The Echo of the Whip (10 page)

Vice President Jean Morrissey sat hip to hip and holding hands with FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt in the living room of her official residence. Logs burned in the fireplace. The curtains were drawn. The Secret Service had been instructed to keep a discreet distance.

Things were as cozy as they ever got for two top-tier government poobahs.

Well, with the exception of the private quarters at the White House.

“So what do you think?” DeWitt asked.

“It’s not quite the marriage proposal I’ve always dreamed of,” the vice president said, “but it might work.”

“I promise to make my ice skating skills more macho,” DeWitt said.

Jean smiled. “While you’re out in Santa Barbara? I don’t think so.”

“I’ll be back here whenever you need me or I get, you know, lonely.”

That earned him a kiss and a question. “You mean you won’t
always
be lonely when I’m not around?”

“Sure, I will, but I’ve heard from the world’s only authority on the issue that being the president’s husband can mean sharing the woman you love with the world.”

“Jim McGill said that?”

“In his own words, yeah,” DeWitt said.

“And you and me, do we really love each other?”

“Just what I asked myself earlier, on the way over here. I told myself that we’re both too old for our feelings to be simple teen-age lust. I mean, I admire your mind, too.”

Jean laughed. “I want to give you an elbow, but I know you’d just block it.”

“See, we’re already getting accustomed to each other’s habits. Really, though, I’d be on hand any time you need me. Might even pester you sometimes when you don’t. But I’ve got to get out of Washington at least part of the time and my old home calls out to me.”

Jean leaned in closer. “I know what you mean. I have the same kind of feelings. Would you be up for a Christmas or nine in Minnesota? We could skate on a frozen pond.”

“Sure, just as long as we make it to East Beach by New Year’s Eve.”

Both of them were thinking they could make it work, juggle a commuter marriage, separate careers, maybe one of them being the presidency, and write a happy ending to it all. But if Patti Grant was convicted by the Senate, and Jean served out her predecessor’s last year and two of her own terms … Jeez, she’d become the longest-serving president since FDR. What marriage could survive that kind of an ordeal?

That was when Jean had the damnedest idea of her political career.

Before she could spring it on DeWitt, though, his cell-phone rang. He looked at the caller ID screen and sighed. Showing it to Jean, he said, “See what I mean. Business never lets up.”

The display read:
Spec Ag A. Benjamin.

As part of their growing intimacy, Jean and DeWitt had shared stories about their pasts, and the people who had populated them. The VP knew that Abra Benjamin had once been DeWitt’s lover, had been impregnated by him and had given up their child for adoption. Despite all that, they’d maintained an effective working relationship. Benjamin had been neither shuffled off to a remote posting nor promoted beyond merit.

That was important to Jean because either vindictiveness or favoritism would have made DeWitt look bad if his relationship with the vice president went public, and the media started snooping into his personal life, as they inevitably would. A prospective mate had to be an asset not a liability.

Fortunately for Jean, as she was truly sweet on the guy who’d just, sort of, proposed to her, he’d handled the situation as well as it could be. Even to the point of agreeing to allow his biological son to be adopted by two solid citizens.

There was one thing left for Jean to do: get a good look, a fix, on the other woman.

Make sure there were no lingering feelings that might screw things up.

“Take the call,” she told DeWitt.

“You sure?”

“Yes, you’re not out on the beach yet.”

DeWitt nodded. He accepted the call by saying: “You have news?”

Jean liked that. Right down to business with a positive tone.

DeWitt listened for a moment. “That’s good, very good. Yes, by all means, follow up. Let me know what resources you need and I’ll see that you get them.”

DeWitt’s enthusiasm was infectious. Jean put a hand on his near arm and asked, “What’s happened?

The deputy director told Benjamin, “Hold on, Special Agent.” He put a hand over the phone and said, “Benjamin had a very smart thought on tracking down Tyler Busby, and it may have produced a lead. She’s just returned from Amsterdam.”

“Catching Busby would be wonderful,” the vice president said.

Not only would Busby’s apprehension be great news for the president at a time when she badly needed a win to bolster her public standing, heading into her trial in the Senate, but if DeWitt were to play a prominent role in Busby’s capture that would elevate his public profile.

Nothing to boost a presidential candidate’s standing like marrying a law enforcement hero.

Jean immediately had mixed feeling about that thought. It was unworthy of a guy for whom she had real feelings. Then again, politics wasn’t a pretty business. That only reinforced the idea she’d had a moment ago concerning her political future.

Jean had thought she might follow in Patricia Grant’s footsteps in more ways than one.

It had occurred to her a moment ago to change political parties. See if Cool Blue, the new progressive party, would have her as its standard bearer. Serve out the remaining year of Patti Grant’s term, if necessary, and pledge to serve only one term of her own. She thought that she and DeWitt could endure four or five years in the White House.

“Please tell the special agent to come over as soon as possible,” the vice president told the deputy director. “I’d like to hear all the details of what she’s discovered.”

DeWitt gave Jean a look, and then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

He thought it was bound to happen sometime, the two of them meeting.

Wrapping the introduction in good news might be the way to go.

Just in case, though, he answered Jean’s earlier question. “Yes, I do think we love each other. In fact, I’m certain that’s the way I feel.”

Before Jean could respond, he told Benjamin to join them at the vice president’s house.

The president said, “Yes, Jim, I’m fine.”

McGill had called from California to ask the missus how she was holding up. His call was encrypted. Not even the NSA or Chinese hackers could eavesdrop. Supposedly.

For legal purposes, though, their conversation was a hundred percent shielded under spousal privilege. On a practical level, the president’s secretary, Edwina Byington, had left her desk for the day. Word had been passed to all other personnel that the president was not to be disturbed for anything less than a national or familial emergency.

The sole exception was Chief of Staff Galia Mindel.

She sat on a sofa opposite the president’s desk, wearing earbuds.

Listening to a report from her political spy network, unable to hear anything else.

“How are things going on your end?” Patricia Grant asked.

“I think John Tall Wolf will be a big help.” McGill told his wife of Tall Wolf’s request to recruit Native American candidates for Congress. “I gave him Putnam Shady’s name. I’ll call Sweetie about it in the morning.”

“I think that’s a good idea. A Native American voting bloc could bring a fresh perspective on national priorities. Wish I’d thought of it,” the president said.

McGill grunted. “How much free time have you and I had the last six-plus years? Not a lot that I recall. What I’m saying is, you can’t think of everything.”

“You don’t want me to resign, do you, Jim? We’d have a lot more free time.”

McGill thought of Mira Kersten’s political assessment: The other side wanted revenge. McGill was sure a resignation wouldn’t satisfy them. They’d demand legal action after Patti had left office. Maybe , as Patti had suggested, even get an indictment if a president from the GOP or True South was elected next year.

The only sure way for Patti to avoid possible prosecution would be for Jean Morrissey to give her a blanket pardon just as Gerald Ford had done with Richard Nixon.

McGill said, “No, that would blight your entire record.” Talk about delegitimizing a president. Edmond Whelan would be dancing a jig. “We’ve got to fight it out in the Senate and win.”

The president took that moment to tell McGill about the threat to Chief Justice MacLaren’s life.

“Damn, that’s awful,” he said. “The Supreme Court has its own cops, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, they’ve stepped up the security for all the justices, and the FBI is working with them to investigate the threat.”

“Any leads yet?”

“Only the original message. To wit: ‘Do the right thing with Patti Grant or you die.’ No specificity about what the right thing might be.”

McGill said, “Makes it harder to narrow the suspect pool that way. Could be a threat from either side of the political divide. On the other hand, it’s not instructive about what the bastard actually wants.”

“The FBI is working primarily on the assumption it comes from the other side politically, as Chief Justice MacLaren and I tend to agree on questions of Constitutional interpretation more often than not.”

“That’d be my hunch, too, but it might also be a political ally telling MacLaren not to go weak in the knees at exactly the wrong moment,” McGill said.

“The FBI said a follow-up message might be coming to provide clarity.”

“Maybe,” McGill said, “but that would also increase the risk of the creep’s identity being discovered.”

The president sighed. “One way or another, Jim, we will both get through this.”

“Yes, we will. I saw your YouTube video on Committed Capital. That’s a great idea, too. Maybe McGill Investigations, Inc. can start a security division and protect your new offices.”

Patti laughed. “Only if you have the low bid.”

“Hugs and kisses as needed. That’s all I ask.”

“You just won the contract. You are so good for me.”

“Works both ways,” McGill told her.

They spoke about the kids and plans for vacations they swore they would take.

Then McGill sprang a surprise on the president, asked if by any chance Galia was nearby. He was happy to hear she was. McGill asked Patti to leave the connection live and lay her phone on her desk. Give him ten minutes before she returned to the Oval Office.

Without asking a question or even saying goodbye, the president did as requested.

It didn’t take five seconds before Galia picked up the phone.

A Secret Service uniformed officer knocked on the living room door and after receiving permission to enter from the vice president ushered Special Agent Abra Benjamin into the room and departed. Ever the gentleman, Deputy Director Byron DeWitt made the introductions. Better yet, he did it without becoming tongue-tied and got both women’s names right as he acquainted his former lover with his present one.

He discreetly kept to himself his marriage proposal to the VP.

For her part and to her credit, Benjamin kept her tone professional and respectful.

“Ms. Vice President, it’s an honor to meet you.”

Both women possessed firm handshakes, but neither overdid it.

“Good to meet you, too, Special Agent. The deputy director tells me you might have good news regarding the hunt for Tyler Busby. Why don’t we all sit down?”

Jean Morrissey sat alone on the sofa. DeWitt and Benjamin took arm chairs facing her. The deputy director gestured to Benjamin. The stage was hers.

She explained her follow-the-nookie concept, phrasing it as politely as possible.

It still drew a laugh from the vice president. “That’s a wonderful insight, Special Agent. And you’re saying it paid off almost immediately?”

Benjamin was smart enough not to over-promise, even as she felt her body temperature warm from the praise. “Up to a point, yes ma’am. With the help of the national police in the Netherlands, we located the …
broker
who handles the very top-end
talent
for some of the world’s —”

“Richest horny old bastards?” Jean interjected. “It’s okay to say pimps and hookers in front of me, Special Agent.”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you. In any event, we managed to speak with one woman, an Australian, who sexually serviced Busby on a yacht called
Shining Dawn
when it cruised off the coastline of Malaysia last year.”

That news made DeWitt sit up straighter in his chair.

Jean noticed but didn’t comment.

Benjamin continued, “The Australian woman was one of six hookers aboard at the time. Despite the variety of sexual partners available to Busby, all of the working girls thought he was pining for a senior female member of the yacht’s crew, a Chinese woman named Ah-lam.”

“She
wasn’t
available to Busby?” DeWitt asked.

“I think that was a note of skepticism in the deputy director’s voice, Special Agent,” Jean said. “I have to say, given the context, I share it.”

“As do I, Ms. Vice President, The consensus of the hookers aboard was that Busby just hadn’t met her price.”

The vice president looked at the deputy director. It was the time for his two cents.

DeWitt started ticking off points of information on his fingers. “Tyler Busby leased the
Shining Dawn
from Donald Yang, CEO of Asia Global Liability, the insurance company that issued coverage for the forged paintings Busby sent to Inspiration Hall.”

“The place where the president was supposed to be killed,” Jean said.

“Right.” DeWitt continued his count. “Busby put a senior female member of the
Shining Dawn’s
crew off the yacht near the Philippine island of Mindanao. Shortly after that, a bar girl who refused to give her name called the FBI office at the U.S. embassy in Manila. She said Busby had been kidnapped by Abu Sayyaf guerrillas and spirited away into the jungle. I think we can all connect the dots here.”

Jean Morrissey said, “Busby met Ah-lam’s price. But where is he now?”

Benjamin was happy to answer, to the extent that she could. “The Australian hooker was called by her pimp last week and asked if she’d be up for a repeat performance with the gentleman she’d gone cruising with off Malaysia. On another super-luxury yacht. This time somewhere in the western hemisphere. That was as specific a location as she got.”

“That covers a lot of ocean,” DeWitt said, “but I can’t believe Busby would risk coming anywhere near North America. He’d have to stay somewhere south of Panama, in either the Atlantic or Pacific.”

“Why did he start using prostitutes again?” the vice president asked. “He got tired of his formerly special sweetheart?”

DeWitt said, “From everything I’ve read about the man, he’s not the type to look for a soulmate.”

“Or,” Benjamin suggested, “maybe Ah-lam got pregnant.”

She and DeWitt both knew from experience that not even the pill worked 100% of the time.

“And what?” the deputy director asked. “She lost her figure and sex appeal at the same time?”

Benjamin shrugged. “Maybe it was her choice. She wanted to keep the baby but didn’t want to be bothered with sex. Could have told Busby he should get his action elsewhere.”

DeWitt was uncertain about that scenario, but the vice president said, “I can see that, but how do we narrow the search?”

“Wait to see where the world’s top hookers flock to,” Benjamin said.

The vice president nodded but turned to DeWitt for a recommendation. He felt like he was being tested. It might have been annoying if he hadn’t already come up with his own idea.

He said, “Two points to consider. One, the man apparently likes old favorites, e.g. revisiting a particular sex partner. Two, he probably has other appetites. Do some research and find out what he likes to eat. Not just gourmet stuff but also snack food. Maybe snacks especially. Munchies you can get in the U.S. but not abroad. Look at brands of beer and soft drinks, too. See if any or all of those things are being shipped to an anchorage somewhere in South America.”

The vice president liked that. She told Benjamin to get right on it.

Let her know as soon as she found anything.