by Joseph Flynn
The captain looked at the White House, saw several figures on the roof.
He also saw a large number of uniformed Secret Service officers gathered on the grounds across the street. Celsus Crogher was not one to take chances. Elspeth would bet the SAC had uniforms surrounding the entire White House Complex, in case the mob in Lafayette Square was just a fake-out.
“Your people will back up my people, if it comes to that?” the Metro captain asked.
“I’ll give a whistle,” Elspeth told him.
Then she whispered something into the microphone at her wrist the captain couldn’t hear. But he wasn’t worried now. The feds had assumed responsibility. Anything went wrong, the egg was on their faces. The order went out to the Metro uniforms: Maintain order, politely.
Elspeth made her way to the front row of the crowd.
Flashing only her smile not her badge.
Law Offices of Gerald Mishkin
The anonymous male voice that had alerted WorldWide News to Speaker Derek Geiger’s ignominious ejection from his marital abode belonged to Harlo Geiger’s divorce lawyer, Gerald Mishkin — one of three she kept on retainer. She had them positioned in all the places she did business: Washington, New York and Sarasota. She believed in being prepared for moments that must inevitably come.
Despite taking her own precautions, it ticked her off that Derek had made his own preparations for the dissolution of their love match. Doing her due diligence before she married the speaker, Harlo had investigated each of the two previous Mrs. Geigers, and there was no question in Harlo’s mind that she was by far the hottest babe that sneaking political bastard had ever married.
It bruised her ego that Derek had been able to see past his lust for her and make plans to safeguard his future, both politically and financially. That and the creep not being able to put up a tent pole for her the last time they would ever share a bed. It was enough to make a girl start to doubt her sexual magnetism.
Her choice of having WorldWide News shoot the video of her husband was based on canny calculation. She knew Sir Edbert Bickford had made his enormous fortune by catering to the insatiable appetite of the drooling class to see rich gasbags shot out of the sky. Catching one of the most powerful men in American government in a soap opera moment must have made Bickford quiver in delight.
The only thing that would have made it better was if Derek had been accompanied by a bimbo. Maybe, technology being what it was, they could drop one in after the fact.
The worst thing would be if Sir Edbert decided to sit on the video.
Do a favor for Derek Geiger in expectation of a far greater return.
Say a tax law written to benefit him and no one else.
Harlo couldn’t have that so before coming to see her lawyer she’d visited her publicist who was busy right now spreading the news of the Geigers’ impending day in divorce court. Once media competition came out with the story, WorldWide News would have to scoop them with the video.
As grounds for the divorce, Harlo was going with mental cruelty. The sonofabitch Derek had been living under her roof — eating on her dime, too — and was scheming all the while to dump her. Made him a gigolo. A welfare freeloader. A real prick.
Once again, Harlo’s thoughts turned to the possibility that her husband had found a new girlfriend. Could he really be that reckless? Of course, he could. It came with the job description for a politician. Send Dr. Jekyll to Washington and Mr. Hyde was bound to start making cathouse calls.
Harlo said to her lawyer, “Jerry, do you have a good investigator on call?”
Gerald Mishkin, J.D. Harvard Law, said, “Sure.”
“Let’s have him find out who Derek’s sleeping with when I’m out of town.”
“You have reason to suspect he is? We wouldn’t want to make that charge lightly. When the respondent is the speaker of the House of Representatives, you don’t want to allege anything you can’t prove.”
“You’re happily married, aren’t you, Jerry?”
Caution entering his voice, the lawyer said, “Yes.”
“I won’t snoop into your personal life any farther than that,” Harlo said. “But I’ll say hypothetically that if a happily married man was set upon by his wife, and she was wearing nothing but a smile and the sexiest lingerie she could find, why, that man might be expected to behave predictably.”
Mishkin nodded. Couldn’t help but think of his client in the scenario she’d conjured.
Felt a response that made him glad he had a desk to shield his modesty.
Harlo could still see his face, knew he got the idea.
“Now if that happily married man failed to respond predictably despite his wife’s most earnest efforts, what would a poor girl be left to think? That she’d suddenly become Whistler’s Mother? That wasn’t what she saw in the mirror when she put on her teddy.”
Mishkin’s mind coupled the image of Harlo in a teddy with earnest efforts and he got the point. He said, “Your suspicions bear investigating.”
Harlo said, “I’m glad you think so.”
She could see beads of sweat on his brow. Reassuring if not endearing.
But then the lawyer rose in her esteem.
He said, “Maybe, given the respondent’s prominent status, we should go a step beyond my usual investigator.”
“And where would that extra step take us?” Harlo asked.
“Well, I know this fellow Putnam Shady.”
Harlo grinned. “What a wonderful name for a private eye.”
“He’s a lawyer, actually. But he has a tenant in his basement apartment. Her name is Margaret Sweeney and she’s the investigator.”
“One who can stand up to Derek?”
“Maybe, but her partner certainly can. He’s James J. McGill.”
Harlo Geiger clapped in delight.
“The president’s henchman,” she said. “That’s marvelous.”
So good, in fact, she chided herself for not being the one to think of it.
“Shall I call Putnam?” Mishkin asked.
“Right this minute,” Harlo told him.
Lafayette Park
Reverend Burke Godfrey waited on one of the chartered buses. He hated being back at the scene of his greatest embarrassment, his humiliation at the hands of Margaret Sweeney. He thought it was a big mistake. But the TV producer, Ellie Booker, and his lawyer, Benton Williams, had insisted it would be a brilliant stroke. It would carry the fight directly to the White House, and he shouldn’t worry about last time because that could be spun as a win for him. History was rewritten all the time, he was assured.
Maybe. He thought it was possible for an organization as powerful as WorldWide News to distort perception in his favor. What he was certain of, though, was that he wouldn’t fare well if Margaret Sweeney were in the audience, looking once more like an avenging angel come to smite the charlatans, hypocrites and fools.
He’d told both Benton and Booker he wouldn’t be going out to speak if Sweeney were present. Benton had assured him that the woman would be escorted from the gathering if she had the nerve to show up. Ellie Booker grinned when she heard that. The televangelist knew just what the producer was thinking: a tussle with that beautiful demon being hurled from the throng would make great television.
He’d like to see that himself, once he was sure the earth didn’t open and swallow anyone who tried to lay a hand on Sweeney. If God were on her side — and now Erna’s — Burke Godfrey really was in trouble.
The door to the bus was open and he could hear the sound people getting their levels right. You wanted everybody to be able to hear you, but you didn’t want the volume so loud you bowled people over. You wanted to avoid screeching feedback, too.
Preaching in the modern age took preparation. Godfrey heard an audio technician with a pleasant voice ask, “Everybody hear me okay?”
The crowd roared in response, and their voices raised Godfrey’s spirit.
These were his people and they were still with
him.
No, these were but a few of his people. His congregation numbered in the millions and could be found clear across the country. He could visit any state in the nation, even Alaska and Hawaii, and find good souls who would offer him shelter and a meal, never asking for any recompense except a kind word and a blessing.
Remembering the extent of his flock bolstered Godfrey further.
He heard his lawyer begin to speak. “Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Benton Williams and I have the distinct honor, privilege and responsibility of representing a great man, the Reverend Burke Godfrey.”
The crowd applauded and cheered.
Waiting for a lull, Williams continued, “That is, I’m his lawyer, but I hope you won’t hold that against me.”
A wave of laughter reached Burke Godfrey. It made him feel warm on two counts. His people still loved him and his lawyer would certainly know how to charm a jury, if it came to that. And all it would take would be one juror — say a middle-aged woman who worked at WalMart — to keep him from ever being convicted of anything. Benton would find that juror and —
“As you know,” Williams said, “we gathered here today on the spur of the moment, and the good men and women of the Metro Police Department — and the Secret Service across the street — have the responsibility of seeing that this exercise of our first amendment rights proceeds peacefully. We owe it to them to be cooperative.”
There wasn’t even a murmur from the crowd now.
They understood they’d just been warned.
But so had the cops. Freedom of speech and the right peaceably to assemble were not to be denied to any American.
Satisfied that a reasonable accommodation had been implicitly agreed upon by the two camps, the lawyer concluded by saying, “I think it’s time we all heard from Reverend Burke Godfrey.”
There it was, the all’s clear sign.
Margaret Sweeney was nowhere to be seen.
The reverend stepped off the bus, his emotions balanced on a tightrope between fear and exultation. He stopped in his tracks for just a moment, a knot in his guts telling him to turn and run for all he was worth. But he’d been spotted already and a cheer went up from the congregation. It seized him like a riptide, drew him toward all the smiling people waiting to bob their heads at his every word.
This was what I was born to do, Burke Godfrey thought.
For better or worse, there would be no turning back for him now.
The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses.
He hopped onto the platform with Benton Williams. The lawyer raised Godfrey’s hand and the throng cheered louder. It was wonderful to loved by so many. Burke Godfrey felt young and powerful again.
Until he saw the dark-haired woman standing right in front of him.
She wasn’t cheering, wasn’t clapping. She just stood there watching.
She wasn’t Margaret Sweeney.
But she might as well have been.
Thing One — moving
Every time McGill got into Patti’s presidential limo he felt as if he was entering a bank vault, the doors to the vehicle were that thick. Leo had whispered the specs to him: each door was clad in eight inches of military grade armor. The windows were five inches of ballistic glass. Each door was said to weigh as much as the cabin door on a Boeing 747.
The limousine’s cabin included a sealed air recirculation system.
Thing One weighed in at eight tons.
McGill would bet it took a special hoist to change the oil.
He never could have abided having a limo like Thing One as his regular ride, but he felt warm all over knowing that Patti moved about in the equivalent of Fort Knox on wheels. Not that she had to worry about fender benders. Cops up front cleared the way for her; cops behind made sure nobody tailgated.
The presidential limo had departed from the South Portico entrance of the White House so the first couple didn’t see the gathering in Lafayette Park, but SAC Crogher had advised them that the featured speaker at the impromptu gathering was Burke Godfrey.
McGill asked his wife, “Want me to have Sweetie drop by and throw a scare into him?”
Patti shook her head. “We have to be very careful.”
She told McGill that the attorney general’s investigation of Godfrey had already begun.
“So everything gets done by the book,” McGill said. “It won’t just be the court that will have to approve of what you do, it’ll be the history books, too.”
“The books that aren’t written and published by the opposition.”
“Sir Edbert Bickford and friends.” McGill said. “You do have someone over in the park looking after your interests?”
“Celsus sent your new Secret Service liaison, Special Agent Kendry.”
“She’s good,” McGill said. “I think she’ll be a help.”
“Celsus told me you had her chase away Sir Edbert’s nephew.”
“Is that who the guy was? Yeah, I did. Anything wrong with that?”
“I’ll leave it to the two of you to work that out.”
“Celsus and me?”
“You and Special Agent Kendry.”
“Thanks.” McGill appreciated how Patti did her best to allow him to live as normal a life as possible. “Remind me to give you a foot rub tonight.”
The president laughed.
The motorcade pulled up to the entrance to George Washington University Hospital. Celsus got out of the front seat of Thing One to check with the agents who’d been sent on ahead of the president to make sure all was well. An agent stood in front of each door of the passenger compartment and would not allow either half of the First Couple to exit until the all clear sign was given.
McGill abided the security protocol without demurral.
He always did when Patti’s safety was involved.
She asked him, “What should I do first, see Kenny or have my blood drawn?”
“Ask the guys if Kenny’s awake.” The Secret Service would know. By now, they’d have checked to see if any ne’erdowell was lurking under Kenny’s bed. “If he’s awake, we’ll go right up. If not, you’ll get the blood test done.”
Patti was showing extraordinary compassion and generosity to Kenny by taking time out of the middle of her day. Even so, making the most efficient use of her time was a necessity.
The agent putting himself between the president and the rest of the world flashed a hand gesture: less than a minute before the doors would open.
A thought occurred to Patti. “Did you ever look at that note I gave you?”
“No.” McGill fished around in his pocket. “Didn’t you look at it?”
“I did not.”
McGill rolled his eyes. “I don’t have any state secrets.”
“Edwina said it was from a female acquaintance at DePaul.”
McGill’s hand stopped moving. “Really?”
Patti noticed how her husband went still. “Is that significant?”
“I told you about —” He took the note out and looked at the name on it. “Clare Tracy.”
The president’s eyes widened. “You know Clare Tracy?”
“I’m sure I told you. She was my college girlfriend. How do you know her?”
The Secret Service agents opened both passenger doors of Thing One.
The president and her husband didn’t carry on a conversation across the roof of a limousine. They tabled the matter until they had their next moment of privacy. Each of them wondering about the other’s relationship with Clare Tracy.
McGill wondering why Clare had called him after all the intervening years.
Putnam Shady’s Residence
Sweetie and Putnam sat in the kitchen of his townhouse sipping drinks: ice tea for her, Slim-Fast for him. Putnam would have preferred something with a little moral ambiguity — alcohol — to it but he was slimming down and it was amazing how many calories even a little booze added to the waistline. His impetus to lose weight was the fact that Sweetie wa
s increasingly willing to be seen in public with him. On one sojourn he’d caught their side-by-side reflections in a store window and that had been enough.
He didn’t want to be the schlumpfy guy with the buff woman.
He doubted that he’d ever look as fit as Margaret but he wanted to get close.
Get close to her in as many ways as he could. But now he thought he’d suffered a big setback. Instead of agreeing immediately to Jim McGill’s plan to talk with Derek Geiger and go along with whatever scheme the speaker had in mind — become the president’s spy, in effect — he’d said he had to think about it. He would have turned the suggestion down flat and not worried a bit whether the president or McGill liked it, if he didn’t worry that such a rejection would put him on the outs with Margaret.
Worse, such faint-heartedness might have caused her to move out.
He didn’t think Margaret was the kind to allow for do-overs.
“Are you mad at me?” he asked.
She hadn’t said a word to him all the way home.
“No,” she said.
There was no shading of sarcasm in her reply.
She was being quiet not angry.
Still uncertain of his standing, though, Putnam pushed the issue. “Why aren’t you ticked off? I wasn’t exactly helpful back there at the White House. Jim McGill and the president are your friends.”
Sweetie looked at him. “They are. You are, too.”
“But not in the same way.”
“Now, you’re beginning to annoy me.”
“Sorry.” But the flicker of displeasure actually made Putnam feel better. “You know I have trouble with authority, right?”
“I’ve noticed.”
“I tried to be as restrained as possible with the president. I actually voted for her.”
Sweetie grinned. “You’re really something. If you thought I was mad at you because I wasn’t saying anything, you’re wrong. I was considering the moral dimensions of what Jim wanted you to do.”
“What, take advantage of a guy trying to destroy his wife’s presidency? Seems pretty moral to me. Just not terribly safe. I screw up with Geiger and I could be finished in this town. You consider what happened to three of my friends, and …” Putnam nodded at the sheets of plywood covering the spaces where his living room windows had been. “I might be finished everywhere.”