The President's Henchman (24 page)

But Graham came back and continued. “Chana came back West early for her sophomore year. She had to get away from home. She called and asked if she could stay with me.” Graham smiled wistfully. “Easiest question I’ve ever had to answer. My mom and dad were cool with it.
They
knew about Chana and me. I had her picture in my room. They knew we’d be sleeping together, too, even though Chana was officially staying in the guest room. As long as we didn’t flaunt it, they didn’t say anything.”

“Were you able to help Chana get over the hurt?” McGill asked.

Graham looked like a tragic poet now. He shook his head.

“Chana was always one of those people who strived for perfection, and her mother’s criticism had really knocked the stuffing out of her. So she had to rebuild her self-image. I tried to be as positive as I could. Offered the best advice a nineteen-year-old had at his command. But she never needed me for that; she always had some inner voice she followed.”

“What did it say?”

“It said become the best female jock UCLA had ever seen. No small challenge if you know the school’s history.”

“She worked out a lot?” McGill asked evenly, wondering if Graham Keough had ever heard about
anorexia athletica
.

“She almost killed herself. That’s why I left her. At first, fool that I was, I thought losing me would shock her back into her senses. When it quickly became apparent that wasn’t the case, I consoled myself that at least I wouldn’t have to see her die.”

“You’re exaggerating, aren’t you?”

Anger flashed in Graham’s eyes. “I was at my apartment studying. February 12. Eight thirty-four in the evening The phone rang. Julie Simpson, who shared an apartment with Chana, was on the line. Hysterical. She begged me to come over right away. Chana had come home after a long run and passed out. Her breathing was labored. She was white as a sheet. I called 911, and the paramedics got there before I did. But I was in time to see them load Chana into the ambulance. She didn’t look bad; she looked
dead.”

It was a minute before Graham could continue.

“I lost it myself, because the next thing I know I’m lying on the ground, and an EMT is reviving me. What I heard was that Chana had washed all the electrolytes out of her body. It’d been unusually hot, but she’d kept running and drinking water. Too much water. She should have been using a sports drink, the paramedic told me, to replace the trace minerals that conduct electrical impulses in the body. Once those nutrients fell below critical mass, all of her brain functions just shut down.”

He shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“You saved her life,” McGill said.

“Yeah, I was smart enough to dial 911, not freak out like Julie. But that doesn’t change the fact that it was the last time I ever saw her.”

“You didn’t visit her at the hospital?”

“She was in intensive care. No visitors. Once her condition improved, her father took her back East.”

“She didn’t call or write?” Graham shook his head. “And you don’t know why?” McGill said.

“Sure, I do. See, when I left Chana, I told her I never wanted to hear from her again. She was just doing what I’d asked. Being a good friend. Striving for perfection as always.”

McGill didn’t know what to say.

Graham said, “So you’re going to help her, right? Even though you’ve been fired, you’re not going to let anything bad happen to her.”

All sorts of people, it seemed to McGill, wanted him to stay on the case.

“Do my best,” he said.

Graham nodded his approval. “Come back to my desk with me, okay? I’ll give you a card with my home phone and private cell numbers. In case I can do anything more to help.”

With Deke in tow, they walked over to Graham’s workspace. It was set off by a cutout of Albert Einstein doing a high kick between two Rockettes. He gave McGill his card.

“I’ll keep this confidential,” he said. “But if you find the right time, tell Chana I said hello.”

McGill said he would.

Major Clarence Seymour caught General Warren Altman at his Pentagon office ten minutes before the Air Force chief of staff had to leave for the White House. The Joint Chiefs were meeting with the president yet again on the situation in Cuba. The president was demanding intelligence: She wanted to know the situation on the ground. But nobody had anything to tell her. A CIA resource had provided the news of Raul Castro’s death but hadn’t been heard from since.

The Pentagon’s top brass were one hundred percent sure they could stop any Cuban attack on the U.S. if it came to that. But they were at a loss as to what they could do if Havana decided to annihilate its own people. The armed forces weren’t set up to prevent such acts.

After returning Major Seymour’s salute, General Altman asked, “Well?”

“Lieutenant Yates talked with Captain Cowan’s wife. He drove her to National Airport in Kira Fahey’s car. When he dropped Mrs. Cowan off, things looked very friendly between them.”

“Lieutenant Yates has been busy. He got Linberg released from her punishment duty this morning, too. This situation is getting away from us.”

Major Seymour nodded, having reached the same conclusion earlier.

“You could deescalate, sir. Handle the situation administratively. Slap Colonel Linberg’s wrist, give her a general discharge, and get rid of her.”

The major saw the general’s face redden at the idea. Still, he took the risk of pushing his line of reasoning. “It might not be what you wanted, sir, but it’s quick and clean. And it’ll take Yates out of play.”

The general shook his head. “No, goddamnit. I won’t do it.” General Altman turned to stare at an aerial photo of the B-2 bomber he’d once flown. He liked to tell people that bomber pilots came closer than anyone else to knowing what if felt like to be God, because only they and the Almighty knew what it was to rain destruction from on high. “I haven’t played fair with you, Clarence. You know I’m digging a grave for Colonel Linberg, but you don’t know why.”

Major Seymour had his suspicions.

“How far up the chain of command do you hope to rise, Clarence? Surely, you want at least one star on your shoulder.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How about four stars? Would you want my job?”

“I try not to put any limits on my ambition, General.”

Altman nodded. “No reason why a strong man should. If he’s willing to take the risks. I know you’re strong, Clarence. Smart, too. But I’m not sure you’re much of a risk taker.”

Major Seymour was tempted to clock the general … but he
wasn’t
that big a risk taker.

“All right, Clarence. Time to decide. How far are you willing to lean out over the void to grab the brass ring?”

Up until that moment, the major had always thought that making a deal with the devil was just a figure of speech. Now maybe he wasn’t so sure. But he wasn’t going to back down.

“I’ll do what I have to, sir. Long as it’s not something that’ll stick only to me.”

Altman laughed. Sounded just like the devil.

Galia Mindel, by prearrangement with the president, didn’t sit in on the meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The two most powerful women in the world had sorted out the issue before the inauguration. Whereas a male chief executive could have his male chief of staff at every important meeting and draw no comment on it, having Galia at the president’s side might look as if the ladies needed each other’s support to stand up to all those brutes with their Y-chromosomes.

The president insisted she would command respect on her own.

That was as Galia thought it should be; there were plenty of meetings
she
chaired alone, and woe betide the man who questioned her authority. Except McGill, of course.

He wasn’t a knuckle dragger in his relations with women. Far from it. But neither was he subject to Galia’s authority. He’d painfully proven that point. The memory still stung. Which made it hard for her to follow through on the plan that was taking shape in her head.

The meeting she’d had with her spy, Merilee Parker, at Macy’s in New York had provided Galia with information on which she would have to act soon. If she didn’t, that bastard Roger Michaelson was going to drop a political bombshell on the administration. Worse than that, Michaelson’s plan might well wound the president personally. Leave her unable to rise to the demands of contending with whatever crises were sure to follow the mess in Cuba.

Galia wasn’t about to let that happen. She was determined to turn things around on Michaelson. Put the SOB back in his place. The problem was, Galia needed a man for her plan. She needed someone smart, tough, and ruthless. Someone who could
scare
Michaelson. Without actually killing him. Goddamnit, she needed the president’s henchman.

Galia cringed at the idea of asking for his help. But she saw no alternative. She buzzed her secretary.

“Yes, Ms. Mindel?” her secretary answered.

“Please locate the president’s husband for me.”

Welborn soon found out it was impossible for one person to stake out the Pentagon. The place was too damn big. There were too many ways in and out. He sat in Kira’s Audi in a corner of the parking area where Carina Linberg should have left her car.

If she’d driven to work that day.

If she hadn’t already left, after he’d cut her shackles.

If she wasn’t running rings around all his schemes.

Welborn thought he had many a mountain to climb to learn all the things he’d need to know to do his job well. Mount Linberg was but the first. Before he could become too self-absorbed, his cell phone chirped.

Actually, it was the White House cell phone. The one Kira had insisted he carry with him. She said it was her job to get in touch with him if necessary, and she wasn’t going to race off to Annapolis again to do it.

“Lieutenant Yates,” he answered in a polite voice.

Never could tell if the president might be calling.

“Welborn, sweetie, are you taking good care of my little baby?”

Kira. Inquiring about the Audi.

“Not a scratch,” he said, keeping an eye out for Colonel Linberg. He could see great distances with amazing clarity, but to his disappointment he could not see around corners. He didn’t need Kira’s distractions. “I’ll return it in like condition. Full gas tank even.”

“Wait,” Kira told him, correctly sensing his intention to break the connection.

“What is it?” he asked, getting testy.

“You don’t need to take that tone. I’m calling because I fielded a phone call for you. I think it could be important.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Now there was
frost
in Kira’s voice. “I was trying to be friendly. I thought we might be heading in that direction. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Women, Welborn thought.

“I’m truly sorry, Ms. Fahey. The stress of doing a new job must have made me forget my manners.” That was as thick as he was going to lay it on.

“Apology accepted.”

“Would you care to tell about the call now, the one you took for me.”

“Yes. It was from Cheryl Altman. Do you know who she is?”

Welborn could guess, and his stomach did a flip-flop.

“General Altman’s wife?”

“How clever you are. For a boy of uncertain parentage.”

Well, she’d warned him she wasn’t Little Mary Sunshine.

“Did Mrs. Altman leave a message?”

“She’d like to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

Oh God, Welborn thought, the president hadn’t —

“Is the president available?” he asked.

“Meeting with the Joint Chiefs,” Kira answered.

One of whom was the husband of the woman who wanted to see him.

“Kira,” he asked, “how would you like to get out of the office?”

The reply was slow in coming. “Do you promise to be nice?”

“To you or your car?” he asked.

And thought he might have pushed it too far. Expected to hear a dial tone any second. But Kira said, “I’m trying to decide if you’re worth all the aggravation.”

“I really can’t say. But there might be a bit of adventure here if that appeals.”

That was what might be in it for her. For him, he wanted to have the vice president’s niece as a witness should anyone have some skullduggery planned for him.

“Okay, flyboy,” Kira told him, “swing by the White House and pick me up.”

McGill was on his way to the San Jose airport. He had a question for Deke, who was seated next to him. “Can our plane fly to Hawaii? You know, without having to refuel at Catalina or something.”

Deke gave McGill a forbearing smile.

“Our bird can refuel in midair. It can fly around the world without landing.”

McGill wasn’t sure he could. “And, of course, the crew knows how to do that refueling.”

Deke nodded. He said, “It’s not necessary to refuel for a trip to Hawaii, though. Any of the islands is well within range. Which one are you thinking of?”

“Oahu.”

McGill was sure he was running up quite a tab on the Air Force executive jet, but now he was doing it at Patti’s request and didn’t feel bad about spending the money. The bill wouldn’t amount to an hour’s interest on the fortune poor Andy had left her.

Having talked to Graham Keough, McGill had become interested in Michael Raleigh, Chana’s former-and-late husband. The one who had died in the hang-gliding accident in Hawaii. McGill had the urge to get the details of the fatal mishap from the Honolulu cops. It might not come to anything, but he’d long ago learned to trust his instincts.

To his credit, Deke refrained from asking why McGill wanted to head west rather than east.

Leo pulled up at a rear gate to the airport and showed his White House credentials to a guard. McGill’s car was admitted, and a utility truck led them to where the Air Force Gulfstream was parked. A pair of guards with machine guns stood watch outside the plane. Took the worry out of flying, McGill thought.

He got on board, intending to have a word with the pilot about their next destination, but the steward, Bart Burley, extended a phone to him before he could say a word.

“The White House chief of staff, sir,” he told McGill.

McGill carried the instrument to his preferred seat and clicked it on.

Galia wasn’t on the phone, though; her secretary was. He had to hold. A thumb of Galia’s nose to him. That was okay, he had plenty of time to get even. But McGill forgot his annoyance when he heard what Galia had to say.

“Roger Michaelson is out to get the president. He intends to do it soon. And he’s going to use you as his means of attack.”

“How?”

Galia told him. “He’s going to claim you and Sergeant Sweeney beat a false confession out of Lindell Ricker. I’m sure you understand the implications.”

McGill did and recounted them aloud. “It would call Erna Godfrey’s conviction into question, hers and the others. There could be a retrial. That would put Patti through the hell of reliving Andy’s death all over again.”

“Yes it would. It would also wound the president politically.”

Already angry, McGill was on his way to furious. “How?” he demanded.

“If Michaelson can make the charge look plausible, it will be widely, maybe even universally, assumed that you must have told the president what you had done. To give her the satisfaction of knowing that you’d go to any length to get justice and/or vengeance for her.”

Which wasn’t far from the truth, even if it wasn’t the case with Ricker.

“A husband and wife can’t be made to testify against each other,” McGill said.

“True, but that won’t matter. How will it
look
if the two of you refuse to talk?”

Like they were hiding something, McGill knew. “But none of this is true. Nobody laid a finger on Ricker. All of his rights were scrupulously observed. His confession was videotaped. You can
see
he wasn’t beaten.”

“Did Mr. Ricker confess in the nude? Did the camera shoot him from the front and the rear? Were there no signs of trauma anywhere on his body?”

Galia’s questions made McGill, the ex-cop, wonder if that was what it would come to when cops questioned prisoners. Nude videos. He said, “Ricker had to strip when he was processed into the federal lockup in downtown Chicago. He was given a physical at that time.”

“And we all know that physicians and jailers on the federal payroll would
never
do anything unethical. Like falsify their reports or tell fibs to the public and its servants in Congress.”

Exercising as much patience as he could summon, McGill said, “Look, Galia, you can twist anything.”

“My point exactly. The other thing you have to keep in mind is that once the circus comes to town, it can stay for a very long time, and unveil one new exciting act after another. With Roger Michaelson as your leering ringmaster.”