by Joseph Flynn
That was when she felt a hand reach out to her. Not to help her maintain equilibrium, but to grope her. Norvin Kimbrough was feeling her ass. Not in any way that could be passed off as brief, accidental contact. His hand slid from cheek to inner thigh.
The bastard had to think he would get away with it. Her ass and his hand were still in shade. No one would see. If she jumped or even shrieked, it would be attributed to a misstep like the one Erika had almost taken. Of course, he also had to count on Patti not turning to confront him then and there, creating an international scandal at a moment of diplomatic triumph.
He was right on that point. Patti was not about to undermine what they had achieved. But a point of white-hot flame had ignited inside her.
Nobody laid a hand on the President of the United States.
She remembered what Jim had told her about executing a foot-trap. She’d practiced it privately many times. Had mastered the move precisely. Now, though, she had to appear to take a pratfall.
Instead of jumping up or forward, she let her left ankle roll outward as if she had turned it on one of the stones. Looking for balance, her right foot took a half step back. It came down right where she wanted: on Kimbrough’s foot. She ground his toes under her heel. Managed not to laugh when she heard his shriek. But she wasn’t done with him yet, not by a long shot.
Jim had told her the most interesting thing about Dark Alley was the way it allowed you to improvise. Once you had successfully countered an opponent’s attack, a world of possible responses presented themselves. You only had to instinctively pick out the one you liked best. Of course, the choice you made revealed just how vicious you were.
Patti felt particularly heartless. The right arm she had held up to shield her eyes from the sun swung backward, as if it were following her foot in the search for balance. Her elbow drove hard into Kimbrough’s cheek and nose. The blow forced him backward, but his foot was still trapped under Patti’s heel. Jim said this kind of contradiction of forces did terrible soft-tissue damage. That was confirmed by a dreadful high-pitched whine that exited the prime minister’s throat.
There were also unintended injuries. The back of Kimbrough’s head, as he fell, clipped Gordon Kendrie of Canada smartly on the chin, dropping him like a Sunday punch. Patti let go of Kimbrough’s foot at that point, lest any other collateral damage be done. She turned the release into a spin and a stumble, winding up on her backside, her outstretched hands keeping her semi-erect. Her back was toward the media mob and its wall of cameras.
The first face she saw belonged to Ichiro Sugiyama. Japan’s prime minister was not looking at his fallen colleagues, but at her. He was studying Patti. More than that, he was replaying what he’d seen in his mind. Analyzing her movements. Each head of government present had read the others’ curricula vitae. So Patti knew Sugiyama held an advanced black belt in aikido.
She was sure he’d never come out and say the President of the United States had attacked the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. But he would have an insight into her the others would lack—and he would never walk too closely behind her.
Hearing men racing her way now, Patti shifted her gaze. Gordon Kendrie looked as if he’d curled up on the path for an afternoon nap. She thought she could even hear him snore softly. Norvin Kimbrough, on the other hand, lay on his side with his eyes closed and his mouth open and dripping blood. Patti’s elbow had cleared a wide trough through Kimbrough’s makeup, creating the effect that half of his face had been pushed up against his nose, itself displaced at an odd angle.
Patti hoped she hadn’t killed the bastard.
Before she could explore that notion any farther, Jean-Louis and Erika were kneeling next to her, each of them supporting her with a hand on her back.
“Mein Gott, Patti, are you all right?”
Jean-Louis just looked at her, his eyes bright with concern—and admiration.
Patti wanted to say she was fine, but that wasn’t what the script called for.
Letting her eyes go out of focus, she asked, “What happened?”
Georgetown
24
There was a knock on the outer door of McGill Investigations, Inc. Sweetie had left it locked while she worked in Jim’s office. You never knew when a loon off some nearby pond might light on your doorstep. Sweetie thought she should talk with Dikki Missirian about installing surveillance cameras.
She didn’t pick up her handgun, but from out of the line of fire she called out, “Who’s there?”
A voice with a thick brogue responded, “It’s yer landlord, missus. The rent’s o’erdue a week now, an’ I’ll soon be puttin’ yer things on the street.”
Putnam had her fooled for a moment. She hadn’t known he could do impressions.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m going back to the convent.”
“If that’s the case, I’ll be puttin’ me head in the oven.”
Sweetie had to laugh. She went into the outer office and unlocked the door. Putnam was there with a briefcase and a bag of food from a place called Little Saigon.
“I can’t have your death on my conscience,” she told him. “I’ll stay in the apartment. And I’m sorry I forgot about the rent.” He’d been right about that. “I’ll write the check right now.”
But after she’d let him in, she relocked the door first.
They went into Jim’s office. Sweetie sat behind the desk; Putnam took a visitor’s chair. He placed the bag of food on the desk. Ever thoughtful, he placed it atop a copy of the Washington Times he’d also brought along.
“I didn’t have lunch yet,” he said, “so I stopped for carry-out: sesame chicken, egg rolls, steamed rice, and iced green tea. There’s enough for two, if you’re hungry.”
Sweetie wrote a check, ripped it from its pad and handed it over.
Then she opened a desk drawer, took out a pair of lacquered chopsticks, a geisha painted on each one, and clicked them together in anticipation of the food.
Putnam asked, “Are those Mr. McGill’s?”
“Yeah, but Jim won’t mind. I mean, I’ve bled all over the guy and he didn’t wince. I wash off his sticks, it won’t bother him a bit I used them. But don’t let that get around, okay?”
Putnam took all that in and had to ask, “Margaret, I’m happy to help you, and I’d like to think I wouldn’t object if you bled on me … but is there any chance what I’m doing for you might lead me to do any bleeding of my own?”
Sweetie gave the question serious consideration as she set out the food. She seized a piece of chicken with Jim’s sticks, dipped it in ginger sauce, popped it in her mouth and chewed. Followed it with a swig of tea.
“Up till now, you’ve been safe, Putnam. But you raise a good point. I was going to ask you to do something for me, but maybe I’ll look for another approach.”
They ate in silence for several minutes.
Then Putnam said, “Horatio Bao has several clients with criminal records.”
“What kind of criminal records?”
“Strong-arm thuggery. Extortion. Robbery. Carjacking.”
“No homicides?”
“Only the manslaughter charge filed and dropped on Ricky Lanh Huu”
“I thought Mr. Bao didn’t do criminal defense.”
Putnam said, “He doesn’t. He does real estate mostly.”
Margaret arched an eyebrow to indicate the contradiction in Putnam’s testimony and ask for clarification.
He told her, “Bao has helped his ex-cons become propertied people. At least, he’s the lawyer of record on purchases of real property by a bunch of former jailbirds.”
“What kind of property?”
“Single family homes. Nice ones. Nothing big or fancy, but pleasantly middle class.”
“How many?”
“Six that I found so far.”
“Iffy neighborhoods?” Sweetie asked.
She was thinking: rock houses given a veneer of respectability. Make things less obvious to the narco
tics squads.
But Putnam shook his head. “All of them are in nice, quiet neighborhoods. Good school districts. Libraries and parks. Where a lot of people would be happy to live.”
Sweetie shook her head. “Street creeps don’t live in those places, and they certainly don’t have the money or the credit history to buy homes like that. So what’s the angle?”
Putnam looked down and went back to eating, but not before Sweetie caught the look of guilt in his eyes.
“Putnam,” she said, “what did you do?”
He sighed and looked up. “I drove out to Virginia to check out one of the houses. See if I could get a glimpse at who lived there. I felt the same way you do: street-level bad guys don’t live in nice places.”
“And what did you find?”
He took a digital camera out of his briefcase.
“I’ll show you,” he told Sweetie.
Marine One, in flight
25
White House physician Artemus Nicolaides directed a beam of light at the president’s eyes as they flew back to London aboard Marine One. Chief of Staff Galia Mindel looked over Nick’s shoulder as he conducted his exam. A private hospital in London had been alerted, should the president’s condition require lab work, radiology, or surgery.
But Nick said, “Madam President, I am very relieved to say your eyes are equal in size and reactive to light. You pulse and heart rate are within normal range. For a twenty-five-year-old, even.”
Patti favored Nick with a small smile, and the physician’s own well being improved. Even Galia let herself relax, to the extent that her shoulders sagged.
“You are sure you didn’t hit your head?” Nick asked.
He’d yet to see the video that would be replayed for years to come.
“Yes, I’m sure, but I did hit Norvin Kimbrough’s head a pretty good shot,” she said, rubbing her right elbow.
“Let me see that.” He helped the president remove her suit coat and examined the arm. “Considerable swelling. Can you bend your arm?”
Gingerly, the president tried. She hadn’t gotten far before she started to grimace. Nick turned to the helicopter’s Marine crew chief, standing nearby in his dress blues.
“Please bring me a cold-pack for the president’s arm.”
“Yes, sir.”
While the Marine went to the aircraft’s medical supply locker, Patti said quietly, “If it weren’t so embarrassing, I’d ask Sergeant Kendricks for another cold-pack to sit on.”
Nick smiled, but he said, “If the pain persists, we’ll do an MRI.”
He cleaned and disinfected the abrasions on the president’s palms. When the cold-pack arrived, he secured it to Patti’s arm.
“You gave us all a terrible scare today, Madam President. But you appear to have come through the incident with only minor trauma. But I will visit you hourly for the next four hours, and every two hours after that for the next twenty-four hours. Your affairs of state will have to allow for my presence. Don’t hesitate to take the ibuprofen I provided, if your elbow—or anything else—causes you discomfort.”
“Yes, Nick. Thank you very much.”
He nodded and went aft. Galia took the seat next to the president.
She asked, “Just how hard did you land on your anything else?”
“Hard enough that if I have to forgo sitting on a cold pack, I’d love a hot bath. Do we have any word yet on Prime Minister Kimbrough or Prime Minister Kendrie?”
“Kimbrough is having surgery. You broke a cheekbone and his nose. And some toes. And he may be concussed. Other than that, he’s fine. When Gordon Kendrie came to, he thought he’d gotten knocked out in a hockey fight. The idea cheered him greatly. He’s promised to take his skates and stick out of mothballs. He should be fine.”
The president smiled. “Old footwear never fits,” she said. “Make a note to send Prime Minister Kendrie a new pair of skates and a half-dozen sticks with my best wishes.”
Galia waited a beat, and then she asked, “And Kimbrough?”
“I’ll think of something for Norvin. Who handled the G8 announcement? The show did go on, didn’t it?”
“Yes, Erika Kirsch, Matteo Gallo, and Ichiro Sugiyama did the honors. The Fleet Street crowd was less than amused not to have you and President Severin to feast upon. They’ve already started making wisecracks about the new policy being an Axis plot.”
“They would,” Patti said.
“Her Majesty called.”
“She did? Herself?”
Galia nodded. “She’s very concerned about your well-being. She asked me to call the palace and let her know your condition.”
“I’ll return the call personally. After we reach Winfield House. After I’ve bathed. Have you figured out what Sir Robert Reed is up to?”
“I think so. I have a few more people to call, then I should have it nailed down.”
“Would you care to share or should I be patient?”
“On this one, patience.”
“How nice,” she said. She took the ibuprofen Nick had left for her. Her bottom was hurting even worse that her elbow. Be a damn fine joke if the president of the United States wound up with her ass in a sling. Patti closed her eyes, telling her chief of staff, “I really would like a long, hot bath. And maybe a nap.”
“You had another call, Madam President,” Galia said.
The president opened her eyes.
“Mr. McGill called. Before your mishap. He said he phoned me because he has information bearing on your presidency, but he didn’t want to interrupt your G8 meeting. So he asked me to pass the word to you at an opportune moment.”
“But he didn’t tell you what the word was, did he?”
“No, and much as I hated to, I didn’t ask.”
“I know that was hard for you, Galia, but thank you.”
“Yes, Madam President. You haven’t forgotten the note I passed to you, have you? That the full Supreme Court has agreed to hear Erna Godfrey’s petition that she be executed without delay.”
The president closed her eyes again.
“No, Galia, I haven’t forgotten that.”
U.S. Embassy, Paris
26
In the fluid world of modern media, the Double Bump at Chequers, as the video had quickly come to be called, had made its way to ESPN with a pair of expert commentators, a gymnast and a figure skater, doing analysis with a SportsCenter host.
“See, see right there,” the skater said. “That’s where the president turned her ankle; that’s where she lost her balance.”
An optical move pushed in tight on the presidential ankle and froze the president’s motion. The skater drew a telestrated circle to emphasize her point. Six video cams from the media menagerie present at Norvin Kimbrough’s summer home had caught the action, but none had captured anything unique.
An unknown number of cellphones had also shot video of the moment, but their content had yet to be made public.
The gymnast said, “Let’s back it up just a little.”
The ESPN video marched seven of the most powerful people in the world backward.
“Stop right there,” the gymnast said.
Along with millions of his fellow countrymen, Paul Legard, the United States ambassador to France, watched the video in his office overlooking the Place de la Concorde. Unlike Glen Kinnard, he already enjoyed the privilege of watching American sports on satellite television.
“You see,” the gymnast continued, “that’s when the other lady—”
“The German chancellor,” the SportsCenter host said. “Erika Kirsch.”
“Yeah, her. She broke stride, almost seemed to draw back.”
“Good call,” the skater conceded. “And there goes President Grant’s hand to steady her.”
“The president’s smooth with that move, still in good control, but she must’ve taken her eye off where she was going because—”
“The ankle roll is coming right up,” the skater said.
“Wait a minute,” called the host. “Back it up a few frames, Charlie.” The video clicked back frame by frame. “Stop. There, look at that. Not the president or the chancellor, but behind them. The British prime minister, he looks like he’s already leaning forward to break the president’s fall—it’s hard to tell because of the shadow—but she hasn’t even lost her balance yet.”
The two analysts grunted.
“Got a good jump on the ball,” the gymnast offered.
“Maybe he’d tripped around there himself,” the skater suggested.
“Looks to me like he’s copping a feel,” Ambassador Legard muttered to himself.
He couldn’t tell for sure. What he knew for a certainty, though, the video of the Double Bump at Chequers would be studied as intensely as the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination.
There was a knock at his door. He clicked the TV off and said, “Come in.”
Clarence Lee, Minister-Counselor of Management Affairs, the embassy’s number two man, entered. He was accompanied by a young woman with butterscotch blonde hair and a visibly nervous manner. Either a college student whose boyfriend was in a French jail, the ambassador decided, or—
“Sir, may I present Ms. Marjorie Jean Mathers of Austin, Texas. She’s the embassy’s newest employee, with us just over two weeks now.”
That was going to be Legard’s next guess.
He was tickled, but kept a straight face, when Ms. Mathers curtsied to him. Then she realized what she’d done and blushed. Her anxiety became more pronounced.
“Please be seated, Ms. Mathers,” the ambassador said.
Clarence guided her to a guest chair and took the adjacent one for himself. The ambassador, with a gentle paternal air, poured a glass of water for each of his guests. A few sips seemed to calm the young woman.
“You’re all right now?” Legard asked.
“Yes, sir.”