The President's Henchman (40 page)

“Yes, I’ve been looking all over for you.”

They started walking to the Oval Office.

“I was up on the roof,” McGill said.

“So I’ve learned. You’re not supposed to go up there.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“SAC Crogher just told me he intends to resign.”

“What, because of me?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let him.”

“And how should I stop him?”

McGill knew how. “Ask him how’d he’d feel if he left, and …”

“And what?” Galia asked.

“He’ll be able to fill in the blank. I’m sure you already have.”

Galia had, but she wouldn’t give voice to that terrible thought either.

McGill had to hand it to Galia. Celsus, too. They kept trying to manipulate him, to get him to be submissive to their wishes. It wasn’t going to happen; it looked like the three of them would be stuck with each other — battling — for a long time. Maybe eight years.

Welborn was standing next to Edwina Byington’s desk as McGill and Galia approached the Oval Office. Welborn remembered not to salute McGill, but he straightened his posture. McGill said at ease with a wave of his hand. He stopped and looked at Galia. “Is there anything else, Ms. Mindel?”

Galia inclined her head, and McGill followed her a few feet away from Welborn and Edwina Byington. She spoke in quiet but urgent voice.

“Do you know Monty Kipp?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Aggie Wu says he’s telling stories that you threatened his life.”

“Never did.”

“But you talked to him privately. While you were cleaning your gun.”

“Yes.”

“Now Kipp is looking into your basketball game with Michaelson.”

“So?”

“You put Michaelson in the hospital, remember?”

“He’s still there?”

“No.”

“He say I beat him up?”

“He’d never admit that.”

“Then there’s nothing for Kipp to find.”

“You’ve never heard of a whispering campaign?”

“I have indeed.”

“Then you know how harmful they can be. If it gets out that you’re a menace to society, the president’s reputation will suffer, too.”

McGill said, “Kipp is just trying to get my attention.”

“What do you mean?” Galia asked.

“I’ve got something on him. Maybe I can get him indicted. I certainly can wreck his career. He’s letting me know he can hit back.” McGill mused on the situation for a moment. “Actually, I’m glad this dummy surfaced again. I can use him to help Chana Lochlan. Don’t worry about Monty Kipp. I’ve got him covered.”

Galia gave him a dubious look.

McGill wanted to say, Hey, I do okay fighting off you and Celsus, don’t I? But he resisted. He stepped over to Edwina’s desk.

“Is the president ready for me?” he asked.

“It’ll be just a moment, sir.”

McGill turned to Welborn. “I’ll let the president know you’re here.”

“Actually, sir, I’m here to talk with you.”

“Really?”

“I understand you have a special driver, sir. One who used to be a NASCAR racer.”

“Yes, I do. Who told you?”

“Ms. Fahey.”

McGill wasn’t surprised that Kira knew; she was the kind who would gather intelligence about her workplace. Ceaselessly.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” Welborn continued, “I’d like to ask if I might borrow his services.”

Almost like Junior asking Dad if he could borrow the car, McGill thought.

“I need Leo tonight,” McGill told Welborn. “After that, I promised him some time off.”

Welborn tried to mask his disappointment and almost succeeded.

“Thank you for taking the time to talk with me, sir.”

Welborn almost saluted but caught himself. McGill took pity on him.

“Listen, Lieutenant. I’m pretty sure Leo misses the excitement of racing. Driving me around has to be boring for a man with his skills.” Witness Leo’s comment about wanting to be a getaway driver. “If you have a proposition that’ll get his juices flowing, talk to him. He might think it’s a good way to spend his free time.”

“I have your permission then?”

“Sure. Tell Leo I sent you.”

The president invited her husband into the Oval Office and introduced him to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the director of Central Intelligence. Two of the most powerful figures in the government shook McGill’s hand and expressed their pleasure at meeting him. He almost believed them. Thought they’d given a good performance for the boss, anyway.

McGill played nice, too. Didn’t tell them how to run the military or the CIA.

A moment later he was alone with his wife again.

“You gave the word?” he asked.

“Yes. Things won’t happen until after dark, but I gave them the green light.”

“I lit a candle for you.”

“Thank you. You remembered to light one for your own plans, of course.”

McGill said he had, and mentioned the third candle he’d lit for Carolyn and Lars. He told Patti he was starting to worry about them. More than he was worried about Caitie, Sweetie, or himself.

Patti picked up the phone on her desk.

“Edwina, please get the FBI Director Haskins for me immediately.”

While they waited, Patti talked to McGill, hoping to distract him. “You know, we’re trying to smoke out Fidel with our little gambit.”

“You think he’s still alive?”

“Ironically, we have to hope so. Every president since Eisenhower has wanted to get rid of him, but right now our experts think he’s the one who can stabilize things the fastest.”

McGill nodded, trying to pay polite attention.

“There’s one theory circulating that he shaved his beard when he went underground.”

“Come on,” McGill said, “you’re pulling my leg.”

“No, think about it. Who’d ever recognize a beardless Fidel Castro?”

“Good point.”

“Now, the theory has it, he can’t show his face and hold power publicly again until he grows his beard back.”

The president’s phone rang. The FBI director had responded to Patti’s summons. She got from McGill the name of the Wisconsin resort where Carolyn and Lars Enquist had their reservations. He was also able to give her descriptions of and license plates numbers for both Carolyn’s and Lars’s cars. Patti passed all the information along.

“I want to know the whereabouts of Mr. and Mrs. Enquist as soon as possible,” the president told the FBI director. “Yes … Thank you.”

She put the phone down and looked at McGill. “The FBI will find them.”

“Yeah.”

“But if it’s not soon, are you still going to use Caitie tonight?”

McGill considered the question anew; he’d been pondering it for a couple of hours.

“I think so … No, I know so.”

Patti Grant came around from behind her desk and embraced her husband. Held him so close he could feel her heartbeat. She kissed him deeply. Passionately.

All but breathless, McGill said, “Right here in the Oval Office?”

“Probably won’t be the last time,” the president told him. “Come on, walk me out to my helicopter. I have a babysitting job tonight.”

Damon Todd called Dikran Missirian at his P Street office at 5:26 p.m., four minutes before McGill’s landlord was scheduled to go home for the day. Todd wasn’t worried that Missirian would have left early. Everything he’d seen about the man told Todd that Missirian was a striver: an immigrant who had managed to purchase two commercial properties in Georgetown before enough time had passed for his accent to fade. He hadn’t arrived in America with money in hand, either. If he had, he would have hired someone to put out his café table in the morning instead of doing it himself. Mr. Missirian was clearly a hardworking fellow. He wouldn’t leave work early.

On the other hand, he wouldn’t stay late, either. He’d told Todd that his wife was his financial confidante. A clear sign that he valued her as more than someone to cook his meals and share his bed. So while Missirian would work hard, he would not neglect his wife.

Missirian’s mention of God implied that he had certain behavioral values. It was reasonable to assume that they would include a thoughtfulness for others. Todd hoped so anyway.

Missirian picked up on the first ring. “Dikran Missirian.”

“Hello, Mr. Missirian. I’m glad I caught you. This is Dr. Casey.”

“Yes?”

Todd could hear the expectation in the man’s voice. “I looked at your other building today. I was very impressed. I think it might be just what I’m looking for.”

“I assure you, Doctor, it will be very nice. Just like P Street. Maybe better. I try to learn new things all the time.”

The irony, Todd thought. Here was a man who knew himself, believed in self-improvement, and could make his way in life without the least bit of help from any therapist.

“Since I wasn’t actually able to enter your other building,” Todd continued, “I was wondering if you might have floor plans of the office suites. So I can see if one of them will meet my needs for space. If you do, I’ll come right over … if I won’t be keeping you from some other obligation.”

“No, no, Doctor. Please come.”

“Very well then. I have to tell you I’m really excited. If I like the floor plans, I’ll sign a lease tonight.” He’d thought about saying he’d write a check for the first year, but he didn’t want to overdo it. It wouldn’t pay to underestimate the man’s intelligence.

“I will be waiting, Doctor, in my office. When will you make your arrival?”

“I should be there by six, if that’s not too late.”

“Not late at all,” Missirian said. “I call my wife. Let her know not to worry, I am coming home after regular time.”

Just what Todd wanted to hear.

Putnam Shady faced a terrible dilemma. Not to mention an incredible temptation. Margaret Sweeney had called him at home — one story up from her apartment — and asked if he’d like to come down and discuss being her escort for the evening. He’d said to give him fifteen minutes, and he’d be happy to talk with her.

He showered, shaved, donned his favorite Armani suit, and arrived with a bouquet of flowers that his housekeeper had bought for his dining-room table that morning. The vision that awaited him was unlike any other he’d ever seen.

“My God, Margaret,” he said. “You look just like an —”

“An angel. Yeah, yeah, I know.” She grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside.

Sweetie was dressed entirely in white. A summer-weight cotton sweater. Linen slacks. Matte finish, low-heel leather shoes. Not a speck on her anywhere. Her grooming was immaculate, too. Her short blonde hair was brushed back, gleaming, and not a strand out of place. Her blue eyes were clear and full of high purpose. Her complexion was completely without makeup but glowing with radiant good health.

She smiled when she saw that Putnam had brought her flowers.

“Nobody’s done that for a long time,” she said.

She took the flowers and arranged them in a glass jar. Welch’s grape jelly.

Then she said, “I need a lawyer tonight, Putnam.”

The look of disappointment on his face was comical, but she didn’t laugh.

For his part, Putnam grunted and shifted gears into professional mode.

“Why? What did you do?”

“It’s what I’m going to do.”

“I can’t be part of any criminal conspiracy,” he said. But he knew he would, if she asked. At that moment, he couldn’t think of anything short of committing suicide or going bankrupt that he wouldn’t do for her. She looked so innocent, so pure. So strong and commanding. The combination was almost more than he could bear.

“Relax, Putnam, I don’t intend to do anything illegal.”

Sweetie told him what she had in mind.

“You’re going to confront a mob of religious crazies?” he asked in disbelief.

“Sure, why not? I’m a bit of a zealot myself.”

By that time, Putnam Shady had Googled the woman to whom he’d rented his basement apartment. He knew all about Margaret’s involvement in the capture and conviction of Erna Godfrey. Now, she wanted to antagonize the woman’s husband, a televangelist loon who claimed to have God on speed dial. It wouldn’t be just Reverend Godfrey, either. Margaret said she expected the man to have his congregation, choir, and makeup artist with him. Probably carrying torches, the lot of them.

His fevered imagination led him to stare at her. Sweetie took it personally, as he seemed to be concentrating on her chest and navel. “See something you like, Putnam?”

He liked
everything
he saw, but he said, “I’m just trying to figure out where you’d wear a gun with that outfit.”

“Oh. Not a problem. I’m going unarmed.”

“What?”
He couldn’t believe it. Then he thought he saw. “Oh, okay, you’re going to have backup.”

“Yes, I am. A ten-year-old girl. But she won’t be packing, either.”

“That’s crazy. You can’t go alone, and you certainly can’t bring a child.”

“It’s all set. The only question is, do you want to come, too? To be my witness, able to testify truthfully that I didn’t do anything illegal. Didn’t incite anyone to riot.”

“I’m a
lobbyist,”
Shady whined. “Danger is
not
my middle name.”

“Probably won’t be any rough stuff … but I thought you liked that sort of thing.”

He did. Oh, yes he did. But not to the point of being publicly dismembered. Still, he understood clearly that if he didn’t accompany Margaret that night, he’d never stand a chance with her. Wouldn’t get to do any of the things he’d fantasized. She might even get so disgusted with his wussy behavior she’d move away. He might never see her again.

And, my God, the way she looked. He wanted her very badly. He’d never been spanked by an angel.

“Okay, Putnam,” Sweetie said, “I’ve got to get going. Thanks for the flowers.”

She started to leave. Picked up her keys and wallet at the front door. Waited for him to follow.

“You win,” the lawyer said. “I’ll bear witness for you.” Then he thought to ask, “Can
I
carry your gun?”

“No, Putnam, you can’t. Just have a little faith.”

“Did you hear from Mom?” Caitie asked.

“No,” McGill said.

Presumably, legions of FBI agents and state and local cops had been out combing the Wisconsin countryside for Carolyn and Lars since Patti made her call four hours ago, but he hadn’t heard a word. Even so, he couldn’t burden his daughter with his anxiety.

“But we’re still going, right?”

“Do you still want to?” McGill asked.

He could see that Caitie had a few jitters, but she was a stubborn girl.

“Yeah. I can do it.”

“Okay, let’s go. You remember what you’re supposed to do tonight?”

“You’ve told me a million times.”

“So you remember?”

“Yes, Dad. I’ll be good.”

He believed her, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so nervous.

As the McGills left the White House, Welborn Yates was in his office and had just placed a call to the Falls Church, Virginia, home of Arlene Cowan. He’d spent all day looking for her husband without success. He fervently hoped she could remedy the situation. After five rings, she picked up. Out of breath. “Are you all right, ma’am?” Welborn asked.

It took her a second to reply, but she said, “I’m fine, thank you. Who is this?”

“Lieutenant Welborn Yates, ma’am. I gave you a ride to the airport the other day.”

“Oh, yes.”

He thought he heard a smile in her voice. He hoped it stayed there. Long enough to help him, anyway. “I inquired if you were all right because you seemed a bit breathless.”

“I was.” She laughed. “Still am a touch. The phone rang as I was about to bring a fifty-pound box of books down from the second floor. I started to hurry, slowed down so I wouldn’t fall, thought it might be my lawyer, and hurried again.”

Welborn drew the obvious inference from someone’s hefting a box of books.

“You’re moving, ma’am?”

“Tomorrow.”

“You got the job in Tennessee?”

“I did.” Definitely a smile in her voice now.

“Congratulations, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. But we agreed the last time we met you’d call me Arlene. ‘Ma’am’ makes me feel old.”

“Won’t make that mistake again, Arlene.”

“I’m packing my belongings, Lieutenant, far more carefully than any movers would ever do, and I’m toasting my good fortune with real French champagne. If you’re a careful packer, too, why don’t you come over and join me?”

He knew her good mood was boosted by the bubbly. And no, he certainly wasn’t going to Falls Church to help her pack. Because Arlene Cowan was still
Mrs.
Dexter Cowan, and he wasn’t about to fall into the trap of committing adultery while investigating an adultery case. Besides which, Kira would kill him.

“I’m all thumbs, Arlene. I have to stay away from anything marked fragile.”

She laughed deep in her throat. “I bet there are a few exceptions.”

He felt a new sympathy for military personnel who fell prey to human weakness. But he said, “Arlene, you mentioned just now you thought your lawyer might be calling.”

Her voice changed, taking on a guarded note. “Yes, I did.”

“Pardon me for asking, but would that be about those negotiations you mentioned to me?”

“Yes.” She sounded even more cautious.

“I have something to tell you that will have a bearing on that.”

He could almost see her bracing herself. She had no answer for him.

“If it’s all right, Arlene, I’d like to stop by your house later tonight. Tell you in person.”

“I should probably stop drinking, shouldn’t I?”

“I think that would be a good idea,” Welborn said.

A PAUK II Class corvette flying the ensign of the
Marina de Guerra Revolucionaria,
a.k.a. the Cuban Navy, and emblazoned with the proud name of
José Marti
, weighed anchor and steamed away from the windward side of the Isla de San Andrés, a speck of land in the Caribbean Sea belonging to Colombia on which the United States held a ninety-nine-year lease. A course was laid in that would take the vessel to the territorial waters of Costa Gorda, a mere sixty miles distant.

The vessel had been built in Russia in 1989. The original buyer was supposed to have been Fidel Castro’s government in Havana, but the Cubans, as ever, had no hard currency. So the Kremlin decided to sell the craft to a gentleman who had a purchase order from a revolutionary movement in a southern African country and a bank account in Switzerland.

That arms dealer had, in fact, been a CIA agent. Langley thought it might come in handy someday to have a spot-on stand-in for one of Castro’s coastal patrol craft. The original
José Marti
had been moved the preceding year from its normal anchorage in Havana Bay to Cienfuegos for refitting. Using parts from ’57 Chevys, wags from the U.S. Navy said.

As with the real
Marti,
the impostor displaced 485 tons, was 184 feet long, 33 feet wide, and drew 11 feet of water. It could make a top speed of 32 knots or cruise for 2,400 miles at 14 knots. The ship could knock helicopters out of the sky with its SAM missiles. Other watercraft could be attacked or repelled with either its 76mm gun capable of firing 120 rounds per minute up to a distance of 8 miles, or for close-in work its 30mm gun, which fired 3,000 rounds per minute up to a distance of .5 miles.

Best of all, not even the
marineros cubanos
who still sailed for and defended their revolution would have doubted it was one of their ships.

But unlike the twenty-six sailors and six officers who saluted Fidel, or at least his memory, aboard Cuban corvettes, this craft was manned by only a dozen U.S. Navy personnel. Along to provide muscle and firepower if things went wrong was a team of eight SEALs.

Also unlike its Cuban counterpart, this iteration of the
Marti
was in continuous encrypted communication with an Air Force AWACS aircraft, a CIA U-2, and an NSA spy satellite.

All this deception and technology was being employed for one reason.

The president of the United States had ordered the faux-
Marti
to attack the military base in Costa Gorda that her predecessor in the Oval Office had bankrolled for the anti-Castro community in Miami. He’d needed the Cuban vote in South Florida.

Patricia Darden Grant didn’t.