The President's Henchman (31 page)

Welborn felt there was more to the story.

“It didn’t end there, did it, ma’am?”

“No. Somehow the two survivors learned I was the one who gave them away. They blamed me for their friends’ deaths. The administration had the school under close watch after the killings; they knew that vengeance for a rape lay behind them. So my two new worst enemies couldn’t exact their own vengeance. But they warned me I’d better either get out of the military or make damn sure I rose in rank faster than they did. Because if I didn’t, they would see to it that I suffered. Suffered greatly.”

Welborn was sure he could track down the names of the cadets who’d been killed, and the names of their two friends. See if the living and the vengeful had gone on to serve at the Pentagon and renewed their enmity with Colonel Linberg.

“I’m sure you know that Mrs. Altman, General Altman’s wife, was killed, ma’am.”

The colonel nodded, her face a mask. No reason not to admit that knowledge. Cheryl Altman’s hit-and-run death was a matter of public record by then.

“But what hasn’t been made known is that Captain Cowan has somehow come into a good deal of money recently. He’s bought a very expensive sports car, and his wife and her lawyer expect him to make a large settlement in the matter of their divorce.”

Carina Linberg remained silent. Welborn stood, ready to depart.

“You’re in the middle of another terrible situation, ma’am. I truly hope that you’ll find the strength to tell me what’s going on before … well, before anyone else dies.”

The colonel saw him out, the two of them passing her open bedroom door.

Welborn was glad for any number of reasons she didn’t try to lead him that way.

McGill was still in the bath, getting pruny, but feeling so much better for his soak and the insistent pressure of the water jets. When Galia entered the room, he did a double take and thought to cover his crotch. Then he realized the whirling water in which he was immersed was effectively opaque. It was only then that he realized Galia had a portable phone in her hand and was extending it to him.

“Blessing was about to bring you the phone,” she said. “I told him I’d do it.”

“How kind of you,” McGill said dryly.

“Your son,” Galia told him.

McGill’s heart jumped into his throat … until he remembered the likely reason Kenny would be calling him. He took the phone and clicked it on.

“Hi, Kenny, how are you?”

“Dad, they’re great! They’re so cool. None of my friends have anything like them.”

“So you like your new phones?”

“I
love
them. I thought things like this were only for secret agents.”

“Well, take good care of them. They cost enough to buy you your first used car.”

Kenny said, “Really?”

“And truly,” said McGill. “Who’d you give the other receiver to? Somebody you can trust, I hope.”

“Billy Tuttle’s mom. They’ve got a big house so the guys are always going over there. But Mrs. Tuttle is real careful about things, so I figure she’ll take good care of it. I still can’t believe two phones can cost as much as a car, even if they are spy phones.”

“Secure phones with scramble/descramble features. And I’ll show you the receipt the next time I see you.”

“Okay. Maybe I can trade them in on car when I’m old enough to drive, but right now the phones’re really cool. My friends and I have been talking all morning, and all our secrets are safe. Nobody can listen in, or understand us if they do. You’re the best, Dad.”

Kenny’s praise did more for McGill’s sense of well-being than his whirlpool bath, his ninety-minute massage, or even his pitcher of White House ice tea. He’d thought that if Kenny’s friends weren’t being allowed to see him, they should be encouraged to talk to him. The secure phones were gizmos whose novelty would wear off even for adolescent boys — as his son with thoughts of a future car already understood — but he hoped to end the threat to his children before then.

“Glad you like your gift,” McGill said, “but do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Don’t share any
family
secrets with your friends, ones that’ll get me into trouble with your mom. Or your sisters. Or the president of the United States. Okay?”

There was a guilty silence before Kenny said, “Uh, okay.” And a quick, “Bye, Dad.”

McGill handed the phone back to Galia and looked at her for a minute.

“Not that I have it in mind,” he said, “but does this mean I get to drop in on your bath?”

To his surprise, Galia gave the question some thought.

“Yes, if your reason is important enough.”

“And you have news of great moment?”

“You’ve put Roger Michaelson into the hospital.”

“Outpatient?”

“Being held overnight for observation of a concussion. Also for treatment of various and sundry traumas. The ER doctor, I’m told, said he looked like a truck hit him.”

“It was a spirited game,” McGill said.

“Which is pretty much what the senator had to say … publicly.”

“And behind the scenes?”

“I’m working on that. But you’ve got Congress in an uproar. They don’t like the idea of
anyone
getting away with pummeling one of their own. Then there’s the story that you had a few private words to share with Michaelson after you thumped him. No one knows what they were yet, but the consensus is you weren’t telling him get well soon.”

Clearly, Galia wanted to know what McGill had said.

He didn’t tell her. He said, “So, I’ll probably have a hard time getting a game with any of our friends from Capitol Hill?”

Galia snorted. “You’ve got them scared now. Handled properly, that can be a good thing. Michaelson will certainly think twice before he goes ahead with his plan. But if you frighten them too badly, they’ll do everything they can to destroy you.”

“So your advice is?”

“Try not to beat up anyone else anytime soon. At least not anyone prominent. Even if there’s a basketball involved.”

McGill nodded. Then he said, “Be honest, Galia. Don’t you think I did more than make Michaelson think twice?”

She hated to do it, but she gave him his due. “I don’t think he’ll ever go through with his plan. At least not this one. But he’ll think of another. As long as the president is in office, he’ll be her number one enemy.”

McGill shrugged.

A rueful smile formed on the chief of staff’s face. “You know, now that I know the outcome, I’m sorry I didn’t accept your invitation. I wish I’d seen you bash that bastard.”

Galia was enjoying that thought when the phone in her hand rang. She handed it to McGill and left the room. Didn’t even sneak a backward peek.

“Hello,” McGill said.

“Mr. McGill? This is Eamon Lochlan. Would it be possible for you to come by my daughter’s residence within the hour? We have something important to tell you.”

Lochlan’s voice was very shaky. McGill said he’d be there in thirty minutes or less.

He was already gone the next time his phone rang. Barbara Sullivan of the Evanston Police Department was calling. She wanted to advise him of the threat to his daughter Abbie.

After visiting McGill in his bath, the president returned to the Oval Office and her meeting with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Fabin, and the director of Central Intelligence, Thomas Van Owen. They’d come to inform her of their progress in putting into effect her idea for dealing with the Cuban crisis.

The two men stood as she reentered the room. Edwina closed the door behind her.

“Please, gentlemen, be seated.”

She took her customary easy chair while the two men shared a sofa.

The president was having a hard time focusing on the first major test of her abilities to deal successfully with foreign affairs. She couldn’t let go of the fact that her husband had physically brutalized a member of the Senate. If anyone else had done that, he’d be looking at a long sentence in a federal penitentiary. But the way Jim had done it … she had to think he was right. Michaelson wouldn’t complain.

The junior senator from Oregon would only work ceaselessly for her political destruction. But he was doing that anyway. Only now he wouldn’t do it in a way that involved Andy’s memory. Jim had spared her that. God love him.

She
loved James J. McGill with all her heart. He’d restored her fully to life after Andy’s murder. Jim and his wonderful children, their warm and total acceptance of her, had made her feel something she thought she’d never experience: being a mother.

She was respectful of, and always deferential to, Carolyn when it came to Abbie, Kenny, and Caitie, but when the McGill children hugged her, gave her a peck on the cheek, or shared a whispered confidence, it gave her a sense of joy she hadn’t dared to hope for most of her adult life.

And yet there wasn’t a day that passed when she didn’t think of Andy. When she didn’t miss him. When she wouldn’t love to have his wise counsel.

It was thinking of what Andy would tell her that had stayed her own hand when it came to Erna Godfrey. Once she was elected president and sworn into office, she could have had the attorney general fast-track that evil woman’s appeals of her sentence, expedited her execution. But that wasn’t what Andy would have done. He wouldn’t have let Patti expose herself to the political criticism that would have come with taking such a course. He wouldn’t have risked following a strategy that might allow one of Erna Godfrey’s appeals to succeed.

So Patti sat back, refusing all comment on the matter, and let things proceed along their normal course at their normal pace.

A course that Roger Michaelson might have wrecked completely had his plan been allowed to go into effect. So, really, what Jim had done was to maintain the course of events that she and Andy preferred. Ergo, Andy would approve of what Jim had done.

There were moments when she wished she could have both of her husbands holding her and loving her at the same time.

You old Hollywood hedonist,
she thought, allowing herself an inward smile.

“Thank you for bearing with me while I gathered my thoughts, gentlemen,” the president said. “Please resume. You were about to tell me where we stand.”

“The boat’s in the water, Madam President,” Director Van Owen said.

“A Navy crew is aboard. Army Special Ops teams have joined the exile forces in Central America, ostensibly to upgrade their training,” General Fabin said.

“A crew from PBS’s
Frontline
will be on hand in the exile camp to do a story on the never-say-die Miami Cubans. If their camera operators don’t catch the action, ours will.”

The president nodded. “So we’ll have our Navy people, in disguise, shooting at our Army people, and our Army people will be shooting back, and everybody will be missing, of course.”

“Yes, Madam President,” General Fabin said. “But please remember, these will be live rounds being fired, and there will be plenty of them. Mistakes often happen in such situations. People might die.”

“All right. I’ll have to accept that.”

The two men looked at each other, passing a silent message.

Director Van Owen spoke. “We’ve considered whether a few people
should
die.”

“For effect, you mean?” the president asked. “To make things look more real.”

“There is that, Madam President,” Van Owen said, “and there’s another consideration. The four Obregon brothers who blew up the produce market in Havana have returned to Costa Gorda. The FBI informs me they’re sure these men are guilty, but they don’t think the government will ever be able to make a case against them. National security considerations would prevent the Obregons from being able to question witnesses against them. A judge would have to throw the case out.”

“So we should just kill them?” the president wanted to know.

“It’s a thought. To discourage freelance terrorism on our dollar … and to add realism, as you say.”

The president’s decision came swiftly.

“No. I don’t want anyone killed. If an accident happens, that will be regrettable, but nobody is to be executed extralegally. You’re right that these men and others must know that we’re not going to let them commit murder while they function under our protection. We’ll find some way to make examples of them. A little government intrusion into a private citizen’s life goes a long way. With these four, we’ll lay it on thick. Make their lives a procession of misery.”

The director mused, “Maybe if we make them miserable enough, they’ll commit suicide.”

Which would be perfectly acceptable, the president thought, but she’d save that line for her own memoirs. “When do we go?” she asked.

“Normally, we like to do such things in the dark,” General Fabin answered. “But this time, since we’ll have cameras rolling to capture the action, we want as much light as possible. A clear sky and a full moon. That will be in two days, Madam President.”