by Joseph Flynn
The Lord moved in mysterious ways.
But in the end the signs were usually clear.
She wondered if Kira Fahey would be given a sign about her father being present at her wedding. Maybe, maybe not. But if she had to bet, she knew where she’d put her money.
She’d been watching for Horatio Bao for two hours, thinking it had seemed like mere minutes, when a young woman came out of his storefront office. She was slim, of Asian heritage, and wearing a business suit with a skirt that showed off shapely legs. She carried a bundle of manila and number ten envelopes. Despite the burden, she locked the door to Bao’s offices without difficulty. She walked with an athletic stride, approaching a new Nissan Altima parked at the curb out front. About to move out from behind the Nissan and into the street, she had to quickly retreat to avoid a fast moving car. The high heels she wore didn’t inhibit her fancy footwork.
She entered the Nissan with grace and an economy of motion, slipping inside and pulling the door closed a heartbeat before the next car zoomed past.
Sweetie remembered what Jim had said. Someone had to ring Ms. Ky’s doorbell for the sniper who had shot Deke. She and Jim had also speculated about how the person who rang the bell might be related to Bao, thinking she might be a wife or a girlfriend.
Sweetie waited for an opening in traffic, and made a U-turn to follow the young woman in the Nissan.
To Sweetie’s eye, she wasn’t tailing a wife or girlfriend. A girlfriend was unlikely to be toting the office mail, unless she was also Bao’s secretary. But the feeling Sweetie got from the young woman, having a key to the office, she had some sort of executive capacity. A wife would either be an older, trusted companion, or young and flashy, a trophy model. The woman Sweetie was following was young, but stylish rather than flashy.
Putnam’s e-mail had included a copy of the photo Horatio Bao used on his website; it was a match for the shot Welborn had taken of the man coming out of Bishop O’Menehy’s confessional. Putnam’s message said Bao ran a sole practitioner’s office.
Sweetie felt sure he would keep his business all in the family.
Making a dutiful daughter as trustworthy an assistant as Sweetie could imagine.
And one who moved well, she’d be a natural to ring Musette Ky’s doorbell.
Sweetie followed the young woman to a local post office. Took her picture with the BlackBerry. Got her license plate number. Felt the investigation gaining momentum.
Pruet’s office, Paris
14
Odo admitted McGill to the investigating magistrate’s office. He took in McGill’s new appearance at a glance, looked as if he might comment on it, decided silence was the better course. Without the magistrate present at the moment, McGill focused on something he’d barely noticed before. There was a picture — a headshot — of the president of France on the wall.
Jean-Louis Severin. The guy was good looking, McGill thought, and he had been able to discern from his perusal of Le Monde that old Jean-Louis had recently been divorced by his wife. Guys who had been put through that wringer often went looking for … what? Affirmation that they hadn’t become ogres? And what better way to do that than to find a welcoming woman?
Thing was, looking at M’sieur Le President’s photo, McGill couldn’t quite imagine Patti getting together with him. Not even if he hadn’t been the man in Patti’s life. Sure, the two of them could be — hell, they were — friends. But they were, if anything, too much alike. They’d wind up coming at each other head on, if they tried to pair up. A good match called for complementary qualities. Strengths and weaknesses that meshed like finely machined gears. That was why Patti had been happy with Andy Grant, why she was happy with him. They hadn’t duplicated, didn’t duplicate, each other. They filled in each other’s gaps. Completed each other, if you wanted to get sappy about it.
“M’sieur McGill?” Odo said.
From his tone, McGill knew he’d missed the first time he’d been addressed.
“Yes,” he said, turning to look at Odo.
“M’sieur le magistrat will be with you shortly. May I get you a drink?”
“Perrier,” McGill said.
“Champagne?”
“The sparkly water kind,” McGill said.
“Oui, bon.” Odo turned to leave.
McGill stopped him. “Odo, would you mind telling me something?”
“What, m’sieur?”
“Your primary martial art is savate?”
Odo’s face took on a measure of reserve.
“Oui.”
“But my guess is you’re familiar with other disciplines.”
Odo hesitated before responding, “I know some Brazilian jiujitsu.”
McGill nodded. He knew he’d gone as far as he could for the moment. McGill wouldn’t want to give away all his secrets either. But he had one more question.
“Do you think it would take long for the two of us — and maybe one other fellow — to be able to work out a coordinated attack?”
A new expression appeared on Odo’s face: interest. An opportunity to learn something new might be presented to him.
“This other fellow, he is skilled?”
“I haven’t seen a demonstration,” McGill admitted, “but my educated guess would be yes.”
“How many men would we be facing, and how would they be armed?”
“One man, probably barehanded. He might have a blunt object, possibly a blade.”
“Three of us, skilled fighters, against one man without a gun?”
“He’s a pretty big guy.”
Odo nodded, his interest now fully engaged. “I will get your Perrier, m’sieur, and have an answer for you when I return.”
“Merci,” McGill told him.
As Odo opened the office door, Pruet was there, about to enter. The two men exchanged several words in French that McGill couldn’t follow.
Pruet stepped inside his office and looked at the president’s henchman.
“You’ve gotten my bodyguard excited,” he said. “Always a risky thing with a Corsican.”
15
McGill sat opposite Pruet, the magistrate’s old table between them. Pruet was more forthcoming than Odo had been about the makeover the president’s henchman had undergone.
“You’ve had your hair cut and colored,” he said.
“Remind you of Belmondo?” McGill asked.
The magistrate sat back and considered. “Perhaps, somewhat. You are also wearing French clothing, not American.”
“I have new sunglasses, too.” McGill modeled them for just a moment.
“So you are affecting a disguise.”
“My wife worries,” McGill said. He told Pruet of the English louts following him and Gabbi. He left out Celsus’s visit and the warning that he’d someday need greater protection.
Pruet told McGill, “I had the pleasure of speaking ever so briefly with Madam la Présidente last night.”
That caught McGill by surprise. Maybe Patti had a thing for Frenchmen after all.
The magistrate continued, “She took my call and passed the phone to President Severin.”
“Who happened to be conveniently at hand?” McGill asked.
“Oui. I apologized to my president for interrupting his business with your wife.”
McGill kept his expression neutral.
“Jean-Louis is a good fellow,” Pruet went on. “I have known him since we were at school together; we corresponded during his year at Yale.”
“He was at Yale?” McGill hadn’t known that.
“Yes, that is where he met Patricia Darden.”
McGill saw that he was being led down the garden path and asked, “Would you care to cut to the chase, m’sieur le magistrat?”
“I am telling you all this because my wife, Nicolette, also knows these details. I have proof — her fingerprints and DNA — that she has read my confidential files, doubtless in the hope of learning something that might be of use to her in divorcing me. Included in my
files are the letters Jean-Louis sent to me from America.”
Which begged the question as to what had been in those letters. But McGill didn’t ask. It was none of his business what Patti and any of her boyfriends had done years before he’d even met her. Some things were better left unexplored.
Pruet nodded, approving of McGill’s restraint.
He continued, “I believe Nicolette shared what she learned with Aubine Severin, the former wife of M’sieur le President. I don’t know if Nicolette played any role in instigating the Severins’ divorce, but I believe she used a long-ago affection and a current working relationship to conjure an illusory affair between two heads of state, and aggravated matters for everyone.”
“Why would she do that?” McGill asked.
Pruet said, “I have disappointed Nicolette in many ways. I have been insufficiently ambitious. I have been politically maladroit. I have declined to give her access to my family money. I would rather play my guitar alone on my balcony than be her escort in high society. In short, I am a failure as a husband.”
“You haven’t given her any other reason to be angry?”
Pruet required a moment to understand. When he did, he smiled ruefully.
“Another woman? No, m’sieur. Having one seek my ruin is more than enough.”
“But how does your wife’s anger at you apply to France’s president?”
Pruet said, “As I mentioned, Jean-Louis and I are confreres. A plot that would undo us both would please Nicolette and—”
“Your president’s political enemies. Those who might accuse him of following his heart rather than his country’s best interests when he aligns France with the United States.”
It was a guess, but it made sense, McGill thought. If Patti had Roger Michaelson looking to undermine her at home, why shouldn’t Jean-Louis Severin have people who wanted to do him in, too?
“Bravo, m’sieur.” The magistrate applauded McGill’s insight.
“That’s only half the riddle from my point of view,” McGill said. “How are you undone if your president falls?”
“As you probably know, I made the mistake of calling a former interior minister a thief. Then I made things far worse by sending him to jail for his crimes. Such things are not supposed to be done. So his friends sent me into exile.” Pruet opened his hands, gesturing to his present humble surroundings. “My career was effectively over. If I were a less stubborn man, I would now be working for my father selling cheese.”
McGill understood, more than what Pruet had just told him.
“You’d also be out on your derriere if you didn’t have Jean-Louis covering it. So, if he goes, you go, too.”
Pruet nodded.
McGill said, “In Chicago, we have a saying when something like this happens to a cop. We say somebody put a brick on him.”
“A brick?” Pruet said. “Tellement approprié.” How appropriate.
“They kept you idle, right? Hoping you’d go away.”
“The better part of a year, but I am still here.”
“And then you were handed the Glen Kinnard case. And got me as a bonus.”
The magistrate shrugged.
The door to Pruet’s office opened. Odo was back with a tray bearing two green bottles of Perrier and two glasses. He set his burden down on the magistrate’s desk, and poured for both McGill and Pruet.
Then, without being specific, Odo told the president’s henchman, “Two days to prepare would be best; one will do; if necessary, improvisation is possible, but not advised.”
Pruet looked at the two of them and asked, “Do I even want to know?”
Chequers, Buckinghamshire, England
16
The shape of the G8 conference table at Chequers had been changed from round to oblong. Prime Minister of the UK Norvin Kimbrough sat at its head. To his immediate right was Gordon Kendrie of Canada; to his left was Ichiro Sugiyama of Japan. Next to Kendrie was Matteo Gallo of Italy. Across from Gallo was an empty chair in case the president of Russia decided to drop in.
These four leaders were, nominally, the Kimbrough bloc, though only Kendrie, a Tory at heart, was committed to his friend from London. Sugiyama faced a tough problem in assuming more military responsibility for Japan without scaring the wits out of all his neighbors. He had yet to come to grips with the necessity of apologizing for Japan’s atrocities during World War II. Gallo was simply being wily, biding his time. Russia hadn’t sent in an absentee ballot.
The task of the Kimbrough bloc, as the prime minister saw it, was to persuade or coerce the United States into reversing course and maintaining its historic burden of financing the overwhelming majority of the civilized world’s defense costs.
Distant from Kimbrough, to his right, were Erika Kirsch of Germany and Jean-Louis Severin of France. Across from Severin, isolated by the empty chair held open for Russia was Patricia Darden Grant of the United States.
Some world leaders might have considered it an affront to be placed beyond an empty chair, but President Grant appeared unruffled.
As Kimbrough droned on about the press announcement they would make shortly, lauding the agreement they had reached on the phasing out of agricultural subsidies and import restrictions, Patti picked up the small American flag placed on the table in front of her and used it to fan herself. The agricultural agreement was actually a milestone achievement, and having developed nations buy food products from developing nations would be critical to the success of the Plowshare Initiative that Patti and Jean-Louis were hatching, but there was no getting around the fact that Norvin Kimbrough was a gasbag.
Jean-Louis and Erika grinned at Patti as she fanned herself.
Three heads of state cutting up like kids at the back of a classroom.
Even Matteo Gallo smiled with them.
When Kimbrough finally noticed he took umbrage. “Something wrong, Madam President? A hot flash perhaps?”
Before Patti could respond to the insult, there was a knock at the door. A woman on Kimbrough’s staff poked her head in and told him, “Fifteen minutes until you go on, sir. Five minutes until all of you are needed in makeup.”
Taking advantage of the open door, Galia Mindel slipped in behind Kimbrough’s staffer, crossed quickly to Patti, handed her a note, and retreated as swiftly as she’d come. Patti read the message at a glance and her face hardened. Jean-Louis and Erika looked at her with concern.
Kimbrough asked, “Something your friends might help with, Madam President?”
Patti composed herself and said, “No thank you, Prime Minister. It’s purely a domestic matter.”
She stuck Galia’s note in a pocket.
“Very well then. I believe we’re all ready to make our announcement, and the gentlemen amongst us, at least, could do with an extra minute or two with our makeup artists.”
Kimbrough rose and led the way out of the room.
Arlington, VA
17
Mrs. Eva Novak, the personal secretary of Bishop George O’Menehy, looked across her small outer office to where Father Francis Nguyen sat in a guest chair. Next to the priest, standing on a pedestal, was a small statue modeled after the portrait of Our Lady of Czestochowa. It was hard for Mrs. Novak to decide whether Father Nguyen or Our Lady looked more serene.
The priest had his eyes closed and his palms rested on his thighs. He barely seemed to be breathing, but his color was good so Mrs. Novak didn’t worry that his soul had been taken to heaven right in front of her. Though that would be no less than what Father Nguyen deserved, in her opinion. Such a good man. He’d remembered to bring the rosary he’d promised to Mrs. Novak’s mother, Agneta. Mom was near the end now, had been worried that she hadn’t done enough to deserve God’s mercy, and feared dying. Mrs. Novak had asked Father Nguyen to visit Mom and reassure her, even though he wasn’t Mom’s parish priest. He had gone to see Mom and the peace of mind he’d brought to her was nothing short of a miracle; hearing her confession and counseling her on how to spend
her remaining time had dispelled her anxiety.
As a grace note, he’d promised to send her a rosary to which he had given his blessing.
Mom had asked to have Father Nguyen say her funeral mass, but Mrs. Novak didn’t know if that would be possible. Eva Novak wasn’t a snoop, not at all, but there were times she couldn’t help but overhear Bishop O’Menehy. Times when he’d been on the phone with the president of the National Conference of Catholic Bishops and the two men had discussed the possibility of removing Father Nguyen from the priesthood.
That would be a tragedy in Mrs. Novak’s opinion.
A self-inflicted wound for the Church.
And Bishop O’Menehy keeping the good father waiting now. It was beginning to annoy Mrs. Novak. Then her intercom buzzed, the signal that the bishop would receive his visitor.
Keeping her voice soft, she said, “Father, he’ll see you now.”
Father Nguyen opened his eyes and smiled at Mrs. Novak. He appreciated that she hadn’t jarred him to attention. He got to his feet.
Mrs. Novak said, “Thank you again for remembering the rosary for my mother.”
The priest took Eva’s hand. “Agneta told me it’s just a shame I’m not Polish.”
Mrs. Novak’s cheeks turned red, but when Father smiled, she laughed.
“Your mother is a wonderful woman, Eva. Our Lord’s company will be far the richer for her presence.”
Tears welled in Mrs. Novak’s eyes. She, too, felt at peace, not doubting for a moment that Father Nguyen had it exactly right.
He’ knocked on the bishop’s door and stepped into his office, shutting the door behind him. Bishop O’Menehy sat behind his desk and gestured the priest to a chair.
“Please sit down, Father Nguyen.”
The priest did as he was bid.
O’Menehy removed his glasses and asked, “How may I help you?”