The President's Henchman

by Joseph Flynn

  “What … what are you going to do with me?” Danny asked nervously.

  Cheveyo looked inquiringly at Crogher, who looked at McGill.

  McGill nodded.

  “He’s all yours,” Crogher told Cheveyo.

  The CIA man said to Danny, “We’re going to a place called Langley. We’ll take very good care of you there.”

  Carstairs went with Cheveyo. Just in case Danny was fucking with them.

  Crogher turned to look at McGill, waiting for an admission that the mighty president’s henchman had screwed up.

  But all McGill had to say was, “My wife have you checking up on me again, Celsus?”

  Chapter 38

  Damon Todd had no living relative, close friend, or colleague who could speak on his behalf. So in a closed civil commitment hearing, it was left to Dr. Daryl Cheveyo of the Central Intelligence Agency to tell Todd’s story. Cheveyo related how Dr. Todd had sought to enlist in the Agency and initiate a program of crafted personalities that would be of benefit to the nation’s human intelligence-gathering capabilities.

  James J. McGill testified that Dr. Todd had attacked him in his office with a baseball bat, and that Dr. Todd had told him that he’d strangled the last man who’d pointed a gun at him.

  Washington Metro Homicide detective Rockelle Bullard told the judge her unit had an open case in which a victim with a long record of armed robbery, one Royal McKee, recently had been found strangled to death on the campus of Georgetown University. A handgun presumed to be McKee’s was found nearby. Lieutenant Bullard said she’d very much like to talk with Dr. Todd if and when he resumed his former identity.

  Additionally, the judge was told, Dr. Todd was suspected of the murder of Michael Raleigh in Hawaii and complicity in the death of Congressman Aeneas Papandreou in the House of Representatives. The judge remembered seeing the famous C-SPAN tape of that incident.

  A subpoena was issued to Congressman Brun Fleming to testify as to how his impromptu aria had caused Papandreou’s death. But he denied knowing or ever meeting a Dr. Damon Todd. He passed a lie-detector test to that effect.

  Likewise, congressional aide Nina Barkley and publicist Laurel Rembert denied knowing or ever having sexual relations with Dr. Todd. They, too, passed lie-detector tests.

  Only network news reporter Chana Lochlan testified that she knew Todd. That he had hypnotized her. That he had sex with her when she was unable to exercise independent judgment or give her consent. Chana was working with a new therapist, a woman, and many painful memories were surfacing. To her credit, it was her choice to testify at the hearing.

  The judge committed Damon Todd, a.k.a. Danny Templeton, to the care of Dr. Daryl Cheveyo. Reports on Todd’s condition would be sent to the court quarterly. Should Dr. Todd revert to his base personality, he would be evaluated at that time to see if he should stand trial.

  “In the meantime,” the judge said, “Dr. Todd will get his wish. He’ll join the CIA.”

  McGill spoke to Cheveyo before they left the courtroom.

  “Todd said he’d undergone his own therapy as part of his medical training. Did you check that out? It might offer some insights.”

  “We thought of that. His analyst was Dr. Evelyn Patanky, the same woman, we recently found out, who helped him recover from a nervous breakdown. Unfortunately, she disappeared one night after teaching a class. Happened just after Michael Raleigh died in Hawaii.”

  McGill winced. Another murder.

  “You think you’ll get anything useful from Todd?” he asked.

  “Useful to whom?”

  “To the court, the CIA, the people who didn’t get mentioned at this hearing.”

  “To the first two, yes. As to the last, who didn’t get mentioned?”

  “Todd’s other crafted personalities. The ones we don’t know about.”

  “That’s a subject I definitely intend to cover,” Cheveyo said.

  McGill handed Cheveyo a sealed envelope.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Your instructions from the president of the United States.”

  The CIA man waited for the other shoe to drop.

  “The court isn’t the only place you’ll be sending your reports. Somewhere in Todd’s brain there’s a get-even reminder with my name on it. I want all the warning I can get.”

  “I would, too,” Cheveyo said.

  McGill had never played matchmaker in his life. But the way Graham Keough responded — quitting his job, cashing in enough stock to live comfortably through the twenty-first century, and moving East — he thought he might have to try it again someday.

  For her part, Chana Lochlan was so happy to see the first love of her life, she broke down and cried, in Keough’s arms.

  McGill had cleared the idea of the reunion with Chana’s therapist, just as he had the new job he’d finagled for her with World Wide News. Chana would be producing a series of one-hour news specials for the cable network, no fewer than four per year for the next five years. In addition to an appropriate, i.e. substantial, salary, she would also be provided with a budget sufficient to cover offices, a dozen staffers, travel and production expenses. Her shows would air on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday nights at 9:00 p.m. Eastern Time, 8:00 Central.

  Her first show would be called The Literature of Liberty. Done in conjunction with the book her father Eamon Lochlan was writing.

  All this was made possible after McGill had a second brief chat with Monty Kipp, Washington bureau chief for World Wide News. The topic: alleged threats made by McGill against Kipp’s life.

  “You think I’ve threatened you, Mr. Kipp? You really do? You must not know what a real death threat sounds like. But here’s a real threat on another subject. Unless you do the right thing by Chana Lochlan and stop your whispering campaign against me, I’ll sue you for slander. Among the other things that will be revealed, I want to remind you, is that you bugged your own reporter’s office. How many newsies will be willing to work for your network after that?”

  Kipp did the right thing by Chana and decided he wanted no further visits from the president’s henchman. He repatriated himself to London.

  As to the matter of McGill’s fee, still unsettled, Chana insisted that McGill accept the amount that Todd had originally intended as a bribe: $20,000.

  This time, McGill agreed. He had expenses to meet.

  Any chance of Colonel Carina Linberg facing a court-martial died with Captain Dexter Cowan, the sole witness against her on the charge of adultery. Colonel Linberg remained steadfast in her determination to leave the military and was honorably discharged. She changed her mind about going to work for American Aviation, though.

  She’d been contacted by a major New York publisher. She was going to write her life’s story: the modern American woman in today’s U.S. military. It would cover her career from her days at the academy to her fall from grace at the Pentagon when she faced the possibility of imprisonment for the “crime” of adultery. It was billed as a tell-all story.

  “Yeah, right,” Lieutenant Welborn Yates said, after Kira Fahey had read him the news item from the Washington Post.

  “She’s also going to do a speaking tour in conjunction with the release of the book, according to her publicist, Laurel Rembert,” Kira said.

  The two of them were in Welborn’s White House office. He was packing up the few belongings he’d brought with him, waiting for reassignment to Andrews. Or the Aleutians, for all he knew. After being the president’s fair-haired boy, he didn’t think either his superiors or brother officers at the OSI would greet his return warmly.

  Mostly, though, he was pissed at himself that his first case had gone so badly.

  With Cowan dead, there was absolutely no way to determine what had really happened between the Air Force colonel and the Navy captain. Had Carina Linberg been set up on the adultery charge? Had Cowan been the patsy in a larger conspiracy involving infidelity on the part of General Altman and, for all he knew, Mrs. Altma
n? There were too many possibilities for him to figure out on his own.

  There was no evidence as to how the right-front tire on Cowan’s Viper had blown. No proof of sabotage. Leo had a theory, though. Apply a belt sander to the tread. Just enough to create artificial wear. A weak spot. Then overinflate the tire by 5-10 PSI. Crank the car up to high speed, and boom.

  The reason Leo had suspected sabotage in the first place, he said, was that if any tire on the Viper should have blown, it was the left-front tire. Given the counterclockwise motion of the bootlegger turn Cowan had made, that was the tire that took the brunt of the turn’s heat and weight. But crime-scene techs from both the military and civilian authorities had been unable to confirm or deny Leo’s theory. The destruction of the tire had been too complete. Pieces were still missing and would likely never be found.

  Welborn felt the same way about his career.

  “Are you feeling sorry for yourself?” Kira asked. “I’d never have guessed. You know, for someone with the blood of kings in his veins.”

  Welborn snorted. “Have you been paying attention to that crowd?”

  “Good point. Well, how do you feel about us?”

  “I feel great about us. I’ll never stop hating you. But I am concerned about my professional prospects and my future availability. My next assignment might be investigating wing-nut pilferage on Diego Garcia.”

  Kira handed him an envelope. “The president asked me to give this to you.”

  Welborn gave her a look and neatly opened the envelope.

  Lieutenant Yates,

  I hope you won’t think me forward but I’ve invited your mother to the White House next month. We had quite a nice chat today. Your mother offered me several ideas on how I might better run the government. But she thought I had it exactly right when I told her I was promoting her son to captain.

  Welborn’s face turned red, and he looked at Kira. “I’m being promoted? After the botch I made of things. Did you know about this?”

  “If I did, I couldn’t betray a confidence.”

  “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “Don’t be silly. I can’t tell the president what to do. Only your mother can.”

  Welborn resumed reading.

  I recognize that I’ve put you in an awkward position with the Air Force. Tainted you politically, so to speak. But I’m sure you have the strength of character to bear up under difficult circumstances. Officially, you’ll continue to be attached to the OSI and will maintain your status as a credentialed federal agent. De facto, you’ll be a special investigator serving the president.

  That is, as long as you are agreeable. Your promotion will be forthcoming regardless, but I do hope you will stay on and be of service to me.

  Best Regards,

  Patricia Darden Grant

  President of the United States of America

  Welborn decided he would frame the letter. Put it a place of honor where generations of Yateses yet unborn could come and stare at it. There was no way he could turn down the president’s request. His mother wouldn’t let him. Kira would kill him. He’d hate himself if he turned down the challenge.

  The challenge. It hit him how monumental that might be.

  He asked Kira, “How’s the president’s marriage doing?”

  She looked at him incredulously and laughed.

  “I haven’t been consulted, but I believe it’s just fine.”

  Okay, so he’d have James J. McGill to backstop him. Hell, who was he kidding; McGill was there to coach him. He felt much better. He got down on one knee and took Kira’s hand.

  “Ms. Fahey, if an Air Force captain makes enough to support you in the fashion to which you are accustomed, will you marry me?”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll still be in Honda territory. Fortunately, I do have money of my own. And you will be making enough so I won’t have to give you an allowance.”

  “Give me a moment to reconsider my proposal,” Welborn said.

  Kira yanked him to his feet, put her arms around him, and looked him in the eye.

  “So soon?” she asked. “Can’t we enjoy our illicit relationship a bit longer?”

  “Too unseemly. We work for the president,” he reminded her. “More than that, there’ll be no fooling my mother once she visits.”

  “Because your mother knows all about illicit relationships.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Very well. I’ll marry you.” She kissed him. “Shall we invite the queen?”

  “Talk to Mother,” Welborn replied.

  General Warren Altman, widower, retired from the Air Force. Things worked out well for him, but not exactly as planned. American Aviation had to withdraw its job offer. No other defense contractor would touch him either. Word from the White House had been passed: Altman is a leper. Take him on, and your defense contracts will go to your biggest competitor.

  No CEO was willing to risk that.

  Even so, the general wouldn’t have to squeak by on his six-figure military pension. Once it became clear that the president was shafting him, her political adversaries rode to his rescue. General Altman was hired as a military analyst by America’s favorite right-wing cable network.

  It was said he could hardly wait for the first time the president went to war.

  Major Clarence Seymour, General Altman’s former aide, was promoted to colonel the day after Captain Dexter Cowan and his car went to pieces. There was no way to prove it, but Welborn liked him for wielding the belt sander. While that suspicion couldn’t be proven before a court-martial, Welborn included his surmise in his final report to the president.

  Which effectively ended Colonel Seymour’s climb in rank. He would never see stars on his shoulders. A realist, he, too, resigned from the Air Force. He went home to New York City. It was only a matter of a month before he was recruited to run for the seat of a retiring member of the House of Representatives.

  The chief sponsor of Seymour’s new political career was none other than Senator Roger Michaelson. In Washington, political enemies were harder to kill than vampires. As often as not, they not only survived, they multiplied.

  Dikki Missirian recovered completely from his run-in with Damon Todd. His physical injuries had been minor, and the single dose of Special K that Todd had administered to him was not enough to do any lasting damage.

  McGill asked his landlord, “Did Todd get the baseball bat from your office?”

  Dikki nodded, embarrassed that the madman had tried to use it against McGill.

  “Did you buy it for protection?”

  “No, I bought it for my son.”

  As far as McGill knew, Dikki didn’t have any children. Then the light dawned, “Your wife is pregnant?”

  “Yes. The doctor says a boy. I don’t think there are any Armenian big leaguers. So I think, why not my son?”

  McGill smiled.

  “Siran and I intend to name him after you.” Dikki also said McGill’s next twelve months rent were on the house.

  McGill said it would be okay to use James for the boy’s middle name. He would continue to pay his own rent. But he let Dikki cover the cost of repairs for McGill’s gunfire and rock throwing.

  Fidel Castro resurfaced the morning after the Costa Gorda Incident. He spent five hours vehemently denying that the Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria had anything to do with the attack on the gusanos’ toy-soldier base in the imperialist puppet country of Costa Gorda. He’d rather have seen the worms attack Cuba so they could be smashed as their grandfathers had been at the Bay of Pigs. The whole of the event in Costa Gorda was a lie. A fabrication. A provocation!

  Rant as he might, the attack was caught on video. The entire world had seen it.

  What Castro couldn’t deny was that the woman in the White House had smoked him out of hiding. Shown that he was still alive, still in charge, and as defiant as ever. Given that, any notion that Cuba might inflict genocide on itself was quickly discarded.

  For her part, Presid
ent Grant warned Cuba publicly to commit no further acts of war against any of its neighbors. To protect Costa Gorda, she ordered the United States Navy to guard its territorial waters. It would interdict any vessel intending to do harm there.

  There were several advantages to this plan. Cuba would never be able to launch another “attack” on Costa Gorda. The Miami Cubans could keep their base, but it would be blockaded as surely as Cuba itself had been in 1963. Thus the exiles would be allowed no independent troublemaking opportunities. But they would be preserved as a threat should Castro ever truly annoy the president in the future. Finally, the Navy presence would end Costa Gorda’s role as a transshipment point for drugs destined for the U.S. market, a concern of which the CIA had made the president aware as part of her daily briefing.

  While Castro publicly excoriated Patricia Darden Grant, privately he admired her greatly. Forcing him out of the shadows, he had to admit, was a masterstroke. As was destroying those bastard Obregon brothers. Castro was sure that their destruction, the only deaths in the whole charade, was no accident. The president was throwing him a bone, giving him the terrorists who’d attacked his produce mart. The woman had great wiles.

  At last, there was an adversary in the White House worthy of him.

  McGill’s rectal polyp turned out to be benign. He promised Artemus Nicolaides he would have semiannual checkups to watch for further developments in the lower forty. He and the president took a four-day weekend on a private island in the Caribbean from which he returned to Washington no longer looking like a pale Irishman.

  The Reverend Burke Godfrey remained immovable for months. He wouldn’t acknowledge that any of his followers had anything to do with threatening the lives of children. Even the offspring of the man responsible for falsely arresting and charging with murder his beloved wife Erna, who with every passing day drew closer to an unspeakable execution.