Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion

by Joseph Flynn

  “Dad, what’s even greater, Annie got me a part. I’m going to be in a movie!” A shriek of delight followed, once again drawing Gabbi’s attention.

  “I hate to be a buzzkill,” Gabbi said. “But maybe you better say goodbye now.”

  “What’s wrong?” McGill asked.

  “Nothing, Dad. Everything’s great,” Caitie said.

  But Gabbi told him, “There are three young guys in a car behind us. They all look agitated, and I think the first chance they get they’re going to try something.”

  McGill flipped down the passenger side visor and checked the vanity mirror.

  He saw the car and agreed with Gabbi’s assessment completely.

  He felt much better when she handed him a Beretta from under her jacket.

  McGill told his daughter, “Caitie, that’s wonderful news, but I’ll have to call you back.”

  Georgetown

  11

  Sweetie laid out six photographs on McGill’s desk: Horatio Bao, Ricky Lanh Huu, Musette Ky, Deke Ky, Reverend Francis Nguyen, and Bishop George O’Menehy. She looked at Welborn, sitting across from her, and said, “Here’s our cast of characters…so far.”

  “That fellow on my right,” Welborn said. “Who’s he?”

  Sweetie had printed the bishop’s photo off the Internet, and identified him now for Welborn. The young Air Force captain frowned.

  “What?” Sweetie asked.

  “My last case,” Welborn reminded her, “I was snooping on colonels and generals. Now, I’m going to be investigating a bishop?”

  “Maybe you’ll have to write a book someday.”

  Welborn gave Sweetie a look.

  “What did you find out about our two Vietnamese friends?” she asked.

  Welborn had run Horatio Bao and Ricky Lanh Huu through his federal databases.

  He now consulted his notebook. He’d used his White House password to access the computer systems of the agencies he’d queried, but he hadn’t printed out the information gleaned from his inquiries. As far as anyone auditing his activities would know, he’d only looked at other peoples’ files. He’d wanted to leave as light a footprint as possible.

  He told Sweetie, “Horatio’s given name, as far as anyone can tell, is Bao Huu; Ricky was simply Lanh Huu.”

  “Father and son?” Sweetie asked.

  “Maybe but not because of their names. In Vietnamese, huu means very much so. Or to have much of something. Bao means protection. Lanh means, roughly, street smarts.”

  “For our purposes,” Sweetie said, “we’ll think of them as the brains and the muscle. What else do the feds have?”

  Welborn told her, “Bao was supposed to be some kind of young hotshot in the old South Vietnamese government, the foreign ministry, and was a suspected big-time player in the black market and vice rackets. He got out of Vietnam early and is suspected of taking a lot of money with him. Now he’s a general practice lawyer in Virginia with no criminal record. Ricky does have an arrest record but the charge was dismissed in court.”

  “What was the charge?” Sweetie asked.

  “Manslaughter. When Ricky was 18, he used a knife to kill another kid, but it was deemed to be self-defense. The other kid had a broken bottle. Thing is, a cop I called heard a story the dead kid grabbed the bottle and broke it only after Ricky came at him with the knife.”

  Sweetie mulled things over.

  She said, “Not too hard to imagine Ricky moving up from a knife to a gun, and if we checked to see who the lawyer who defended him was— ”

  “Not Bao,” Welborn said. “A criminal defense guy named Peter Landeker. No blots on his record.”

  Sweetie said, “Well, Bao is a smart guy then. But given their histories, here and abroad, I think we can take Musette Ky’s assertion that they’re behind Deke’s shooting as credible.”

  “And we can make a fair guess who pulled the trigger,” Welborn added.

  “Right.”

  “So what do we do now, Margaret?” Welborn asked.

  “We ask ourselves who the weak link is,” she said.

  Didn’t take Welborn a heartbeat. “Ricky.”

  “Yeah,” Sweetie said, separating his picture from the others. “The youngest, most volatile, and most dangerous person on the board—but also the most likely to make a mistake.”

  “It’ll be hard,” Welborn said, “for just the two of us to watch him around the clock.”

  An excellent point. Sweetie thought maybe she’d made a mistake letting Leo slip away on vacation so easily. But maybe he’d been a dutiful son and had gone to visit his mother. The elderly lady with the bad heart. If things got to be more than they could handle, though, and Mom wasn’t in intensive care, she’d call Leo back.

  “We’ll do what we can,” Sweetie told Welborn. “But we are going to need one more person. Someone to join Father Nguyen’s congregation and keep an eye on who drops by. You’ll be busy, and the good father has seen me up close.”

  “Then who?” Welborn asked.

  “I was thinking of your fiancée,” Sweetie said.

  Welborn’s eyes went wide. “Kira?”

  Washington, DC

  12

  Left to her own devices, Kira Fahey, Welborn’s fiancée, never ate breakfast or lunch. She ate brunch and an afternoon snack. She arrived at Tommy T’s Steakhouse at 10:30 a.m. Alone. Annoyed that Welborn had been unable to join her.

  She was also vexed that weekday brunch, once a prerogative Tommy T afforded to a select few, had become something of a craze among people who really should have been at their desks working: trying to cheat the government out of its money or trying to defeat those trying to cheat the government.

  Kira, niece and goddaughter, of the vice-president of the United States would have had to be at her desk in the White House if the president hadn’t been overseas. So who were all these people cluttering up her favorite steakhouse?

  Welborn’s fiancée had long made an art of being overprivileged.

  Jules, the restaurant’s host, was pleased to see Kira. Her star in the Washington firmament was already high, and the smart money said it would only ascend further.

  Jules said warmly, “Ms. Fahey, how nice to see you again. Will Captain Yates be joining you today? Or are you dining with a lady friend?”

  Kira hadn’t made a reservation; some people didn’t need them.

  Her social standing was of no comfort to her at the moment, however.

  “I’m all alone today, Jules. So maybe I’ll stuff myself.”

  “A hearty appetite is to be commended, Ms. Fahey.”

  “Commended but not seen. Do you have a table for one behind a potted plant?”

  “As a matter of fact. A table for two with one chair easily removed.”

  “I’m not the first diner who wants to eat and not be seen?”

  “Far from it,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Please follow me.”

  The table was, in fact, screened by foliage. Three Madagascar Dragon trees. Better yet, Jules told her, if she’d leave her credit card with him, he would run the cost of her meal as soon as she ordered. The card would be returned when her meal was served, and she could leave by the side door adjacent to the table if she wished.

  Kira smiled and handed over her card. She liked the snugly placed table and the air of intrigue that came with it. She’d been to Tommy T’s more times than she could remember, but she’d never noticed this table before. Thinking of the skulduggery that must go on there, both political and romantic, sent a shiver of pleasure through her.

  She told Jules what she’d like to eat and to double her usual tip.

  “Thank you, Ms. Fahey,” he said. “I have only one other party that will be seated nearby. They won’t be able to see you, and they’re discreet gentlemen so their conversation is likely to be soft-spoken and shouldn’t disturb you.”

  Kira nodded. She liked to be pampered.

  As soon as Jules had left, she couldn’t help but wonder what sort of
lewd behavior she and Welborn might get away with at this table. He was far too proper to ever let her drop her panties and straddle him on a restaurant chair. To be fair, they were both rather energetic about such things, and she had been known to reach high C with her vocalizations. Jules might come by to inquire if all was well.

  Kira’s mind drifted through a series of somewhat more likely erotic fantasies. The limiting criterion was the possibility of public discovery and the potential embarrassment they might cause the president. Kira’s own sense of ambition, though nuclear powered, didn’t lie in the direction of ever seeking public office—too many grubby hands to shake—but she had great respect for Patricia Darden Grant. The president had ascended a pinnacle unreached by any other woman.

  She wondered what unique achievement she might claim for herself. Marrying Welborn would be a good start. He’d told her that his mother had in fact invited the Queen of England to their wedding. Wouldn’t that be a hoot if the old gal actually came? And why shouldn’t she? Kira’s uncle, the vice president of the United States, would be giving her away. The president would be there—and so would her henchman. Now, there was an interesting man. Maybe Welborn could form some sort of company with him after the president left office. Surely, he’d be bored with the military by then, and they’d need a respectable amount of money to carry them into—

  A waiter appeared, bringing Kira’s order and her credit card. A petite steak, blood red inside. The near rawness of the meat sometimes put Welborn off. Other times, though, watching her wolf down a steak got him going. The waiter smiled at her, but came and went without a word. What a wonderful idea, Kira thought, silent food service. She might make a permanent request for this table. It was all so peaceful…

  Until Jules seated two men at the table on the other side of the Dragon trees. For a moment, she resented their presence, but she’d been warned they would be coming, and as Jules had said they kept their voices down. In fact, to Kira’s keen ears, they seemed to be scheming.

  Secrets were being shared. The men had no idea she was nearby. Being a DC resident and a dedicated snoop, Kira silently put her silverware down, stopped chewing, and began to eavesdrop.

  13

  Robert Merriman, Senator Roger Michaelson’s chief of staff, was two years older than his brother Anson, one of the capital’s uber-lobbyists, but in terms of ambition and ruthlessness, they were identical twins. That was why Anson was having a problem understanding what his brother had just told him.

  “What do you mean you don’t want to screw Patti Grant any longer?” Anson asked.

  His question contained no sexual connotation. The Merriman brothers screwed people to the wall, not to beds.

  Bob took a sip of water before answering.

  “I know. It’s not like I got religion all of sudden … but it’s not far from that, either. I was listening to Michaelson tell me he’s going to run for president and—”

  “He came right out and said so?” Anson asked.

  Bob nodded. “Said he wants me to run the campaign that will get him the job.”

  “That’s great. You said you would, of course.”

  “I said I’d get the campaign rolling, then I was going to run for the Senate seat he’d be leaving.”

  Anson beamed. “Even better. We’ll have the White House and the Senate wired that way.”

  The brothers fell silent as a waiter approached with their meals. Anson gave the man a credit card, told him to add 25% for himself, and they wouldn’t need anything else from him. He’d pick up the card on his way out.

  After the waiter left, Anson asked, “Did Michaelson have any problem with your idea?”

  “He can’t afford to have a problem with it. He needs me too much.”

  “So what is the problem, this surprise appearance by your conscience? Tell it to get lost.”

  Bob Merriman gave a dry laugh.

  “Easier said than done. I just got this feeling. It changed the way I looked at everything. Suddenly, I was absolutely certain that Patricia Darden Grant is going to make history for more than just being the first woman to sit in the Oval Office. I became absolutely certain she’s going to be one of the greats. The country might actually need her before she’s done.”

  Anson looked at his elder brother, a man he’d always admired, with contempt.

  “Put her right up there on Rushmore, huh?”

  “Maybe. But don’t think I’ve gone soft, Junior.”

  Bob’s tone put the younger Merriman back in his place.

  “What do you mean?” Anson asked, his disdain gone.

  “I mean, what would you rather do, ride a losing horse, or climb on the winner?”

  “You’re saying there’s no way Michaelson would beat Patti Grant?”

  “None,” Bob said.

  “So your plan is?”

  “To get someone plausible to run Michaelson’s campaign from the start, after I’ve resigned from his staff, and run my own campaign for his Senate seat.”

  Anson grinned. “That’s more like the brother who taught me to lie, cheat, and steal. But Michaelson will learn you’ve betrayed him.”

  “Only after he’s lost the race and is out of office. Only after he’s a nobody.”

  Anson raised his glass to his brother. “Robert, I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

  The Merrimans clinked glasses and sipped their mineral water.

  “So you’re going to protect Patti Grant’s flank? Does that mean you get that English bookie to take his hooks out of that sap in the London embassy.”

  “That particular civil servant has had his debts paid in full this very day. Pembroke has been told to take no further wagers from him, and the quisling has been told to stop leaking McGill’s doings.”

  “What about that frog sports reporter?”

  The elder brother said, “He’ll give McGill a headache. But that’s okay, too.”

  “And that other little trick you had in store for your new favorite president?”

  Bob Merriman sighed. “I’m afraid there’s no stopping that one.”

  Behind the shelter of the Dragon trees, Kira Fahey had caught every word the Merrimans had said, and written all of them down.

  And none other than Putnam Shady, Sweetie’s friend and landlord, had arrived at Tommy T’s. He liked an occasional early lunch. He also liked to read the seating list wherever he dined, a feat he could manage without turning the list in his direction or otherwise being obvious about it.

  He found it most interesting that such notables as the Merriman brothers were dining at Tommy T’s that day—and that Jules had placed Kira Fahey at the adjacent hideaway table he was planning to request.

  Champs Elysées, Paris

  14

  Aubine Grenier Severin sat in the conference room of her divorce lawyer’s offices. The space was large and light poured in through tall windows, but the room was so filled with media people Madam Severin was starting to feel claustrophobic. Print reporters from across the continent were there, including an American from the International Herald Tribune. TV cameras from TF1, the BBC, and CNN were on hand. All eyes, save one pair, were focused on the ex-wife of French President Jean-Louis Severin. Aubine was immaculately groomed, minimally made-up, dressed in a severely simple style, and she sat with her own eyes lowered, unwilling for the moment to engage all the attention directed at her.

  Her lawyer, Marcel Choisy, sat next to his client, the two of them in matching Louis XIII armchairs. The avocat was equally impassive and impeccably turned out, but he saw everything, including his assistant, Giselle, as she signaled him that every member of the media who had been invited had arrived and all were ready to hear why they had been summoned. Choisy rose smoothly to his feet.

  “Mesdames et messieurs, ladies and gentlemen of the press, my name is Marcel Choisy. It has been my honor to safeguard the interests of Aubine Grenier Severin in the dissolution of her marriage to the president of the republic, Jean-Louis Severin. In that capac
ity, I have been diligent in protecting my client’s every interest … based upon the information I had at the time of the divorce.

  “Now, Madam Severin has presented me with new intelligence which will cause us to revisit the material disposition of the divorce, and petition the court for a revised judgment. Madam Severin will make a statement. She will not take any questions from the media, but I will.”

  The lawyer extended a hand to help his client rise.

  Now, she took notice of the mob, and stood without her lawyer’s support.

  “I divorced my husband because I am a selfish woman,” she said in a clear steady voice. “That is, I wished to spend at least three hours per evening with Jean-Louis, at least five days per week. I wished to see him smile at me as we enjoyed conversation and food; I wished to spend an occasional night at the theater or opera with him; I wished to have him hold me in his arms, on the dance floor or other more private places. Fifteen hours per week, that is what I selfishly demanded of him. That is what he refused me.

  “I said the last time I spoke with him that I wanted no more than any decent mistress would require, but he told me his mistress was France, and she required far more of his time than any woman would. He said he gave me every minute he could spare. Being selfish, I told him the minutes he could spare were not enough, not for me. So I came to M’sieur Choisy and obtained a divorce. I was far from happy, but I had to be satisfied with my choice.

  “Then I learned that my former husband had not one mistress but two.”

  That was the bombshell the press had been waiting for, but would it be a conventional explosion or would things go nu—

  “The other woman demanding my husband’s time, I have learned, was the President of the United States, Patricia Darden Grant. Now, the two of them have formed a grand new national alliance as well as a personal one. As the press has already proclaimed, ‘France Shall Lead.’”

  The collected media were stunned to silence, imagining a mushroom cloud rising before their eyes, but after Marcel Choisy helped his client back to her seat and turned to face them, they shouted their questions at him en masse.