The Echo of the Whip (34 page)

“The bitch says she’s not going to testify,” House Whip Carter Coleman said.

T. W. Rangel, ear pressed to the phone in his home in Great Falls, winced. Coleman had delivered his message at the top of his voice. Apparently, Speaker Peter Profitt, also looped into the conference call, shared in the discomfort, saying, “Moderate your tone, Carter. If you keep shouting, the NSA won’t need a wiretap to overhear us.”

A moment of silence followed as all three men considered whether Profitt’s comment, intended as a joke, might have an element of truth to it.

“You think they’d dare do that?” Coleman asked in little more than a whisper.

“I’m wondering myself, now that I’ve brought it up,” Profitt said.

Rangel weighed in with his best assessment. “It’s likely they’re still vacuuming up everybody’s calls. But they’d never use anything against either of you gentlemen.”

“Why not?” Coleman asked.

“Peter?” Rangel said, wanting to see if he had one apt student.

Profitt proved equal to the challenge, “Because, Carter, if the NSA were to incriminate you and me, our esteemed colleagues in Congress would take umbrage. Whittle the NSA’s budget down to pennies on the dollar. They wouldn’t have the money to shop at Radio Shack.”

“Didn’t that place go out of business?” Coleman asked.

Both Profitt and Rangel sighed. The speaker said, “Yes, they did, but the point is we don’t have to worry about being bugged. Just try to keep your voice down.”

At a much lower decibel level, but still suffused with emotion, the Whip said, “We’re screwed without that Renshaw bitch’s testimony. We have less than forty-eight hours until we put the president of the United States on trial and it looks like we’ll have to stand around with our dicks in our hands. I don’t know about you, Mr. Speaker, but that ain’t gonna play well in my district.”

“The gentleman from Oklahoma has a point, T.W.,” Profitt said.

Rangel reassured them. “You’re both worrying needlessly. Before Joan Renshaw ever emerged from her coma, your House of Representatives impeached the president. You did so the same way that you intended to try her, on a lava bed of emotional animus.”

Neither politician attempted to rebut Rangel.

“Having Ms. Renshaw wake up and claim she conspired with the president was manna from heaven, and having her recant is still a gift.”

“How’s that, T.W.?” Profitt asked.

He had his own guess but he wanted to hear from the man himself.

Knowing just what the Speaker was thinking, Rangel obliged him. He had to show he was worth the not-so-small fortune he was being paid. “You call Ms. Renshaw as a witness. If she reverses herself again and testifies on your behalf, she’s your new best friend, an icon of courage and unbreakable character. If she denies she was working with the president and never told you otherwise, you play your investigator’s recording of her saying otherwise and ask one simple question: ‘Who got to you, Ms. Renshaw?’”

Profitt knew the answer to that and didn’t mind supplying it. “Galia Mindel.”

“Just so,” Rangel agreed. “Once that’s done, the trial becomes about the White House chief of staff as much as the president. Handled properly, we can neuter the president and destroy her number one political operative.”

Coleman, playing catch-up, said, “Maybe we even find some criminal offense against ol’ Galia. Put the pressure on the president to disown her, maybe even have the attorney general prosecute.”

Profitt added, “The icing on the cake would be to get that damn Jean Morrissey in on the dump-Galia game by starting a narrative that she has to do that or she’ll never have a chance of being elected president.”

Rangel was pleased to see his students were exploring some of the more obvious ploys of the strategy. He was about to offer a more subtle variation when he was jarringly distracted by hearing his doorbell ring. He’d have to answer it himself; he’d given Roosevelt the night off. The cook and the maid had already gone home so they couldn’t help out either. He was alone in the house.

“Excuse me for a minute, gentlemen,” he said. “Someone’s at my front door. I’ll take a look and be right back.”

Rangel put the call on hold. He didn’t need to open his door to see who had come calling. A camera looked down at anyone who arrived at his threshold. Rangel pulled up the view on his laptop computer. At a glance, he had no idea of who the fellow was: A bald pate was the first thing he noticed. But then the visitor’s eyes, nose and jawline registered in his mind.

The man then looked up, directly at the camera, and Rangel knew who he was.

Edmond Whelan.

Good God, had he found out who had stolen his treatise?

The question answered itself. Of course, he had.

It would be a disaster if Profitt and Coleman learned what he’d done, so he told them he had to go and broke the connection with them.

Then Rangel asked himself: “Where the hell did I put my gun?”

The answer to that eluded him, and Whelan began banging on his door.

The conspirators in Great Falls and on Capitol Hill didn’t need to worry about the NSA monitoring their call. The intelligence agency was more or less hewing to the recent Supreme Court ruling that it didn’t have the authority to conduct the universal collection of phone calls, emails, texts and malicious gossip over backyard fences. There were moments, of course, when a sense of urgency demanded reversion to the old methods, but in general the NSA spooks tried not to put themselves crosswise with the Supremes.

As Rangel and company had accurately divined, Galia Mindel was their chief worry.

She knew it, too. That was why when Rangel was away for a metrosexual spa day and his cook and maid were sent out on errands Roosevelt had allowed a technician to enter Rangel’s house and bug his phone system, his office and his bedroom — in case he talked in his sleep, not to record any amorous activity.

Rangel didn’t fornicate at home. He went to a discreet establishment in the District for that. Galia was still looking for a way to, pardon the verb, penetrate that den of … well, she didn’t really care to know the fine details of what went on there. But she did want to know what people talked about under that roof.

That, however, was a problem to solve for another day.

It both gratified her and sent a small chill down her spine to become a co-equal target with the president for the other side. Well, they’d soon find out how dangerous she was if someone tried to put her in a corner. A recording of the Rangel-Profitt-Coleman conversation would make its way to Ellie Booker when the time was right.

Maybe another copy would arrive on Vice President Morrissey’s desk. Wouldn’t she love it to hear that the boys on the right had a plan to intimidate her? Galia chuckled. She was sure Jean could kick the withered asses of all three of those bastards, even if they came at her in a bunch.

As a last resort, and purely for spite, she might send a copy to James J. McGill.

Give him the chance to break a few noses for real.

Shortly before Galia decided to execute her counterattack, she would have the bugging equipment removed from Rangel’s house, leaving no trace of how the recordings were made and preserving Roosevelt’s position within the enemy camp.

Special Agent Abra Benjamin looked at her reflection in a full-length mirror, unsure of the presentation she should make. She knew how to dress for the office. How to dress for a formal dinner. How to dress for a date with a guy who … damnit, wouldn’t remind her of Byron DeWitt. But she was uncertain about how to dress for her debut as a high-priced hooker.

A display of cleavage was a given, but just how much was a matter of debate. Too little and she wouldn’t look the part; too much and she’d look cheap. The same question applied to how much leg to show. A hemline above the knees, sure, but nowhere near a minidress. That would not only be déclassé but also, God help her, inappropriate for someone her age.

She decided to go with a happy medium in both cases. She needed to get Busby to look at whatever his preferred anatomical feature was. That and keep his eyes off her hands. Her fingernails were the only giveaway. She had the face and the figure for a high-end, if slightly mature, call girl, but her nails, though neatly trimmed and polished, were too short for a courtesan. She could have gotten extensions or overlays, but she wanted to keep her hands suited for punching, gouging, poking and shooting. She’d be carrying her gun in her handbag. A pair of flat, rubber-soled shoes, too.

She’d kick off her spiked heels if she had to beat feet.

Abra had finally arrived at a look that was acceptable, if not personally pleasing, when her cell phone chimed. Byron DeWitt was calling; she’d just been about to call him. Tell him she was on her way to nab Busby and would have her phone off until she’d cuffed the bastard.

She’d been looking forward to hearing Byron’s surprise when she informed him she’d found their target. Only the SOB had to spoil her fun. Damn him.

He didn’t even say hello. Only: “We’ve got him, Abra. We’ve got Busby.”

“What?”
She couldn’t believe it. “You’ve arrested him?”

“No.”

“Somebody else arrested him?”

“No.”

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

She knew it was impolitic to talk to her boss that way but didn’t care.

For his part, DeWitt didn’t seem to notice. “We know where he is right now.”

“So do I.” She gave him the address in Punta del Este. “Busby’s pimp set me up with him. Apparently, he likes Jewish girls.”

To his credit, the deputy director said, “Well, good for you, Special Agent. That was fast work.”

“Yeah. You should see how I look. I’m going to knock Busby’s eyes out. Then when he’s blinded, I’ll cuff him and call the local cops.”

She was hoping Byron would fix on the comment about how she looked. Maybe ask for a peek on FaceTime. He didn’t. He addressed her mention of the police.

“About that: Don’t contact the locals.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to get into that right now. I’ll be sending an extraction team.”

He gave her a number to call.

“What? Why?”

“Because, Special Agent, you are going to expedite Mr. Busby’s return to the U.S.”

Christ, Abra thought, Byron was telling her to kidnap the guy.

“Are you sure about this?” she asked.

DeWitt responded indirectly. “I’m going to resign soon, Abra. My slot will be open for someone deserving to fill.”

It was easy to read between those lines. Who could be more deserving than the special agent who brought Tyler Busby back home to face justice?

“That’s good enough for me,” she said.

FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt felt only slightly guilty about what he’d just ordered Special Agent Abra Benjamin to do. If things went wrong, he’d take the brunt of the blowback, but Abra would get scorched, too. Might well lose her job, and then she’d have to devise a whole new future to build.

He was sure she’d see that, too, and soon. Once the initial excitement of thinking she might leapfrog to the upper reaches of the FBI organizational table wore off. Still, she’d do everything she needed, up to and including burning down Montevideo, to get away with Busby in chains.

Thinking about the capital of Uruguay being put to the torch, DeWitt felt bad about betraying Captain Calvo and Lieutenant Reyes. The FBI had a reputation for running roughshod over other police agencies, foreign and domestic, and much of it was deserved. DeWitt had always tried to play nice, but he couldn’t take the chance that a small country in South America might give Busby the wiggle room he need to wind up in, say, Beijing.

If the Chinese wanted to, they could allow Busby a fair amount of freedom within their borders. He might even live like a member of the politburo. Twit Washington with photos of himself enjoying the high life. That would immediately cause both domestic and international turmoil.

It was impossible to believe the U.S. would go to war with China over Busby, but relations would grievously suffer, and if American ships or aircraft had close encounters with their Chinese counterparts, bloodshed might easily ensue. Once that dam had been breached …

DeWitt didn’t like to think what might happen.

Or some deep thinker in the CIA might decide the thing to do was assassinate Busby. Show Busby, the Chinese and the rest of the world that no one was beyond the reach of the United States. Succeed or fail, something like that might also lead to a far greater conflict.

So DeWitt had decided to take his chances with offending tiny, non-nuclear Uruguay.

He’d send flowers and chocolates if Montevideo got upset.

As if bringing in Busby wasn’t enough, DeWitt still had Philip Brock to consider. He was already under the lock and key of the Uruguayan National Police. The deputy director wasn’t quite ready to stage a raid to put his hands on Brock. But he’d be damned if that prick was going to skate away free either.

DeWitt picked up his phone again. He called the embassy of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan. Speaking to only one intermediary was necessary before the ambassador came on the line.

“Mr. Ambassador,” DeWitt said, “I apologize for calling you so late on a weekend.”

“For matters of importance, sir, I am always available to my country’s American friends.”

“Mr. Ambassador, within the past hour, I was informed by the National Police of Uruguay in Montevideo that Congressman Philip Brock has been arrested for entering that country on a false passport. I immediately requested that Brock be held as a person of interest in the planned assassination of President Grant.

“What I need to tell you now, sir, is that the FBI strongly suspects and is developing evidence to show that Mr. Brock also killed United States Senator Howard Hurlbert and your own personal physician, Bahir Ben Kalil.”

The ambassador took a moment before asking, “How strong is your evidence, sir?”

“Persuasive enough that Mr. Brock fled the United States using a false passport.”

The ambassador asked, “And you personally, sir, do you believe that Brock killed Ben Kalil?”

“I do. I called not only to share that information but also to inform you that Brock has told the Uruguayans that he is a political refugee, a man being framed by my government. That is simply a lie. Still, Brock has offered to post a huge sum of money to be allowed to remain free in Uruguay. My police contact there told me that it is at least a possibility bail will be granted.

“The FBI has urged the Uruguayans not to do this. Brock might find a way to run and hide. Senior U.S. officials will be talking to their counterparts in Montevideo in the morning. It would be helpful, sir, if Jordan would add its voice to ours in this matter.”

The ambassador paused before saying, “I will contact Amman.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s all I can ask.”

Breaking the connection, DeWitt added, “But it’s not all I can hope for.”

Ideally, the Uruguayans would send Brock back to the U.S. with no muss or fuss … but snatching the bigger fish, Busby, from right under their noses might make them cranky. It was possible they would even release Brock out of spite. DeWitt wouldn’t blame them if they did.

He just hoped he’d prepared adequately for that possibility. The late Bahir Ben Kalil had been a close friend of the ambassador, as well as his doctor. The dead Jordanian doctor was also the twin of Dr. Hasna Kalil. DeWitt had met her when her brother’s body had been found.

Ostensibly, a physician who worked with the charitable organization Doctors Without Borders, Hasna Kalil was rumored, if not yet proven, to also work with terrorist groups in the Middle East. It was said she used her surgical skills to extract information from prisoners: operating on them without bothering to use anesthesia.

DeWitt was counting on two things now. One, the Jordanian ambassador was already in contact with his nation’s capital. Word would be passed to their embassy in Montevideo. Even if the Americans acted badly, the Jordanians had done nothing wrong. They could ask for Brock to be surrendered to them to stand trial for the murder of one of their prominent citizens.

If the Uruguayans honored that request, the FBI would agree to share its evidence against Brock with the Jordanians only if they would agree to send Brock back to the U.S. to stand trial for conspiring to assassinate Patricia Grant.

Two, on the possibility that the Uruguayans might be steamed enough to honor neither the U.S. nor the Jordanian request for extradition, the ambassador would contact Dr. Hasna Kalil, have her and an assortment of her jihadi colleagues on hand in South America. They could snatch Philip Brock when the Uruguayans freed him. Let Brock discover how much pain a vengeful sister with a medical degree could inflict on the man who’d killed her twin brother.

A small part of DeWitt was rooting for that outcome.

Not that anyone could blame him if that was what happened.

All he’d done was make a call to the embassy of a friendly country.