by Joseph Flynn
Clare looked over at Deke. He was still looking the other way, but he might be listening in their direction. As the room was mostly empty, there wouldn’t be much else for him to hear. Clare turned to McGill and said softly, “I wonder if I’m going to be found out.”
“Regarding what?” McGill asked, keeping his voice down.
“Please do your best to understand, Jim, but I’ve gone behind the president’s back and fiddled with her plan, the one that neither of us would know who made the donation to Kenny. When I talked with Dr. Jones, I asked her to see to it that my donation goes to the little girl who needs it. I asked her to keep that to herself. She agreed.”
McGill thought he knew what Clare had been thinking, but he wanted to hear it from her. “Why did you do that?”
“Because if anything were ever to happen to Carolyn — and I pray it never does — Patti would be the next in line to be Kenny’s mom, not me. She should be the one who saves him.”
McGill refrained from telling Clare that a save was no sure thing.
“You’re also making a statement about you and me,” he said.
“Yes, I am. I love you and always will, but thanks to me things didn’t work out for us. If they had, I’m sure you wouldn’t let anyone else come between us.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“And you won’t let anyone come between you and Patti.”
“No, I won’t.”
“So let’s not blur things. Thanks to you, we got to see each other again, and I still get a chance to save a life. You can tell Patti about our secret when you’re old and gray.”
McGill smiled and kissed Clare’s hand.
“If it hadn’t been Patti —”
“I know,” Clare said, “and if you personally need the transplant of any organ I can spare, just let me know.”
McGill smiled. She took his hand and kissed it.
McGill’s Chevy
McGill took one last glance at the Ritz-Carlton and then turned his attention to the two men sitting in the front seat of the Chevy as it headed to the White House.
“Either of you guys know anything about a plastic handgun manufactured in Austria — not a Glock — that has a multi-syllabic, presumably German name?”
Leo shrugged. “Not me, boss.”
Deke was thinking, but he came up blank, too. Given his duties, though, he asked the obvious question: “Does this concern a threat to you?”
“Don’t think so,” McGill said.
He trusted both Deke and Leo with his life. So he didn’t worry about them keeping secrets. After three years of working for him, they’d proved that anything they talked about in the car or elsewhere stayed between them. That couldn’t have been easy for Deke; SAC Crogher undoubtedly wanted to know any stray thought that passed through McGill’s mind.
He told Deke and Leo about the K Street lobbyists being killed with guns that matched the calibers of ones stolen from their homes. He added the information he’d gained from Harlo Geiger about the speaker claiming that his plastic semi-auto had been stolen.
“Speaker’s hardly any old lobbyist,” Leo pointed out.
“No, he’s the guy who wanted to have them all roll over and do tricks for him. My thinking was the killer might want to go after bigger game. That’s why I asked Harlo if her soon to be ex-husband had lost a gun.”
“Did you ask if the speaker filed a police report on the weapon being stolen?” Deke asked McGill.
He said, “Yeah. Harlo said she thought he did.”
“Give me a minute,” he said. He took out his service BlackBerry and started searching databases not available to the general public. Maybe two minutes later, he shook his head.
“No report of the speaker filing a report on a stolen handgun with the Capitol Hill PD, the Metro PD, or any police agencies in Maryland, Virginia or his home state of Florida.”
McGill thought about that. “Harlo said she put two other handguns in the speaker’s luggage when she sent him packing. I don’t think she’d overlook the plastic gun.”
“Maybe she kept it,” Leo said, “for personal reasons.”
McGill considered that, too. “I didn’t get the feeling she lied to me, and when she felt she’d been wronged, she turned to a divorce lawyer not to violence.”
“In which case, keeping a gun belonging to her ex could be a real devious move.” Leo said.
“Could,” McGill conceded. “But I think the speaker still has it. Maybe he didn’t report it because the weapon isn’t something he should have had in the first place. Fully automatic weapons are still banned; maybe what he has is off-limits, too.”
“Or maybe it’s the rounds the weapon fires that are illegal,” Deke said. “Illegal gun, illegal ammo.”
McGill nodded. “But how would he get either of those things into the country.” The answer came so fast it showed how many of political Washington’s folkways he’d internalized. “A congressional junket. Speaker Geiger went overseas on some mission of vital importance the United States, and in a spare moment he picked up a weapon and/or ammunition that would make him the envy of all his shooting buddies.”
“How would he get that stuff back into the country?” Leo asked. “Even someone like the speaker couldn’t just ask the customs people to look the other way.”
Deke had the answer. “He could wrap it up nice and neat and ask somebody in the State Department to put it in a diplomatic pouch for him. Tell that person it was something else.”
Both McGill and Leo liked that. They watched as Deke plumbed the depths of his BlackBerry again. The special agent nodded at what he found. “Three years ago, the speaker went to Brussels to talk to NATO allies about picking up more of their own defense tab. He also visited Germany, Austria and Italy.”
McGill thought about that.
“I wonder if he’s ever fired the damn thing. I’ve heard stories of plastic guns blowing up in the shooter’s hands.”
Deke agreed. “I’ve heard the same thing from ATF people. Said the failures can be catastrophic. Frames and magazines were blown out. Bolts and springs went flying. Sharp pieces of plastic caused deep cuts. Bad stuff.”
“Probably didn’t hit what they were shooting at either,” Leo said.
McGill was still working things through. “I thought if the speaker’s weapon had been taken it might be used against him, but if he still has it, means to use it —”
“He’s got somebody in mind he’s not so partial to,” Leo said.
Putnam Shady’s name came immediately to McGill’s mind.
Chapter 6
Saturday, August 20th, Rep. Garner’s House, M Street, NW
Representative Zachary Garner woke up shortly after three a.m., needing to pee. He was surprised that he’d been able to sleep at all. He was certain the next time he lost consciousness it would be forever. The tumor in his skull was growing ever larger and more insistent. By the time the doctors had found it, there was no hope of extrication by surgery. The malignancy had become too intimate a part of him.
He hobbled to the bathroom and putting a hand on the sink managed to lower himself into a sitting position on the toilet so he would neither soil himself nor make a mess on the floor. He was pleased that his personal plumbing was still functioning well for a man of his age and in his condition.
Even his wiring was holding up for the most part. They’d warned him that the tumor might blind him, leave him deaf, render him mute, make his muscles seize up. They said there wasn’t a horror in the book to which he might not succumb before yielding entirely. He’d fought back with sheer willpower, the same determination that had saved his leg so many years ago. Back then, he’d simply instructed his leg to remain vital. He’d pictured in his mind every bit of vigorous running, jumping and kicking he could remember doing, going back to the time he was a small boy.
If anything had failed him in old age it was his conscience. After Vivian had succumbed to a heart attack and Tom had been blown to bits in Iraq, he’d
lost all sense of the world being a just place. If taking the people he loved was the way God went about His business, and we were made in His image, well, then it must be acceptable for us to strike people dead, too.
Even those people who had invited you into their homes and introduced you to their families. Zack Garner had had a longstanding policy of never socializing with lobbyists. So it became a point of fun for many in the fourth branch of government to invite him to all manner of soirees. Those held in hotel ballrooms and more intimate gatherings in the somewhat smaller but no less grand homes of the influence peddlers.
Over the past year, he’d shocked more than a few of them by accepting their invitations. He knew from the gossip mills which of them considered themselves to be marksmen, had even heard where they kept their weapons. At opportune moments, he’d slipped into home offices, libraries and even bedrooms and stolen weapons that had been left at hand.
There were photographs in all those homes: wives, children, parents.
Just as he still had photographs of Vivian and Tom.
Some people died and some people were left behind to grieve.
That was the nature of conflict. For decades, after his military service, he’d done his best to fight his battles within not only the law but also the rules of the House of Representatives. Far more often than not, he’d lost. Money trumped both patriotism and idealism six days a week, and on the seventh day Congress played golf and made further self-serving deals.
When his doctor had told Zack Garner his condition was terminal, he knew he couldn’t afford to play within the rules any longer. He’d never even make a dent in the corruption in the time remaining. The only thing left to do was to take as many of the bastards with him as he could … while maintaining the facade of being the man he used to be.
A good man gone bad, he had the best disguise anyone could want.
Especially if bits and pieces of him remained unsullied.
Zack Garner raised himself from the commode and washed his hands.
Pretty soon now, the tumor was going to burst his brain like a water balloon.
He’d keel over and that would be that.
Until then, though, he had plans to carry out.
He lifted a slat in the mini blinds on his bedroom window. The black sedan was still there. He knew an unmarked government car when he saw one. The boys inside it had been too conscientious about keeping it clean and shiny. They should have let a nice coat of city dust build up on it. Would have faded it right out of sight.
Didn’t really matter that they were sitting out there.
If they’d wanted to bring him in, they could have done so hours ago.
They’d watch him right up to the last moment, and then it would be too late.
Fifth Avenue, Naples, Florida
The sun had just begun to illuminate the morning with long, flat rays when the big Mercedes rolled toward Linley Boland looking so much like a gift it should have been decked out with a ribbon and a bow, like one of those Christmas commercial cars.
The S-600 sedan loafed along Gulf Shore Boulevard doing maybe twenty. For a twin-turbocharged, five hundred and ten horsepower engine, that was like sleepwalking. The machine retailed for nearly a hundred and sixty thousand dollars, and Boland knew where he could pull in ten percent cash for the car within the next hour.
The coot behind the wheel looked like he’d already been embalmed, and was the last person who should be driving such a luxury rocket. Boland was the guy who should be driving it. The geezer’s window was down and Boland would just bet his door was unlocked. He didn’t see anyone else in the car and outside there was not a soul in sight. Not driving, not walking, not doing yard work. The Mercedes was a gimme.
Boland had been up all night, tearing at himself for fucking up the job in D.C. and then barely making bail after being busted in Baltimore. He had given serious thought to looking for a new hustle. Thing was, boosting cars was all he knew.
More than that, he loved it: the hunt, the grab, the getaway.
Only he hadn’t been too good at it lately. Made him think of an aging hitter who couldn’t catch up to a fastball anymore. But this was a hanging curve right over the middle of the plate. Hell, it was a ball on a tee.
Something he’d always thought of as pussy even for little kids.
Not anymore. He decided to take a swing.
He wouldn’t even have to kill the geezer. Just pull the door open as the car came to a halt for the stop sign at the corner of Fifth Avenue. Toss the coot out onto his keister. Jump in and drive off while the sap was still wondering what hit him.
Making the assumption the guy would give him a stationary target was where things started to go wrong. The scofflaw fuck didn’t stop; he barely slowed. Boland missed his first grab at the door handle and had to run to make a second try. By that time, the geezer had turned onto Fifth Avenue and managed to rotate his head to the left, getting a look at Boland so up close and personal he could have been Mister Magoo and still ID’ed him.
Now, the old croak had to go.
Unfortunately, that was just what he did. He hit the gas the moment Boland leaned into the car and grabbed the bastard by his wattled throat. The SOB tried to shout, but all he got out were muted squawks, sounded like a cat getting stepped on. Boland squeezed harder and the old fucker pressed down farther on the gas pedal. Goddamn Kraut super-engine shot them ahead like they were launching off an aircraft carrier.
Neither Boland nor the guy whose life he was trying to end had his eyes on the road or a hand on the wheel. They were racing blind down the fanciest shopping street in town. Unless the boys in Stuttgart had engineered an autopilot into the car, Boland didn’t think there was going to be a happy ending.
That feeling was emphasized when a shriek from the back seat pierced Boland’s skull like a railroad spike. Every muscle from scalp to scrote seized up and, wonder of wonders, he felt the driver’s neck snap in his hands. The pressure went off the gas pedal and the car immediately slowed. Boland took the risk of looking to see who was screeching at him.
It was a little broad who looked even older than the guy he’d just killed. She must have been sleeping across the back seat and he’d missed spotting her. Fuck. When she saw him looking at her, she moved her face right up next to his and screamed even louder, as if she could kill him with her vocal chords. But that didn’t stop her from pawing blindly through a purse she held on her lap.
The purse scared Boland. In a place as crazy as Florida, even grannies packed heat. If she came out with a gun … she didn’t. Almost as bad, though, she held a pair of scissors with a long, pointed tip. With no hesitation at all she tried to impale Boland’s hand, but he saw it coming and pulled back. The scissors went an inch deep into the dead driver’s neck.
Giving the old bag the idea she had just killed the guy.
She wailed, “Mort!”
Then she clasped her hands to her chest and tipped over sideways.
As if following her lead, the old guy tilted that way, too.
Boland let him go. He grabbed the steering wheel with his left hand, used his right to shift into neutral. There might not be an autopilot in the car, but if Boland remembered the Mercedes’ safety features right … He steered the car toward the curb, aiming it squarely at a huge cement planter filled with bright flowers.
The S-600 was not about to be bested by such an easily avoidable collision. Its radar activated braking system sensed the obstacle in front of it, slowed smoothly and came to a stop before it could even climb the curb. What a car.
Boland pushed himself out of the Mercedes. His legs went rubbery and he had to place a hand on the vehicle to steady himself. He looked around, saw that Fifth Avenue was still deserted. He looked at the dead couple in the car they’d given their lives to defend. He was tempted to haul their wrinkled asses out and dump them on the street. Take the damn Mercedes just for spite. But if he got caught disposing of the dearly departed, they’d have won after all. H
e walked away, feeling like his body was on fire and his mind might black out at any moment.
He turned right at the corner of 8th Street and was halfway down the block when he heard the first siren. A jolt of adrenaline cleared his mind and deadened his pain. He picked up his pace to a brisk walk and tried to think what evidence he might have left behind. Fingerprints, sure. Sweat, maybe. Blood, no, he didn’t think so.
If he got lucky, the old broad’s scissors might be blamed for the old guy’s broken neck. She’d stuck him right about where he’d felt the neck give. Couldn’t have stabbed old Mort more than a few seconds after he’d croaked. Cop science couldn’t be that precise.
Of course, if they did catch up with him, his story would be he saw the old broad attacking the old bastard and he did what he could to try and stop it.
Who could say different?
Number One Observatory Circle
Kira Fahey arrived at the grounds of Uncle Mather’s government mansion at five-thirty a.m. She was by far the earliest member of the wedding party to arrive. Security for the grounds, of course, worked around the clock. She knew most of the members of the Secret Service detail who protected her uncle by both face and name.
Since getting to know Deke Ky and coming to understand better the jobs the special agents did, how seriously they took their work, their willingness to sacrifice their own lives to protect their “packages,” she had made a point of learning who these people were. She always said hello and thanked them for their service.
The special agent who came over to look into her car and make sure no terrorist was forcing her to smuggle him inside the security perimeter was Augie Latz. She’d often thought he might have asked her out, if she hadn’t been engaged to Welborn. He was always polite and professional, but there was mischief — and interest — in his eyes that he couldn’t hide, and didn’t try.
Kira said, “Good morning, Augie. The bride-to-be has arrived. Supporting players and a cast of thousands will follow.”