by Joseph Flynn
Thurlow took the Whaler away from the dock out onto the open water. The waves were so small they were barely worthy of the name. The distance to Grand Cayman was only ninety-two miles, but for someone who grew up in a place as dry as Nevada that was a lot of water to cover.
Jackie leaned back and tried to relax. He sipped his beer, not intending to drink much. Be a real downer if he got tipsy and he was the one to go over the side. But the cold beer, the hot sun and the cool breeze from the movement of the boat was a very pleasurable combination.
If he knew how to do more than dog paddle, if there weren’t any goddamn fish in the ocean that liked to eat people, he might have been having a good time. Still, it was a lot better than the damn flight from Jamaica. But he heard Thurlow humming to himself just like those pilots had.
He couldn’t complain about that, though. The guy was just going about his job. Willing to pop another brew anytime Jackie asked for one. Not feeling he had to make conversation to entertain his passenger.
The way Jackie had things planned, he’d find the bank that let his money get taken and stroll past it. Wearing his hat and shades. If he got the feeling anybody was watching for him he’d just walk on by.
The next step was to find Carina Linberg. Grand Cayman had to be small enough it shouldn’t be hard for him to spot Irish Grace. He’d talk to Carina, see if he could get her to drop in at the bank and plead his case. If she said no to that, he’d ask about her doing that charter trip they talked about. Ought to be cheaper, being part of the way there already.
If she said no to that, too, he’d have to sneak aboard her boat, jump her before she could get that gun of hers pointed at him. Maybe take Thurlow’s knife with him, that or something else, make her take him to Venezuela.
If she came to see he had some good points, maybe she could become his partner. They’d sell her sailboat, use the money to set up house and start a new hustle. He still liked the stealing-cars-to-order idea. If Carina wanted no part of him or his plans, well she’d be writing her own end.
Thurlow called out to him from the driver’s console, “Ready for another, Mr. Richmond?”
Jackie looked around. Couldn’t see anything but water. But the beer had tasted great and it helped him to relax. He said, “Why not? Just one more.”
Hart Senate Office Building — Washington, D.C.
“That dirty English bastard,” Senator Howard Hurlbert said, clicking off the television in his office. The senator and his chief of staff Bobby Beckley had just watched a replay of Ethan Judd’s interview with Sir Edward Bickford.
As usual, the senator had misjudged the situation, Beckley thought.
If anyone was a danger to Hurlbert, it was Ethan Judd.
He could expose all the times the senator had stepped on his own wienie.
Ask the country, “You really want to make this guy president?”
It’d be all over but the crying. Beckley was wondering half-seriously if he knew anyone who could arrange a fatal accident for Judd without it blowing back on him. Where the hell was a master hitman with a fatal disease and a desperate family when you needed one?
He’d just have to keep thinking.
Meanwhile, he poured Parker’s Heritage bourbon for the senator and himself. He took an ounce neat. The senator required three ounces of the good stuff and one of water to calm him down. Beckley told the old man that he used the water from the office toilet tanks to make drinks. That always got a laugh, but it was true. He figured anyone who would dilute fine bourbon deserved no less.
Clicking his glass against the senator’s, Beckley said, “Sir Edbert will come home, believe me.”
The senator was not yet ready to believe. “He as much as called me a vain old fool.”
“He’ll make it up to you. Right now, he’s just playing a game.”
“You’re saying he’s sucking up to the attorney general despite denying he was doing any such thing.”
“Of course, he denied it. What else could he say? ‘I’m taking the only shot I’ve got here.’”
Hurlbert smiled. “No, he couldn’t very well say that.”
Beckely continued, “Sir Edbert’s got his nuts in a twist. He’d like to keep from losing them altogether. I don’t think he’s going to manage that. Once he’s got nothing left to lose, he’s going to come back to all his old pals with a vengeance. Until then he’s got to put on a front and search for some pretty country that doesn’t extradite rich people.”
That idea also tickled the senator. Sir Edbert being forced into exile.
After the Limey bastard had sucked up to all the people who mattered in Washington.
Beckley saw the boss was off in fantasyland again.
He yanked him back before he got too much of the good stuff in him.
He told Hurlbert, “The White House Press Office put out a release on Burke Godfrey’s death. Said he was a prime candidate for a stroke. His conditions being he was old and fat, his blood pressure and cholesterol were higher than the Rockies and his heart couldn’t keep the beat to waltz time.”
Hurlbert was agog, half his drink gone now.
“The White House said that?”
“My words, Senator. Their language was a lot drier. The release also said it was delayed until Michael Jaworsky could give Erna Godfrey the details in person.”
“We couldn’t blame them for that. It was the only courteous thing to do.”
Beckley said, “It was an extraordinary thing to do for a federal prisoner doing life for murder. The administration obviously is feeling skittish about the situation. So that’s the bruise on their shin we’re going to kick as hard as we can.”
“What do you mean?” Hurlbert asked.
His drink was almost gone now.
Beckley knew he’d have to repeat the plan several times before the senator was able to voice it in tones convincing enough that people would think it came from him.
The chief of staff told the senator, “We’re going to say both Mather Wyman and Patti Grant are responsible for Reverend Godfrey’s death.”
“I thought a stroke killed him. You can’t give someone a stroke. Can you?”
If only, Beckley thought.
“We’re going to say the White House caused the stress that brought on the stroke. More than that, we’re going to say that President Grant and Vice President Wyman are persecuting all fundamentalist Christians. Best of all, we’re going to say they’re going to take away everyone’s bibles.”
The very thought was enough to make Hurlbert pour another drink.
“They wouldn’t dare,” he said, holding his glass up pugnaciously.
Beckley said, “Of course, they wouldn’t. The thought would never cross their minds, but that doesn’t mean we can’t accuse them of it.”
Before touching his glass to his lips, Senator Hurlbert enjoyed a rare moment of both insight and lucidity.
He said, “What you’re saying, Bobby, is I have to say all this. Say it knowing it’s a lie. The Justice Department is already coming after us. If I say the things you just told me I should say, they’ll be coming after me.”
Beckley smiled. “That’s how we’re going to make you a hero, Senator. We already know how many people go crazy thinking the government is coming for their guns, when that’ll never happen. Ten times that number will go nuts thinking Washington is coming for their bibles. You’ll be the only presidential candidate telling the fools they’re right. You’ll be the only presidential candidate telling them you’ll save their bibles. The White House won’t have the nerve to come after you. Even if they do, even if they lock you up, people will tear down the jailhouse brick by brick with their bare hands and carry you off on their shoulders.”
Howard Hurlbert saw that picture in his mind with megapixel clarity.
He saluted it with his drink.
Bobby Beckley marveled at how easy it was to sell bullshit to people.
Once you got them to drink toilet water.
Camp
David — Catoctin Mountains, Maryland
Kenny McGill caught the football he’d been tossed and said, “You’re still seeing that Putnam guy?”
Sweetie caught the return pass. “You saw him arrive with me, didn’t you? You think that was just a coincidence?”
“Well, he did come to see Patti, right?”
“No, he came to talk with your dad.”
“He did?”
That was what Putnam had told Sweetie, and she knew better than to question him. About political stuff anyway. Some things you simply had to take on faith. Other things … well, once you were married, that would be privileged information.
“You think that’s strange?” Sweetie asked.
She usually gave straight answers to questions from the McGill kids, but there were times she’d play the old cop trick and toss a question back at them. Thinking about that made Sweetie wonder about kids in terms of her and Putnam. She might still have some slight chance of getting pregnant, but there was no question that her best ova were behind her. The thing to do might be to see if they could adopt.
She’d have to talk with Putnam about the idea.
Kenny interrupted the mindless cycle of toss and catch with an observation.
“You’re wearing a ring, Sweetie.”
“I am.” She caught the ball and held up her left hand. “You like it?”
Kenny stepped over and gently moved Sweetie’s hand this way and that.
“It’s cool. Good looking but not prissy-sissy.”
Sweetie laughed. “That’s good because I never saw myself as prissy-sissy.”
“No, you never were. You know what I thought, though?”
“What?”
“I thought someday I was going to marry you. Not Putnam.”
Sweetie put an arm around Kenny’s shoulders. They started walking back to Aspen Lodge.
“Don’t you think I’m just a little old for you?”
“What does age matter? I’m growing up and you haven’t changed a bit in all the time I’ve known you.”
Sweetie smiled. “Prunes for breakfast and regular exercise can take a girl only so far. I’m getting older and it won’t be long before it starts to show. By the time you’re ready to get married, I’ll probably be sitting in a rocking chair on my front porch.”
Kenny laughed at the idea. “That’ll be the day.”
“Okay, probably not. But your dad and I won’t still be charging around after bad guys. We’ll be … doing other things. Life moves in cycles, kiddo. Smart people roll along with them. Besides all that stuff, I thought there was a girl named Liesl who’d caught your eye.”
Spots of color appeared on Kenny’s cheeks.
“There is. I think she likes me, too. Now. But I don’t know who she’ll grow up to be. With you, I do.”
Sweetie could understand how a teenager who’d been forced to confront his own mortality would appreciate some sense of certainty.
“I don’t know if Liesl will be the girl for you, Kenny. I don’t know if any guy your age can know that, but I can give you a clue how you can find out who’s right for you.”
Kenny looked up at Sweetie. “What’s the clue?”
“There’s no better way to find a good match than to look for someone you can’t stop talking to, someone you never get tired of listening to, someone you can start a conversation with and know it’s going to last as long as you’re both alive.”
“Talking?” Kenny asked. “That’s it?”
“Talking and listening. Sharing good news and bad. Exulting and lamenting. Arguing and apologizing. Saying good morning and saying good night. Saying I love you at every possible opportunity.”
“Well, you put it that way,” Kenny said. He went up on his toes and kissed Sweetie’s cheek. “I love you.”
“Practice is good,” Sweetie told him. “I love you, too.”
They went inside Aspen Lodge.
McGill and Putnam met in the kitchen of Aspen Lodge.
Keeping things strictly informal.
Two guys sipping a beer or two.
No legal privilege of confidentiality attached to their conversation. They had to be careful about what they said. They could talk directly about ShareAmerica. That was to be a lobbying effort and there were no restrictions on talking about such things. Americans for Equity, however, was now a registered Super PAC. Coordinating strategy with the president’s campaign was verboten.
If things went the wrong way for the president in the upcoming election and, say, a new and hostile attorney general were ever to look into the conversation between McGill and Putnam, he likely would be unable to make a case. McGill had no formal role in the president’s campaign. Ergo there was no legal reason Putnam couldn’t talk to him.
What, if anything, McGill learned from Putnam and passed on to his wife would be a matter protected by marital privilege.
Still, Putnam could be compelled to reveal what he’d said to McGill. From there, the whole world could reasonably infer what McGill had passed along to his wife, the president. If that revelation occurred after the president lost the election, it would cast a pall on her legacy. If somehow it was made public that Putnam and the president had used McGill as a conduit to skirt regulations before Election Day, that might cost Patricia Darden Grant a second term.
So they had to choose their words wisely.
Putnam started with what they could talk of openly.
“ShareAmerica is up and going viral already,” Putnam told McGill.
“Really? That’s great. What can you tell me?”
“I can tell you that if Darren Drucker was running for president, nobody else would stand a chance, no disrespect to your wife.”
McGill said, “Being a multibillionaire with the common touch is a good starting point, I’ll give you that.”
Putnam continued, “Anyway, I was out in Portland at a bar called the Bridgeport Brewing Company with some new friends and told them about ShareAmerica. Told them what it was all about and how Darren Drucker was involved. The next thing I know, not only did all three of my new friends sign up, so did every last person in the bar, customers and employees both. The owner of the place fronted advances on salary for employees who requested it. And then …”
McGill knew how to play along. He asked, “And then what?”
“Everybody who had a laptop or a smart phone, which was everyone there, got in touch with their friends. One guy put up a Facebook page and PayPal account for ShareAmerica on the spot. We now have donors from all fifty states and from Americans overseas. Turn on the evening news tonight. See if we aren’t the top story.”
“That’s wonderful,” McGill said.
Following Putnam’s directions, he took out his own phone and signed up for ShareAmerica.
Once that was accomplished, Putnam gave McGill a look.
Hoping it communicated they were about to move on to more sensitive matters.
McGill nodded. He understood.
“The thing about ShareAmerica that’s so great is it inspires a whole approach to getting things done in the right way. You look at what you want to do, to accomplish, and it becomes the model. Work with the greatest number of people of goodwill and you’ll certainly prevail.”
McGill nodded his head as if he understood.
But he was still sorting out what Putnam had told him.
The greatest number of people of goodwill? Was he talking about the voters who’d see things Patti’s way? That would be the most basic reading of the phrase. Maybe too basic. Someone sophisticated enough to set up ShareAmerica wouldn’t think in such simplistic terms.
So what other people of goodwill would Patti have to work with to achieve her goals?
The answer came swiftly: Congress.
The current members had done their best to stifle presidential initiatives.
So keep the president, change the Congress. That was Putnam’s recipe for success. He was telling McGill that his Super PAC was going to push can
didates who would be sympathetic to Patti’s ideas and, of course, voters who’d put such people in the House and Senate would vote for Patti for president, too.
What that left for Patti was to beat her two opponents, Mather Wyman and Howard Hurlbert. McGill could see that happening. Splitting the vote among three candidates for president had the potential for making things trickier, but McGill was sure Galia Mindel was already making plans for dealing with that.
If Patti could win — and McGill felt good about that — and get a cooperative Congress elected to back her up, he wouldn’t feel so bad about spending another four years in the White House.
“I think you’re right,” he told Putnam. “The greatest number of good people will prevail.”
Sweetie and Kenny, hand in hand, entered the kitchen just then.
Sweetie said, “I could have told you that.”
Seeing his oldest friend again reminded McGill he still had his own obligations.
Damon Todd still at large. Locking him away again couldn’t wait.
George Town Harbor — Grand Cayman
The Stealth 540 flybridge yacht glided into the harbor looking like a shark. It was white with a sharply raked bow. The shadowed space between its twin catamaran hulls was a dark smile, the kind that preceded a fatal, crunching snap of jaws. At fifty-six feet long and capable of speeds even military craft would strain to match, lesser vessels were wise to scurry from its approach.
Cayman Island Port Security, however, was always happy to see the arrival of what amounted to a boatload of money. As long as the money wasn’t drug sourced or involved with terrorist activity, the island’s banks were ever eager to receive new deposits. If the visitors had come to call with the simple intent of having a good time, and were able to pay the island’s prices for it, well, that was the other pillar of the local economy.
In the case of either big depositors or big spenders, the welcome mat was always out.