by Joseph Flynn
Running against an opponent who knew your secret and wondering if or when she might reveal it — that would require some very deep presidential thought.
Spaneas Import-Export — Baltimore, Maryland
Detective Harlan Greer of the Baltimore Police Department pointed to a red brick industrial building sitting behind a chain-link fence on a stretch of unimproved city waterfront and said, “That’s the place.”
His partner Herb Beekman nodded. He said, “Ring the bell on that post next to the gate. They give you any shit about opening up … I’m gonna be real interested to see how your plan works.”
Sitting in the back of the unmarked police car, a BPD two-way radio in hand, wearing his Air Force uniform, Welborn Yates said, “Thanks for your help.”
Greer said, “Guys like us have to take care of our own.”
Beekman added, “Yeah, but don’t shoot anyone if you don’t have to. You wouldn’t believe this city’s paperwork on that.”
“I’ll try to restrain myself,” Welborn said. He crossed the street and pressed the button as instructed. Doing so produced no sound that he could detect, but his fighter pilot’s eyesight saw the red light of a camera on the near side of the building come on. The camera swiveled on its mount until it was pointing at him.
A voice came through a small speaker next to the call button.
“What?” The one-word query came with an accent.
Greek, if the name of the place meant anything.
“Captain Welborn Yates, Air Force Office of Special Investigations. I want to talk with Teddy Spaneas.” Greer and Beekman had told Welborn that Spaneas was suspected of being the biggest wholesaler of hot cars in town. If anybody could handle a truckload of hot rides, it was him.
“Air Force?” the voice asked.
“The people who drop bombs on our enemies,” Welborn explained.
The guy with the accent found that funny.
“That why you here? You’re gonna bomb me?”
“Yes.” Welborn could be succinct, too.
He saw the lens on the camera telescope. Someone wanted a closer look at him.
“You crazy maybe?”
“Might be.”
“There’s a car with two city cops parked across the street.”
“They’re with me.” Welborn held up his BPD radio.
He overheard a brief exchange in a foreign tongue.
“I don’t think you gonna bomb me. I think you’re a cop playin’ a cop game.”
“I’m an Air Force cop, a federal agent, and you’re about to change your mind.”
“Yeah? Well, you go ahead and bomb us. We got work to do.”
“Don’t do it near any windows, cover your ears and your asses, too. Hiding under desks would be a very good idea.”
“Hey! Are you really crazy? You can’t bomb us!”
“You get one last chance,” Welborn said. “One minute to let me in or send Teddy out.”
Welborn keyed his radio.
Greer answered, “Call in your pals?”
“Yeah, tell them subsonic but up close and personal.”
Allowing for civil aviation aircraft to clear the needed airspace, it would be a two-minute wait. Welborn thought that would work even better. The creeps inside the red brick building would be tense at first. Then they’d start to relax, maybe even crawl out of their hidey-holes and then, bam, three F-15s flying in tight formation would rocket past Spaneas Import-Export.
If one of the car thieves inside was peeking out a window and caught a faceful of flying glass, tough. The Air Force was hunting the killer of three of its own. Welborn was hunting the bastard who had killed his three best friends.
He kept his hands over his ears, and saw that Greer and Beekman had followed suit.
Welborn sensed the formation approach before he saw it, heard the approaching roar while the F-15s were still specks in the distance. A commercial jet engine at a distance of one hundred feet produced a meter reading of one hundred and forty decibels — the noise threshold at which even short term exposure with hearing protection could cause permanent damage.
Physical pain began at one hundred and twenty-five decibels.
Welborn pressed his hands harder over his ears.
At a glance, he saw the windows in the Spaneas building rattling in their frames.
Turning his head, he saw the three Air Force fighters closing fast, growing in size and definition so quickly, it made Welborn think they were going to take him like birds of prey. He wanted to throw himself to the ground. He wasn’t the target, though, the building on the other side of the fence was.
What it must have sounded like to the men inside, he could only guess.
Exercising a level of skill that made Welborn swell with pride, the pilots of the F-15s put their aircraft into almost perpendicular climbs just as they came to the Spaneas property. The forty-six thousand pounds of combined thrust from the F-15’s twin engines could hurl a city bus through the air like it was a ball of paper.
If that crushing power from three successive aircraft had been fully brought to bear against the old red brick building, it would have done a big bad wolf and blown the house down. But the pilots knew their mission was to scare not to kill.
In the wink of an eye, the fighters had climbed so high they were out of sight.
Welborn gave it ten seconds before he pressed the button on the post again.
Selling the plan to his Air Force superiors hadn’t been hard.
He reminded them of the efficacy of air power at Salvation’s Path.
Reminded them that Linley Boland had killed three Air Force pilots.
Asked if they were going to let Navy aviators have all the fun.
The accented voice came through the speaker and told him, “You are crazy!”
Welborn said in an even tone, “That’s what happens when we don’t bomb people. You want to see crazy, that’s what comes next. Or you can send Teddy Spaneas out.”
The gate in front of Welborn rolled open.
Camp David — Catoctin Mountains, Maryland
The two Marines, a first sergeant named Vasquez and a captain named Wolford, looked at the objects James J. McGill had placed on the grass in front of him. Then they looked at each other with the same question in their eyes: Was this guy serious?
Vasquez and Wolford were the men who had volunteered to help the president’s husband get in shape for close quarters combat. The very idea of a civilian in his late forties fighting anybody for any reason had struck them as a joke. They’d anticipated injecting the dude with a quick dose of reality, not really hurting him and, if he was a sport, having a beer with him.
That and having a story they could pass along and laugh about for years.
Captain Wolford said, “May I confirm, sir, just what you have there?”
“Please, call me Jim,” McGill said. “There’ll be fewer inhibitions that way.”
“You don’t want us to pull any punches, Jim?” Vasquez asked. “Is that it?”
The first sergeant looked to be about thirty; the captain was maybe a year or two younger. They’d brought pugil sticks, helmets and rubber knives with them. The things McGill had brought were —
“A shillelagh, a cane with a curved handle and a hockey stick,” McGill said, answering Wolford’s question.
“You’ve used these things before, Jim?” Wolford asked.
“The shillelagh and the cane, yes. The hockey stick is new, but I have some ideas I want to try with it.”
“Never heard of the shill-thing before,” Vasquez said.
“It’s also called an Irish fighting stick. The Irish turned to the shillelagh after the English took the swords away. It’s made of extremely hard wood and as you see has a bulge the size of a fist on one end.”
“If you’re not wearing ice skates, what kind of fight would require any of these things, Jim?” Wolford wanted to know.
McGill shrugged. “The kind where you can’t get to your fir
earm and have to make do with what’s at hand, facing an opponent who might have a gun, a knife or his own blunt instrument.”
The Marines looked at each other again and shrugged.
“I take it we’re not going to fight to the death here,” Wolford said.
“No, we’re all on the same side. Bruises to the body and our pride will be enough.”
Vasquez and Wolford nodded, finding the rules of engagement acceptable.
Interesting even.
To be careful, though, Vasquez asked, “No courts martial, right, Jim?”
McGill nodded. He picked up his shillelagh. It had been a gift from his Uncle Ed, the man who had taught him the merciless, little known martial art Dark Alley. McGill wanted to polish his technique and had asked if he might spar with an enlisted man and an officer.
“How do you want to start, Jim?” Wolford asked. “Both of us at once or one at a time?”
“Let’s start one on one. Is there any big difference between the two of you?”
“Vasquez fights dirty,” Wolford said.
McGill smiled. “And you fight dirtier.”
For his answer, Wolford grabbed a pugil stick and lunged at McGill.
Walter Reed National Military Medical Center — Bethesda, Maryland
The blow that Ellie Booker had delivered to the back of Reverend Burke Godfrey’s skull with the Beretta she’d purloined had been sufficient not only to knock him out but also to land him in a guarded room at the military facility where U.S. presidents went to get their annual physical examinations. Invariably, the chief executives were pronounced fit to continue in office for another year. Burke Godfrey’s outlook wasn’t so sunny. Not at first. He’d been concussed at the time of his trauma and claimed to have suffered debilitating headaches ever since.
There had been some question whether he was malingering — pulling a Yossarian in the words of one DOJ prosecutor who’d read Joseph Heller — to avoid transport to less comfortable quarters, but the medical staff said Godfrey’s pain was real. They were closely monitoring the patient’s cerebral blood flow and pressure within his skull. The abundance of caution was taken despite Godfrey’s injury being classified as mild. A complete recovery was expected.
As if to add to the clergyman’s troubles, when he finally felt up to meeting with his lawyer, Benton Williams, he learned he was being dropped as a client.
“Why?” Godfrey groaned.
That morning, for the first time since Godfrey regained consciousness, the pain in his head had diminished somewhat and his jailers had agreed to call his lawyer. The hope that Williams would find some way to help him slip out of the trouble he was in had elevated Godfrey’s sense of well-being another notch. Now that he’d heard he was being abandoned, he felt the crushing weight inside his head return.
Williams said, “I’m afraid the answer is this simple: You can no longer afford me.”
“I wrote you a million dollar retainer check …” Godfrey couldn’t recall the specific date. The way he felt it was a wonder he could speak at all. “Not long ago.”
“Yes, you did. Looking at the situation you’ve contrived for yourself, though, that wouldn’t be nearly enough. In addition to the charge of conspiring to kill Andrew Hudson Grant, you’re now charged with resisting arrest and three counts of attempted murder of FBI personnel. The U.S. attorney who will prosecute you will also be asking for more than jail time for you; the court will be asked to have you pay for all the expenses you cost the government by resisting arrest. That amount, I’m led to believe, is staggering.”
Godfrey asked, “How can they take more than I have.”
“Burke, I don’t know what possessed you to do what you did. If you’d told me what you had in mind, I would have found the men necessary to overwhelm you and deliver you to the FBI. You would have been so much better off that way. What they’re going to do now is take your church from you. They’ll probably subdivide your property and put up low-income housing and strip malls.”
“Sow the ground with salt?” Godfrey mumbled.
Williams sighed. He’d heard whispers that Mather Wyman had wanted to charge Godfrey with treason before calmer dispositions prevailed. So, who knew? Maybe salt was on the menu.
He told his erstwhile client, “I refunded your retainer, but it went into an account the government has seized so that’s unavailable to you, too.”
“How about …” Godfrey began.
Williams saw Godfrey was really struggling to bring order to his thoughts, not just putting on an act. Maybe there was a defense for him there. Yes, he’d fucked up on a gargantuan scale, but if he was no longer competent to participate in his own defense, maybe a rehabilitative incarceration would be called for.
After that … well, John Hinckley had shot Ronald Reagan, nearly killed a sitting president, and by now he got day passes to see movies and visit his mother. There had even been talk that eventually he’d be freed.
As Williams thought about that, Godfrey gave him something else to think about.
“Who hit me?” he asked. “Not one of my people.”
“No, it was Ellie Booker, the producer for WorldWide News. She said you were holding her prisoner.”
Being very careful about it, Godfrey moved his head an inch to the right and to the left.
“Wasn’t a prisoner.” Now he had the idea that had eluded him a moment ago. “How about we sue Ellie Booker … and Sir Edbert?”
If Benton Williams hadn’t been a master of masking his feelings, he would have beamed. Sue Sir Edbert Bickford? Now there were some deep pockets. If Ms. Booker, acting as Sir Edbert’s agent, had wrongfully caused a lifelong impairment to Reverend Burke Godfrey, why the damages might amount to … enough to pay off the government’s bill. With allowances made to pay appropriate legal fees.
The reverend wouldn’t see any windfall … but wait a minute now.
Hadn’t he read that Ms. Booker had taken the government’s final give-up-or-else call and spoken personally to Mather Wyman, Williams asked himself. Yes, he had. Burke Godfrey hadn’t answered the phone because he’d already been assaulted by Ms. Booker. It could be argued that Reverend Godfrey might have been brought to his senses by hearing from the acting president.
A wonderful legal mosaic formed in Benton Williams’ mind.
Reverend Godfrey wouldn’t stand trial because he wasn’t competent to defend himself.
Ellie Booker and Sir Edbert Bickford would pay for the grievous physical injury caused to Reverend Godfrey.
The good reverend would be confined in a rehabilitative setting.
A large part of the damages the government wanted would have to come from WorldWide News. The DOJ could sue Sir Edbert, too.
Williams would safeguard the damages awarded to his … Oops. He’d just dismissed Reverend Godfrey as his client. Well, that was easy enough to remedy. The lawyer took a binding legal agreement out of his briefcase, something he always carried with him.
“Reverend Godfrey, your idea has some merit. Perhaps I can continue working for you on a contingency basis. I would receive forty percent of whatever damages you are awarded, and I can use those funds to support your defense in any criminal proceedings against you. Would that be satisfactory to you?”
Godfrey gave his attorney a minimal nod. He extended his hand, by way of asking for a pen to sign whatever papers Williams had for him. New hope was lifting just a bit of his pain.
He said something his lawyer couldn’t quite make out.
Williams told Godfrey, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear what you said.”
He leaned in close as the reverend repeated his words.
Taking the signed contingency agreement in hand, the lawyer told Godfrey, “Yes, you’re right. Miracles do happen.”
Spaneas Import-Export — Baltimore, Maryland
Welborn had Teddy Spaneas step out onto the public sidewalk. It was just a precaution. No arrest of the alleged stolen car wholesaler was planned, but you never knew what
might happen. The guy might get careless and blurt an admission of a crime. In that case, he would be hauled in and the leverage they’d have on him would go way up.
As a further act of prudence, and a show of federal-local cooperation, Welborn waved to Greer and Beekman to join him.
“Fuck,” Greer told Welborn, “wish we had the backup you’ve got.”
Beekman said, “Hell, I’d settle for a drone. Sitting in front of a video screen firing missiles at the bad guys, that’s my idea of police work.”
Welborn hadn’t looked at either as they’d cracked wise.
He’d been watching Teddy take in their comments.
When the Baltimore cops fell silent, Teddy looked at Welborn.
“I don’t speak English too good,” he said with a shrug.
“No?” Welborn asked. “Maybe, with all the excitement, you forgot or didn’t understand when I told you I’m a federal officer. You lie to me, it’s just like you’re lying to an FBI agent. I prove that you’ve lied you go to jail. Do you understand that?”
Teddy looked at the two cops. They both gave him crocodile smiles.
“Wish we had that going for us, too,” Greer told Teddy.
“We’ll help our federal friend here and find people who’ll say you speak English just fine,” Beekman added.
“What you want?” Teddy asked Welborn.
“I want the man who killed my three friends.”
Teddy held up his hands in protest. “No, no, I don’t know any —”
“I didn’t say you knew he was a killer,” Welborn said. “This guy also steals cars. Lots of them.”
Teddy took a step backward.
Welborn shook his head. “Too late for that. I’ve already got you for lying to me, pretending you didn’t have the ability to speak with me. I have two Baltimore detectives as witnesses. The easiest way out for you is to talk to me now. Otherwise, things will get much worse, and you’ve just seen what kind of people I have backing me up. You run, we’ll find you, and we won’t let you off with a warning next time.”
Teddy looked like a man about to go to pieces. Every fast twitch muscle in his body was primed for flight, but he couldn’t disregard Welborn’s warning or the look in his eyes. If he didn’t give the man what he wanted, his days were numbered and the number wouldn’t have any commas.