The President's Henchman

by Joseph Flynn

  “Exactly. In my conversation with General Altman, I learned of a very unusual situation.”

  “The matter of Colonel Carina Linberg facing charges of adultery.”

  “Yes.” Michaelson didn’t like the way Galia anticipated what he was going to say, but he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of telling her so. “More specifically, the general was disturbed, and rightly so in my view, that the president had drastically abridged the chain of command in this serious matter.”

  Galia sat mute. Forcing Michaelson to pull a response out of her. Further disrupting his rhythm.

  “Do you have anything to say about that, Ms. Mindel?”

  “The president is the commander in chief. It’s her prerogative to act as she sees fit in this matter or any other involving the armed forces of the United States.” Michaelson started to speak, but Galia overrode him. “That is the Constitutional order of things, don’t you agree, Senator?”

  “Of course, I do.” Michaelson was openly angry now, but he kept his volume down. “But just because the president can do something doesn’t mean he should.”

  “She, Senator,” Galia corrected. “Doesn’t mean she should.”

  “I was speaking grammatically.”

  “And I was speaking factually.”

  Michaelson looked like he wanted to throw Galia in his wastebasket. But his self-control was too good to let him go over the edge.

  “I’m trying to be helpful here,” he said. “The president has no military experience and —”

  “I don’t believe you’ve served in the military, either, Senator.”

  “I’ve been on the Armed Services Committee for six years,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “And the president was in Congress two years longer than you’ve been and now she’s in the Oval Office. You really don’t want to compare résumés, Senator.”

  Michaelson took a deep breath, seemed to settle within himself. As if he were preparing to shoot a game-winning free throw in front of a hostile crowd.

  “Very well,” he said softly. “You leave me no choice. Please inform the president that the committee will be holding public hearings into what we consider an abuse of her discretion in this matter and the implications it holds for lowering morale among the armed forces.”

  “Don’t you mean among the four-stars at the Pentagon? But never mind that. In order to hold hearings, you’ll need the approval of the committee chairman.”

  “Senator Dixon has given his approval. He simply allowed me the opportunity of trying to do this the easy way. I guess I should have known better.”

  Galia thought she should have known better, too. Cutler Dixon, Republican, was the senior senator from Georgia. He’d won his seat by accusing his Democratic predecessor, a Vietnam vet who’d won a Silver Star and lost an eye in combat, of not being patriotic. A social primitive, Dixon was no friend of the president’s, but Galia hadn’t thought he’d betray her so quickly. A mistake on her part. But Galia was one of American politics great counterpunchers.

  “Okay, Senator, you hold your hearings, but keep one thing in mind.”

  “What’s that, Ms. Mindel?”

  “Remember that Congress is the body that wrote the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Not too many Americans know that. But in the coming weeks, I’m going to educate them. Especially the good women of this country. I’m going to point out how archaic many of the provisions in the UCMJ are, and how they pertain to the fate of Colonel Carina Linberg. And, who knows, maybe some of the president’s friends on the Hill will start calling for a review of the whole damn thing to see how much of it should be rewritten. You think your four-stars will like that? And what about all those women whose eyes I’m going to open? You think they’re going to be happy with any good-old-boy politicians who stand in the way of reform?”

  Galia stood up. “So you go ahead, Senator. Hold your hearings. Open your can of worms.”

  When Galia strode out of Michaelson’s office, she saw that all of his support people had returned to their desks, from the senator’s chief of staff on down to the mail boy. She also noticed that not one of them had a Band-Aid in the crook of his arm, the way a blood donor would after being tapped for a pint.

  But with Michaelson’s crew, she considered it more likely they’d be out sinking their fangs into people’s jugulars than giving up their own corpuscles.

  The one thing that really bothered her, though, was how the bastard had found out what her favorite childhood meal was. That had been the whole point of that bit of theater. He was telling her that he’d been studying her. Worse, he’d found someone who had betrayed her.

  Just as she had done to him ten years ago.

  Chapter 11

  McGill talked to all his children that night. He spoke to Carolyn, too. And, of course, to Sweetie.

  “Dad,” Abbie asked, “do you think maybe you could come home for a visit soon? We’d really like to see you.”

  “Honey, I’m on the next plane if you need me.”

  “No, I don’t … well, maybe I do. There’s need, and then there’s need. It’s not like, ‘Help, Daddy, save me!’ you know. But I really would like to see you. It’d make me feel better.”

  Abbie was the most sensitive and perceptive of his children. If anyone was reading between the lines of the current situation, seeing it for what it was, it would be Abbie.

  “I’m working my first case, for my first private client right now,” he told her, feeling like a jerk even as the words left his mouth.

  “Is it important?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it, but if you can keep a secret …”

  “I can.”

  “Then I’ll give you the outline. There’s this lady. She thinks there’s a man who’s after her. She doesn’t know who he is or what he wants, but she’s afraid it’s something bad.”

  “That’s scary.”

  “Yeah. I’m trying to find out who the man is and stop him.”

  “You know what that reminds me of?”

  McGill knew. “Andy Grant.”

  “Yeah. He had someone after him, too.”

  Neither of them felt the need to mention how that had turned out.

  But Abbie said, “You’ll get this guy, Dad. I know it.”

  “I sure hope so, honey.”

  McGill promised he’d be home for a visit just as soon as he possibly could. Then Abbie turned the phone over to her brother and sister.

  Kenny told him he thought it was cool that he now had Secret Service protection and cops watching out for him. He told McGill that he’d extended his cordon — Kenny’s word — to include his two closest friends. Now, nobody at school messed with any of them.

  “Hey, Dad,” his son said. “You know I promised Mom I’d never be a cop, right?”

  “Right.”

  “But I never said anything about not being a Secret Service agent.”

  “I’m sure your mother never anticipated that.”

  “Still. You think Patti could set it up for me to get into Secret Service school?”

  McGill said they’d discuss it when he was older. If he kept his grades up.

  Caitie was still focused on her presidential favor, and McGill told her that her wish was closer to being granted.

  “Patti has fixed it so you and I can show the White House chef how we make our stuffing, teach him how to do it.”

  “In the White House kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool.”

  “But he has to do the actual cooking.”

  “Is that the law?” Caitie asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  Carolyn came on and told him, “You should have seen the way they lit up when they heard it was you on the phone.”

  “No father could ask for more. How are you doing? Did you talk to Sweetie?”

  “I talked and …” McGill heard a door closing. “And I did it.”

  “How did you do?”

  “Much be
tter than I ever would have thought. I have a good eye and steady hands, Sweetie says.”

  “Does that make you feel any better?”

  “I feel better and worse all at the same time,” Carolyn said. “I’m glad that I don’t feel as helpless; I’m depressed that we live in such a violent world.”

  “Cops feel that way all the time,” McGill told her.

  “I’m sure they do. I’m sure you do, Jim. And now I understand you a little better, and I’m sorry for some of the things I’ve said to you.”

  “Not all of them?”

  Carolyn laughed. “Don’t push your luck. Sweetie also told me the prayer of supplication she says before she picks up her gun and the prayer of thanks she says when she puts it down without having used it.

  “We should all be so mindful,” McGill said.

  Carolyn handed off the phone to Sweetie. She told him that unless he needed her in a hurry, she was going to drive her car back to D.C. Now that she had her own place, she’d have somewhere to park it.

  “Actually, that’ll work out fine,” McGill told her. “I’d like you to make a stop in Gambier, Ohio.”

  The town name clicked into place for Sweetie. “Chana Lochlan’s home sweet home.”

  “Yeah.” McGill told her about the thong Chana had found.

  “Guy’s getting creepy,” Sweetie said. “He’s going to make his move soon.”

  “That’s what worries me,” McGill agreed. He told Sweetie about his visit to Chana’s town house, the sterility of most of the rooms, and the comfortable clutter of her office.

  “We all want to put on the best front, and we all need a place where we can let down,” Sweetie said.

  “She said she never makes love at home,” McGill told her.

  There was a lengthy silence before Sweetie responded. “Fourteen lovers and she never brought one of them home? That’s not natural. People let themselves be vulnerable — intimate — where they feel most secure. Where could she feel safer than at home?”

  “That’s what I hope you can find out. Visit her father. Talk to him.”

  “Yeah.”

  McGill told her of the photos he saw on Chana’s office wall.

  “Her bio didn’t say anything about a sister,” Sweetie replied. “Especially not a twin.”

  “And the one picture that’s conspicuous by its absence is Mom’s. How come Chana’s mother doesn’t deserve a place on her wall?”

  “You think her father will talk to me?” Sweetie asked.

  “I’ve never known anyone who wouldn’t,” McGill said.

  Damon Todd saw CIA agent Daryl Cheveyo waiting for him on a bench in Rock Creek Park. Like any American big-city park after dark, Rock Creek could be a dangerous place. People got mugged, raped, and killed there. But Todd assumed that a spy carried a gun and knew how to use it. As for himself, he’d welcome some thug trying to give him grief.

  He looked around carefully as he drew near to Cheveyo. Not for miscreants but for cops. He didn’t think the CIA would turn him in at this point, but he couldn’t be sure. He took a seat four feet from the field officer. Close enough to speak quietly, far enough to take countermeasures if he’d misjudged the situation.

  “How are you doing, Doctor?” Cheveyo asked.

  “I’m exercising patience. As you suggested.”

  Todd saw the spook look him over closely. He didn’t seem such a “nose-to-the-grindstone” guy that night. There was an air of clinical detachment about the CIA man. As if he was mentally ticking off a symptomology checklist.

  “Is this a better place for a meeting?” Cheveyo wanted to know.

  “Not exactly original, but it’ll do.”

  Cheveyo looked as if he expected to hear more, but Todd waited him out.

  “I thought you’d like to know that the preliminary evaluation of your work is very positive.”

  Todd felt a rush of endorphins. His whole body felt pumped. But all he said was, “Yeah?”

  Cheveyo nodded. “You’ve got some people very excited.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.”

  “There are doubters, too, of course. But that’s only natural.”

  “What’s there to doubt?” Todd asked, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice.

  “Well, so far, your data are just words and figures on paper. Interesting but unproven.”

  Todd started to speak, but bit his tongue. He realized in that moment that Cheveyo was continuing to take a survey of Todd’s personality.

  Cheveyo continued, “Some of us have noticed, however, certain coincidences between your data and recent — what shall we call it — aberrant behavior by prominent individuals.”

  Todd said nothing.

  “For example, the recent bareback ride on the Mall by the young woman who strongly resembles Nina Barkley, the chief legislative aide to the House Minority Leader. Your data mention a test subject with the initials NB, whose description quite closely resembles our latter-day Lady Godiva. Only we know that Ms. Barkley recently passed a polygraph test, proving more or less that she doesn’t engage in public nudity. We find that very interesting.”

  Todd remained mute.

  “Then, of course, there was the startling performance given today by Representative Brun Fleming of Ohio. Who would ever have thought he could sing opera? Who would have thought Congressman Papandreou would die as result?”

  Cheveyo leaned in toward Todd.

  “You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you, Doctor? Because another of your test subjects has the initials BF.”

  “You certainly can’t expect me to admit I did.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I can. The lady on the horse was good, clean fun. The congressman dying, that was unfortunate. Not readily foreseeable, but someone with a bit more experience in these things would have picked a more pianissimo piece for Congressman Fleming to sing. So his microphone wouldn’t have produced such a booming and unfortunate result.”

  Todd felt the sting of Cheveyo’s words.

  “Congressman Fleming has absolutely no recall of his performance. Or how he came to give it. Another intriguing development. But, Doctor …”

  Todd met Cheveyo’s eyes.

  “We hope there won’t be any more of these … demonstrations. They would only undercut your cause. Continue to be patient with us, all right?”

  Todd nodded. “May I ask a question or two?”

  “You can ask.”

  “Your first name, Daryl, it means dearly loved. Were you? By your parents, I mean.”

  Cheveyo gave it a beat. “Yes, I was.”

  “And you have some training in psychology?”

  “An MD in psychiatry from the University of New Mexico.”

  “Doctor Cheveyo. And you speak Navajo. Any other unusual talents?”

  “One or two. Would you like me to walk you out of the park? For safety’s sake.”

  Todd shook his head. He’d heard enough. He got up and walked away. He had someone he wanted to call.

  As he lay in bed with Patti that night, his arms around her, the two of them taking simple comfort from the warmth and weight of each other’s bodies, McGill started to drift off.

  Until Patti nudged him gently.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I’ve been thinking,” his wife said. “About you.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Yes, it is.” Patti started to say something, but then she kissed him. “Good night.”

  She rolled to her side of the bed, and McGill’s eyes popped open.

  “Sorry to be slow on the uptake here,” he said, “but what were you thinking about me?”

  She told him of Galia’s meeting with Roger Michaelson.

  “Galia was fast on her feet thinking of that review of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. It is a good idea, and I might actually push it.”

  “Three cheers for Galia,” McGill said, conceding to himself the woman actually did have her uses. “Meanwhile, back to me.”
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  “That’s what I’m getting at. If Galia has thwarted one avenue of attack by Michaelson, and I think she has, he’s going to look for another one.”

  Two seconds later, McGill got it. “Me?” He sat up in bed outraged. “Me?”

  “I’m sorry,” Patti told him. “I should have waited until tomorrow to tell you, but I wanted to make sure you were forewarned.”

  “I haven’t done anything. I’m a private citizen. I don’t meddle in government at all.”

  “But you are in an unusual line of work for a presidential spouse. And sometimes in Washington you have to prove you haven’t done anything. I think you should retain a personal lawyer. Someone ready to be called on if … when you need him.”

  McGill lay back down with a thump. “Fine, I’ll get a lawyer. Sweetie told me tonight her new landlord is one. I’ll talk to him.”

  “What’s his name?” Patti asked.

  “Putnam Shady.”

  “A lawyer named Shady?”

  “Apt for the likes of Senator Michaelson,” McGill told her.

  After Patti dropped her bombshell, McGill got out of bed, unable to get to sleep.

  Fucking Michaelson. He ought to punch that guy’s lights out.

  McGill entered the room that Patti had dubbed McGill’s Hideaway and settled into his favorite reading chair. He listened for any sounds the household staff might be making as they went about their twenty-four-hour rounds. As usual, he couldn’t hear them. The people who served the First Family’s personal needs made Swiss bankers seem boisterous.

  Hearing no human sounds, McGill listened for one or more of the White House ghosts; the place was reputed to have several, many of them distinguished characters. Abraham Lincoln was said to have been seen in and around the bedroom that bore his name.

  The ghost of William Henry Harrison, who lasted as president for all of a month, hung out, appropriately, in the mansion’s attic. Andrew Jackson was another bedroom shade. Abigail Adams walked the halls. Dolley Madison preferred the Rose Garden. The spirit of a black cat lived in the basement and was said to time its appearances to political assassinations and stock market crashes.

  There were no apparitions that night, but McGill couldn’t wait until his kids came for the holidays and he got to tell them White House ghost stories. Thinking of his children brought him abruptly to his feet. He walked to a window looking out on Lafayette Square.