by Joseph Flynn
Durand took one out of his sport coat pocket.
“And that is all?”
The reporter took a second smaller machine out of an inside pocket of the coat. A glowing red light indicated that it was functioning. Gabbi turned it off.
She said, “It would be indelicate, m’sieur, if I had to frisk you in public.”
He stared at Gabbi as if daring her to try, but he soon dropped his gaze, pushed his coat back and unclipped a tiny recorder that had been attached to his belt at the hip, and put it on the table. Gabbi picked up all three recorders and dropped them into her handbag.
“She looks after me,” McGill told him.
“I should have such luck,” Durand said.
Gabbi got up and told McGill, “I’ll take a little stroll. See if this gentleman has a friend with a directional mike or a long lens pointed our way.”
“I should have such a budget,” the reporter said.
He took a moment to watch Gabbi walk away and then turned to McGill.
The president’s henchman told him, “I’m sure you have many questions for me, M’sieur Durand, but I’m not going to answer any of them now. Instead, I am going to make you a proposition. You can listen, and if you agree to help me, you might find yourself with a good story. Otherwise, you’ll get that cup of expresso at my expense and that’s all.”
“Will I also get my recorders back?”
McGill nodded. Durand considered.
“Very well, m’sieur. Please tell me how I may be of service.”
McGill said he was looking for a woman. One who looked something like mademoiselle, only younger, somewhat more obvious in her contours, and known to have kept company with Thierry Duchamp shortly before his death.
The mention of the soccer star hooked Durand, McGill saw. It also confirmed for McGill the nature of the tip Durand had been given on the phone call from Frederick, MD. Hey, pal, how’s this for a story? The American president’s husband is investigating Thierry Duchamp’s death. For any reporter, a tip like that would be the equivalent of finding a winning lotto ticket.
Making McGill sure he could play the guy. He’d taken a ploy meant to embarrass Patti and subverted it. For all he knew, Durand might even be helpful.
The reporter said, “You wish me to help you find this woman? I am your man, m’sieur.”
“Good. This blonde, of course, might have changed her appearance by now, have a different hair color perhaps. You might have to allow for that.”
“She might not even be a woman, n’est-ce pas? Une transvestite ou une il-elle, possibly.”
Gabbi returned just in time to hear Durand’s last remark and translated for McGill.
“A crossdresser or a he-she,” Gabbi said.
Those thoughts had never crossed McGill’s mind. But this was Paris.
“Maybe,” he said.
Durand gave them his mobile number. Gabbi returned his recorders and provided Durand with an embassy phone number that would be forwarded to her mobile.
Winfield House, London
3
Celsus Crogher stiffened as he heard the voice in his earpiece. He’d begun to appreciate that Holly G—the president’s code name—had kept him on the job when he’d wanted to pull the plug. The way things were getting crazy in London, with mobs of people marching in the streets in response to POTUS’s proposed new defense plans, he’d have been beating himself bloody if he had left her well-being in anyone else’s hands. But the voice now addressing him was a painful reminder that he’d always have to share that responsibility.
“How’s my wife doing, Celsus?” Holmes asked.
“You should ask her directly,” Crogher told him. Then a rarity occurred. The SAC had a cheerful thought. “Unless she’s no longer speaking to you.”
“In your dreams, Celsus,” McGill told him. “What I’m looking for is an objective, professional opinion. You think you can manage that?”
Crogher took a long moment to decide if that was possible.
McGill filled the silence. “While you’re making up your mind, let me tell you something you should know. In the event you need to move the president quickly anytime soon, she might be a half-step slow.”
That was important for Crogher to know. He asked, “Is something wrong with her?”
“Her health’s fine. But she has a lot on her mind. She might be a bit distracted.”
Crogher processed that. Patricia Darden Grant was the sharpest politician he’d ever seen. She followed complex discussions with ease. Made intuitive leaps where others grasped for answers. And her mental acuity was coupled with an athlete’s physical grace.
But if there was anyone who’d know if she was off her game—
McGill picked up the conversation once more.
“Feel free to say thanks for the tip, Celsus,” he said.
“Thanks,” the SAC grunted.
“Now, I’d like to do another favor for you.”
“What?” Crogher asked, suspicion clear in his voice.
“You’ll have to trust me on this one, but if you look back you’ll see I’ve never lied to you.”
“What?” Crogher repeated with an impatient tone he really shouldn’t have used with the president’s husband.
“Temper, temper,” McGill said. “What I want you to know is you shouldn’t feel bad—and my bet is you’ve been flogging yourself—about not finding Deke Ky’s shooter. There’s no way short of a miracle you could have found him.”
Crogher’s circuits overloaded as if a power-surge had hit him.
“You know? You know who shot my agent?”
“Not yet. Not for sure. But I will know soon enough.”
McGill felt confident about that, but he was going to look very bad if Sweetie didn’t come through. Then again, if he wasn’t willing to put his money on Margaret Mary Sweeney, he might as well pack it in.
“You tell me what you know,” Crogher ordered. “You tell me right now.”
McGill chuckled. “Someone redraw the organizational table when I wasn’t looking?”
The SAC ground his teeth. He loathed this man. But he had absolutely no lever—
The thought came like a lightning bolt to Crogher. “I’ll leak what you’re doing.”
McGill laughed out loud this time. “You’d cut your tongue out before you gave a reporter the time of day. Now, let’s be serious. I’ve done you two favors, so I’m going to ask you for one.”
Crogher could not believe this guy. But he was too professional not to listen.
McGill said, “I’m going to give you the number of a public phone in a bowling alley in Frederick, Maryland. I want you to have your minions find out who was on that phone yesterday at 11:45 a.m. And before you ask why the hell you should do that, I’ll tell you. You help me, and I’ll make sure you’re the guy who brings in Deke’s shooter. How you bring him in is up to you.”
Goddamn Holmes, Crogher thought.
The devil couldn’t have come up with a more tempting offer.
Which was why, between grinding teeth, the SAC replied, “Okay.”
Rive Gauche, Paris
4
“We’ll be there shortly,” McGill said into his phone. “Thank you, m’sieur.”
He clicked off and turned to Gabbi who was negotiating Paris traffic, which didn’t seem to him to be any worse than what he saw in Chicago or DC. From the brief exposure he’d had to London’s motor routes and surface streets, he thought the traffic there was far worse.
“Should I call Pruet by his title?” McGill asked. “What is his title anyway?”
“M’sieur le magistrat will do, but that’s for us mere mortals. Someone of your eminence can get away with informality. Also, Yves Pruet, from all I’ve heard, is a fairly relaxed individual.”
“I’m eminent?” McGill asked. “You don’t seem overawed.”
Gabbi shot him a glance. “Sorry. I should be more respectful. More diplomatically courteous.” She took a breath before adding, “
But I’m thinking of leaving the State Department soon. My brother wants me to be the art buyer and curator for his company. Offered me a ridiculous salary. I would have left State already if President Grant hadn’t been elected.”
McGill smiled. “How’s that?”
With a frown, Gabbi said, “Her predecessor had the department conscripting personnel for postings to Baghdad and other places.”
“Because no one was volunteering?”
Gabbi nodded. “The whole damn government, the career professionals’ part, was coming apart at the seams. Not to suck up, but your wife has really helped to restore morale.”
McGill made a mental note to be sure to pass that along the next time he spoke with Patti.
“Even yours?” he asked. “Even after you got stuck with me, and I’m talking to the press?”
She gave him a look. “Some assignments are tougher than others.”
McGill smiled at her. “You know why I talked to Durand?”
“To get another helper looking for the mystery woman.”
“That’s one reason. And you know why Durand won’t spill the beans right away?”
“Because he thinks there’s a bigger story ahead than the one he has now.”
“Right. No hints this time. What’s the other reason?”
They stopped at a red light. By the time it turned green, she had it.
“Because if whoever tipped Durand doesn’t get the results he expected, he’ll try to make a splash somewhere else. Probably in a way guaranteed to get coverage. Possibly in a way that could backfire and hurt the president’s enemies.”
Gabbi took a right. They were only a block from the Rue de Lille safe-house where the police were holding Glen Kinnard.
“You’re good,” McGill said. “If you go to work for your brother, would you stay here or come home?”
“Stay here.”
McGill nodded, looking thoughtful. “Maybe I could open my first international office. Maybe, when you weren’t buying or curating art, you’d enjoy being a private eye.”
Gabbi laughed as she pulled into the parking space the doorman kept open in front of the building. She looked at McGill and told him, “Whatever else I do, I’m going to paint: oils one day, watercolors the next.” She paused before adding, “But if you have something interesting to investigate, maybe we could work out an informal arrangement. So what are you going to do with Mr. Kinnard now?”
“I’m going to see if I can pick a fight with him,” McGill told her.
Porte Grenelle, Paris
5
Alexandru Régis — the gypsy boy hired by McGill — his wife Ana, Bunica Anisa, and a dozen other Rom, men, women, and children were convened on an old but well maintained forty-foot cabin cruiser moored at the Porte Grenelle marina on the Seine. The slip was little more than a stone’s throw from the Pont d’Iéna and the Eiffel Tower.
The Seine was a magnet for tourists carrying money, jewelry, cameras, electronics and drugs, prescription and recreational. The Rom could no more ignore such booty than a hungry man could pass through an orchard without stealing an apple. The cruiser collected purloined items from clan members busy working both banks of the river, thus relieving them of the burden of possessing stolen goods. The swag was then passed along to an oncoming work barge that circulated through the Seine and the city’s three canals.
But that morning the family members gathered around Alexandru and a sketch artist — whose accomplice normally pilfered the bags and picked the pockets of those sitting for a portrait. With Alexandru’s guidance, the artist completed a sketch of Gabbi. He looked to the boy for comment.
“That is her,” Alexandru said.
The artist told Bunica Anisa,“ Making this woman appear ten years younger and fuller-bodied will be no problem.”
“Now, do the man,” the gypsy queen ordered.
Following Alexandru’s direction, the artist quickly began sketching. As the face took on definition, a Rom named Bela leaned forward for a better look. He nodded to himself. Once, and then several more times. A smile lit his face.
“Mother of God,” he whispered.
That was enough to draw everyone’s attention, distracting Alexandru and the artist.
“No, no, keep working,” Bela told them. “I’ll be right back, but keep at it.”
He went forward to the cabin he was using. Everyone watched him, until Bunica Anisa got Alexandru and the artist back to work. In minutes, the sketch was finished, the very likeness of —
“It is him,” said Bela. He’d returned and held a newspaper in his hands.
“Who?” Bunica Anisa demanded.
Bela said, “Coming back from England yesterday, I found this newspaper. Out of boredom, I picked it up. A story I read gave me an idea for a game we might run, so I kept it.”
“You can read?” the artist asked. The Rom were commonly illiterate.
“I learned so I could read the racing form.” The Rom were brilliant handicappers, usually reading horses more easily than words.
Bela plunked the tabloid down and said, “Look here.”
Bunica Anisa and the others crowded around the table where the paper lay. Patricia Darden Grant’s face filled the front page. The headline read: Patti Comes to Visit.
“Who is she?” Bunica Anisa asked, unable to read the words. “A movie star?”
Bela said, “She was once. Now, she is president of the United States.”
Everyone looked at each other, knowing this was only the first shoe to drop.
Bunica Anisa, befitting her years and status, intuitively knew what came next.
She pointed a knobby finger at the sketch of the man who’d hired Alexandru.
Bela smiled and nodded. He opened the paper to another page and there was a picture of James J. McGill. He put the paper down next to the sketch. All eyes turned to Alexandru. The boy nodded. This was the man he’d met.
Bela said, “He is the president’s husband. They call him her henchman.”
Bunica Anisa looked within herself and then at each of those present.
“My children,” she said, “this is a rare opportunity.”
The Rom would now be looking to net far more than a few hundred euros.
Salvation’s Path Church, Richmond, VA
6
The Reverend Burke Godfrey’s secretary, Mrs. Willa Bramleigh, according to the nameplate on her desk, had kept Benton Williams, one of the most powerful lawyers in Washington, DC waiting for over 45 minutes. She was very polite about it, offering him a cup of Kona coffee and a plate of tasty butter cookies she’d made herself. He’d partaken of both, making Mrs. Bramleigh smile with his sincere compliments. When not attending to the needs of the reverend’s guest, she busied herself alphabetizing a large stack of donation pledge cards, humming “Count Your Blessings” as she worked.
Reverend Burke was gathering funds from members of his flock as seed money for the university he planned to build. Some wags had said it would be named the University of God. Campuses in Virginia and Heaven.
In any case, Reverend Godfrey was starting with small donations from the common folk. Once he had a couple hundred thousand small contributions, he would go after the fat cats and corporate money. The reverend spoke of how Harvard had the biggest endowment of any university in the country: thirty-five billion dollars. If Mammon could raise that much money, the reverend conjectured, why shouldn’t a nationwide community of American faithful not exceed it, make it seem humble by comparison?
With that kind of ambition and a donor base growing exponentially, Reverend Godfrey had no trouble paying Benton Williams’ two-thousand-dollar-per-hour fee. Williams practiced appellate criminal defense law. None of the fourteen defendants Williams had represented had had his death sentence stand. Eleven of them had been resentenced to life imprisonment, but only six of those had been denied the possibility of parole. The remaining three had had their convictions overturned and were now exonerated and free.
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sp; A number of prominent movers-and-shakers in the capital had Williams on retainer, fancying that one day they might simply have to do away with political opponents, and certainly wanting to get off scot-free. With a single exception, the lawyer considered these people to be indulging themselves in fantasies of what dangerous characters they were. Nonetheless, he was happy to take their money.
It was in the same spirit that the lawyer waited patiently for the reverend to receive him; his time was always someone else’s money. True, the news he brought the reverend was a challenge unlike any he’d ever faced. If genuine, he had no comprehension of it as either a lawyer or a human being. If the situation ever were to become commonplace, it would put him out of business. But he had no fear of that and even as a true anomaly, Reverend Godfrey would bear the burden of rectifying the situation. Williams would be able to help only if the evangelist did the heavy lifting.
Mrs. Bramleigh caught him woolgathering. “Mr. Williams …Mr. Williams.”
He looked up, too professional to be embarrassed.
“Reverend Godfrey, will see you now. His prayer hour is over.”
The lawyer smiled and said, “Thank you. You’re very kind.”
Mrs. Bramleigh smiled, happy to have been a help. She closed the door behind Williams, trying not to be concerned as she heard Reverend Godfrey, his voice filled with concern, ask, “What’s so urgent, Benton?”
She was back at her desk, trying to focus on the pledges when she heard such a piteous moan come from the reverend’s office that all the cards she’d held in her hands shot into the air. Before the last one hit the floor, she could hear the great man sobbing.
Winfield House, London
7
Galia Mindel sat in the drawing room of Winfield House, waiting to accompany the president to Chequers, the Buckinghamshire Tudor mansion that was the official country residence of the United Kingdom’s prime minister. As Norvin Kimbrough was the host for this meeting of the G8, sans Russia, he had the choice of where the meeting would be held. He’d chosen his country home.