by Joseph Flynn
An acceptable loss, Crogher thought, if it had to be anyone.
He didn’t share his assessment with Kendry, though.
Some things were best held close.
What had started out as a difficult enough day to begin with — Holly G. going to the hospital, being given general anesthesia, the entire medical team needing a quick but thorough vetting to make sure none of them harbored any ill will toward the president — had gotten progressively more difficult. Crazier to Crogher’s order-loving mind.
First, McGill and Galia Mindel call him into the chief of staff’s office. Telling him the speaker of the House has a lethal plastic gun and Mindel thinks he means to use it against Vice President Mather. That’s bad enough, but then Holly G. lets him know she and Holmes will be attending the Yates-Fahey wedding and, by the way, Holmes will be packing. Let his boys and girls know.
After that, he gets a call from Captain Yates, the bridegroom, saying he’s going to be carrying a weapon under his dress uniform and — and — he’s invited a homicide lieutenant from the Metro cops to be in attendance and she will be packing, too. That’s because they suspect a senior member of Congress might attempt to kill either the speaker or Mr. Shady. The Secret Service should make sure Representative Garner is not armed when he arrives at the wedding.
Then Margaret Sweeney, a civilian, has her call put through to him and she says Mr. Shady has learned that Speaker Geiger is definitely looking for Mr. Shady and has been given the password to get into the wedding. Please check him out for a plastic weapon, should he show up. And in the event the speaker subcontracts his hit, look for a person or persons unknown carrying either the plastic handgun or its component parts.
Oh, yeah. Since Ms. Sweeney has taken personal responsibility for safeguarding Shady, she’s bringing her handgun. She’s licensed and has a carry permit, of course.
Christ on a crutch! You’d think the damn NRA had planned the wedding.
The bride would probably be carrying a derringer in her garter.
Crogher would have canceled the whole thing and packed the happy couple off to a chapel in Las Vegas on a Secret Service jet … if Holly G. would have let him.
She had faith in him and his people, she’d said when he’d called to protest.
The president had told him he would see to it that everything came out right.
The idea being, as Crogher saw it, that the Secret Service would gun down Speaker Geiger if he so much as looked at anyone cross-eyed. Thereby causing a great deal of political trouble for the late speaker’s party — the one the president had just left — and anyone who might care to be its presidential nominee next year.
But he wasn’t going to share that thought with anyone either.
Especially not Special Agent Kendry.
Who sat there looking like getting a last-minute manicure was her biggest worry.
“None of this bothers you, Kendry?” he asked.
“I grew up in the Middle East, sir. Things like this are routine in ruling circles. Only you don’t know half as much about the players as we do.”
“So your only worry is …”
“Not the people we know who will be armed. In my view, except for the speaker, they’re all trustworthy, and we’ll have all of them covered. My worry, sir, is someone we don’t know about getting a weapon in.”
Crogher had thought of that.
Hearing Kendry say it, though, only made him worry more.
He asked, “How about crossfires and collateral damage, Kendry. That worry you?”
“We won’t let things get that far, sir.”
Couldn’t ruffle her feathers, Crogher thought. Just like Holly G.
Maybe he ought to retire.
Let the damn women take over everything.
GWU Hospital
The room nurse told Kenny McGill she would be right back. She had to step out for just a minute. He nodded his acceptance of the fact. He was long past sweating the small stuff. Mom, Abbie and Caitie had been standing outside his view window a moment ago, all of them doing their best to look brave, Caitie still looking mad at a world that could put her brother in such a fix.
Then Lars showed up and gave him a wave and a smile — after he’d done a double-take. Lars hadn’t seen him for a few days, so that had let Kenny know just how much he’d changed. Made him glad Liesl Eberhardt had to go back to Evanston for the start of school before the meds took most of his hair. Still, he was glad Lars had come back. He was a good guy, made Mom happy. He loved Abbie and Caitie, too.
They’d all probably gone to the chapel to say another prayer for him. He’d take all the prayers he could get. Anyone in his situation would. A priest he didn’t know — introduced himself as Father Mike — had come into the room earlier. He was capped, masked and gowned like anybody else who got near him. He heard Kenny’s confession and gave him a sip of water in lieu of a Communion wafer or wine. Father Mike said everyone knew the Lord could change water into wine so he shouldn’t feel shortchanged.
Kenny had seen the worry in the priest’s eyes and said, “Don’t worry, Father, I’m going to make it.”
“You’re in a state of grace, Kenny. Making it is the only thing possible.”
Wasn’t too hard to read between those lines, Kenny thought, even in his condition. But Father Mike’s words had brought him great comfort. Whatever happened, live or die, there was no way he could lose.
As if to underscore that idea, just after Father Mike left, Zack appeared outside the window to his room. For a guy who said he was dying, Zack sure looked great. In fact, Kenny thought Zack was what God would look like if He wanted to put in an appearance without scaring everyone. Tall and strong, white hair and kind eyes. He was able to take all your troubles away and make them his own because there wasn’t any weight too heavy for him to carry.
Zack tapped his chest, his heart, with his right hand. Then he put his fingers to his lips and blew on them, like he was blowing Kenny a kiss. But Kenny knew it was more than affection he was sending, it was his strength, his spirit. A parting gift to someone who could use it because Zack’s time was almost up. He’d come to let Kenny know and tell him to be strong. Use all the strength Zack had given him, if he needed it.
The door to the room opened and Kenny saw the nurse had come back.
“It’s time, Kenny,” she said.
Time for the big chemo and radiation.
Then time for the bone marrow infusion.
Then —
He looked back at his window.
Zack was gone.
But Mom, Abbie, Caitie and Lars were back.
And Dad was there now, and so was Patti.
And so were Sweetie and that Putnam guy.
Nobody’s ever been luckier than me, Kenny thought.
Hart Senate Office Building
Senators John Wexford and Richard Bergen and Representatives Marlene Berman and Diego Paz, the two leading Democrats in Congress and their two top lieutenants, sat around the conference table in the senate majority leader’s office suite. Each of them had a sheaf of papers in front of him or her, the products of their due diligence efforts.
The party’s top pollster and his people had been hard at work the past twenty-four hours talking to people in every part of the country to see how they would feel about having Patricia Darden Grant run for president as a Democrat. The numbers all but left them dumbfounded.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Dick Bergen said. “If I didn’t know how good Peter Newsom is at producing reliable data, I’d ask for a do-over.”
“It is enough to make you wonder if wishful thinking isn’t involved here,” John Wexford said. “Your thoughts, Marlene?”
“I’ll defer to Diego for the moment.”
Congressman Paz said, “Patti Grant has had the Latino community in the palm of her hand since that day she campaigned on Olvera Street four years ago.”
They all knew what he meant. Candidate Grant had visited the heart
of the Mexican-American community in Los Angeles and had listened to a class of first graders serenade her in the native tongue of their parents’ homeland. Then a little boy and a little girl had stepped forward and sang “De Colores” again in perfect English.
Already bilingual, speaking fluent French, the candidate declared on the spot that Spanish was too beautiful a language for her not to know. She promised to learn it as quickly as her schedule permitted, and she followed through, speaking the language with growing proficiency, though she tended on occasion to default to the French pronunciation key, which more often than not made her audiences chuckle and the president say, “Lo siento.” I’m sorry. “Lo estoy haciendo otra vez.” I’m doing it again.
Anytime she spoke in Spanish publicly, she always made sure to provide her own translation into English, making the point that people should do whatever they could to understand one another.
Paz said, “She not only kept her promise to learn Spanish, she showed everyone how simpatica she is. I’ve even heard some teenage girls — and their boyfriends — have taken to mispronouncing words the way she does. They call it speaking espanais. Not sure how the Spanish and French feel about that, but it’s catching on here. So I have no trouble believing these numbers.”
Marlene Berman said, “Our party had a leg up on the Republicans in attracting Latino voters. Patti Grant took that away from us. If she runs at the top of our ticket, she’ll bring that vote home. She’ll bring women with her. She’ll bring the senior vote. She’ll bring far more white men than we’d get otherwise. The numbers are right there in front of us. I believe them.
“With Patti Grant, we’ll not only retake the White House, we’ll increase our margin in the Senate and retake the House of Representatives. If she goes independent, I think we’ll be the junior partner in a coalition government with whatever new party the president starts.”
Wexford and Bergen looked at each other and nodded.
It was time to take the big jump. There were conservative members of their party who would defect to the GOP, but that number would be more than offset by their gains.
Dick Bergen said, “How’s that old curse go? ‘May you live in interesting times.’”
The others laughed, each of them nervous to some degree.
Wexford picked up the receiver of the landline phone on the table. “The only thing left to do then is call Galia Mindel and ask what the president’s demands are.”
Galia took the call and told them exactly what the president wanted.
The only sticking point was Roger Michaelson.
She said the president would want no part of him. Now or ever.
But with so many points of agreement, they agreed to defer that issue until the president recovered from her bone marrow donation and reclaimed her powers of office.
They all wished the president and Kenny McGill well.
Salvation’s Path Church, Richmond, Virginia
Ellie saw snipers on roofs in the church complex. Some of the men up there were smiling, feeling strong, no doubt. She had produced a special on America’s love affair with guns. She knew from interviewing dozens of enthusiasts that a lot of these guys loved their firearms far more than their wives or girlfriends. Took better care of their weaponry, too. The lethal iron got gun oil far more often than the ladies got perfume.
Under other circumstances, she’d have stopped, turned around and hoped they hadn’t already mined the streets around the church property. But she was there by invitation. A large placard on her dashboard identified her as being with WorldWide News. Not taking any chance that might not be enough, Ellie slowed her car to a crawl, lowered the driver’s window and waved a white handkerchief.
What looked to be an old garbage-hauling truck that was blocking one of the roads leading into the church’s campus made room for her. As she worked her car through the narrow space, she looked at the truck. The thing could probably hold a ton of trash, she thought. If it was filled even halfway with a fertilizer bomb, ready to be set off with a remote detonator, it could take out a hundred men trying to storm the church grounds.
Looked like Reverend Godfrey wasn’t going to go easily.
As she moved past the truck, it rolled back into blocking position. Ahead, a man in green camouflage fatigues and a boonie hat held up a hand like a traffic cop. In his other hand he held an assault rifle, so Ellie stopped, wondering just how many people Godfrey might have on hand and how crazy they might be.
It made her feel only marginally better when the guy gave her a grin as he approached. Ellie hit the lock release and let him slide into the passenger seat. He put his seat belt on, like a traffic accident on a private road was his big worry. He extended a hand to her and she took it. In case she wound up becoming a hostage, she wanted to have at least one guy on her side.
“Art Dunston,” he said in a smooth baritone, flashing her a big smile.
His teeth were TV perfect.
Ellie introduced herself and asked, “What newsrooms have you worked?”
He mentioned affiliates of two different networks, one in South Carolina, one in Georgia. He had a hint of the South in his voice, just enough to add some warmth.
“Sports anchor?” she asked.
“In college, yeah. That’s where I learned to shoot. When I started drawing a paycheck, I did general interest stories and then moved up to the big desk. I’m pretty sure I was on my way to New York, but then I got religion and Reverend Godfrey doubled my salary to come on board with him.”
Taking a chance — sometimes she just couldn’t help herself — Ellie asked, “Getting religion have anything to do with the big money?”
Dunston didn’t take offense, he laughed. “In the beginning, sure it did. After a while, I really saw the light. I donate a large share of my income to missionary work.” He looked out the windshield. Ellie followed his gaze and saw many other soldiers scurrying about their duties. “But I think you’ll have to agree what I’m doing here today has to be about more than a career move.”
Ellie nodded. Imprisonment and death rarely made executive recruiters come calling.
“Right down there,” Dunston said, pointing the way, “is the admin building. Reverend Godfrey is waiting to talk with you.”
Ellie put her car in motion and asked, “He’s willing to speak on camera?”
“Ms. Booker, he insists on it. If you didn’t bring your own camera, we’ll let you use one of ours.”
“So you’re more than just a soldier,” Ellie said.
Dunston told her, “I’m the public information officer. Or an evangelist. Depending on your point of view and the needs of the moment.”
Number One Observatory Circle
Celsus Crogher met Rockelle Bullard at the entrance to the grounds of Vice President Mather Wyman’s official residence. She was the first of the weapon-carrying guests to arrive. For safety’s sake a surreptitious digital picture was taken of her and transmitted to all the Secret Service agents on duty. It was a thin gesture, merely adding to the hope the good guys wouldn’t wind up shooting each other.
The agents in place already had a recent photo of Holmes and had been advised it would be better for their families that they die in the line of duty rather than shoot James J. McGill, even if he had his weapon drawn and was shooting, say, the speaker of the House of Representatives. They’d let the courts sort that one out.
Likewise, photos of Putnam Shady and Margaret Sweeney had been distributed, and their deaths at the hands of a special agent would be considered tragic, possibly even career ending, but not cause to lose pension benefits or to face criminal prosecution.
Putnam Shady hadn’t made the targets-to-worry-about list.
Crogher introduced himself to the Metro homicide lieutenant.
She nodded and returned the favor.
“May I have the code word for entry?” he asked.
If she’d forgotten it, Crogher would express insincere regret and send her on her way.
Crogher masked his disappointment and asked, “Are you armed, Lieutenant Bullard.”
She nodded again. “Glock in my handbag.”
“Anything else?”
“Got a nail file in there, too.”
The woman was sizable, Crogher thought. Maybe had ten pounds on him. An edged weapon of any kind was nothing to be disregarded, but he was more concerned about things that went bang and boom.
“If I told you I thought everyone, including you, would be better off if you let me hold your Glock while you’re here, would that make any difference to you?” Crogher asked.
Rockelle gave him a brief smile. “Somebody’s messing with you, aren’t they, SAC Crogher? That somebody might even be named James J. McGill.”
Crogher kept his mouth shut. Rockelle understood.
Unexpressed opinions often lay at the heart of professional survival.
Rockelle said, “Tell you what. I’ve met Mister McGill. Don’t think he’s a bad sort at all, but his being the president’s husband, he gets privileges your average P.I. can’t dream of. Ordinary cops like me or feds like you, we just got to grin and bear it.”
Crogher hadn’t grinned at anything since McGill had entered his life. But he was both surprised and pleased when Rockelle opened her purse and handed her Glock to him.
She said, “Someday I might need a favor from you, and I’m sure you’ll remember how understanding I was today.”
Crogher thought maybe he should ask for the nail file, too.
But he nodded. Someone did right by him, someone who understood the crap he had to take putting up with Holmes, he’d pay her back.
“One more thing,” Rockelle said.
“What’s that?” Crogher asked.
“There might be someone here today who killed three or more people on my streets.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“We get him, whoever gets him, he’s my arrest.”
Crogher wanted no part of somebody else’s mess.