The President's Henchman (10 page)

Colonel Linberg provided them without hesitation.

“And when did you finally learn that the captain was married?”

“The day I was assigned to my new office and duties.” She finished her coffee. “Thank you for the reprieve, Lieutenant, but unless you have more questions, I probably should be getting back.”

“Yes, ma’am.” There was a time to push and a time to back off, he’d been taught.

Welborn drove Colonel Linberg back to the Pentagon. He opened the car door for her, and they exchanged salutes. He watched her walk toward the building with her back straight and her head held high. But by the time she entered the massive building she looked very small. That was when he first thought she was a woman in need of rescue.

And he would be what … her hero?

That wasn’t what they’d taught him at Glynco. General Altman had been right. The case called for a more seasoned investigator. But there he was and —

The president knocked on his door and stepped into his office. In a heartbeat, Welborn was standing at attention.

“At ease, Lieutenant. Please.”

Welborn assumed the at-ease position, but still found it hard to relax around the president, especially when she had someone with her. In this case a beautiful young woman with red hair. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her.

“Lieutenant Yates,” the president said, “please meet Kira Fahey. Ms. Fahey is a summa cum laude graduate of Ohio State University and Vice President Wyman’s niece.”

Now Welborn remembered. He’d seen the girl sitting on the stage when the president and vice president had been inaugurated. Vice President Wyman was a widower and childless, and he’d been accompanied by his sister and his niece.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Fahey,” Welborn said.

“Likewise, Lieutenant,” Kira said, a look of mischief in her eyes.

“The lieutenant has lovely manners,” the president assured the young woman. “I think the two of you should get along nicely.”

“Ma’am?” Welborn asked the president.

“Ms. Fahey is also newly employed at the White House, Lieutenant. As of now, she is your liaison to me. If you need to see me, bring your request to her.”

Welborn snapped back to attention and saluted.

“That tuxedo makes you look like a movie star,” the president told McGill.

They were in the presidential limo on their way to the Kennedy Center. The occasion was a night of comedy:
232 Years of Laughing at the President.
Historians, actors, and stand-up comics would recount the history of how Americans loved to laugh at the men, and now the woman, who governed them. Tonight was the show’s premiere. Patti and the rest of the world would get their first look at the material that was targeted specifically at her.

McGill had promised to shoot anybody who went too far.

“Which movie star?” he asked his wife.

“George Raft,” she said. Delivered the line with a straight face and innocent eyes. The woman could still act.

“Is that payback for abusing Galia?” McGill asked.

Patti nodded. “I can understand why you wanted to lay down the law yourself, but the donuts, that was mean.”

“I didn’t think anyone would take it right if I spanked her.”

The very thought made the president laugh.

“Did you find someone to distract the boy detective?” McGill asked.

It had been his idea to make sure there was a fetching young woman in the lieutenant’s life. If this Colonel Linberg did turn out to be a
femme fatale,
he didn’t want to have Patti’s personal investigator misplacing his affections. Leaving egg all over everyone’s faces.

“Kira Fahey,” Patti told him.

McGill grinned. “Now there’s a man-eater chomping her way up the food chain.”

“Lieutenant Yates has been trained for combat. I thought they’d make an interesting couple. Certainly they’ll occupy each other’s thoughts for the next several months.”

No arguing that, McGill thought. Well, the poor sap was Patti’s pet to abuse as she saw fit. It was time to turn to more serious matters, anyway.

“You heard from Celsus Crogher today?”

The president nodded and seemed relieved when McGill told her that he’d sent Sweetie to assess the situation and to reassure —

“Oh, God,” McGill groaned, “I forgot to call Carolyn.”

Patti handed him the limo’s phone. Secure communications to anyone in the world.

“Go ahead. I won’t listen.”

“Please do. I often need sensitivity lessons.” He tapped in his ex-wife’s number, and his youngest child, Caitie, soon answered the phone. McGill said, “Hi, honey. It’s Dad.”

“Daddy,” his daughter said, “is somebody really trying to kill us?”

Ever blunt, Caitie didn’t sound frightened, just curious.

“Who told you that?”

“Nobody. I was on my way to the kitchen to get a snack. The door was closed, but I heard Sweetie’s voice in there. I listened in and heard her talking to Mom and Captain Sullivan.”

“Did you tell Abbie and Kenny what you heard?”

“Yeah. They didn’t believe it either. Who’d want to kill us? We’re just kids.”

McGill winced. Patti saw his pain and took his hand.

“Nobody wants to kill you, honey. Even if they did, no way would Sweetie, Captain Sullivan, or I let them.”

“That’s what I thought,” his daughter said, unconcerned.

“Is your mom there?”

“She’s upstairs lying down. Lars is with her.”

“Okay. Please tell her I called, and I’ll call back tomorrow. I love you, honey.”

“I love you, too, Daddy. Is Patti there?”

McGill handed the phone over. His wife and his daughter talked briefly. Patti laughed and said she’d see what she could do. Then she added that she loved Caitie, too.

The president told her husband, “Miss McGill would like you to intercede with the White House chef when the family gathers for Thanksgiving dinner. She’d like you to make your own personal stuffing for the turkey because all others are yucky. And if you can’t persuade the chef on your own, she asked if I could help.”

McGill smiled, but hearing his daughter’s voice had driven home how vast his pain would be if he lost any of his children.

“We don’t know that they’ll try, Jim. And we won’t let them get close if they do.”

“Bring in the Secret Service?” he asked.

“We have to.”

“Not Crogher.”

“I’ll talk to the director and find the right person.”

“Thank you.” He squeezed his wife’s hand. “So how was your day, dear?”

McGill’s question was asked in jest. He never stuck his nose into presidential business. Never offered an unsolicited opinion. He’d told Patti at the start his support was unconditional. The only time he ever needed to hear anything was if she needed to talk.

Which just then she did.

“The CIA thinks Raul Castro is dying. The end could be soon.”

For years it had been Fidel that so many people had wanted dead. Out of power. But then the wily old revolutionary fooled everyone by handing over the reins to his younger brother, Raul. The previous U.S. administration’s propensity for regime change had not been lost on Fidel. First, he came down with an illness described as life-threatening by some and not serious by others. Photos of the Cuban leader in a hospital bed appeared, and, to the layman’s eye, his condition didn’t look good. Then came assertions by the state propaganda organs that Castro would be back on the job soon. But he wasn’t. And there were no more photos to show whether he was rallying, failing, or even dead.

Fidel’s brother, Raul, assumed day-to-day control.

But now Raul was on the brink, according to the spooks.

“If Raul goes,” Patti told McGill, “the CIA thinks there could be a power struggle to claim the Castro brothers’ mantle. Perhaps even outbreaks of fighting between factions. And the Cuban exile community is making plans to invade. They have a secret base in Central America, Costa Gorda, funded and organized by my predecessor.”

McGill said, “An invasion, of course, would unite the factions on the island, and, what, you’re worried Havana will strike back at us? You really think they’ll test you?”

During the previous year’s first presidential debate, a conservative columnist had questioned whether Patti had the resolve — he meant the balls, but didn’t want to be indelicate — either to deter or if necessary strike back meaningfully against any terrorists who had a 9/11-scale atrocity in mind.

Patti stared hard at the curmudgeon for a beat, then said, “If another assault is launched against the United States by any foe, we will determine the countries that supported the attackers and destroy their capital cities completely, without warning or mercy. If the United States is attacked with a weapon of mass destruction, that attack will trigger a nuclear response. Any aggressor nation involved in any way will be obliterated.”

Some moments later, after the audience at the University of Chicago, the site of the debate and, by no coincidence, the world’s first controlled nuclear chain reaction, caught its breath, Patti’s opponent used a hundred or so words to say, “Me, too.”

But she’d been the one to articulate what came to be known as the Grant Doctrine. And to that day, nobody had dared to cross the line she’d drawn. Or wonder about her resolve.

Now she told McGill, “Revolutionary Cuba has always placed a strong emphasis on medical training and health sciences. Langley’s pretty sure they’ve put that expertise into creating biological toxins.”

“Jesus. That crosses the threshold, doesn’t it? For weapons of mass destruction.”

Patti nodded. “But the thinking is the Cubans won’t try to use those weapons against us.”

“Then what?” McGill asked.

“Another scenario. In the event a credible threat against Cuba appears ready to launch from the capitalist side of the water, it’s
socialismo o muerte
time.”

“Socialism or death?” McGill asked.

“Fidel’s legacy. His ultimate plan against having his revolution destroyed is to use his biological weapons against his own people. Genocide. Jonestown writ large. Leaving millions dead, the island despoiled, and the Yankee imperialists to blame.”

“My God.”

“The other possibility is that the whole notion is one big Cuban scam to get me to disarm the exiles in Costa Gorda. Make a fool of the new
mujer
in the Oval Office.”

The motorcade glided to a stop in front of the Kennedy Center. A Secret Service agent opened the limo’s door, and the First Couple emerged, public smiles fixed firmly in place. Ready to enjoy a night of comedy.

Chana Lochlan was waiting outside McGill’s P Street office. The building’s landlord, Dikki Missirian, had kept one of the café tables he’d obtained for the initial rush of McGill’s prospective clients and was filling a cup with coffee for Chana.

Dikki saw McGill’s Chevy pull up to the curb and quickly produced a second cup for his famous tenant. “Coffee, Mr. McGill?”

It was another beautiful day — the sun was shining, and the temperature was mild for summer in Washington. A cup of coffee outdoors sounded good to McGill. Last night’s show had gone well. Patti had come in for her share of kidding, but the humor directed her way had been witty for the most part, with only one mean-spirited joke. His wife had made him promise not to kill the perpetrator. Sweetie had called in that morning. The McGill children had slept safely and soundly, as had their mother and stepfather. The situation with Cuba was still hanging fire, but not getting worse.

From the look on Chana Lochlan’s face, though, McGill’s run of glad tidings had just come to an end. He told Dikki, “Coffee would be great. Can you bring it upstairs? Ms. Lochlan and I will be in my office.”

Then he took Chana upstairs, waited for Dikki to bring the coffee, and this time he closed his office door before she could even ask.

He sat down and said, “How bad is it?”

“Very.” She opened the soft black-leather attaché case she carried with her and pulled out a jade green thong. Looked like silk to McGill. But he wasn’t sure why she was showing him the skimpy undergarment, and he reconsidered the wisdom of closing his office door.

“I found this in my dresser drawer this morning.”

McGill arched an eyebrow.

“It’s not mine. I don’t wear things like this.”

Begging the question of how it got there.

“The caller?” McGill asked. “Was there any sign of a break-in?”

“No.”

“Did you call the police?”

“And tell them what, someone’s donating lingerie to my wardrobe?”

“No, that someone trespassed on your premises and is sexually harassing you.”

“You were a cop,” Chana said. “Would they do anything more than take a report?”

McGill shook his head. In a small, affluent town like Winnetka, the PD could increase the number of drive-bys a patrol unit would do. Keep a watchful eye out for an intruder. But in a big city like Washington, the cops were too busy with actual mayhem and the budgets were too limited for such personalized service.

“He’s coming for me,” Chana said, “and you don’t do protection.”

Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but it stung McGill nevertheless.

“If I did, are you now willing to accept the publicity that would come with it?”

“No.”

“I can call in someone with expertise in evidence collection. We can go over your residence, look for fingerprints, DNA remnants.”

“Search my house?”

The question was rhetorical, McGill could see. She’d already had one stranger invade her personal space. The thought of having others poke around did not appeal.

So she rationalized. “I have my confidential-source information there. My story notes. Ideas for projects.”

“Which you probably keep all in one place.”

“A locked, fireproof filing cabinet, yes.”

“Did you think to check it? If someone got into your house …”

Chana Lochlan looked horrified.

“I’ll call my producer and tell him I’ll be late. Can you come home with me right now?”

“We’ll take my car,” McGill said. He went to the door and opened it for her.

Chana extended the thong to him. “May I leave this with you?”

“Is there a store label in it?”

“No, it’s been removed.”

McGill took it anyway. “I’ll see what I can find out.” Then he thought to ask, “Is the size right?”

Chana looked him in the eye. “I
didn’t
try it on … but it appears to be.”

“May I ask how much your clothing sizes have changed in, say, the last five years?”

“They haven’t. What are you getting at?”

“We’re working on the assumption that the caller, now the intruder, is someone who knows about you from a former lover. Someone who was a long-ago lover might think of you … well, as a smaller size.”

For the life of him, though, McGill didn’t see how she could be any trimmer.

“I haven’t added an inch to my waist, hips, or thighs since college,” she told him curtly.

“Commendable,” McGill said. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t narrow the field for us.”

McGill gestured Chana out ahead of him. Without her seeing it, he handed the green thong to Deke, and murmured, “Stick that in your pocket and don’t lose it.”

Should some mad assassin be lying in wait, McGill thought, better that the thong be found on Deke than on him.

Leo had a call waiting for McGill when he, Chana, and Deke got into the Chevy.

“Forwarded from the White House,” Leo said. “You just missed it upstairs, so it came here. The first Mrs. McGill.”

McGill gave Leo the address for Chana Lochlan’s Georgetown home, then looked at the reporter. “I’d like to take this phone call and keep it private.”

She nodded absently, lost in her own thoughts.

McGill picked up the phone, “Carolyn, is everything all right?”

“We’re all … fine. I guess. Thanks … for sending Sweetie. That meant … a lot.”

The message was reassuring. But his ex-wife’s delivery was not. Her pace was so plodding she seemed to be searching for words in a foreign language.

“Carolyn, what’s wrong?”

“Huh? Nothing. Just a little groggy. I needed a sleeping pill last night … and after Lars went to sleep, I took another one.”

“Just one?” McGill asked uneasily.

“Just one. I woke this morning with a … a revelation. I wanted to tell Lars, but he’d left for work. Then I realized you’re the one I should talk to, anyway.”

“This is about the kids?” McGill asked.

“Of course.”

“Carolyn, I’m so sorry all this is happening.”

He saw Chana start to emerge from her self-preoccupation, but when he shook his head at her, she turned her gaze out the window.

“It’s not your fault, Jim … Hell, I voted for Patti myself.”

“And if you had it to do over?”

Carolyn’s voice grew heated and with the anger came clarity. “I’d do it again, damnit. What you and I did isn’t the problem. It’s what these other damn people are doing. Okay, I’m going to tell you my idea now.”

McGill said, “Go ahead.”

“Why I couldn’t get to sleep last night: I kept thinking what if these people come, and they get past all the cops.”

McGill told her Secret Service reinforcements would be arriving soon.

“No matter how many
bodyguards
there are, what if these bastards get past all of them? And I’m the last one left, the only person between them and Abbie and Kenny and Caitie. How can
I
stop them?”

He heard Carolyn start to cry, but then she caught herself, and the hard edge came back into her voice. “Jim, I want you to make me a promise.”

McGill said, “Anything I can do.”

“Good. Because I’m not letting anyone kill our kids.” Then she said something that he never could have imagined hearing from sweet peaceful Carolyn. “I want you to find someone who will teach me to shoot a gun.”

“Talk to Sweetie. Tell her I said it’s okay.”

He went along just like that. No objections. No arguments that she might be more of a danger than a help. Sweetie would teach Carolyn not only the mechanics but also the morals of shooting a gun. Not that there was any room for moral debate in his mind. Not this time.

There was just one problem.

“Keep it hidden, Carolyn.” A former cop’s wife, she knew about gun safety around the house, but there was something more on McGill’s mind. “Because knowing Mom has a gun? That’d be the one thing to tell the kids the threat is real.”

Welborn Yates was leaning against a tree in the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park outside of Washington stretching his hamstrings, calves, and Achilles tendons when Captain Dexter Cowan pulled into the adjacent parking lot. The captain drove a navy blue Dodge Viper. He parked it on the far side of Welborn’s tan Honda Civic.

The captain’s car looked like its namesake. Next to it, Welborn’s car looked like a field mouse about to be devoured.

Welborn had called Captain Cowan the day before to set up an interview, to get his side of the
Linberg v. Cowan
story. The captain had asked if Welborn was a runner; if so, was he up to running and talking at the same time? A charitable interpretation would be … well, there was no charitable interpretation. The captain was asking how tough he was. How
manly.

Which was perfectly okay with Welborn.

Welborn’s favorite instructor at Glynco had told him: If some smart-ass wants to underestimate you, encourage the SOB. He wondered if the president knew that bit of lore; he’d bet serious money her henchman did.

Captain Cowan unfolded himself from his car. Had to be six-three, Welborn figured. He had black hair and eyes that were just about as dark. His face was all chiseled planes but asymmetrical, the product of a sculptor with a vision problem. Or a sense of humor.

Cowan wore crisp new running clothes: a white T-shirt that said navy where it stretched tightly across his chest, navy blue shorts circling a trim waist, and unscuffed white running shoes.

Welborn wore old baggy sweats and run-down cross-trainers with paint drippings on them. His shirt did identify his branch of the service, however. USAF. But the lower horizontal bar of the F had worn away.

Encourage the SOB.

Welborn properly saluted his superior officer as Cowan approached.

“Lieutenant Yates, Air Force OSI, sir.”

Captain Cowan returned the salute and smiled. Nothing asymmetrical there. His teeth were perfect. He extended his hand to Welborn, who took it.

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. You ready to go?”

“You’re not going to stretch first, sir?”

Cowan laughed, a deep rich sound.

“No need. With my car’s suspension you can feel every crack in the asphalt. It’s like getting a rolling massage. A vigorous one.”

The captain gave Welborn a nod and took off down the running path.

Welborn caught up, making it look like he was laboring already.

“Five miles okay, Lieutenant?”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

They passed a couple of middle-aged jocks, civilians, jogging in the same direction. Cowan gave a polite nod as they went by. Welborn picked up on the cue and waved.

Once they were out of earshot, Cowan glanced over at Welborn, and asked, “So did Carina tell you I was a liar?”

“Yes, sir. That was the colonel’s word exactly.”

Captain Cowan smiled. Ruefully, Welborn thought.

“And you’re a sworn federal agent. Lying to you is like lying to the FBI: a crime.”

“That’s also correct, sir.”

“Well, Lieutenant, then I’ll have to tell you the truth. I did lie to Carina that first night we went out. I told her I was divorced. I wanted her so badly my balls ached, and I said what I thought was most likely to get her into bed with me.”

Welborn did his best to keep his face impassive, but he was astounded. The last thing he’d expected was a confession. The man was admitting that his preliminary statement had been a lie.

“I also told her the truth,” Captain Cowan continued.

This time, Welborn couldn’t keep his face from turning red. This guy was jerking him around. But he couldn’t ask the bastard just what he was trying to pull because they were approaching the Great Falls of the Potomac where a large number of tourists, foreign and domestic, were snapping pictures of each other against the scenic background.

They crossed a footbridge to the Virginia side of the river before Welborn spoke.

“I’m sorry, sir. But you’ll have to explain that one to me.”

Cowan nodded. “The first time with Carina was all about sex. For both of us, I think. But the more I was with her, at work I mean, the more I felt for her. Surprised the hell out of me. So I decided I didn’t want her to hate me for lying to her — any more than I already had. Which meant I had to tell her the truth, and I did.
Before
we went to bed a second time.”

The captain picked up the pace, forcing Welborn to match it.

“Are you saying, sir, that Colonel Linberg listened to your confession, forgave you for what you did, and continued your affair with the knowledge that you are married?”