by Joseph Flynn
“You have reason to be concerned,” Sweetie agreed.
Putnam laughed. “You say that like I might be late feeding a parking meter.”
Sweetie could see the bullet holes in the ceiling of Putnam’s living room.
“You handled being shot at very well,” she said. “You got out of harm’s way; you gave your assailant reason to think you were returning fire; you took care not to hit any innocent third party. All in all, you’re tougher than you want anyone to think.”
Putnam smiled, genuinely warmed.
“Stop it, you’ll turn my head.” Of course, that might have been exactly what she wanted. Make him think he was dashing, heroic, James Bond with a pot belly. Send him into harm’s way to foil Derek Geiger’s evil designs. It almost worked. But he was true enough to himself to ask, “What moral dimensions were you thinking of?”
Sweetie said, “The most basic one, really. Is there ever any justification for doing the wrong thing to achieve the right end?”
Putnam turned Sweetie’s question on its head. “Wouldn’t it be immoral to fail to do anything you could to prevent the triumph of evil?”
“That’s how you see your Share America plan? A means to prevent the rich and powerful from taking over the country? More than they have already.”
Putnam nodded, serious now.
“What’s going on here is a twenty-first century American revolution. It’s just getting started. I thought it could be fought with ideas, money and cunning, but apparently any kind of warfare calls for blood to be spilled.”
“I see,” Sweetie said. “I think you’re right about war and blood. But wouldn’t you be acting immorally, by your own reckoning, if you failed to do all you could to prevent what you see as the triumph of evil?”
In the quiet that followed Sweetie’s question, Putnam heard her trap clang shut.
She hadn’t really conned him. She’d just let him paint himself into an ethical corner. By his own reasoning, as she’d just said, he would be derelict if he failed to do everything he could to stop Derek Geiger’s Super-K plan. Including spying on him for the president.
He had to shake his head in admiration.
“You are really good, Margaret” he said. “I’d hoped to live to see the good guys win this fight, but now I’ve got to risk my precious pink backside by snooping on the enemy.”
Sweetie reached out and patted Putnam’s cheek.
“You’ll be fine … but you better call Geiger back before he finds somebody else.”
White House, Chief of Staff’s Office
Galia was reviewing what she was coming to see as Patricia Darden Grant’s bucket list — the policies she wanted to put into place and the issues she wanted to introduce into the national dialogue before she left office — when her phone rang.
The caller ID brought up the name Robert Merriman.
Merriman was the former chief of staff to Senator Roger Michaelson, and the current candidate to take his old boss’s seat in the Senate. Michaelson was taking the big jump, running for the Democratic nomination to be president, with the knowledge that if he didn’t win he’d be out of office.
Galia took the call.
“Good afternoon, Bob. Are you calling to ask for the name of a good criminal defense lawyer?”
Merriman’s laugh seemed genuine.
“Sure, Galia. Why don’t you give me the name of the guy you keep on retainer?”
“Sorry, she defends only innocent clients. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, I’d like fifteen minutes with the president.”
Bob Merriman’s younger brother, Anson, was a lobbyist. Galia didn’t have Anson’s client list at the top of consciousness, but it wouldn’t surprise her if the big billygoat Merriman was trying to gain favor for his junior sibling in return for, say, a large donation to his campaign fund.
“Oh, gee, Bob, there are so many people who need a favor.”
“No doubt, but I’m one of those rare types looking to do a favor.”
“Really? What kind of a good Democrat would do that?”
“Oh, the kind like Majority Leader Wexford and Minority Leader Berman.”
Merriman was plugged in to the chiefs of staff of every significant senator and member of the House. He knew about Wexford and Berman meeting with the president before it happened … and he didn’t mind showing off to Galia. In fact, he liked it.
It went a long way toward providing credibility for what he was about to claim.
“Okay, Bob, you know a few things.”
Merriman said, “One of them is something you’ve already figured out, too, Galia. Namely that the president isn’t going to win reelection as a Republican.”
“She isn’t?”
“No, she’s not. The sympathy bounce she got from standing on principle and losing Andy Grant is long gone. The hardcases on the right are reasserting themselves. They’d rather see our side win than let Patricia Grant have a second term.”
Galia said, “And you don’t want to see your side win?”
“Of course, I do. But there’s only one candidate we could put up who’d be a mortal lock.”
Galia had had the same thought herself, but hearing someone else about to voice it came as a shock.
“You’re not suggesting —”
Merriman said, “Sure, I am, and don’t pretend to be so surprised. The only way Patti Grant wins a second term as president is on the Democratic ticket.”
“Even if that were true,” Galia said, “why would she need you?”
“I’m going to be her Sherpa,” Merriman told Galia, “in return for her endorsement.”
Captain Welborn Yates’ Office
“How come we always meet on your turf?” Rockelle Bullard asked.
Welborn pointed out. “We were already in the building. It was closer.”
The answer, though undeniable, didn’t keep the homicide lieutenant from frowning.
“You weren’t looking for a logical response?” Welborn asked. “You’d have preferred a wisecrack or something else to give you a conversational leg up?”
“You talk to your girlfriend like that?” Rockelle asked.
“My fiancée? All the time.”
“And she puts up with it?”
“She does the same to me.”
Rockelle shook her head in disgust. “Great, we get a suspect to interview, the two of you can tag-team him. He’ll beg for mercy in no time.”
“Come on, Rockelle, play nice. We’ve worked well together before.”
The Metro cop leaned forward, narrowing the distance between them to the width of Welborn’s desk.
“You know and I know this case should be my jurisdiction. I should be the one running it. I shouldn’t have the president and half the federal government looking over my shoulder.”
Welborn leaned over his desk, narrowing the gap between them to inches.
“I have the greatest respect for your ability as a cop but be honest: Would you really want to arrest Speaker Geiger, if it comes to that, or have me do it?”
The two of them looked at each other without blinking.
Until Welborn added, “Because if that is what you want, I’ll step aside and let you make the arrest. No matter who the perp turns out to be.”
Rockelle still didn’t blink, but she sat back.
Welborn said, “I know, it’s tough. You’re wondering just how far your bosses will back you, and how much weight they’ll be able to carry if they do. My boss on the other hand will back me and who’s going to give her a hard time?”
Rockelle had to nod at Welborn’s appraisal of things.
“You got it pretty damn sweet.”
“I’m willing to share. Besides stepping aside, I’ll also step in. If you find someone you’re sure did these killings but think he’s got too much pull for you to risk an arrest, call me, I’ll put the cuffs on him.”
“No matter who?” she asked.
“I’d probably
have a hard time locking up James J. McGill.”
“How about Mr. Putnam Shady?”
“Margaret’s guy? Why would he kill his friends?”
“Not them. Brad Attles, the speaker’s man, Mr. Pivotal. Putnam Shady’s enemy.”
Welborn frowned. He didn’t see that either, but if you looked at it logically …
Rockelle said, “Makes sense, doesn’t it? Evening things up a little for his side.”
“I just don’t see it,” Welborn said. “He’s never struck me as the homicidal type.”
“Lots of folks in this town could win a best actor award.”
There was that, Welborn thought.
“And now the speaker wants Mr. Shady to come work for him? Shady can’t lose, can he? He keeps the faith, he’ll sabotage Geiger’s plan. He gets greedy, he’ll make it work.”
“But he couldn’t know ahead of time the speaker would call on him to replace Attles.”
“Why not?” Rockelle asked. “He and his late friends were the next big things, weren’t they? His friends get killed, who’s left?”
“Now, you’re thinking Putnam did kill his friends?”
“Sometimes I figure things out right while I’m saying them.”
“No,” Welborn said, “he wouldn’t have killed his friends.”
“But with Attles it’s a maybe?”
It was Welborn’s turn to frown. He did entertain a sliver of doubt, but …
“I don’t think so.”
Rockelle folded her arms. “So maybe we better each work our own leads.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“But you’ll still be willing to step in if I bring you proof?”
The answer was a long moment in coming.
Then Welborn sighed and said, “Yes, I will.”
And then he added, “Assuming you share everything you’ve found out so far.”
GWU Hospital
Patti had her blood tested before she and McGill went up to Kenny’s room. They had been informed McGill’s son was sleeping when they entered the hospital, and he was still asleep when the president finished having her blood drawn. Patti said she wanted to see Kenny anyway, just stop in and take a look, say hello even if the greeting went unheard, if that was all right with McGill.
He nodded. His chest was too constricted with fear to speak. He took his wife’s hand and they went upstairs. The Secret Service had the elevator car waiting. Celsus rode up with them. More agents were waiting when they exited.
Even on such a personally trying errand, the president was obliged to smile and nod at the hospital staffers who directed the same gestures to her. One woman, a senior nurse, McGill thought, caught his eye. She steepled her hands in a prayerful manner and brought them to a bowed head. He could only hope the Almighty would hear and act on any entreaties made on Kenny’s behalf.
“Dad!” Kenny called out the moment McGill appeared in the doorway to his room. His voice was only a fraction of its normal booming volume, but his son’s joy at seeing him was as great as any time McGill could remember. Kenny smiled even wider when he saw the president. “Patti!”
Both visitors had to mask their feelings at seeing how pallid the boy looked. McGill went straight to his son’s side, placed one hand behind his head and the other under his back, clasped him and kissed his forehead, which McGill thought felt warm.
“Hey, c’mon, Dad,” Kenny protested. “Even Mom doesn’t get that mushy, and you’re blocking my view of Patti.”
McGill stepped back, feeling it was safe to reveal his face now that his son had put a smile on it. He gestured to Patti to step forward. “Madam President.”
Patti briefly took Kenny’s right hand in both of hers and kissed his cheek.
The boy smiled at his father. “See, that’s how you do it.”
McGill asked his son, “How are you feeling, Kenny?”
The younger McGill peered past his two visitors, saw no one else.
“Just between us,” Kenny began. He paused to look at Patti.
She told him, “It’s okay. Your dad swears like a sailor when we’re alone.”
Kenny giggled. “You’re just saying that.”
“I am, but please tell us what’s on your mind. Most people won’t say boo around me.”
“Okay,” Kenny said. “I was going to say I feel like shit. I’m tired. My bones are starting to ache. Dr. Jones says they’re going to start me on some medicine soon that’s going to make all my hair fall out.”
McGill said, “You know, I’ve sometimes wondered how I’d look with my head shaved.”
Kenny made his eyes cross. “Don’t even think about it. Patti might find someone new.” Before the president could object, Kenny went on, “Hey, did you hear Liesl Eberhardt is coming to see me tomorrow. She and her mom are both going to see if they can be donors.”
“That’s great, Kenny. Someone else you know just had some blood drawn.”
Kenny turned his face to Patti. “You did?”
“I did,” the president said.
“But you’re so busy. How could you take the time, I mean if you’re the one.”
Patti took Kenny’s hand again. “I have good people working for me; they’ll keep the lights on, and I set my own schedule.”
Kenny grinned. “Must be cool being president.”
“The job has its moments.”
Kenny turned to his father. “How’s the case with Sweetie going?”
“We have some work to do,” McGill said.
“But you’ll get it done, right?” Kenny asked. “Because the important part of the way I feel, the only good part really, is that I’m not scared anymore.”
Just hearing that made McGill anxious.
“No, why not?”
“Because, Dad, I’m going to beat this junk, it’s not going to beat me. I’ve got too many things to do. I know what I want to be when I get older.”
“What’s that?” McGill had heard Kenny speak of any number of ambitions. Most of them involved law enforcement or the military with the occasional mention of motor cycle racing and professional surfing.
But his son fooled him. “I want to be a doctor. Not just for some sick kids but for all of them. Dr. Jones told me the way I can do that is to become a medical research doctor. I can’t think of anything better than not only getting well but coming back and kicking this disease’s ass for everybody.”
McGill told his son, “You’ll have my full support.”
“And mine,” Patti said.
SAC Crogher stepped into the doorway and said, “Ma’am.”
He’d been waiting just out of sight, had overheard every word.
The president said, “Yes?”
“The medical team and Mrs. Enquist are down the hall. It’s time for the chemo.” A heartbeat later, Crogher added. “Mr. McGill, may I have just a moment with your son?”
McGill remembered that the SAC had volunteered to be Kenny’s donor, if he was compatible. So maybe he had some other way to be helpful.
“Sure, Celsus.”
McGill gave his son another kiss, this one brief.
The president did the same.
Both said they’d be back to see him again.
They stepped toward the door as Crogher moved past them. Neither McGill nor the president turned to look directly at Kenny and the SAC but both watched from the corners of their eyes. Crogher bent over the boy and spoke directly into his ear, far too quietly to be overheard. Kenny nodded, and Crogher said another word or two.
Then the visit was over and it was time for the chemo.
Q Street, N.W.
Returning to Washington, Hugh Collier called Ellie Booker and told her to come to his D.C. townhouse. It wasn’t a power play, and she knew that he was gay so there was no worry about unwanted sexual attention. But Ellie told him she was at a rally in Lafayette Park, just across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House.
He was about to insist she heed his demand when she clicked off on him, s
aying Burke Godfrey was about to start speaking.
Hugh looked at the wireless phone in his hand. He was sure that if he called back he’d only get voice mail. The bloody nerve of that sheila. He’d had her pay bumped by half and this was the way she treated him. He fumed for ten seconds and then laughed at himself.
Ms. Booker stood her ground with Uncle Edbert; she wouldn’t let some boy wonder from Down Under intimidate her.
Hugh would have to trust that, in her efficient way, she’d call him back as soon as she was able. He’d wanted to see Ellie at his digs because it had finally penetrated his thick footballer’s skull that James J. McGill must have an ally inside Uncle Edbert’s local offices.
McGill heretofore had been buffered from the world at large by light security, one Secret Service agent and one armed driver. But by the time Hugh had arrived McGill had security reinforcements in place that put him beyond the reach of any pesky chaps with microphones, videocams and annoying questions. Coincidence? Not bloody likely.
Some quisling had betrayed Sir Edbert Bickford. Worse, it was likely a matter of principle not greed. Somebody was protecting McGill, a.k.a. the president’s henchman. And the president in question, Patricia Darden Grant, was a heretic to her party’s faithful. She didn’t bow to Wall Street money; she didn’t genuflect to the American mullahs.
Had she done both, Uncle Edbert would have been her champion not her nemesis.
There was only one conclusion to draw: WorldWide News had been infiltrated by an undercover liberal. From the dossiers Hugh had read, this was just the sort of political espionage that might be expected from Galia Mindel. Had Hugh made his suspicions plain to his uncle, the purges would have begun immediately. The bloodletting would have been of a scope and intensity to set old Joe Stalin’s ghost to cheering.
The madness might even engulf Hugh, but he was a man whose own father had thrown him into the street. He knew enough to hedge his bets against any decline of fortune. He lived modestly when he couldn’t charge his indulgences to a company account. The lion’s share of his salary had been placed in numbered accounts in tax havens around the world.