by Joseph Flynn
“Something strange happened yesterday. I forgot to mention it earlier.”
“You have a sealed envelope to show me, too?” Sweetie asked.
Putnam grinned and shook his head.
He told Sweetie of Jerry Nerón’s return to town, wanting to take a look at the suit he’d made for Putnam.
“Now, the guy is a great craftsman, and I can buy that he’d go to any length to protect his reputation, but the whole thing seemed like some sort of scam to me. Just didn’t feel right. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on, but I can come up with only one thing.”
Intrigued, Sweetie asked, “What’s that?”
“Seeing me, looking at the suit he made for me, that was Jerry’s legit reason for being in town. Something he can point to and I can corroborate if somebody suspects him of doing something not quite so innocent.”
“Like what?” Sweetie asked.
“I don’t know; I’m still working on that.”
“You ever get the feeling something was wrong about this guy before?”
“No, and that bothers me, if he is up to something. I like to think I’m pretty good at reading people. If I lose that ability, I’m in trouble in this town.”
“Maybe it’s something objectionable but not illegal. Stepping out on his wife.”
“Jerry’s single.”
“Maybe he’s gay. Nerón sounds Latino.”
“Cuban-American.”
“Okay. Sometimes coming out is harder in some cultures than others.”
“I don’t think he’s gay.”
“All right then, you’ve got a mystery. You want me to take a look at the guy?”
“Let me think about it. We’ll talk tonight.”
Margaret nodded, was about to say okay.
Only she saw something she’d never expected to see.
Jim McGill was standing outside Dikki’s building with Roger Michaelson.
And the two of them were shaking hands.
Zamboanga City — Philippines
Ah-lam, former dragon lady of the Shining Dawn, called the FBI desk at the American embassy in Manila from a bar with a view of a water-filled ditch in which a water buffalo was cooling itself. It took her less than a minute to get through to the special agent in charge. All she had to do was mention the magic words Tyler Busby.
A man with a strong American accent came on the line and said, “John Rosewall, how may I help you?”
“You are FBI? Man in charge?” Ah-lam asked, coarsening her own accent.
“Yes, ma’am. You say you have news of Tyler Busby?”
“Yes, yes. He about to give self up, but —” Ah-lam sobbed, doing a good job of sounding truly distraught, she felt.
“But what, ma’am?”
“He taken by Abu Sayyaf.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Yes, yes, very bad. Guerrillas say ransom be very high or they cut off head. Mail it to American president as gift.”
“Shit. How long ago was Mr. Busby kidnapped?”
“Just now, maybe one hour.”
“And who are you, ma’am?”
“Bar girl. Name don’t matter. Mr. Busby hear shooting before taken. Write note and give to me. Say call you. Read message.”
“Why didn’t the guerrillas take you, too?”
“I hide. Guerrillas don’t take bar girl. They stone me, if catch.”
The FBI man grunted his understanding. Maybe even a bit of sympathy.
“What does the note say?” he asked.
“Say man your president want is Philip Brock, no Roger Mike … something. Also, other man. Tanner Rutledge, something like that. He go down fighting. Never give up. Mr. Busby say these good faith offering. Please to save him from Abu Sayyaf. That all.”
“You’re sure there’s —”
Ah-lam hung up. A motorized tricycle cab waited for her outside. It took her to the city airport. She paid her fare, gave her burner phone to the driver and made her way to a Gulfstream G650 waiting on the tarmac. Unlike the G150 Arturo Gonzales flew, this was the top of the line model. The gold standard, as Gulfstream referred to it. The aircraft carried a crew of four for long-distance flights and up to seventeen passengers.
That day, there would be but two travelers aboard the plane. The first was already in the private quarters at the rear of the custom passenger compartment. Ah-lam joined him. The plane taxied to its runway, waited little more than two minutes for clearance and took off, banking to the west. The pilot announced that flying time to Colombo, Sri Lanka, 2,900 miles away, would be five hours. The weather looked good all the way.
In their private quarters, Ah-lam and Tyler Busby toasted the beginning of their journey.
Busby’s takeover of the Shining Dawn had actually begun on the night when he’d called Ah-lam to his stateroom.
She’d asked, “Is this to be our one night together?”
Meaning, have you chosen to end your life by sunrise?
Busby answered with his own question, “How much money will you earn from Donald Yang during the time you’ll work for him, and will it buy you both everything you need and everything you want?”
Busby had asked his question while reclining on the room’s enormous bed, his head propped up by a pile of pillows. A bottle of champagne chilled in a silver bucket. The lighting was soft. All that was missing was mood music, but Ah-lam had never cared for that. She preferred the sounds of exertion and passion. She wondered if her sisters had told Busby that.
In any case, the man clearly expected to have sex with her.
On his terms not hers.
“Millions,” she said in response to his question.
Busby laughed and asked, “That’s all?”
Before Ah-lam could get angry at the implied insult, Busby asked another question, “How much money would it take to have what you need and want and avoid having Yang take his revenge on you? Would a hundred million do it? Two hundred million?”
Ah-lam stared at Busby. She knew he was proposing a betrayal for which there would be no forgiveness. Neither from Yang nor the men who were his masters. Money mattered in China, but political power mattered more. She would have to take more than one angry man into account. The rulers of a great and rising nation would consider her an enemy.
So how much money would she need to break faith with them and survive?
Not just survive but live like an empress.
Was there enough money to do that?
Most women would have shied away from even thinking such thoughts. Ah-lam, though, was interested. If there was anyone who could do it, she would be the one. Given a sufficiently huge sum of Busby’s money, that was. She poured a glass of champagne for Busby and one for herself. She sat on the edge of the bed looking at him.
“We might have to bargain for hours,” she said.
They did. Busby distributed a handful of millions of dollars on the officers and crew of the yacht to show Ah-lam that he both had all the riches he claimed and didn’t mind spending it. Then again, he said the millions he spent showing his good faith to Ah-lam amounted to nothing more than pocket change.
So they came up with their plan. Ah-lam allowed herself to be put off the yacht when Busby and the treacherous crew seized it. In that way, she’d merely failed Mr. Yang and his masters; she hadn’t betrayed them. Yang had ordered her to come home, of course, after she’d reported the hijacking, and she had disobeyed that command.
That was understandable. She feared punishment, and would run only as far as the pittance she carried with her allowed. She would forfeit her accounts and assets in Hong Kong. Even if she evaded Yang’s vengeance, she would impose a sentence of poverty and misery upon herself. Become a toothless back-alley whore addicted to heroin, her former beauty a vanished memory.
When the Shining Dawn put into port on Mindanao to buy a replacement life boat, at the captain’s suggestion, Busby had declared he wanted to take a walk, be alone with his thoughts and work out a plan for the futu
re. Or so he told the captain.
Then as ill fortune would have it, Busby let himself be spotted by Abu Sayyaf guerrillas and was kidnapped, but not before leaving a message with a bar girl. The reasons for this were many. Misdirection was only the beginning. By letting the president know she should be looking at Philip Brock and Tanner Rutledge, Busby was giving the feds two primary actors in two huge crimes: the would-be attempt on the president’s life at Inspiration Hall and the looting of the budget of the Defense Department.
That Busby knew of the crimes clearly implicated him as a participant in both of them. But, hey, ratting out your accomplices was what bad guys did when bargaining down their punishment. Not that Busby ever expected to live freely in the U.S. again. He was merely trying to have the government understand he’d like to live quietly — and quite well — abroad without having to look over his shoulder all the time.
If he ever escaped his imaginary kidnappers, that was.
Maybe Washington would exhaust its interest in finding him after a couple futile years of combing through the Philippine jungles. That would also be acceptable.
So Busby and Ah-lam jetted to Sri Lanka, the jewel of the Indian Ocean.
The two best funded fugitives in the world.
After enjoying each other’s carnal company for an eighth time — Busby was keeping count — they relaxed next to one another, thinking their own thoughts.
Busby asked Ah-lam, “Do you regret what will happen to your sisters when Yang gets his hands on the Shining Dawn again?”
Ah-lam looked at him and said, “They were willing to betray me, and we never really got along anyway.”
Chapter 30
The Oval Office — The White House
Special Agent Benjamin told the president and her chief of staff of the business connection between Tyler Busby and Donald Yang, and how Yang now claimed that Busby had leased his yacht using a front company and then had commandeered it.
“Deputy Director DeWitt thought to look for the connection,” Benjamin said.
“Actually, I got the idea from Putnam Shady and I put it together with Ms. Mindel’s suggestion that Busby might be aboard another yacht,” DeWitt said. “Special Agent Benjamin took the initiative to involve the NRO and the navy.”
“Nice synergy,” the president said. “There’s credit enough to go around.”
Edwina buzzed the president. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Madam President, but Director Haskins is here and he says the matter is urgent.”
The president looked at the two FBI officials already present.
They gestured their ignorance.
“Please send the director in, Edwina.”
Haskins gave his two subordinates a brief glance and said, “Madam President, Madam Chief of Staff. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask the deputy director stay and have the special agent step out before I speak.”
The president looked at DeWitt. He cut his eyes briefly toward Benjamin. The president interpreted the glance correctly.
“Jeremiah,” the president said to the director, “I’ve just heard of some very good work the special agent has done, and I may want to speak with her some more. So why don’t we just let her stay?”
Haskins knew he’d just been overruled, but he didn’t let any displeasure show.
“Very well, Madam President.”
The director told all present of a call from a self-described bar-girl in Zamboanga City alleging that Tyler Busby had been kidnapped by Abu Sayyaf guerillas. He added, “The motor vessel Shining Dawn was found in port in Zamboanga City. The Philippine military has taken custody of the vessel and everyone aboard.”
“Galia?” the president asked, not needing to finish the question.
The chief of staff filled in the blank. “The DOD has a Special Joint Operations Task Force on Mindanao and the CIA has paramilitary officers from its Special Activities Division on the island.”
Before a rescue effort could start to be organized, Haskins dropped the other shoe.
“The bar-girl said Brock is the man you want not Michaelson — and Tanner Rutledge will never let himself be taken alive; he’ll fight to the end.”
“That bastard Busby is trying to set up a plea bargain,” Galia said. “He has to be part of the Inspiration Hall conspiracy and the looting of the Pentagon.”
“Or he wants us to think he is,” the president said.
Benjamin had the nerve to chime in. “Busby might also be scamming us with this bar-girl, Madam President. A fugitive couldn’t ask for a much better dodge than to say he’d been kidnapped by jihadi guerrillas with their very own jungle to hide in.”
“A very good point, Special Agent. Mr. Deputy Director, do you have any ideas?”
DeWitt said, “Busby’s use of an unknown surrogate, the bar-girl, is classic Sun Tzu: ‘Spread lies amongst your enemies … sow confusion in their ranks through deception and sabotage.’ This so-called bar-girl has told us something we have no way of knowing is true, at least right now. We should interrogate the people on the Shining Dawn. Find out if Busby, in fact, did get off the yacht in Zamboanga City. If it looks like he did, we need to find out what other boats or aircraft left Mindanao at or about the same time. These are things we can pin down factually.”
Benjamin said, “And ask the locals if anyone saw men resembling Abu Sayyaf elements kidnapping a Western man. Have the CIA work its assets on the island before the military starts beating the bushes.”
“Mr. Director?” the president asked.
Haskins said, “I concur with both those ideas. The only criticism I have is that playing it cagey might cost a man his head. Then again, so might going in gung-ho with the military.”
The president showed the room as ruthless a smile as anyone in it had ever seen.
“It might cost Tyler Busby his head, and I can live with that.”
Giving the go-ahead for DeWitt’s and Benjamin’s suggestions, the president turned to the next items on her agenda.
Bringing Philip Brock in for questioning by the FBI.
Mere surveillance was no longer enough.
Bringing in Tanner Rutledge for questioning, too.
Taking care he didn’t get his hands on any assault weapons or explosives.
McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown
In all their years together, McGill had seen Sweetie cry twice. Both times were when she’d felt she came up short helping another cop, resulting in those officers being wounded by gunfire. For the other two men in the office, Putnam and Michaelson, that day was the first time they ever saw Margaret Sweeney weep. Putnam gathered his wife in his arms to comfort her.
Michaelson, also on his feet, looked like he wanted to add his touch, but wisely held back.
McGill, sitting behind his desk, had just shared the news that Joan Renshaw had killed Erna Godfrey. Deke, who’d already heard, stood guard in the outer office.
McGill had received word of what had happened in Connecticut less than an hour ago from Patti. It had been a jolt to him. More than once he had wished Erna was dead. When Patti had decided to commute her death sentence to life in prison, he’d gone along with it. But on more than one night before he fell asleep, remembering how he had failed to keep Andy Grant alive, he second-guessed Patti’s act of mercy, even if he hadn’t shared his misgivings with her.
Michaelson had arrived earlier that morning to see Sweetie and ask how the investigation was going. McGill had told him of Renshaw’s statement exonerating him and implicating Brock. The former senator had heaved a sigh of relief, and then he had the decency to express concern about how Erna’s death was going to affect Sweetie.
More astounding, he’d seen how the homicide in a prison cell would reflect on Patti.
“Jesus,” Michaelson said, “the Republicans and True South will try to crucify the president for this. They’ll say she’s the one who approved Renshaw’s transfer into Godfrey’s cell.”
“That’s right. She did,” McGill told him.
Michaelson had hung his head and covered his face with both hands.
When he looked at McGill he said, “Please tell the president how sorry I am. All the antagonism between us, it’s on me. My wounded ego and juvenile temper have led to so much stupid shit over so many years.” Michaelson’s face tightened. “Anybody goes after the president politically, they’ll have to come through me. Anything I can do to help her, I will.”
McGill had decades of experience listening to people lie.
Whether they were cons or pols, he’d been able to see through them.
Every so often, though, he heard a heartfelt truth, and Michaelson’s promise rang true. That surprised him more than a little. Reminded him that William Cowper had got it right when he wrote about God moving in mysterious ways his wonders to perform.
Letting a minute or so pass, McGill said, “Margaret, no one had any idea that Joan Renshaw was capable of what she did. What were the odds that one woman could kill another with her bare hands? How could anybody have guessed that Erna wouldn’t fight back long enough for help to arrive? It was a horrible miscalculation we all made, not just you.”
Sweetie looked up from the shoulder of Putnam’s suit, now wet with her tears.
“It was my idea,” she said. “I thought I was so smart. Get a jailhouse confession. What could be easier? Save myself the effort of digging up evidence.”
Putnam leaned back and looked at his wife. “You’re questioning your work ethic, Margaret? Come on now. You’ve made a whole new man out of me.”
“You’ve always made me a better man,” McGill said.
Michaelson added, “You’ve helped me to remain a free man.”
Sweetie looked at each of them, finishing with Putnam, and wept all the more.
“Maybe a visit to your confessor would help,” McGill suggested.
Sweetie’s head popped up and she nodded. “Yes, right away.”
The idea of both absolution and penance held great appeal.
“I’ll take you,” Putnam said, “but give me just a minute with Jim, will you? Senator, will you please escort my wife down to my car? It’s right out front.”