The Echo of the Whip (17 page)

White House Chief of Staff Galia Mindel did something that she indulged in maybe once a year: She played hooky. Called in sick to work when she was feeling fine. Physically fit, that was, but she was more than a little on edge psychologically. Jim McGill’s suggestion that Mira Kersten was already pregnant was eating at her.

She’d tried to tell herself that McGill was overrating his instincts on the matter. What man was so perceptive that he might know if a woman was newly with child just by looking at her? An obstetrician perhaps, someone professionally trained and experienced in the matter. But someone who’d spent his working life as a policeman of one sort or another?

She didn’t think …

Trouble was, she did think so. James J. McGill was a smart man, and no slouch at paying attention to small details. To be honest, Galia couldn’t remember how she’d looked when she became pregnant with her two sons. Couldn’t identify a particular smile she might have shown that said, “Hey, look at me. I’m going to be a mom.”

What she did remember quite clearly was the way she had felt each time she’d learned she was carrying another life inside her. There was joy and worry and maybe, peculiar to ambitious women like her, a sense of great power. She would deliver into the world a child who would grow up to become someone important. A person who would affect many other lives for the better.

Quite possibly even someone of historical significance.

Her two sons, good men both, a computer engineer and a professor of musicology, were devoted husbands and fathers. Both gave of themselves to their children’s schools and other community organizations. It was quite likely, though, that neither of them would ever have as high a public profile as their mother.

Still, more than a few people’s lives would be better for having known them.

What more could a mother want? Just thinking of her boys, Joshua and Aaron, made her smile … and that was when the memories returned to Galia. Yes, she had smiled exactly the way she was doing now when she’d been young and pregnant, anticipating what sort of wonderful little person she was nurturing within her body.

So why should she doubt for a minute that Jim McGill, the father of three, hadn’t seen much the same expression of bliss and wonder on the face of the mother of his children? If he felt sure Mira Kersten was already pregnant, chances were very good he was right.

That being the case, why had Mira come to her and asked for McGill’s help in finding her stolen embryos? The simple answer might be that she’d like to have more than one child. But if that had been the case, why wouldn’t Mira have just said so? Something along the lines of, “Galia, I’m pregnant, and I’m so happy. But my embryos were stolen, and that makes me so sad and angry. I want to have more than just one child.”

Galia would have understood that jumble of feelings perfectly. Jim McGill would have, too. But all Mira had talked about was being victimized.

So she was hiding something, a scheme of which Galia likely would not approve.

Galia felt sure the plan must be political. Mira and Galia had always been attuned to the same philosophy: Be progressive but practical. Even so, people had been known to change their views. It could be that Mira had gone so far as to think it might be fun to
use
Galia to achieve her own goals.

The protégé twitting her mentor.

It might have worked, if McGill hadn’t noticed the fabled glow of the expectant mother. For the first time in her career in politics, Galia wondered if she might have lost a step. Perhaps it was a good thing her tenure in the White House would soon be at an end. Until that day came, though, she would do her utmost to protect the president and her own legacy as well.

An ironic smile formed on Galia’s face as she realized she’d also need to protect the way history would remember James J. McGill. How was that for a turnaround? If someone was plotting to make the president’s henchman look bad, she was going to cover McGill’s backside.

Balance the ledger for his rescue of her.

Galia began to make phone calls. Her spy network was about to be put into overdrive. She was going to find out, first, if Mira Kersten truly was pregnant. If so, she’d find out who the father was. Hell, she was going to find out all the details.

Right down to whether either party to the conception murmured, “Was it good for you, too, honey?”

“I’m calling you from my bath,” the president said.

“Didn’t Lyndon Johnson do that?” McGill asked from his California hotel suite.

“I believe he might have spoken from the porcelain throne a time or two.”

“Ah, well, he was a good deal more rustic than you.”

“And didn’t have nearly the svelte figure I do.”

McGill laughed. “Are we going to talk dirty? Is this a secure call?”

“Heads will roll if it isn’t. No, wait. I think my head-rolling powers might be suspended these days.”

“That can’t be any fun. I’ll tell you what: Leave a letter of resignation pinned to your pillow and meet me in Vegas. They say that what happens there stays there.”

“No, no,” Patti said. “The only thing that stays there is the money of people who think they can beat the house.”

“Yeah, maybe that’s it. I don’t suppose you —”

“Happened to see the guy I love face down legions of armed and dangerous men, backed up only by his trusty sidekick? Really, Jim, I thought getting you out of town was supposed to
lower
your public profile.”

“Celebrity seems to seek me out,” McGill said.

“We’ll have to put an end to that.”

“Can’t happen soon enough. Tell me more about your bath.”

“It’s hot, deep and lonely, but let’s get back to business for just a minute.”

McGill said, “I look forward to putting an end to that, too, but go ahead.”

“Secretary of State Kalman came to see me today.”

“You’re not taking the country to war, are you?”

“The old wag the dog trick? No. Secretary Kalman heard from the Jordanian ambassador today inquiring whether any progress has been made in solving the murder of Bahir Ben Kalil, his late personal physician.”

“Isn’t that one of the things keeping Byron DeWitt up nights?”

“It is. State talked to the FBI. The director talked with DeWitt. He feels that fugitive member of Congress Philip Brock is the culprit responsible for Ben Kalil’s death, but the Bureau doesn’t have the goods on him for that quite yet.”

“Nor do they have Brock himself,” McGill pointed out.

“Correct. The FBI thinks Brock might also have killed Senator Howard Hurlbert.”

“Damn,” McGill said, “and he’s already on the run for his part in the plan to assassinate you at Inspiration Hall.”

“Beyond even that, he was one of the people pushing hardest for a new Constitutional Convention.”

McGill asked, “What the hell did the guy have in mind, chaos?”

“Quite possibly. Tear everything down and you get to start again from scratch.”

“After who knows how many people die or have their lives ruined in the meantime.”

Patti sighed. “Getting back to the inquiry from Jordan, I was wondering, unofficially of course, whether you as a law enforcement hero to the masses have an opinion on whether I should share with the Jordanians the FBI’s suspicion of Brock as being Dr. Ben Kalil’s killer. ”

A moment of silence ensued on McGill’s end.

Then he said, “The Jordanians have to be aware of the Interpol wanted bulletin on Brock, don’t they?”

“I would think so, yes. They have quite a sophisticated security apparatus.”

“Well, then they know why the FBI wants Brock, too. For his role in the planned assassination of the U.S. president. Maybe what the secretary of state should do is tell the Jordanians if they were to assist in the effort to catch Brock and were the ones to actually nab him, both countries would be greatly pleased.”

Patti said, “You’re a pretty subtle thinker for a former Chicago flatfoot.”

“Devious is the word,” McGill said. “I think it comes from drinking Lake Michigan water.”

“And here I spent all those years chugging the bottled stuff. You wouldn’t have a suggestion up your sleeve where an interested party might find Brock, would you?”

“Well, he could be anywhere. He’s got some personal wealth, doesn’t he?”

“Not like Tyler Busby, but Brock does have millions.”

“Okay, let’s start there,” McGill said. “He’s likely accustomed to a certain level of comfort. Human nature being what it is, he’s probably not going to want to spend the rest of his life hiding in a hut in a swamp or on top of a mountain. He had that spread in Central America.”

“Costa Rica,” Patti said, “hundreds of verdant acres, ocean views, beach access.”

McGill wasn’t surprised by Patti’s detailed knowledge.

Presidents got briefed on
everything
. The good ones remembered what was important.

“So,” McGill said, “Brock lost that little corner of paradise, and he probably wouldn’t want as flashy a place for his next hideout. But …”

“But what, Jim?”

“Does Brock speak Spanish?”

Patti did a quick mental dip into Brock’s file. “Yes, he does.”

“Okay. If he’s fluent in the language and comfortable in a Latin culture that could narrow the list of places he might have absconded to. Of course …”

“What?”

McGill said, “I’ve never studied Portuguese, but it’s always seemed similar to Spanish to me.”

“Both are Romance languages.”

“Right. So, if Brock speaks Spanish, it might not be much of a jump to learn Portuguese. If he did that, he might go to Brazil, and from what I’ve read that’s a pretty big place.”

“About 85% of the size of the U.S.,” Patti said.

“Had that info top of mind, did you?” McGill asked. “You know what would be fun?”

“We’re not still talking about bathing here, are we?”

“No, we’ll get back to tub games when we can play them. Your knowing the relative size of Brazil made me think it would be great if you could get a panel of former presidents on ‘Jeopardy.’ Maybe I’ll get in touch with Alex Trebek, as long as I’m here in L.A.”

Patti laughed. “You know what would be even better? Get presidential
candidates
to play ‘Jeopardy’ instead of having debates. You could see who really knew their stuff then. Meanwhile … ”

“Right, back to catching Brock. So Brazil is really big and it’s got that enormous Amazon wilderness area, jungles and all. A guy could hide out there a long time.”

“But you said Brock’s not likely to rough it.”

“I did, didn’t I? Well then, if you’re looking for consistency, he’d probably buy a condo on a trendy beach filled with cute girls getting too much sun while they gossip in Spanish. Whatever language is being used, though, the crooked rich guys I’ve known all needed to be fawned over. So there will probably be at least a small group of people who surround Brock, even if they don’t know his true identity. Is any of this blather helpful?”

“Definitely. How is your investigation proceeding? Well, I hope.”

McGill told Patti of his suspicion that Mira Kersten was already pregnant.

She thought about that for a moment and replied. “If Mira is pregnant, it must have happened before the theft of her embryos occurred. Maybe she really likes being a mom-in-waiting and simply has all the more reason to feel aggrieved after the break-in.”

There was a beat of silence before McGill said, “Have I ever mentioned that you’re really smart?”

“A time or two.”

“Well, think about this. The gang and I went to talk to the security guard who was overcome by the thief. I’d already spoken to her once and wanted to follow up. But she was no longer working at the clinic and when I went to her home her mother said she’d left with a friend, a girlfriend I was told, and set off for parts unknown. Having a cynical nature about such things, it looks like someone persuaded the young lady to avoid me.”

“Well, if that’s the case, you should be able to figure out who that someone might be. If you can’t do that, you might have to — and I know this would be tough — chalk it up to coincidence.”

“More good advice,” McGill said. “When we leave Washington, and you’re not busy with Committed Capital, you want to go to work for me?”

“Only if I get to wear short skirts, smoke non-tobacco cigarettes and sass the boss.”

McGill laughed. “I’m all in favor of the skirts and the sass.”

“Okay, but now you’ve made me wonder. What will you and I really need when we make our getaway from the White House?”

McGill said, “Only each other … and a few creature comforts.”

People everywhere sneaked peeks when a new neighbor moved in nearby. It was only natural, wanting to see who you would soon be crossing paths with on a regular basis. Part of the evaluation of the new people came from judging their possessions. Did they have nice cars and good furniture?

Were there children you might have to deal with? If so, how many? Were they mindful and well mannered or raucous little dervishes?

Did the new arrivals have pets? Large or small? What was their number? Might they howl in the night or foul your lawn?

In terms of the adults, was there one or were there two? If there was a couple, were they straight or gay? Did they converse politely with each other or was there a pre-existing conflict about to open a new front on the other side of your backyard fence?

Were the newcomers respectful of the privacy of others or were they natural snoops?

That last concern was the most important to Philip Brock. He was certain the FBI was on his trail by now. The feebs had to suspect he’d fled the country, too. Turning to Interpol for assistance would be automatic.

The thing about allied law enforcement was that most countries took an interest in other nations’ fugitives only if they caused trouble within their own borders. That was true in ordinary cases anyway. But Brock was wanted for conspiring to kill the president of the United States. Both the crime and the country pursuing him carried a lot of weight.

Brock had to be very careful or he’d find himself extradited in a Uruguayan minute.

So he watched the arrival of the new neighbors’ possessions at the larger home directly across the street from the vantage point of a darkened window on the second floor of
his
new home. As far as Brock had been able to tell, only two people had seen him arrive on moving day. They’d been a thirty-ish nanny and a pre-verbal child in a stroller.

Brock had politely said,
“Buenos dias.”

The nanny had made his day by smiling and replying,
“¿Usted es canadiense, señor?”

Asking him if he was Canadian.

Speaking English, Brock said he was, and introduced himself as Bruce Mallory.

Replying in English, the nanny told him she’d lived in Ottawa for a year.

She thought she’d recognized his accent.

He said he’d lived in the Canadian capital as a young child but had moved to Vancouver and often spent time in Toronto. He said his accent was a blend of many things. Even American as he’d often done business in that country.

In truth, he didn’t have a clue what an Ottawa accent sounded like.

So he’d fudged things as best he could.

The nanny smiled and seemed to buy it.

The people moving in across the street didn’t have occasion to chat with any passerby. Then again most movers did their work in daylight hours. Right now the sun was low on the western horizon and it would soon be dark. Brock hadn’t been able to judge the furnishings going into the house because it was all covered by protective blanketing.

The housing development, though, was as high-priced as things got in Uruguay. Outside of custom homes on estate acreage. Buying one of those places would have been within reach for Brock, but he would have had to purchase political protection to go along with it, if he made himself so easy to find, and Uruguay wasn’t big on taking bribes.

The movers finished their labors, departed and two minutes later a Mercedes S-Class Sedan pulled into the driveway. Brock lifted a pair of Steiner 10X42 Merlin binoculars off his lap and brought them to his eyes. The magnification and light-gathering properties of the lenses might have allowed him to count the freckles on his new neighbors’ faces. Only they didn’t have any.

The woman was Asian. Her complexion was flawless, and far more relaxed than the last time he’d seen her, about to lift off from the helipad of the yacht named
Wastrel.
She was no longer pregnant. She carried an infant in her arms The man escorting her to the front door of their new home was … well, well, well.

Damn small world, wasn’t it?’

Tyler Busby had just moved in across the street.

There was no longer any question that Brock would have to act quickly. It wouldn’t be long before Busby made a point of finding out who all
his
new neighbors were. In fact … both he and Busby should have learned who’d be living nearby
before
they’d purchased their new dwellings.

Brock chastised himself for being so negligent. But had Busby made the same mistake? He might have. If he’d actually come to care so much for the woman and the child with him, Busby might be off his game. But Brock couldn’t count on that to continue for long.

He’d have to get Busby before Busby got him.

The only question was how to do it.

The preliminary step, of course, was to gather information. He drew the curtains and booted up his computer. He had placed Google Alerts on a raft of names back in the good old U.S. of A. Busby was foremost on that list, but the first hit to come up was James J. McGill.

Brock drummed his fingers on his desktop for a good thirty seconds before clicking on the first link to McGill. He wanted to hope something bad had happened to the man. The blurb accompanying the link said “L.A. cops surround president’s husband.”

Why would they do that, Brock asked himself.

It wasn’t like they could ever arrest the guy. His Secret Service people would never allow that. Besides, except for defending himself spectacularly well, McGill had no record of ever getting tough with anybody. So what was the deal here?

He looked at other links under the same heading. They were as vague as the first.

It was with a sense of foreboding that Brock gave in to his curiosity and clicked on the first link. He immediately regretted it, thinking he might just have become a phishing victim. Some smart operator back in DC had figured out he’d be watching for big news from home and had sucked him in with a come-on he’d be unable to resist.

Now, the NSA or some other government spook shop could be tapping every last byte of data on his hard drive, including the location of his Wi-Fi connection. His neck muscles started to knot with tension as listened for the sound of approaching sirens. They’d be local cops, of course, but he could see being bundled onto a plane in handcuffs and flying straight to —

Maybe they wouldn’t bring him back to the U.S.

Congress, including him, had forced Patti Grant to keep Guantanamo open.

His next stop might be Cuba. He got up and started to pack a traveling bag. He had a loaded Glock 27 stashed in his Land Rover. Things got really hairy, suicide by cop might be preferable to disappearing into a government black site. No telling what they’d do to him there, given the shit he’d tried to perpetrate. That and the two guys he’d killed.

He went down to his ride, dug out the Glock and sat behind the wheel.

He thought if he shot it out right where he was, the cops might find Busby had just moved in across the street. If he had to go, he might as well take that bastard with him. Only the cops never came.

After a two-hour wait, Brock went back inside, taking his gun with him just in case. He pulled up the video he’d thought might be a trap. What he saw boggled his mind. The L.A. cops, lots of them, had wanted to bust McGill. Well, him or somebody who was in that Chevy Suburban with him. McGill got out of the SUV like he was on his way to a Sunday picnic or something, started talking to some big shot cop like you could reason with those guys and …

The picture switched from McGill to the sky.

Two army attack helicopters zoomed in and looked like they were going to
eat
the police chopper that was hanging in the sky.

Back to McGill and the top cop, who maybe was feeling more susceptible to reason now.

Then another cop in a different uniform arrived and pretty soon everybody was shaking hands. The L.A. cops dispersed. McGill went on his way: no muss, no fuss. Well, yeah. You can whistle up attack aircraft in nothing flat, who was going to give you a hard time?

Thinking that sooner or later McGill was going to come after him for trying to kill his wife, Brock started to tremble. McGill wasn’t going to let him go with a handshake: no harm, no foul. He was going to take Brock’s head off. Maybe not literally, but probably close.

If Brock had known just what McGill was capable of, and whose wife he was threatening, he’d have forgotten all about becoming an anarchist and going into politics. He’d have stayed in investment banking, made his pile of money and made do with that.

Now, Jesus, now, he’d have to … make an offering of Busby and …

He couldn’t quite say even to himself that he’d surrender. If he did that, he’d still have to answer for Bahir Ben Kalil’s death and Howard Hurlbert’s, too, at a minimum. He’d probably get the death penalty. That was the price of killing a U.S. Senator.

So maybe he
would
have to do himself in.

But he’d sacrifice Busby first and see if that might make
any
difference in what punishment would be doled out to him.

He thought he knew how he might sic the feds on Busby.

His computer, apparently, hadn’t been phished, but maybe he could drop some bait in Busby’s digital pond. That or use some innocuous human intermediary.