The President's Henchman (15 page)

Uh-huh.

Kipp had come to McGill’s attention after the newsman, in a drunken moment, had whispered into Press Secretary Aggie Wu’s ear that his last great journalistic ambition was to get a current photo of Patti Grant topless. Sell it for a bloody fortune. Page three, all over the world.

Once a tabloid guy, always a tabloid guy.

Kipp had really upset Aggie with that little gem, but what could she do about it? Nobody else had heard a word. What she’d done was tell McGill.

Who’d thought earlier that day it wouldn’t be a bad idea to show Kipp how he handled a gun. Plant the seed that realizing his ambition could come at a very high cost. Then he’d talk to the SOB about Chana Lochlan.

“Pull in next to our friend from the media,” McGill told Leo.

McGill didn’t have to worry about finding space at the range; he had the whole firing line to himself. The range manager had done him the courtesy of hanging his first target for him. Set it up in the center lane. McGill nodded his appreciation. He took off his sport coat and handed it to Deke.

“You knew it was going to be like this, didn’t you?” he asked.

Deke shrugged. “You lock onto the target, doesn’t matter who’s watching.”

He was right about that, but McGill had not only Deke, Leo, and Monty Kipp for an audience, he also had Celsus Crogher and a couple of dozen other feds who’d normally be honing their own lethal skills at that moment.

“Everybody’s here except SportsCenter,” McGill said.

“They’re on their way.”

It was the first joke Deke had ever cracked in his presence.

Well, at least McGill had set the ground rules. He would shoot CPD qualifying numbers: one hundred rounds at distances of seven, fifteen, and twenty-five yards. He put on the shooting goggles that had been left in the booth and was glad someone — probably at Deke’s insistence — had made sure they were clean. As often as not, you’d find fingerprints on the lenses, blurring your field of vision.

Cop humor.

He donned his ear protectors, undid his holster restraint, and toed the line. He drew his Beretta, checked and reseated the magazine, racked a round into the chamber, and took the safety off. He assumed a Modified Weaver position — strong side of the body away from the target about thirty degrees, arms thrust forward slightly bent — and held the weapon in the ready-pistol position — pointed downrange at a forty-five-degree angle.

“Fire when ready,” came the amplified voice of the range manager from the control booth.

McGill began shooting before the words stopped echoing. He shot, reloaded, changed targets and distances, shot and reloaded again, all at rapid but rhythmic pace. Technique was essential to good marksmanship, but so was consistency. Following the same motions, just so, over and over again. Practice became muscle memory. Everything kept pace with the timepiece within the shooter’s body. Some guys said they shot in sync with their heartbeats, and while McGill believed them, that seemed impossibly slow to him.

He shot in time with the strobe light that went off inside his head anytime he had to fire his weapon, the muzzle blast following the internal flash by a nanosecond. He’d had several instructors and colleagues tell him he’d improve his scores if he slowed down. Just a little.

He couldn’t do it. Anytime he held a gun in his hands, his survival instinct
screamed
at him to get off the first shot before the other guy did. He fired, and fired, and fired.

It always took him by surprise when a range manager ordered, “Cease fire!”

It couldn’t be over already, could it?

But it was and he had scored ninety-two lethal hits out of a hundred rounds fired.

In Chicago, seventy was passing. Eighty-five to ninety-five was considered good. Ninety-six to one hundred was considered great.

“Better than I expected,” Deke said. Praise as high as the special agent’s stoicism would allow.

McGill wasn’t satisfied, though. “But not as good as you or Sweetie, right?” Then he added, “A hundred more rounds. This time from the holster.”

A Chicago cop was expected to be able to draw his weapon, bring it to bear, and fire two shots accurately within six seconds; fire two rounds, tactical reload, and fire two more rounds within eighteen seconds. Three-round strings of fire got slightly more time. All that was with the target seven yards away. Longer strings at greater distances got proportionately more time.

Everything depended on a fast, clean draw. No wasted motion. The arm drawing the weapon was kept close to the body and moved backward in a straight line. The weapon was withdrawn only far enough to clear the holster. The weapon was thrust forward to meet the supporting hand. The movement to eye level was a straight line.

McGill’s draw was textbook.

His reaction time, however, was far quicker than departmental standards. The men watching him marveled at his hand speed. His Beretta was in his hip holster, then he was shooting. If you blinked, you missed the draw.

Deke muttered, “Jesus.”

Kipp uttered, “Crikey.”

Celsus Crogher shook his head and left the range.

When McGill finished, he received a round of applause.

He’d shot a ninety-four. Two better than before but still not in the “great” category. He always comforted himself with the thought that he could get off two rounds before most guys could fire their first, and he was almost certain to hit his man with one of his shots.

After that … well, seriously wounded men shot back only in the movies.

He holstered his weapon, left his goggles and ear protectors in the booth, and walked over to Deke, Leo, and Kipp. Deke handed him his coat, and he put it over his arm.

“Nice shooting, boss,” Leo told him. He waved and left to get back to his Chevy.

“Feel better now?” McGill asked Deke.

“Yeah,” Deke admitted, conceding nothing more.

“Enjoy the show, Mr. Kipp?”

“It was brilliant, Mr. McGill. With that amazing quickness of yours, sir, I wonder if you’ve ever studied a martial art.”

“I’ve been trained in Dark Alley,” McGill said.

Kipp looked puzzled. “Sorry, don’t believe I’ve heard of that one.”

“Think street fighting, only organized,” McGill told him. “Can you spare me a few minutes, Mr. Kipp? I’d like to talk with you while I clean my weapon.”

Deke showed them to the gun-cleaning room. For the number of shooters the range could accommodate, the cleaning area was very small. Government planning. But they had the place to themselves. Deke waited outside at the door so there would be no intrusions.

McGill rolled up his sleeves and sat at the workbench. He’d fired his weapon dry on the range, but he released the magazine and made sure the chamber was clear. There was
no
excuse for shooting yourself with a weapon you were cleaning.

The safety check accomplished, McGill fieldstripped the Beretta. He didn’t need to look to do it. He turned his gaze to Kipp, who was watching him work.

“Care for a seat, Mr. Kipp?”

The only ones available were on the bench to either side of McGill.

“No, thank you. I’m quite comfortable where I am.”

“Do any shooting yourself?” McGill asked.

“No, no. I wasn’t in military service when I was young. Bad back, you know. And firearms aren’t nearly as common in the U.K. as they are here.”

“Even your police don’t carry them routinely.”

“More so than before. But again, not like this country.”

McGill had the Beretta broken down to its component parts. Kipp seemed fascinated by the deconstruction.

“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” McGill asked. “Certainly nothing to fear.”

“Just odd bits of ironmongery,” Kipp agreed.

McGill began to swab out the bore with a solvent-soaked patch pushed by a cleaning rod. Kipp smiled dreamily. Perhaps the male-female symbolism.

“I hear you’ve expressed an interest in my wife, Mr. Kipp.” McGill met the Englishman’s suddenly wary eyes. “One that would expose her to great humiliation. All for your base amusement and personal gain.”

McGill hadn’t planned to bring the matter up so directly, but a few things had come together for him as he shot. Zen marksmanship. His revelations had made him mad.

For his part, Kipp was at a loss for words. Didn’t even look like he was breathing. He was probably working out his chances of making a successful break for the door. But he didn’t seem to like the odds. So he stood there mute and unmoving.

McGill continued to clean his gun, finished that, and began to lubricate it.

Kipp watched his every move intently.

“You also found out Chana Lochlan hired me, didn’t you?”

Kipp nodded reluctantly, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“You like beautiful women, so you keep tabs on them. Especially the ones who work for you. You heard Ms. Lochlan hired me, a private investigator, and figured it had to be something juicy. And I’d be doing the heavy lifting. All you’d have to do would be swoop in at the finish, make off with the dirty laundry, and shame your own employee. Or perhaps blackmail her.”

McGill began to reassemble the Beretta. He didn’t need to look to do this work either.

“Do you have any plans for a page-three photo of Ms. Lochlan?”

Guilt was written all over Kipp’s face.

“Do you know
why
she hired me?” McGill asked.

He held the barrel up to the light to check for residue.

“No, no, I don’t. As God is my witness.”

“But you leaked the fact of who my client was to Galia Mindel. Probably hoping to stir up a hornet’s nest in the White House. Just for good clean fun. To be covered in your network’s honest and forthright way.”

McGill fitted the barrel into the frame rails.

“Yes, that’s what I hoped.”

“How did you find out Ms. Lochlan had hired me?”

Plainly, Kipp did not want to tell. But McGill soon had the gun back together, and he started to feed cartridges into the magazine.

“I … I bugged her office.”

“Not her phones?”

“No, that’s too dicey legally. But company property, the courts are allowing employers more liberties than ever before.”

“So there are limits on your invasions of privacy. You know that I’m working for Ms. Lochlan but maybe you don’t know why.”

“No, no, I don’t.”

McGill slapped the magazine into the Beretta. Kipp squeezed his eyes shut.

“Mr. Kipp?”

He opened one eye.

“I advise you to debug Ms. Lochlan’s office.”

“Yes, I’ll do that immediately. Will that be all?”

McGill shook his head.

“My wife is
never
going to appear on page three,
anywhere
in the world, is she?”

“No, never.”

“Because I’d hate to think what might happen if …”

McGill was tempted to point the Beretta at Kipp, but he didn’t.

“Well, it would be very bad for everyone involved.”

Kipp laughed nervously, and when McGill gestured to the door, he fled.

Damon Todd sat on a bench on the campus of Georgetown University. It was a perfect place for a bit of reflection, he thought, tucked into the curve of a walkway, shielded from nearby halls of higher learning by mature trees and other plantings. He’d been a professor once and liked university settings. He especially liked college students. They were so …
malleable.

As the sky turned dark and the air became heavy with the imminent arrival of a storm front, he began to sweat. His body core was still warm from his fourth workout of the day. Nothing too strenuous, a three-mile run preceded by a hundred jumping jacks and fifty push-ups. He’d hoped his physical exertion would relieve some of his tension.

He’d dearly hoped for the release an old friend who lived close by might provide, but she hadn’t been home when he’d gone to see her.

Daryl —
Doctor
— Cheveyo had counseled him to be patient, and for the better part of the past twenty-four hours, he’d contented himself with thinking about the intriguing nature of his Native American liaison. He knew, of course, that the CIA had pioneered the study of using LSD as a tool in interrogations. There had to be battalions of psychiatrists involved in that work. But that was lab-coat research. Cheveyo seemed to be something more compelling. A spirit warrior psychiatrist. A
shrink-op.

Something he hadn’t known existed. As a concept, though, it held great personal appeal. A man of the mind
and
a man of action. Maybe he could be one, too, after he got his program up and running.

A drop of rain fell from the sky and struck him on the bridge of the nose. He stuck his tongue out and caught it as it ran off the tip of his beak. His first taste of Washington’s storied steam-bath summer weather. He liked the metaphor, tasting weather. It amused him.

As more drops began to fall, he stuck out his tongue again and again, taking in the rainwater as if it were fuel. He stripped off his T-shirt, sat there clad in only his gym shorts and sneakers. He glistened in the rain. His every sinew was as defined as an anatomical drawing. He sometimes thought it a shame that skin was a vital organ. He’d have liked to see himself
fully
revealed. Naked muscle and raw willpower. He flicked his tongue out again.

What he’d really like to do was run nude through the storm. Good clean fun as Cheveyo might put it. But he was a little old to go streaking around a college campus. Someone might not see the humor in it. Some of the doubters at the CIA might start doubting him personally.

But if they didn’t find out. It was dark. Raining steadily. Who would know?

Only the guy pointing the gun at him. He’d just stepped out from behind a bush. Couldn’t have appeared more magically than if he’d emerged from a puff of smoke. Except the gun looked real, and so did the glare in the mugger’s eyes.

He wore a red handkerchief knotted around his head and a sleeveless top. His shoulders and arms were muscled, but they didn’t have a tenth the definition of Todd’s body. Wouldn’t be nearly as efficient. Or as strong.

“The fuck you doin’ wit’ yo’ tongue?” the mugger said.

Todd hadn’t realized he was still flicking his tongue out to catch raindrops. It seemed to disturb his assailant. Most people experienced discomfort when they saw erratic behavior. So Todd kept it up, consciously now.

“Stop dat shit, goddamnit, an’ gimme all yo’ money.”

Todd raised his backside just enough to slip his shorts off.

The mugger took a step backward.

“Yo’ johnson comes up, I shoot it right off.”

Todd flipped his shorts to the mugger. He caught them by reflex, held them at arm’s length as if they might carry some dread disease. But then he saw the small pocket inside the waistband and understood. That was where this insane motherfucker kept his coin. What little of it he had. The mugger’s gun hand moved to raise the pocket’s flap.

When it did, Todd was on him. He ripped the gun away from the mugger and threw it over his shoulder. Both of his hands then locked on to the would-be robber’s throat. He began to squeeze. The mugger desperately tried to pull Todd’s arms apart. His bigger, rounder muscles bulged with the effort. Todd’s musculature became striated with blood flow. He not only resisted the effort to break his grip, he continued to increase the pressure.

All the while, he flicked his tongue out.

The mugger’s only chance came as he began to black out. His knees buckled, taking Todd by surprise. For a second, as he fell, the stranglehold was broken. But the mugger didn’t have the strength to flee or to continue the fight. Todd pounced on him and crushed his windpipe.

As he stood up, he saw that his knees were bleeding from hitting the flagstones. But the rain was already washing the blood from his legs, as it would wash it from the walkway, as it would wash his fingerprints from the robber’s gun. There would be no usable evidence left for anyone to find.

Even if there was, he’d only been defending himself.

His actions were entirely justifiable. He put his shorts back on.

Shrink-op.

Welborn shook Patrick Quinn’s hand and hugged Tara Quinn. She held on far harder and longer than he would have. Sobbed on Welborn’s shoulder as her husband patted her back, then gently pulled her away.

“Thanks for coming, Yatesy,” Patrick said. “We’ll go out to eat next time.”

“Yes, sir,” Welborn said.

He watched as Mr. Quinn took his wife inside and closed the front door of his home. The Quinns were the parents of his late friend, Keith, who along with Joe Eddy and Tommy Bauer, had perished on that awful night in Las Vegas. The parents of the lost sons had formed their own little support group. After the funerals, they’d all come to see him in the hospital. Encouraged him in his recovery and called him Yatesy. Not Highborn, Lowborn, or Stillborn as their sons often had.

They’d all met Welborn’s mother and stayed in touch with her, too. She’d been the one who’d shared the news that her son had been posted to Washington. That had occasioned an invitation to dinner from the Quinns, who lived in nearby Annapolis. After Welborn had arrived, they’d started with a preprandial toast to departed comrades and much brave humor. But laughter soon gave way to tears, and they never made it to the dinner table.

Welborn got into his Civic and drove to Ruggers, a joint for military yuppies near the Naval Academy. Keith had introduced him to the place. Said it had two advantages. You got to make fun of the swabbies, and it served a terrific beer called Aviator Lager.

Once you peeled off the label — a
Navy
flyboy — it tasted even better.

The place was packed on a Friday night, and Welborn was lucky to find a seat at the bar. He ordered a burger and a beer. When the comely fortysomething behind the bar brought his order, he laid down a General Grant and his car keys. He picked up his bottle of Aviator.

“I’ll probably have a few more of these,” he said. “If I have more than a few, I’d appreciate it if you’d call a cab for me. And whatever I do, don’t let me get into your tip money.”

She watched him peel the label off his beer. Assessed him and his civilian clothes.

“You look too sweet to be a Marine. Air Force?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She hung his keys from a hook on the back bar.

“We’ll have little chats as the night goes on,” she said.

Welborn nodded his thanks and wondered if he wasn’t getting a thing for older women.

The notable exception was Galia Mindel. She was all business, and Welborn wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. Going to see her he’d felt like a schoolboy standing in the principal’s office, wondering which of his youthful sins had come to light.

“Have you seen this morning’s
Post,
Lieutenant?”

Before he could answer, she flipped a copy of the newspaper open on her desk. It was immediately evident that Kira Fahey had neglected to mention one significant detail. His service photo was right there on the front page with Colonel Linberg’s and Captain Cowan’s.

“May I sit, ma’am?” Welborn asked.

“Please do. Take a moment to read about yourself.”

Welborn sat and read. The story objectively set forth the basic details of the Linberg-Cowan case. But it said eyebrows had been raised at the Pentagon and in Congress by the fact that the case rested in the hands of a first-time investigator still in his probationary year. Beyond that, the president’s decision to oversee the investigation directly was also a matter of debate.

When Welborn looked up, Galia informed him, “I just spoke to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs.” The highest-ranking uniformed officer in the military.

“Ma’am?” Welborn asked uneasily.

“And the president had a conversation with the secretary of defense.”

“Ma’am?” Welborn felt as if he was sinking rapidly into very deep water.

“My point, Lieutenant, is that while Congress is America’s preeminent debating society, we reminded the military that it will follow the president’s orders without demurral or comment.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Welborn said smartly.

“I asked the president to relieve you of the case, Lieutenant. I suggested that she ask the attorney general to appoint an impartial civilian investigator to take over.”

Welborn sat in stunned silence, his heart grown suddenly cold.

“She rejected my suggestion. Said the military had to clean its own house.”

Damn right, Welborn thought, liking the president more than ever.

“So you’re it, Lieutenant. The tip of the spear, as your comrades might say. Only now you’ve been outed. The military establishment will distrust you. The media establishment will vivisect you. And the people you’ll need to talk to will be wary, to say the least. So you’ll have to be very smart and even more careful.”

The chief of staff’s expression said she doubted he was up to the job.

“Yes, ma’am. But what if these people, whoever they are, get in my way?”

“While you’re here at the White House, Ms. Fahey will take your phone calls. When you’re out on your rounds, refer any reporters who approach you to the White House press secretary, Ms. Wu. If any senators or representatives try to corner you, shoot them.”

Welborn’s eyes widened.

“A joke, Lieutenant,” Galia told him. “One you will never repeat. Because God help you if you fail in any way to justify the president’s faith in you.”

Welborn left the chief of staff’s office feeling shaky.

He was scheduled to leave the White House at 10:00 a.m. to go to the Pentagon for a round of interviews with Colonel Linberg’s and Captain Cowan’s coworkers. Before he did, Kira Fahey stopped him.

“More people called this morning to talk with you than with the president,” she told him. “So far fourteen news organizations have wanted to speak with you, and twenty-three young ladies are proposing marriage.”

“Refer the reporters to Ms. Wu, please.”

“Already done, and the young ladies?”

“Tell them my photo flatters me too much.”

She studied him a moment.

“All right, if that’s what you want. But I’d have said it doesn’t do you justice.”

The bartender, who told him her name was Carleen, put another bottle of Aviator in front of him. By then the crowd had thinned a bit, and he had some elbow room. Enough so Carleen’s quiet voice didn’t carry to other ears.

“That’s it for you, sugar.” She pushed Welborn’s change at him. “Leave what you want for the tip.”

Welborn frowned. Sensed something wrong. It was only his second beer.

“You’re famous, darling, and about to get more so.”

Welborn winced.

“Guy at the end of the bar has a newspaper with your picture on page one. Started showing it around. Somebody got on his cell phone, called the local TV station. Sounded like they thought you eating a burger and having a few brews is news. Might be a camera crew coming through the door any minute.”

Welborn pushed the all change back to Carleen. She’d earned it.

“All right if I buy you a beer, too?”

“Sure,” she said.

Welborn slid the bottle over to her. She returned his car keys.

Without looking around, he asked, “Is the time right to make a break for it?”

“Sure is. Your ride’s waiting for you.”

Welborn looked around, expecting to see a cab driver, thinking Carleen hadn’t wanted him to be seen driving with
any
alcohol in his system.

Instead, he saw Kira Fahey.

Giving him her wicked little grin. Waggling her fingers at him.

They got into Kira’s black Audi TT with her behind the wheel just as the rain moving in from the west started.

“What’re we going to do about my car?” Welborn asked.