The Echo of the Whip

by Joseph Flynn

  The Speaker laughed. “I believe that profession has fallen prey to spam emails. I’d like to think we could beg for charity from our places of worship, only Pennyman’s scam might have emptied all the collection baskets.”

  “We’ve got to do something,” the Whip said. “Is there anything we can do to speed up giving Patricia Grant her good name back, without making it look too good?”

  Profitt shook his head. “The Senate, at the very least, has to go through the motions. Put on some kind of show before they vote. But we have to be ready for the immediate aftermath. Galia Mindel and Jean Morrissey might slaughter us if we convict the president, but a lot of our voters might do the same if we don’t.”

  “Damn, I never thought things would come to this, at least for us. But, Peter, I just can’t see looking to Ed Whelan for advice on this situation.”

  “Neither can I,” the Speaker said. “He’s done well for us over the years, but I’m afraid that boy has lost his fastball.”

  “That’s a real problem,” the Whip replied, going along with the baseball metaphor, “because we don’t have any young stud to call in from the bullpen either.”

  “Then maybe we ought to reach out to a cagey old-timer. Who was Ed Whelan’s mentor?”

  “Thomas Winston Rangel at The Maris Foundation. But I’m sure he’s retired by now.”

  “Just so long as he isn’t dead,” the Speaker said. “Give old T.W. a call and we’ll see if he has something left in his bag of tricks he never shared with Whelan.”

  Pacific Palisades, California

  Dr. Danika Hansen pled the press of business when McGill, Tall Wolf, SAC Elspeth Kendry and Detectives Zapata and MacDuff showed up en masse and unannounced at her clinic. That didn’t keep her voice from quavering and tics in both eyes from looking like they were sending out a distress call by semaphore.

  “Even if I were to make time for you,” she told the impromptu gathering of law enforcement types and one P.I., “I’m not sure what I could tell you.”

  “If you tell us anything at all,” Tall Wolf said, “please understand that SAC Kendry and I are federal officers. Lying to us could land you in a federal prison for five years. Lying to the detectives from LAPD might result in an obstruction of justice charge. I don’t know what penalty California provides for that —”

  “You can get up to five years from us, too,” Zapata said.

  The blood drained from Danika Hansen’s face.

  Tall Wolf said, “You see: Honesty and cooperation are your best bets.”

  McGill remained silent, watching the others work. Over Elspeth’s objection and Tall Wolf’s abstention, he’d decided to take one more crack at making peace with the local cops. He called and told them of Mindy Crozier’s suspicion that the clinic owner was the person who’d provided the clinic’s entry code to the embryo thief, and the reason for thinking what she did. Despite any antipathy they felt for McGill, they liked Mindy’s story and the reasoning that flowed from it. They showed up to join the confrontation with Dr. Hansen.

  Watching the others work, McGill could see a possible glimpse of his future.

  Managing a growing private investigations firm might be fun.

  If he ever got restless doing that, he could always work a case himself.

  Danika Hansen looked almost as concerned about the spectacle her employees were witnessing as she was about the people with badges and guns. Word of what was happening at her business was bound to get out. The people who worked for her were bound to talk with family and friends; they might even go to the newspapers and TV stations.

  Someone might already be surreptitiously taking a cell phone video. Post it on the Internet minutes from now. Dr. Hansen began to sway. Tall Wolf steadied her with a gentle hand.

  “Why don’t we go into my office?” she said.

  McGill and the others let her lead the way. The doctor took a seat behind her desk and surveyed the row of serious faces looking back at her. She saw there would be no point in trying to mislead them, especially not when she might go to prison for that alone. There wouldn’t even be any point in trying to stall them.

  But Danika Hansen thought there still might be room to negotiate.

  Looking at McGill, she said, “I won’t lie to anyone, and I’ll do my best not to delay matters, but I believe in either a federal or state case, I still have the right to counsel. Am I correct?”

  McGill let the LAPD answer first. MacDuff said, “Yeah, you do, but it wouldn’t look good if you say your lawyer’s in China or somewhere and we have to wait until he gets back.”

  “He’s in Beverly Hills.”

  She looked back to McGill, who deferred to Tall Wolf.

  “It’s everyone’s right to have legal representation,” he said.

  The BIA co-director got the name, address and phone number of Danika Hansen’s lawyer.

  Tall Wolf continued, telling the doctor, “It would be only polite to let LAPD have the first interview with you and your lawyer. I would suppose the Department of Justice will want to decide whether any kidnapping charges would apply in this case.”

  Dr. Hansen’s eyes started to fill with tears and her chin trembled.

  “I’m not saying they will,” Tall Wolf continued. “At least, it’s not a sure thing, but I’d suggest that cooperating with the detectives might have a positive effect on further proceedings.”

  Zapata and MacDuff kept straight faces, but their bodies rocked with silent laughter.

  McGill looked at the two L.A. dicks and asked, “Would you gentlemen like to take things from here?”

  “Yeah, sure, we got it,” Zapata said.

  Turning his back to Dr. Hansen, McGill whispered to the local cops.

  “I don’t know if we’re even here, but are we close to good?”

  The two detectives nodded.

  “All I’d like to know now is if the guy she gives up is named Edmond Whelan.”

  “Yeah, okay,” MacDuff agreed.

  “If there’s anything else you think is important and you’re feeling generous …”

  The two of them grinned like hyenas. Zapata said, “Oh, yeah, sure. MacDuff and me, we’re known far and wide for being big hearted.”

  “I’ve always suspected as much,” McGill said.

  Montevideo, Uruguay

  A small debate took place late Thursday afternoon in an office of the domestic security division of the National Police.

  “He is American, no question,” Lieutenant Silvina Reyes said.

  “There are many American accents, are there not?” Captain Antonio Calvo asked.

  “Yes, of course. It is an enormous country.”

  “So you can’t say you know all of them.”

  “No. Certainly not.”

  “Might not some American accents overlap with Canadian ones?”

  “I would not be surprised if that is technically so.”

  “Then, Lieutenant, how can you be so certain this man is American?”

  “It is more than a matter of pronunciation. It has to do with … attitude.”

  “What kind of attitude?”

  “It’s a sense of … ownership,” Lieutenant Reyes said.

  “The man did just buy a home,” Captain Calvo replied. “Paid cash as we’ve learned.”

  “It’s more than that. You need to live there to understand. An American is told from his first day in his mother’s arms that he has rights.”

  Calvo nodded. “Any advanced country with a democratic government confers rights on its citizens.”

  “Yes, but that is where the differences begin. Americans think they are the source of all their rights, and that is what their Constitution says in so many words. The government’s role is merely to articulate those rights and to defend them.”

  Captain Calvo said, “That is a fairy tale.”

  “Not to them. That is their true faith. They hold it to be true even when they are in someone else’s country. They think all their liberties and eve
n their laws travel with them. That is what I meant by ownership.”

  “I would call this more of a sense of privilege, not unlike what royalty expects,” Calvo said.

  Lieutenant Reyes smiled and saluted the captain.

  “Exactamente. Bueno. Now, certain Canadians, the rich and powerful among them, might exhibit this sense of privilege, but it is far more common among Americans.”

  Lieutenant Silvina Reyes had lived in the United States for ten years. Her father had been a Uruguayan trade official at the United Nations during her high school years. She attended college at Washington University in St. Louis. She got her master’s degree in political science at the University of Texas in Austin, where as luck would have it she fell in love with a young fellow from her homeland.

  Martin Reyes’ family had a military tradition and he’d had ROTC training in the U.S. So it was only natural for him to enter the army’s officer corps upon returning home. Silvina thought to do the same — she acquired a bit of an American sense of entitlement herself — but decided wisely that direct competition with her new husband would not be good for their marriage.

  So she’d signed up with the National Police, and was assigned to domestic security.

  After the 9/11 tragedies in the United States, the Uruguayans decided they should keep a closer watch on foreigners who settled in their country, even the rich ones. With Silvina’s intelligence, fluent English, advanced education and exposure to the wider world, she was considered a catch for the National Police.

  She didn’t even mind playing the role of a nanny when investigating new arrivals in gilded precincts like Punta del Este. Calvo trusted her so much he let his young son, Santiago, play the role of the child for whom Silvina cared.

  “Very well,” Captain Calvo said, “we have an American in Punta del Este pretending to be a Canadian. We could arrest him immediately and find out what he’s up to. Do you think that’s what we should do?”

  “Where would the fun be in that?” Lieutenant Reyes asked.

  “Fun?”

  Captain Calvo was a desk man, didn’t understand the thrill of working the street. Even in a privileged place like Punta Del Este there was an emotional charge in outwitting the opposition. Perhaps if the captain had a better understanding he would have conscripted someone else’s child to work with Silvina.

  “Very well,” she said. “Where would the advantage be in that? If this fellow calling himself Bruce Mallory is here to cause us trouble, we should be watching to see who his associates are. If he is here hiding from trouble he’s caused elsewhere, we should learn who might thank us for sending him home.”

  “But you’ve already told me he is American,” Calvo said.

  “He is, by birth and I would say upbringing. But as hard as it is for some people to imagine, Americans do emigrate to other countries. Sometimes for tax reasons or cultural preferences. Other times, though, they obtain foreign citizenship before their crimes at home can be discovered, making themselves much harder to retrieve and stand trial.”

  Antonio Calvo sighed. He knew without a doubt that Silvina Reyes was much smarter than he was. It was all but certain he would end up working for her someday. Better to get on her good side now.

  “Very well. Continue your investigation, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  She was about to leave when Calvo held up a file.

  Lieutenant Reyes stopped and asked, “What is that?”

  “Another new arrival in Punta del Este, in the house directly across the street from your American. This one and his family claim to be arrivals from Hong Kong, residents of the former British colony who grew weary of living under Chinese rule.”

  “Interesting,” the lieutenant said.

  “Possibly,” the captain allowed. “Maybe your American’s associates are gathering already. For what purpose, who can say? I leave it to you to find out.”

  Silvina Reyes gave her superior a second, more formal salute.

  “That is just what I will do.”

  Punta del Este, Uruguay

  Tyler Busby looked around his new home, one which 99.9% of humanity would have been overjoyed to call their own, and apologized to Ah-lam.

  “I’m sorry about not being able to do better, but I hadn’t anticipated how difficult and prolonged childbirth could be. I had little time to arrange a place to stay.”

  Ah-lam had been born on a junk in Aberdeen Harbor, Hong Kong. Her family of ten lived, worked, ate and slept in a space that made a sardine tin look spacious. Human waste was dumped directly into the water. Her climb in social standing and creature comfort had been nothing less than astronomical, but she’d never forgotten her origins.

  “It will do for now,” she told her husband.

  The captain of Wastrel had married them. He was a licensed master mariner, but had admitted to both parties that neither his nautical training nor his experience had included the task of uniting a couple in holy wedlock.

  To which, Busby had replied, “In Florida, they’ll let a notary public marry people. You’ll do.”

  He and Ah-lam downloaded a mutually agreeable script for the ceremony from the Internet. The captain spoke the celebrant’s part without stumbling on a single word, and that was that. They were married.

  That first night in Punta del Este, though, Busby thought maybe certain spousal obligations should have been made more clear from the start, after Ah-lam told him, “No sex.”

  “You mean tonight?”

  “I mean until we are ready for me to bear a second son.”

  To show her husband she hadn’t forgotten his needs, she grabbed his crotch in a friendly way and told him, “I have already sent for your favorite ladies. They will stay in Buenos Aires, and you may call on them as you wish. For the sake of not arousing suspicion, though, I have told them to dress modestly, and I suggest you allow yourself no more than two at a time.”

  Busby blinked, grinned, frowned and shrugged in rapid succession.

  He was amazed by Ah-lam’s sense of organization, pleased by the idea of revisiting former favorites, displeased that she was taking an unnecessary chance when she could have simply pleasured him personally and philosophical that they were both making the best of their circumstances.

  “All right, I can live with that,” he said. “When do you think you might like to have another child?”

  She told him, “I will let you know.”

  Chapter 9

  Muscle Beach — Venice, California

  Eugene Beck had heard of the place from some of the guys he’d trained with before his last-minute washout from special forces. They’d told him Muscle Beach was a hoot — and it was pretty close to the airport hotel where he was staying. So he decided to go over and take a look.

  For purposes of misleading anyone who might take notice of him, he’d applied a bronzing cream to all exposed areas of skin, gelled and combed his hair up into a field of spikes and put on wraparound sunglasses. Under the shades, in case he decided to remove them, he wore vivid blue contact lenses.

  He considered applying a fake goatee, but he thought he might get sweaty, and didn’t want the faux whiskers to slip. If he made himself look foolish, people would be more likely to remember him. Sometimes subtle changes were better.

  The guys who’d told him about Muscle Beach said there were some truly eye-popping specimens there, both male and female, but said they were just protein and steroid sculptors. All their massive, chiseled musculature wouldn’t get them through the first day of special forces torture. Beck knew that was a tribal point of view.

  My warriors are better than yours.

  Maybe, maybe not.

  Beck knew for a fact that he was tougher, stronger and more resilient than all but one or two of the guys he’d trained with, and he still got washed out. Because some dicks somewhere in the process thought his whistling meant he was … what? Not a perfect fit for what they wanted? A little chickenshit reason for disqualification like
that could have made a man angry. Probably would have if he hadn’t gotten his own pretty cool job not two minutes after he left the training base.

  Only now that had turned south on him, too.

  He’d checked and Nicholas Wicklow, the DIA guy who had recruited him to be an off-the-books assassin, had himself an automobile accident. Lost control of his vehicle, missed a bridge he was approaching and went into a river in Virginia. He was still belted into his seat when his body was recovered.

  It was said he’d been drinking earlier that night.

  An unnamed friend told the newspaper carrying the story that Wicklow was distraught over an unexpected demand for a divorce from his wife of many years.

  Yeah, sure, Beck thought.

  Just as he’d suspected, with Wicklow gone, his last tie to working for the government had vanished. If he went after James J. McGill now, and especially if he got the man, he’d be described as a disaffected, mentally ill special forces washout. Who knew why he’d decided to take out his irrational anger and imaginary grievances against the president’s husband?

  Yeah, well, fuck that plan, too.

  Not only had he aced the physical challenges of his special forces training, he was one of the smartest guys in class, too. He’d excelled in both tactics and strategy. When he’d stolen the embryos from the clinic in Pacific Palisades, they’d been identified only by the code number he’d been given. He’d been told he didn’t need to know whose goodies he was taking.

  Yeah, well, like they say: Information is power.

  While that cute little security chick was still lights out from being tased, he sat down at a handy computer and booted it up. Didn’t take five minutes to learn whose embryos he’d grabbed: Ms. Mira Kersten. Her and a number of guys. Most of the Daddy roles were played by some dude named Edmond Whelan.

  A quick check on him turned up the fact that he and Ms. Mira used to be husband and wife, and Whelan was some kind of high level flunky for a big shot Congress-dick in Washington. Seemed somebody like Whelan would be a natural for wanting to play a dirty trick on an ex-wife.