by Joseph Flynn
As for herself, Eva was sure she was on the brink of damnation.
She put the phone in her living room down after making the second call.
She turned to Horatio and Callie Bao and said, “They’re coming, Bishop O’Menehy and Father Nguyen, both.”
The two silent figures in black suits and Roman collars approached the Novaks’ modest ranch style home in Arlington walking side by side. The younger one was slim, Asian and bareheaded. The elder one was Caucasian, bulkier, and covered his white hair with a black fedora. His eyeglasses had slipped halfway down his nose. He was the one who stepped forward and rang the doorbell.
Eva quickly came to the door, in tears, distraught that her life had come to this, and the two men stepped inside. The door closed behind them. For ten seconds, the approach to the house was the sole province of a chorus of crickets.
Then Sweetie, Deke, and Welborn crept out of the darkness.
No sooner had the two visitors entered her humbly furnished home than Eva Novak embraced each one of them. She knew this was inappropriate behavior. When a priest arrived at the home of a sick or dying person he carried with him blessed oil signifying the grace of God that would cleanse the stain of any sin. He was on a mission of redemption not a social call. Nonetheless, Eva put her arms around Francis Nguyen and before releasing him went so far as to whisper in his ear, “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”
Without any explanation of her transgression, she went on to hug … Eva Novak did her best to blink away the curtain of tears that hung over her eyes. When she managed a partial clearing of her vision she saw the man she held in her arms, the man who held her, was not His Excellency Bishop George O’Menehy. He was a man with a hard face she had never seen before.
Eva’s first impulse was to pull away, but without apparent effort the man held her close and whispered into her ear, “Count to five slowly, then step behind me.”
Such was the authority of SAC Celsus Crogher’s voice that Eva Novak followed his instructions without demurral.
Agneta Novak had all but departed the life she had known for so long when she had a vision. An angel appeared, entering her bedroom through its window. The apparition looked to be exactly what Agneta thought an angel should resemble. Tall and strong with a crown of golden hair and the kindest eyes she had ever seen.
The old woman’s heart filled with joy and her mind knew the greatest peace. Surely, here was her escort to the Kingdom’s Throne. They would kneel together before the Almighty.
It never occurred to her to wonder why an angel would be dressed in black Lycra.
Deke and Welborn arrived at the back of the house. A low wattage bulb glowed in the kitchen. The two men, also dressed in black, their federal credentials dangling from lanyards around their necks, looked at each other. The agreement had been Deke would enter the house. Welborn would wait out back in the small yard, watching for anyone to make an escape attempt in that direction. If Welborn thought things were going the wrong way, he’d follow Deke inside.
Welborn gestured to the house and raised his eyebrows.
You up to this?
Deke gave him a thumbs up.
Welborn nodded, took partial cover, going down on one knee behind a willow oak, leaving himself a direct line of fire on the back door. Father Nguyen said the Novaks never locked their doors, but that didn’t mean two characters of a more suspicious nature like the Baos couldn’t have locked them. But they hadn’t. Which boded well, Welborn hoped. The bad guys weren’t expecting any unpleasant surprises.
Once Deke slipped inside, he turned off the light in the kitchen.
Gave him better cover, but if the Baos noticed…
Welborn debated the wisdom of Deke’s move as he waited.
The old lady smiled at Sweetie and in a thready voice said, “You’ve come for me?”
“I have,” Sweetie whispered. She stroked Agneta’s cheek. “Your time is close, good mother, but not quite here.”
Agneta looked confused. A glint of trepidation entered her eyes.
Sweetie said, “I will keep you safe. To see your daughter one more time.”
The old woman smiled and nodded. “Yes.”
“There might be someone with your daughter when she comes. Leave that to me.”
“Close my eyes?”
“If you like,” Sweetie said.
Then she retreated to a shadowed corner of the room.
As soon as Eva Novak took shelter behind Crogher, Horatio Bao brought his gun out, and there it was, the SAC thought, the irrefutable threat of violence. Eva had been held against her will, coerced into summoning the priest and the bishop.
Peeking out from behind Crogher, Eva asked Bao, “May I see my mother now, please?” She could only hope her mother hadn’t passed on before Father Nguyen could give her the Church’s final sacrament.
Bao nodded.
Father Nguyen didn’t ask for permission; he followed Eva.
Bao raised no objection. With a nod of his head, he detailed Callie to keep watch over them. She took a gun out, too, let it dangle alongside her leg, and fell into line.
Horatio Bao looked at the man he took to be Bishop O’Menehy and said, “I was sure you’d know I’d be waiting for you. I doubted you’d have the courage to come.”
Crogher kept his head down for the moment, saying nothing.
Deke Ky heard Bao’s words, but he couldn’t see him. What he could see was a middle-aged woman, his cousin Francis, and Callie Bao approaching a door just off the kitchen where he crouched behind the L of a counter. The older woman knocked gently on the door, opened it and entered the room. Francis followed silently. Callie Bao stopped before going in. Deke could see the look of uncertainty on her face.
She was trying to remember something — hadn’t a light in the kitchen been left on?
Sweetie saw Eva Novak enter the room, go straight her mother’s bed and kneel next to it. The old woman had her eyes closed and a smile on her lips.
“Oh, Mama,” Eva sobbed, thinking her mother dead.
Francis Nguyen kept his eyes on the two women in front of him, but hooked the thumb of his left hand, gesturing to indicate he was being followed. Sweetie moved soundlessly toward the door and waited.
Deke saw Callie Bao step into the bedroom. From what he could tell, she hadn’t resolved the question of whether the kitchen light had been left on, but she had a more pressing demand on her time. Or she suspected someone unaccounted for had entered the house, and she intended to lie in wait for him.
“You have nothing to say, Your Excellency?” Horatio Bao asked. “You don’t wish me to abjure my evil ways? Save my immortal soul?”
Crogher was getting tired of this asshole. The time came, and it wouldn’t be long now, he was going to have a hard time not killing him. That would mean having to explain himself to a lot of people, probably a disciplinary hearing, maybe even a judge, but he was beginning to think it would be worth it.
What kind of fucking guy would kill a priest, a bishop, and two women?
On top of ordering the shooting of one of Crogher’s own men.
With his right hand, Crogher removed the eyeglasses he’d been peering over. He slipped them into his coat pocket. That tensed Bao up a little, but when his hand came out empty, the creep relaxed. With his left hand, Crogher took the hat off his head, brought it down to his chest, and used it to cover his right hand.
Then he raised his head and let Bao have a good look at him.
Callie Bao was sure something bad was about to happen. She was certain the light in the kitchen had been left on. She had wanted the illumination as a precaution against an unexpected visitor dropping by, a neighbor stopping by with an offer of help or a gift of some foodstuff. Eva Novak was the kind of person who might receive friends through her kitchen door.
If that were to happen, Eva had been instructed to send the visitor away. And do so without giving any signs of warning. Something Callie would need light to see.
/> But now the light was out.
Still, Callie hadn’t heard anyone knock. No doorbell had sounded.
The bulb could have burned out.
A new thought skittered across Callie’s mind, chilling her. Was Eva Novak one of those ridiculous people she’d sometimes read about? The ones so oblivious to the realities of life they never locked their doors. Callie had double dead-bolt locks on all her doors.
If Eva did leave her doors unbolted someone could have entered and turned off the light. She was about to ask the woman just how stupid she might be when the priest spoke.
Tracing the shape of a cross in oil on the ancient woman’s forehead, he said, “Through this holy anointing—”
That was as far as he got because the old woman opened her eyes.
Her voice was weak but joyful. “Oh, Eva, you’re here. And Father Francis has come. The two of you … and my angel.”
Angel? Callie thought.
She clicked the safety off her Beretta.
Crogher hoped Margaret Sweeney wouldn’t get into a shootout with the Bao woman. For once, though, he wasn’t worrying about procedure. He just didn’t think that was the last thing a dying old lady needed to see.
Horatio Bao was still gaping at him, the lawyer’s jaw actually slack. He couldn’t get over how a slick, superior motherfucker like himself had been duped. Crogher was reassured by the way the guy stared at his face; he almost certainly hadn’t noticed the SAC was wearing a Kevlar vest under the priest outfit.
Crogher was tempted to tell Bao, “Surprise, asshole.”
But he knew this whole thing, at the very least, was going to be written up as a report to reside in Treasury Department files until Doomsday; those jerks at Justice might even find a way to snag a copy of it; and unless the Baos opted for suicide by cop, there would be depositions and cross-examinations by defense attorneys.
So Crogher went with, “Federal officer. You’re under arrest. Put your weapon down.”
Crogher held in his right hand the .22 he’d taped inside the bishop’s hat. He felt comfortably in control of his situation. But he would have liked some reassurance as to what Margaret Sweeney’s situation was.
Deke Ky combat crawled from the kitchen to the open doorway of the nearby bedroom. He intended just to take a quick look inside, assess the situation, and pull his head back. But he arrived just at the moment Margaret made her move.
Callie Bao had a semi-auto in her right hand, swinging it in an arc, looking for a target in the dimly lit room. Francis was using his body to shield both Novak women. And then Margaret pounced.
She slapped her left hand onto the top of the gun. A semi-auto couldn’t fire if the slide was prevented from moving. Margaret’s right hand encircled Callie Bao’s narrow wrist, pushing the gun arm away from Margaret in case her grip on the slide was imperfect. The disarming technique was well under way. Now it was only a question of…
Deke smiled as he saw Margaret kick Callie sharply on the point of her left knee. Heard Callie’s gasp as the pain reached her brain. A dislocated knee made it a lot harder to keep someone from taking your gun. Now if Margaret had learned the same procedure he had…
Yes, with her left hand she snapped the barrel of the semi-auto to point toward the floor. In the process, the trigger guard fractured Callie’s trigger finger, snapping it like a twig. Then for good measure Margaret followed through with her right elbow, catching Horatio Bao’s daughter solidly on her jaw. Good night, dark princess.
Deke got to his feet and eased toward the living room.
Crogher heard a thud come from the old lady’s room. Sounded like a punch to the jaw, if he heard it right. His money said the blow came from Margaret Sweeney, and he’d bet McGill’s big blonde packed a wallop.
The sound drew Bao’s attention from the SAC. Crogher’s eyes never left their target, but he did drop the bishop’s hat and extended his weapon in a two-handed grip.
Then Margaret called out, “Clear!”
She had taken the young Bao woman under control. Crogher grinned in appreciation. McGill’s partner was a pro — not that he’d ever give her or the president’s henchman the satisfaction of acknowledging it. The SAC’s smile disappeared as if it had never existed.
When Bao looked back all his saw was a grim-faced white guy with a gun in his hands, a guy who looked like he still did all his own shooting rather than hire it out. It was plain to Bao that all he had for a future was a life sentence in a prison. He turned his weapon toward his mouth.
But then he felt a gun pressed against the back of his skull.
“Allow me,” a voice said. “Mom would want it that way.”
Musette Ky’s son, Bao knew at once.
Having her brat shoot him would give her years of great joy.
Bao decided to take his chances in court, after all. He dropped his gun.
“I surrender.”
He may have, but Deke clubbed him unconscious anyway.
On a personal level, SAC Crogher approved.
Professionally, though, he hated the idea that he was going to have to fudge his report. Possibly commit perjury. It would either be that or admit that one of his own agents had assaulted a suspect who had disarmed himself. That was the kind of goddamn problem you got when you played cops ‘n’ robbers instead of following procedure.
Crogher blamed the whole mess on creeping McGillism.
Then, as if some supernatural agency had detected his treasonous thought from the other side of the Atlantic, he got a text message directly from Holly G.
Jesus. Could Holly G read his mind?
The president wanted him back in London forthwith.
Chapter 9
Sunday, June 7th — Buckingham Palace, London
1
The queen’s speech was brief, gracious, and to the point. She told the heads of state and other assorted dignitaries seated around the glittering table at Buckingham Palace that she would be abdicating her throne in favor of her elder grandson one minute before the stroke of midnight on January first of the coming year.
Her Majesty raised her eyes from the notes she held in her hands, looked at her guests, and said to them, “I may have to develop an interest in gardening.”
Everyone at the table laughed. Then the queen looked directly at McGill, sitting to her right, one chair beyond that of the president of the United States.
“I believe, sir, you have found ways to occupy your time after retiring from government service. May I rely on your advice?”
McGill inclined his head respectfully. “It would be my pleasure, ma’am.”
Ma’am, he’d been told, was an acceptable form of address.
Patti discreetly squeezed McGill’s hand to let him know he’d done well.
Her majesty concluded her prepared remarks and offered an apology on behalf of Prime Minister Kimbrough for his absence that evening. He was still in hospital, but sent his warm regards and best wishes to all present.
Mr. and Mrs. James Jackson McGill both managed to keep straight faces.
During the course of the evening, the queen inquired about McGill’s children.
“I understand you have two daughters and a son. I trust they are all doing well.”
“They are, ma’am. I couldn’t be happier with them.”
“President Grant tells me your younger daughter would like to follow in her footsteps.”
McGill smiled and said, “With Caitlin, you never know, ma’am. She’s recently spoken to me about playing a part in a movie. Should she visit Europe, she may well decide that becoming a queen would suit her better than being elected president.”
The fanciful notion amused Her Majesty.
“She’s a young lady with spirit then,” she said. “Please inform me if Caitlin should ever plan to travel to London. Perhaps she and I might have tea. I might be able to offer her a suggestion on marrying a prince with prospects.”
McGill could only hope the queen was kidding.
Winfield House, London
2
That night in their suite, McGill heard of the advice the queen had offered to Patti regarding the fate of Erna Godfrey.
“Her Majesty suggested I could extend that woman’s sentence,” Patti told him.
As far as McGill could remember, Patti had never referred to Erna by name.
“She’s right, you could.”
“But do you think I should?”
McGill was sitting by himself on a love seat. He’d removed his dinner jacket and white tie, kicked off his shoes. Patti was standing five feet away, still looking ready to appear on the cover of any fashion magazine in the world. He gestured to the seat cushion next to him.
Patti sat close to her husband, rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“You have to understand,” McGill said, “you are the only one whose feelings about Erna Godfrey run deeper than mine.”
“I know,” Patti said.
McGill sighed. “It was a lot easier for me to want her dead right after.”
He didn’t need to say after what.
“Now,” he continued, “I have feelings that almost make me ashamed. I mean, if it weren’t for a hateful woman committing a murderous act, I’d never have become your husband, and right now I can’t imagine being anything else.” McGill looked at Patti. “Even so, please don’t ever think I didn’t do my absolute best to keep Andy alive.”
Patti’s eyes filled with tears, and McGill put an arm around his wife.
She said, “I know you did. If anyone was at fault, I was. I didn’t trust your judgment. Because of my doubt, Andy and I let our guard down.” McGill watched a tear slide down each side of her face. “I love you with all my heart, Jim McGill, but I still miss Andy. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t wish he could have seen that I actually made it to the White House.”