by Joseph Flynn
“So everything is peachy.”
“Well, it’s always fun to frustrate pushy reporters.”
Crogher had to agree with that.
“But to show you how sharp Leo Levy is, he called me to say he thought he saw someone checking out Holmes’ car outside GWU Hospital this morning.”
Crogher stopped his rooftop patrol and looked at his subordinate.
“Someone made an approach to the vehicle?”
“No, sir. Just eyeballed it a beat too long. Like he might know it’s more than your average Chevy sedan.”
“You’re checking on that.”
“We are.”
“Why didn’t Levy report through Special Agent Ky?”
“He called us first because the special agent was with Holmes. I’m sure he’s passed the word by now.”
Crogher nodded and resumed his patrol, for all of two steps.
Then something caught his eye and he looked north to Lafayette Square. Instead of the usual smattering of tourists moving in random ways, a large number of people was entering the park, seeming to march several abreast. Crogher asked, “What the hell is going on over there?”
Kendry saw large, charter buses, at least a dozen.
People were pouring out of them.
It was a public park but both the SAC and the special agent got the feeling an organized assault was about to be launched on the White House. Not with weapons. With electronic media. Both saw TV cameras being set up in the square.
Kendry said, “Permission to —”
“Go,” Crogher told her, “go.”
White House, The Residence
Edwina Byington gave the president a note as she exited the Oval Office.
“For Mr. McGill,” Edwina said. “The switchboard verified the caller’s identity. She was a former college classmate of your husband in Chicago. I was asked to route the message through you, Madam President.”
The White House phone operators fielded four thousand calls a day on average, Monday through Friday, and a smaller number on weekends. One of their duties was to screen crank callers. If a message was deemed legitimate the chances were extremely small it was some adolescent-minded radio personality playing a prank.
“Thank you, Edwina,” Patti said, “I’ll see Jim gets it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Patricia Darden Grant placed great value on a right to personal privacy, especially where her husband was involved. But there were times when she, like anyone else, could get just a bit curious. A female former classmate? Someone raising funds from DePaul alumni? Or was it a personal message? The president might actually have peeked at the note had Galia not been accompanying her to the residence.
As it was, she stuck it in a pocket and gave it to Jim unread as soon as she saw him.
She’d trust him to tell her what it was about, if she needed to know.
The other four people waiting in the room, McGill’s Hideaway as it had been dubbed, had risen when she’d entered. She nodded politely to Captain Yates, who knew enough by now not to snap to attention in an informal setting. She gave Margaret Sweeney a brief hug. She shook hands with Lieutenant Rockelle Bullard of Metro Homicide when they were introduced.
When Sweetie presented Mr. Putnam Shady to the president, she looked him right in the eye and said, “I understand you intend to seize control of the government, Mr. Shady.”
Putnam looked from Patti to Galia and back.
Neither of them seemed amused.
Putnam didn’t wilt. He told Patti, “It’s either me or Derek Geiger.”
GWU Hospital
Kenny McGill had been drifting in and out of sleep all morning. Each time he woke up, it seemed harder to do. Like he was getting too weak to open his eyelids. He wondered if that was part of dying. He knew by now what his diagnosis was: acute myelogenous leukemia. Dr. Jones had told him he was in a serious fight and he had to be absolutely determined to win it. Kenny’d had the feeling that if Mom hadn’t been standing right next to the doctor she would have told him he was fighting for his life.
Thing was, he was so darn tired. He didn’t see how he could fight at all.
At least he wasn’t hurting. He’d been warned that might happen. His bones and his joints might start aching. But so far that hadn’t been a problem. Dr. Jones said she’d give him medicine for the pain, if he needed it.
He’d also been informed the medical team was considering a treatment called chemotherapy for him. Dr. Jones said this treatment was really strong, because it had to be. It would be hard on him. But it was a possible way to get his blood and bone marrow back to normal. The thing that scared Kenny most about the chemotherapy was that it must be so awful just the thought of it had made Mom turn away so he wouldn’t see her cry.
But he’d heard her sob all the same.
That was when he’d wished Dad had been there … but he’d told everyone they had to keep busy with their own lives. He didn’t want his problem spoiling things for everybody else. He still felt that way, but maybe he could have someone call Dad, ask him to come by.
Calling for his father was what Kenny had in mind when he woke up this time.
At first, he thought he was alone, and that scared him. All the other times someone had been in the room with him, his nurse at least. Usually, there were doctors, too, some of them he didn’t remember seeing before. Mom was there most times. Abbie and Caitie had been there once. Abbie was trying hard not to cry; Caitie looked so angry Kenny thought she might try to shake the leukemia out of him.
But now he didn’t see —
“How are you feeling, young man?”
The voice came not from the side of his bed near the door where people usually stood or sat. It came from the other side, where the room’s windows were. Kenny turned his head and saw the big old guy with the white hair.
Kenny tried to answer him, but all he could get out was a short croak.
The old guy — Zack, that was what he’d said his name was — brought Kenny a glass of water and held it to his lips. The water was cool and as it trickled down Kenny’s throat he couldn’t remember anything ever feeling better. He bobbed his head when he had enough.
Zack told him, “Don’t worry, no one has forgotten you. There’s a whole gaggle of doctors and nurses standing just down the hall talking with a lady I guess might be your mother. They let me in because you were kind enough to put me on your visitors list.”
Kenny had met Zack only the one time before, but he was very glad to see him now.
He said, “I’m scared.”
Zack extended a large hand and Kenny grabbed it with both of his. For someone so old and who had said he was sick himself, Kenny was surprised how strong and warm Zack’s hand felt. Just holding it made him feel better.
“Being scared is the first step toward fighting back,” Zack said.
“It is?”
“Sure. The doctors told you they need your help, I bet.”
Kenny nodded.
“Well, they weren’t kidding. Fighters survive a lot more often than people who just go along for the ride.”
“Are you still fighting?” Kenny asked.
Zack smiled and it seemed to Kenny as if his big hand grew warmer.
“I’ve got a round or two left in me.”
“How old are you, really?”
“I’m seventy-eight.” Zack seemed to think about that. “There was a time I thought that was pretty old. Now, I wonder how I got here so fast.”
Kenny said, “It does seem old to me. Right now, eighteen seems old.”
Zack put his other hand around both of Kenny’s.
For the first time since he’d been in the hospital the boy felt safe.
“Here’s what you do, young man. You think of all the things you want to do with your life. Think of big things. Grand things. You fix your mind on them. Hold them bright and clear where you see them. Tell yourself that neither this disease nor anything else will stop you from achieving your
goals. Do that and your chances will be much better.”
Kenny smiled and within minutes fell asleep again.
The next time he awoke Dr. Jones was back.
She told Kenny people were lined up down the hall to see if they could donate to him.
But if they didn’t find a donor soon, they’d have to begin the chemotherapy.
McGill’s Hideaway
Putnam Shady told the president, “Plain and simple, just about everyone in Congress is for sale, and they sell themselves for pennies on the dollar. You might have to donate tens or hundreds of thousands of dollars, maybe even millions if you’re trying to move a bloc of votes, but you get back hundreds of millions or billions in government contracts or custom-tailored tax breaks. That’s the reality and everyone in this room knows it.”
Patti bided her time, but Galia shook her head.
She said, “Everyone knows that’s the way it’s been for a long time, but nobody has ever seized control of the government.”
Putnam smiled. “Not individually, not yet, but the lobbying community is justifiably called the fourth branch of government. But who the hell elected us? No one. When do our terms of office expire? Never. Can we be expelled or impeached? No.”
McGill said, “You can be indicted, tried and locked up.”
“That’s true. But we’re better at reproduction than Hydras. Cut off one head, you won’t have two grow back, you’ll have ten.”
Patti said, “Please explain how Derek Geiger and you plan to consolidate the power of the lobbying community.”
Good at detail, Putnam explained in the order the president had requested.
He outlined for her Geiger’s Super-K plan.
Rockelle Bullard leaned forward to listen closely.
When Putnam finished, the president asked, “So Speaker Geiger intends to use Mr. Attles as his firewall?”
Putnam looked over to Rockelle Bullard. She knew what he wanted and nodded.
“He intended that, yes,” Putnam said. “But Lieutenant Bullard informed me earlier today that Mr. Attles was shot to death late last night or early this morning.”
McGill had heard the news earlier, but he listened with all the others as Rockelle provided an outline of what the police had learned thus far, not that it was much.
“I almost feel silly asking all of you to keep this confidential, but please do,” she said.
Patti reassured her, “We will all respect your request, Lieutenant.”
The president’s tone of voice made everyone understand an executive order had been issued.
Putnam continued, “Geiger and Attles were two of three pivotal figures. You’re the other, Madam President. You don’t need Geiger to raise money for you. You can do that yourself or spend your own money. Your independence, your power and your variance from party orthodoxy make you a threat to Super-K. You can count on your party running a number of challengers against you in the primary elections.”
Both Patti and Galia sat up straighter, hearing that.
Everyone saw the reaction, but Putnam understood it.
“You’ve already heard that from someone,” he said. “But maybe you don’t know quite all of it. Having you knocked out in the primaries would be the preferred outcome, but Geiger isn’t counting on that. What he wants his straw men to do is to poison the base against you so badly that even if you are nominated, large numbers of Republican voters will stay home or vote for a third party candidate. Geiger’s plan is to try to make the electoral hill you have to climb so high that even you won’t be able to do it.”
Galia said, “You want us to believe that the Republican speaker of the House would prefer to see a Democrat elected president?”
Putnam told her, “Not just any Democrat, a get-along-and-go-along guy. The speaker, through … whoever he finds to replace Attles, will be investing millions to support his preferred Democratic candidates. You know, the conservative members. Guys who are closer to him ideologically than you are, Madam President.”
Galia thought Putnam’s information sounded plausible, but she had one key question.
“How do you know all this?” she asked.
Putnam sighed. “I’ve already explained this to Margaret, Mr. McGill, Captain Yates and Lieutenant Bullard, but the long and short of it is I was taken into the confidence of the senior partner of my firm. So were Mark Benjamin, Bobby Waller and Erik Torkelson.”
Patti and Galia were unfamiliar with the names Putnam had mentioned.
Rockelle filled them in. “Madam President, those three men were also found shot to death on K Street. They were all lobbyists. Metro homicide is working their cases.” Turning to Putnam, she added, “It would have been helpful to know all this sooner.”
“Sorry,” Putnam said. “After Erik died — he was the first — Mark, Bobby and I decided we had to keep on at all costs. I’m trying to do that, and not get shot myself.”
Galia said, “You have your own agenda, Mr. Shady.”
“We call it Share America. It’s modeled after mutual insurance companies in which the policy holders are also the company owners. It shifts lobbying from a corporate basis to a populist basis. We’re going to work for pocketbook issues that better the lot of the middle class and those striving to become middle class. We … I plan a rollout of ten million stakeholders paying an annual membership fee of one hundred dollars.”
“Nets you a billion dollar startup,” McGill said.
“Yeah,” Putnam said, “A modest amount for a commercial endeavor but more than enough to buy majorities in both houses of Congress.”
Galia said, “What’s to stop the special interests, those multi-billion dollar businesses you alluded to, from outspending you or even buying a majority of shares in Share America?”
Putnam appreciated the chief of staff’s cynical turn of mind. He decided he’d like to get to know her better. Maybe offer her a job someday.
“We thought of both those things,” he said. “Nobody can buy more than one share of Share America. Nobody can contribute more than a hundred bucks per year. That way nobody gets to be the eight-hundred-pound gorilla. As for being outspent, I’m counting on the fact that Share America will be outspent initially. I’ll use that to expand our base.”
McGill thought he started to grasp the true genius of Putnam’s plan.
“You get to the point where both sides are throwing so much money at politicians, people are going to gag and say enough’s enough. There’ll have to be reform.”
Putnam didn’t agree, not entirely.
He said, “Well, maybe, if you get a couple of new justices on the Supreme Court. But what my friends and I had in mind was more like having masses of people say to the pols, ‘What’s the matter, our money’s not good enough for you?’ Any pol who kept taking donations from Geiger’s side will be spotlighted and knocked out of the box by someone the people paid for.”
The president looked as grim as anyone could recall seeing her.
“Why should the American people have to buy any officeholder?” she asked.
Putnam said, “Because, Madam President, that’s the only way we’ll get a government of, by and for the people again.”
That left everyone silent long enough for Rockelle Bullard to raise her hand like a schoolgirl with a question. At first, no one knew whose attention she wanted. But when Putnam pointed a finger at his chest, she nodded.
“You said Mr. Bradley Attles was what, pivotal, to Speaker Geiger’s plan?”
“Yes, because he was both a major power in the lobbying community and he was Geiger’s personal lawyer. If any investigator were to accuse the two of them of doing something illegal, they would have used attorney-client privilege as a shield against the investigation.”
Rockelle asked, “So what happens now that Mr. Attles is gone?”
Putnam smiled. “My guess is the speaker is trying to fight off a heart attack while looking for the best possible replacement.”
“You have any id
ea of who that might be?” Galia asked.
Putnam was about to offer a handful of names when he remembered that he hadn’t been returning his phone calls. He took his phone out of his pocket, and brought up the list of the calls he’d missed, and right there was …
Derek Geiger’s name and number.
Putnam extended the phone so everyone could see who had called him.
It took only a moment for all present to figure out the reason for the call.
Putnam said, “Guy must be nuts, if he thinks I’m taking Attles’ job.”
Lafayette Park
A platoon of uniformed Metro cops was waiting for orders about what to do with the unexpected influx of hundreds of people off a dozen chartered buses. The seven-acre park was a public space, open day and night to anyone who cared to use it. The Peace Vigil people had been camped out there continuously since 1981, but they were exactly what their name suggested, peaceful, and after thirty years were more of a local institution than a protest movement.
The newcomers were unknown to the police captain who had to decide what to tell his troops: maintain order or disperse the gathering. If dispersal were to be his choice, he would need a lot more cops. But the last thing he wanted was to have a riot on his hands, tear gas clouding the sky, skulls being cracked. There was no way that would look good on his personnel record.
The Metro captain was greatly relieved when a dark-haired woman in a good business suit came up to him and showed her Secret Service ID.
“Captain,” she said with a smile, “if it’s all right with you, why don’t we take a listen to what these people have to say?”
A microphone stand had just been placed on a small platform.
The Metro captain asked, “Are you taking personal responsibility for whatever happens, Special Agent?”
Elspeth Kendry said, “Sure. My boss sent me to check things out. He’s on the roof across the street watching us right now.”