed for his ribs, but he got inside my swing.”
Crosby went to the desk in the room and found a pad of paper and a pen. He started making notes. “What about what Olin said? Did he use other weapons?”
Forcing aside his embarrassment, Todd admitted, “He threw a boxful of pushpins at me. Some went into my open mouth, and he swung a stapler at me and hit me on the head.”
“An improviser,” Crosby said, adding to his notes. “A good one is limited only by his imagination.”
“I hate those fuckers,” Anderson said.
Finally, something he and the thug had in common, Todd thought.
Something of a dismaying revelation, really.
Crosby looked at his compatriot.
“You think he’s started?”
“If they’ve told him, yeah,” Anderson said.
“Started what?” Todd asked.
Crosby laid it out. “If your friend McGill knows the three of us are on the loose, he’s hunting us.”
“Lucky for you,” Anderson told Todd, “we like a good challenge.”
The White House — SAC Crogher’s Office
Special Agent Deke Ky had been told to report to Crogher’s office after his meeting with McGill. He was to report anything McGill had said to him. In other words, he’d been ordered to be a snitch. That wasn’t an unusual requirement for someone in his line of work. The bullet catchers needed to know what their packages were thinking, what their next moves might be.
Sharing that information with superiors was a routine matter.
The problem was Jim McGill was anything but a routine package. He wasn’t a politician, an appointee or a government employee of any kind. He was a private citizen and the spouse of the president, the woman who could fire anyone in the executive branch at whim.
Beyond the matter of his clout — which for the first time in over three years he had chosen to exert — McGill was a former cop. He was used to being the guy with the gun who took the risks, who protected other people. It only made sense he wasn’t going to roll over and let someone else force him into a passive role.
Hell, Deke thought, he wouldn’t have put up with that crap either.
Even so, it stung that McGill had literally shown Leo and him the door.
Quick as a wink, too. No appeals. You can’t do things my way? Goodbye.
Now, Deke had been forced to cool his heels waiting for over an hour in Crogher’s office. The SAC was going to be pissed off when he heard what McGill had done, especially the part about allowing only Elspeth Kendry to provide —
A knock at the door interrupted Deke’s train of thought.
Crogher would have just walked in. So who …
He got up and opened the door, professional paranoia requiring him to put a hand on his weapon and be ready to dive out of harm’s way. But it was only Leo. He had a sheaf of paper in one hand.
“I was told I might find you here, Deke,” he said, “and you were waitin’ on your boss.” Leo peeked over Deke’s shoulder, saw Crogher wasn’t present. “Can you spare a minute?”
“Yeah,” Deke said, glad to have the break in waiting for the SAC. He stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. He asked Leo, “What’s up? You get reassigned already?”
Leo shook his head. “I decided to go proactive.”
Deke frowned. “Meaning what?”
“Meaning I quit my job.”
Not much surprised Deke, but that did. “You’re leaving the White House? What are you going to do?”
“Well, I’ve gotten a bit too old to go back to NASCAR, and even if I tried, that would still distress my mother. But before I took on government work, I tried being a driver for rich guys. You know, the kind who might get bushwhacked and need a driver who could get them out of tight spots. Problem was, I couldn’t stand any of those jerks. But, now, what I thought was —”
Deke said, “You quit so you could work for Holmes as his private driver.”
Holmes being McGill’s Secret Service code name.
Leo smiled. “That’s it. I took it to heart when the boss said he wasn’t subject to anyone else’s wishes. Right now, I’ve got enough money put by that I don’t need to work for anyone else. But I do like to drive, so I thought I’d see if he’d take me back if I promise to keep my mouth shut. You know, the way you and I said we would.”
“He’ll take you back in a heartbeat,” Deke said.
“I got my fingers crossed on that one. If he does, I’ll still be in and out of the building here, and I thought
you should be the first to know. Here’s a copy of my resignation.” Leo handed Deke a sheet of paper from the half-dozen in his hand.
Deke read it at a glance. Leo had been succinct. He was leaving his job to pursue other opportunities.
“You sure Holmes can afford you?” he asked.
“I might have to forgo stock options, but we’ll work something out.”
Deke extended a hand to Leo, and the two men shook.
“I’m happy for you, Leo. I’m also glad Holmes will have you behind the wheel.”
Leo didn’t say Deke might consider the benefits of working in the private sector, too.
You had to let people come to decisions on their own.
White House — South Portico
Taking the time to give Deke a heads-up left Leo standing in the driveway watching McGill ride off in the armored, supercharged Chevy that Leo had driven to work that morning. He thought he’d seen Elspeth Kendry in the back seat with McGill. He wasn’t sure who was driving.
Damnitall, now what was he going to do for a ride?
He knew. He’d call Margaret Sweeney.
Some friends of his had souped up that mint-condition Malibu of hers.
Next best thing to the car he watched pull out through the White House gates.
Welborn Yates was behind the wheel of McGill’s Chevy. McGill had done a double-take when he’d seen Welborn at his desk in the West Wing. He’d just come from Galia Mindel’s office to get one of the two reviews of his press room performance that would matter to him.
“I did okay, Galia? The quid was worth the quo?”
She nodded and gave him a long look.
“What?” he asked.
She said, “You were fine. You looked good. You spoke well. You were honest but you set clear boundaries.”
“Didn’t even use a TelePrompTer,” McGill said.
Galia responded, “You joke, but that’s important, too. The truth was, you had much of the same presence, the same command of the room, as the president.”
McGill saw where she was going and got the best laugh he’d had in long time.
“Only if a voice comes to me from a burning bush, Galia,” he said. “Only then would I go into politics, and first I’d whine, ‘Do I have to?’”
The chief of staff smiled. “It is something of a calling.”
McGill decided to see if the moment was right to ask for another favor.
“Do you remember a fellow by the name of Daryl Cheveyo?”
Galia’s recall of names was equal to that of any politician who had ever lived and she was faster on the draw than most of them.
“The CIA psychiatrist who was the agency’s contact man with Dr. Damon Todd, the fellow you put away working your first private case.”
“Technically, a judge put him away. Todd managed to escape recently.”
Galia leaned back in her chair, as if retreating from bad news.
“Is he a danger to you?”
“That’s a possibility. I’d feel better about things if I took the initiative.”
“You want to find him before he finds you.”
McGill said, “I think things would work out better that way.”
“Or you could rely on the Secret Service for a change.” One look at McGill told her that wasn’t going to happen.
“You should understand,” he told her. “You’re just like me that way. You want to chart your own course, not just book passage.”
Galia thought of her recent scheming with three governors.
She still hadn’t told the president about that.
It might be a good idea to have McGill in her corner, should she need an ally.
“What can I do for you?” she asked McGill. “Contact Dr. Cheveyo for you?”
“All I’ll need is a phone number where I can reach him.”
Galia unlocked a desk drawer and took out a laptop computer. She opened the lid so he couldn’t see the screen. Her fingers flew over the keyboard for what had to be a dozen-character password. A few more flurries of touch typing had Galia nodding.
“Daryl Cheveyo,” she said, “took a disability retirement from the CIA. He now teaches at Georgetown University.”
“Huh,” McGill said. “Abbie’s school. Small world.”
“Official Washington is the most incestuous village in the world.” She gave him a phone number. Then she added, “Being an authentic Jewish mother, I have license to tell you to be careful. The president and your family now depend on you more than ever.”
“Thank you, Galia,” McGill said and left.
GWU Hospital, Washington, D.C.
Kenny was busy getting a once over from Dr. Jones when McGill arrived at the hospital. He filled the time by talking with Special Agent Elspeth Kendry in the lounge down the hall from Kenny’s room. McGill kept one eye on Elspeth and the other watching for the summons that his son was ready to receive a visitor.
He didn’t have any reason to think Kenny was doing anything except continuing to make progress in his recovery. Still, he felt the need to see that was the case. It reminded him of the times when his children were newborns. All of them had been healthy, but he’d always wakened at least twice a night to tiptoe over to their cribs, look at them and make sure they hadn’t forgotten how to keep breathing.
Such paternal impulses seemed to have returned with his teenage son. Your kid bumped up against the Grim Reaper, you had to make sure the bastard wasn’t reaching out to haul him back. For now, though, it looked like the old GR would have to wait some more.
McGill turned his attention fully to Elspeth and gave her a quick rundown of what had happened with Deke and Leo. Then he added an evaluation that he hadn’t shared with the two men of his former protection detail.
“You’ve probably already noticed SAC Crogher and I have an element of antagonism in our relationship. Used to be we couldn’t stand each other. Then we reached a point of understanding if not agreement. Now, with the president convalescing and Mather Wyman filling in, Crogher has tried to seize the opportunity to have things his way. You need to know that isn’t going to work.”
Elspeth thought about that and said, “You understand why he’s doing it, right?”
“Sure. It’s what he’s been taught and what he thinks is best.”
“Pretty much all of us would. My guess is that’s why Special Agent Ky fell in line. He thinks SAC Crogher is doing what’s in everyone’s interest.”
McGill did his best to give people the benefit of the doubt, but he’d really been stung by what he considered Deke’s violation of his trust. He felt as if Deke had been playing him for a sucker the past three years.
He tried an approach with Elspeth he thought she might understand.
He asked her, “Do you know when it was that women were first permitted to join the Secret Service?”
She did. “Nineteen seventy-one.”
“Who do you think had it easier, you or that first female special agent?”
“Me. The institution has evolved.”
“Right. Well, I’m the first of my gender in my position. If you’ve read the file on me, and I feel sure you have, you saw that from the start I never described myself as the ‘First Gentleman.’ I called myself the president’s henchman. It was meant both as a joke and a declaration of independence. I was going to keep on being me, not try to become some ideal figure other people might want me to be.”
Elspeth said, “Reading between the lines, you’re saying there will be other men married to other presidents and the institution will have to adjust.”
“Right. I could say I’m doing things for them, too, but I’m not. I’m just saying nobody’s going to put a straightjacket on me.”
Elspeth thought she might be assuming too much, but she decided to try acting as if James J. McGill wanted someone to test his arguments. Might get her reassigned to Tierra del Fuego; she was sure Deke Ky was still reeling from getting bounced. But risk be damned, she didn’t like to be penne
d in either.
“Mr. McGill, do you think you ever would have met someone like Damon Todd if you weren’t married to the president?”
“Possibly but not likely,” he said.
“You handled Dr. Todd without any help, but now he has escaped in the company of two former covert operatives whose records the Agency still hasn’t released to us but has informally described as extremely dangerous. If Dr. Todd were able to enlist their help, how do you think you’d deal with the three of them? On your own, that is.”
“I wouldn’t try to deal with them on my own. I have friends.”
“Margaret Sweeney?”
“First and foremost, yes.” He also thought he might see what Gabbi Casale was doing. Maybe even Odo Sacripant and Harbin. Them and one or two other tough guys he knew. As he was running down a list of names in his mind, he saw the look of doubt on Elspeth’s face.
McGill knew what she was thinking: No local cop was a match for a fed.
Elspeth was adept at reading people, too. Knew she was about to be given her walking papers. Didn’t want to go, not yet.
“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t think the Vegas betting line would favor your side. But I’m willing to listen to a contrary point of view.”
McGill didn’t really feel the need to provide it.
Only reason he did was he didn’t want to get a bad rep and have it rub off on Patti.
“Who got to Speaker Derek Geiger first when he was about to start shooting, you or me?”
“If I remember correctly, sir, Special Agent Latz got there first.”
“He did. He was a lot closer. You were closer, too, but which of us got there first?”
“You did,” she admitted.
“There’s a monstrous thug in a French prison by the name of Etienne Burell. I had help with him from some very able people I can call on again, but who was it that set M’sieur Burell on fire and sent him scurrying into the Seine?”
“You sir.”
“And as you say I subdued Damon Todd when he was a fearsomely muscled specimen. You can also ask Special Agent Ky and SAC Crogher if they’ve ever seen anyone with a faster gun draw.”