by Joseph Flynn
But there were some other guys who’d splashed their sperm for Ms. Mira. One, to Beck’s surprise, was an actor whose work he admired. That was the embryo Beck had taken for himself. Beck had had the mumps as a kid and the illness had left him sterile. So he wasn’t going to have any kids of his own. Still, raising a kid sired by a cool movie star wasn’t a bad consolation prize.
Besides learning the identities of the embryos’ mom and dads, Beck also gleaned Ms. Mira’s home address and her phone numbers. He intended to visit with her and ask her opinion of whom she thought wanted to do her so wrong. His money was on Whelan, but he wanted to be sure. In return, he’d tell her where she could find her stash of chilled children.
Beck was sure that whoever had put him up to the theft was also the geek who wanted him to kill James J. McGill. Beck was going to have a little talk with that guy. Impress on him the error of his ways. Maybe even whistle while he worked.
Meanwhile, as long as he was right there at Muscle Beach, he’d get a little exercise.
The place had a fenced-in area with various kinds of workout stations like you’d find in a gym. Those were all in use, and most of them had guys waiting in line. A fair number of gawkers watched the guys working out and even the specimens just shooting the breeze with one another.
Beck didn’t feel like waiting or being scoped. And, really, until you saw him in action, his physique looked fairly normal. Sure, he was lean and toned, and when he got his pulse rate up a lot of definition jumped into view, but strolling along in a loose T-shirt and knee-length shorts, he just looked like a guy who ate right and didn’t spend all day sitting on his backside.
A construction worker young enough to be out looking for a cutie, maybe.
Right out on the sand, Beck saw a couple of installations for doing pull-ups and dips. The pull-up bar had a guy using it, but the parallel dip bars were open. A small but growing crowd of onlookers was counting aloud the number of repetitions the dude on the chin-up bar was doing. “Fifteen … sixteen … seventeen …”
Guy was as regular as a metronome and with his shirt off, he was impressing a lot of the girls. His arm muscles might’ve been steel springs, as easy as he made his reps look. He caught sight of Beck and, give him credit, knew the new arrival was something different.
Beck gave the dude a small nod and set about doing some dips.
“Eighteen … nineteen …” the chin-up counters voiced.
Only not all of them were watching the first guy now; some of them had turned to look at Beck. He was making his reps look even easier that the other guy. Beck seemed to float up and down. No effort at all. A few people started to count for him.
The dissonance between the two counts started throwing off the chin-up guy’s rep counters. That broke the dude’s concentration. He got pissed-off and stopped his sequence at either twenty-five or twenty-six, depending on whose total he found accurate.
By now, more people were watching Beck.
His count was up to twenty and rising.
The chin-up guy elbowed his way to the front of the onlookers and said with contempt, “Dips. Any limp dick can do a ton of dips.”
Hearing that, several people took a step back. Nobody wanted to take a punch or a kick meant for someone else. Beck reacted nonviolently, but still in a way that sent a clear message. He levered himself from a dip position to a handstand on the parallel bars.
Made it look easy.
Then he started doing vertical push-ups. “One … two … three,” the crowd counted.
When he got to a dozen, he hand-walked to the far end of the bars. He dismounted smoothly and turned to face the onlookers. They gave him a round of applause and he returned their gesture of appreciation with a bow.
The guy who’d been doing the chin-ups had left.
Beck was glad to see that. Showed some people still had common sense.
He gave a wave of farewell to the crowd.
He’d go back to his hotel, take a shower, get a bite to eat and go visit Ms. Mira.
Washington, DC
Repressing a sigh, White House Chief of Staff Galia Mindel put in a call to the only other woman in Patricia Grant’s professional life who had meant as much to the president as she did: Dorie McBride, the legendary Hollywood talent agent who had spotted a young Patti Darden and moved her from modeling to movies.
Dorie’s approach had been simple. “Honey, you’re much too smart to limit yourself to pouting for still photographs. And you didn’t go to Yale to major in runway strutting. Come to Los Angeles and let people hear what you have to say.”
In films, Dorie meant. Patti Darden starred in three of them. The reviews of her performances started with mild praise and grew progressively stronger. So did the box office for each of her movies. She was on the verge of becoming bankable when she met Andrew Hudson Grant, billionaire philanthropist, and he wooed her, married her and took her home to Winnetka, Illinois.
Never one to sit idle, Patti had involved herself with a number of good works.
She’d helped Jimmy Carter promote Habitat for Humanity and even rolled up her sleeves to work on the construction of a handful of houses with the former president. A picture of her and Carter driving nails next to each other was published in People Magazine. That was when Galia took an interest.
She met Patti at a lunch hosted by Dick Bergen, now the Senate minority leader, then a downstate Illinois Democratic congressman. Galia’s approach had been as direct as Dorie McBride’s.
She told Patti, “You don’t need to limit yourself to helping people one house at a time. You want to have a national impact? I can get you elected to Congress.”
Patti was intrigued. She spoke with Andy. A string of doctors had recently told them the depressing news that both of them were infertile. They would conceive and bear no children of their own. Adoption remained an open question, but both of them agreed it would be helpful for Patti to have a new career of her own.
Neither of them had thought of Patti going back to Hollywood.
But Dorie McBride had, and was counting on it.
Until Patti announced her candidacy for a House seat and then won it.
Dorie blamed Galia for spoiling all her plans. They’d met a number of times over the years, including at two inaugural balls. The political equivalent of after-parties for the Academy Award presentations. Even without an unkind word or even a smirk from Galia, Dorie felt that Galia was flaunting her triumphs.
Not that Dorie let the president see her hard feelings.
Well, maybe a little.
Answering Galia’s call that day, Dorie said, “You want something, don’t you? You’ve got some nerve.”
Galia said, “Neither of us got where we are by being shy.”
“I should hang up right now.”
“You could do that or you could try to be helpful to the president.”
Galia had heard that Dorie once suggested she might find a sitcom for the president after she retired from politics. Galia waited until she got home before laughing, but who knew if the Hollywood agent still harbored show biz hopes for Patti Grant? Scoring a coup like getting her most famous former client on film would certainly put Dorie back on the map in La-La Land.
“What do you mean?” Dorie asked.
“Do you still know who’s sleeping with whom out there?”
“I wish I was still having sex with someone, if that’s what you mean, but, yes, I still know who’s boffing whom, if they’re important in the business.”
Galia asked, “How about if only one of them is?”
Dorie sighed. “I’ll do this only if I decide it’s important to Patricia. Give me a name.”
“Mira Kersten.”
Laughter pealed from coast to coast. “She’s not important but the guy she’s sleeping with is. He loves her for her politics, at least for now. And yes, someone like him might be of importance to Patricia. He might contribute to her new venture capital firm.”
She gave Gali
a a name, a big one.
“Would you know if that gentleman has impregnated Mira?”
“Jesus, no, I don’t, but why would he?”
“You just said he loves her,” Galia said.
“Not like that. I don’t think he’s capable of that kind of relationship.”
“Could you find out, as definitively as possible.”
“You wouldn’t stoop to using Patricia for your own purposes, would you?” Dorie asked.
Of course, I would, Galia thought. Same as you, you old bag.
What she said was, “It might make a difference in the president’s trial in the Senate.”
“You are doing your best to protect … the woman we both love?”
“Why else would I call you?” Galia asked.
“All right then, damnit. I’ll find out. Tell you as soon as I know.”
Galia said to use the number of her new phone. One she’d bought from a drugstore that morning. Wearing a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. And would throw away after she heard back from Dorie McBride.
The White House — Washington, DC
“Can a girl get a cup of coffee in the White House Mess?” the voice on Welborn Yates’ office phone asked.
“Colonel Linberg, is that you?” a surprised Welborn asked.
“It is, Colonel Yates. I’m out front with the uniformed Secret Service guys. I asked them to frisk me and let me in to see you. They said I had to call first, and declined to lay hands on my person. Someone my age can’t even get a guy to cop a feel anymore.”
“I’ll have to decline that honor, too, but I will buy you some coffee.”
“Good, because I have some news for you.”
“Please put the Secret Service officer in charge on the phone.”
She did and five minutes later she was escorted into the White House Mess. Welborn was already there. He had a corner table staked out with two cups of steaming liquid on the table. He stood and saluted as Carina approached even though she was wearing civilian clothing.
She returned the salute and stood there looking Welborn in the eye.
He knew what was expected of him. After a quick glance around the room, he gave her a hug. Keeping it brief and making sure his hands stayed above her waist. With a smile, she sat and added some cream and sugar to her coffee.
Welborn was having green tea, neat.
He said, “You’re just teasing with this pretense of personal affection, right?”
“Were you smitten with me when we first met?”
“I was young … but yes.”
“I found that endearing. When I’m lonely, my thoughts turn to you, unbidden.”
Welborn did his best to keep from blushing.
“That’s very flattering, but I’m married now and the father of two.”
“You’re also still in uniform. We wouldn’t want you to get charged with adultery.”
“That would be too ironic, among many other things,” Welborn said.
“Had you met your future wife before or after you began your investigation of me?” Carina asked.
“After, just after.”
“Did you ever wonder about that, the timing?”
Welborn shook his head. “Never gave it a thought.”
But he was doing so just then, and a look of enlightenment dawned on him.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said.
“Many things, I’m sure, but probably not damned. So who do you think it was who set you up with your future wife to save you from my womanly wiles, the president or McGill?”
“Both of them,” he said, “but the idea probably originated with Mr. McGill. He’d have been the one to think he shouldn’t let my investigation of you be compromised by … unprofessional behavior. If I had messed up, it would have embarrassed the president, and he wouldn’t have wanted that. He was protecting his wife.”
“Another gentleman when I keep looking for rascals.” She sipped her coffee.
“I know a few,” Welborn said.
“You’re the second man I’ve met today who’s offered to set me up with someone else. Faint praise, if you ask me.”
Welborn took a frank look at Carina Linberg, to the point where it made her squirm.
“Careful,” she said, “I might jump over the table and assault you right here.”
Welborn smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you look. No hideous wrinkles. My bet is you’ll find someone who’ll make you happy within a month.”
Carina smiled ruefully. “Psychic now, are you?”
He shook his head. “Just a feeling.”
“Okay. We’d better get down to business, now that my personal happiness is assured. I’ve got a name for you, Eugene Beck. He may be the guy you’re looking for; in fact I’d be surprised if he isn’t. That’s why I flew up here.”
Welborn moved his cup of tea aside, leaned forward and spoke quietly.
“You’re speaking of the threat to Mr. McGill’s life?”
She nodded and leaned forward, too. “I heard about this little program the DIA was running, might still be. You should use your position here at the White House to double-check what I’m going to tell you. Make sure it’s valid.”
She told him about Beck’s time in special forces training and the reason for his peculiar, last-minute wash-out. Then she added the information about the death of his DIA recruiter and handler, Nicholas Wicklow.
“The man died in an auto accident?” Welborn repeated.
“Yeah. Convenient, huh? Now, there’s no way to connect Beck to the government.”
“More than that,” Welborn said. “There’s no way for Wicklow ever to testify about what Beck did to earn his keep as a contractor.”
“My guess is he wasn’t teaching people close order drills.”
“No, it had to be something more sinister than that.”
The fact that Wicklow had died behind the wheel, especially if the accident was arranged, hit home for Welborn. If Wicklow had any family, they deserved to know the truth.
“I’ll check all this out, Colonel,” he told Carina, “but I’ll pass the information on to Mr. McGill right away.”
She said, “I know we talked about how I might use some of this information as story material, but I’m going to pass on that. Don’t want to get too deeply involved here. It’s way above my pay-grade, even if I’m not in the military anymore and have more money than anybody in the government except Patricia Grant.”
“I think that’s a wise choice,” Welborn said.
As discreetly as possible, he took one of her hands in his.
“Did I ever mention to you that my father used to be the personal secretary to the Queen of England?”
She laughed and said, “No, you didn’t, and that’s a tidbit I might put into a story.”
“Fine, fair trade, but what I was thinking is, Dad knows any number of smart, sophisticated eligible fellows. How do you feel about Englishmen?”
Carina grinned. “I might give one a try, as long as he’s a bit of a rascal.”
Century City Mall — Los Angeles, California
“How far along are you?” McGill asked Mira Kersten.
The two of them stood outside a business calling itself Giggles N’ Hugs, self-described as a children’s restaurant and play space. He’d called her; she told him where she was. Finding her was that simple.
Standing in an arc around McGill at a distance of twenty feet or so were John Tall Wolf, Deke Ky, Elspeth Kendry and Sweetie, who’d caught up with the others. Just beyond the boundaries of the mall stood a cluster of high rises.
The buildings were neither tall enough nor sufficiently numerous to be called a skyline by the standards of Chicago or New York, but west of the Mississippi, they’d do. And the big cities of the Midwest and the East didn’t have open-air shopping venues that could be enjoyed year ’round.
“Far along with what?” Mira replied.
“Your pregnancy.”
Mira had told McGill she
was at the kiddie place with a friend and her child.
She lightly patted her flat midsection. “Not too far, I’d say.”
McGill sighed. “Do you want me to keep looking for your embryos? Do you want me to call Galia Mindel to get an answer to my question?”
Mira looked down at her shoes for an answer.
They apparently told her to play things straight.
“My answers are yes and no. Let’s get something to drink.”
As a further sign that she was with child, Mira led McGill to a table outside a juice bar, not one that served alcohol. Mira had The Hot Lei; McGill went with The Pipe Cleaner. L.A. being L.A., plain old apple or orange juice were too mundane to be available.
“To answer your question,” Mira said, “I’m six weeks pregnant.”
“Everything going okay so far? I’m guessing it is.”
“Kind of you to ask. Yes, all is well. But then you have another reason for wanting to know, don’t you?”
McGill nodded. “I’m curious why you didn’t tell me up front.”
“Who did tell you?”
“No one. Your general appearance, a certain radiance actually, registered with me, but the reason for it didn’t click immediately. Then I remembered the times I saw my ex-wife looking pretty much the same way.”
Mira laughed. “Really? I just thought I was looking healthy. Clean living and all that. Never paid too much attention to other women when they were pregnant. What has caught my eye is that your escort, the Secret Service people, the BIA guy and the new woman, all seem to be on high alert. The blonde, she’s your partner, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is, Margaret Sweeney. The reason everyone is keyed up is my life was threatened recently. It’s something we all think should be taken seriously. But the timing of the threat makes me think it has something to do with my investigation out here.”
“Meaning it has to do with me, and I didn’t tell you everything I might have.”
“Exactly. Hiring a private investigator doesn’t necessarily mean baring your soul entirely, but given the nature of your problem, the fact that you’re pregnant seems relevant.”