The Echo of the Whip (32 page)

La Avenida Alvear, on which Abra Benjamin’s hotel was located, served as the main thoroughfare for Buenos Aires’ Recoleta District. For shopping, dining or simply being seen, it was the place to be in Argentina’s capital. It also featured the city’s most famous cemetery.

Fitting, Benjamin thought, reassessing the way she’d handled things.

Her opportunity for a serious promotion might be dead and buried.

She strolled the avenue, pretending to window shop in front of designer clothing stores. She thought she would have looked good in several of the outfits she saw, but she was paying particular attention to the reflections in the glass. She didn’t notice anyone either following her or even giving her a second glance. As for the clothes she might have liked to buy, they were priced way the hell out of her budget.

If there was anything that could ruin her day, it was the thought that she’d made a terrible error in judgment on her climb to the top of the FBI ladder. Not that things were a total loss so far. She felt sure Billy Midnight was the pimp catering to Tyler Busby’s horniness, and she’d passed his name and description on to the FBI desk at the U.S. embassy in town.

Byron DeWitt was probably organizing a team to find and watch Billy right now.

Which meant he’d probably get most of the credit for bringing Busby down. Not that he cared about accolades anywhere near as much as she did, but Director Haskins had to be aware that Byron, his right-hand man, had one foot out the door already, and he’d want to do whatever he could to persuade Byron to stay on. Making a national hero of him might just turn the trick.

Thinking of tricks, Abra knew she’d be in a much better position to nail Busby personally if she’d only played nice with Billy and agreed to put out for him. But she just couldn’t do it. The mere thought turned her stomach. Becoming a whore was no part of her job description. Hell, if she had done it and been the one to nab Busby, the sleazy tactic would almost certainly come out at his trial, and then how would she be known?

Special Hooker Abra Benjamin, not special agent.

She’d have to hope that Byron would toss a little credit her way when he got his kudos.

The way the winner of a best director Oscar would thank his production assistant.

Or she could take satisfaction in the simple fact that she’d helped put a bad guy away.

Only where the hell was the joy in that? Where were the promotion, the power, the big bump in pay? The ability to buy just one of the dozen outfits she’d seen in Recoleta that she genuinely would like to own. Who knew Buenos Aires offered such terrific clothing?

Before she started either to cry or beat the snot out of a perfect stranger, Abra decided to get something to eat. The Argentines were big on beef and she thought chewing through a steak might prove therapeutic. Maybe she’d even have a beer with her meal. The concierge at the hotel had told her about a place where American ex-pats hung out: Casa Bar, on Rodriguez Peña 1150. Her iPhone gave her directions and she headed that way.

The place turned out to be a sports bar, insofar as it had a March Madness college basketball game on big-screen TVs. She didn’t mind. It felt kind of good to be back among an American crowd. She placed her order, got a frosted pilsner glass of Coors as a starter, and waited for her meal. She was actually engaged in watching the game, NC State versus Villanova, when a young guy stopped at her table.

“Wendy Wasserman?” he asked.

She looked at him. Took her a beat to remember her cover name.

“Yes,” she said.

He was a nice-looking kid, maybe early twenties, possibly Cuban-American.

His voice and manner were definitely American. He was smiling, but not hitting on her. She was too old for him, a thought that almost sent her back into a tailspin. He extended an envelope to her.

Before accepting it, she asked, “Who sent this?”

“A guy at the bar gave me twenty bucks to hand it to you. Don’t know what’s in it, didn’t ask. But the guy didn’t seem too creepy or I wouldn’t be doing this.”

“Just creepy enough?” Abra asked, taking the envelope.

“Well … if he’s asking for a date, I’d give him a pass. You can do better, I’m sure. Enjoy your stay in B.A.,
señorita
.”

The kid left, having perked Abra right up. Saying she could do better. Calling her
señorita
instead of
señora
. His description of the guy who’d tipped him for the delivery could have fit Billy Midnight. She wondered if the SOB was watching her right now from some dark corner of the room.

She opened the envelope and took out the card. Sonofabitch. It was from Billy, and she was still in the running to nail Busby. The note on the card gave her the time and place where her
services
would be required. Abra knew she could check with the concierge at the hotel to ask if it was a real address in a good location. The note said she could also pick up an envelope with her payment inside at the front desk.

Without trying to spot Billy, if he was still there, Abra took her pilsner glass in hand and raised it in a salute.

Edmond Whelan strolled through the empty corridors of the Capitol to the suite where his nominal boss, the house whip, had one of his offices, the place where Coleman Carter brought recalcitrant members of the GOP caucus to either cajole or intimidate them into doing the leadership’s bidding, i.e. voting the way they were instructed to do.

More often than not, rank-and-file members were marched out onto the floor of the House and did just what they’d been told. Democracy in action. Well, that was the way things had gone in the good old days.

Customs started to change with Patti Grant’s first election as president. Conservative representatives couldn’t stand her even when she was still a Republican. Her point of view, one of moderation, was supposed to have been consigned to the party’s scrap heap long ago.

Once she became a Democrat, the conservative resistance became open warfare. From the time of the Reagan presidency, party defections went in only one direction: Democrats became Republicans. The very idea that a sitting president could reverse that course was both heresy and a terrifying precedent.

The Grant administration had to be destroyed, never to rise from its ashes.

Of course, after True South had been founded and had become a viable third party, many a conservative had moved on from the GOP, exiting stage right. Those defectors didn’t think of themselves as traitors. They were simply drawing closer to the flame of the true faith.

After the new party opened shop, it made life considerably harder for Carter Coleman. He couldn’t impose party discipline on his most conservative members. If he pushed too hard, they could simply tell him to take a hike and move over to True South. If anything, their voters would applaud the change.

As the big brain behind the tandem of Peter Profitt and Carter Coleman, the pressure was on Ed Whelan to save the day. Ideally, he’d subvert and destroy True South. There wasn’t room for two right-wing parties in Washington. It wouldn’t be long before open warfare broke out between them. Each would attack the other for either insufficient purity or boneheaded extremism.

Leaving the Democrats to look on and giggle into their white wine.

As they continued to win one presidential election after another.

Good God, Ed Whelan thought, two terms of Jean Morrissey following the same number for Patti Grant and the new nanny state might last a century. He wanted no part of that or of the downfall of the GOP.

It was time for him to get out of government and into a think tank. Work from outside of the party structure. Lock up a long-term position with a fat paycheck and start planning the resurgence of a
sane
political right. The
New
Republican Party? That was why it was so important for him to get his original thesis back. He had to hide his own errors to secure his future. He couldn’t let anyone see how many times he’d been wrong. He’d definitely learned from his mistakes, and he felt certain he knew what to do next.

Well, he knew what to do until a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder just as he put his key into the door of the whip’s office suite. He jumped in fright, and a squeak of alarm escaped him. Turning, he saw Capitol Police Captain John Creedy staring at him.

Like he was someone who’d sneaked in off the street.

“Mr. Whelan, sir, haven’t you been told?” Creedy asked, his voice cold.

“Been told what?” Whelan asked.

The big cop stared at Whelan, as if he was only playing innocent.

Whelan held his hands out to his sides, showing he had nothing to hide.

Creedy’s expression changed to one of disgust. He thought it was a shitty thing to do, the speaker and the whip leaving their dirty work to him. Nonetheless, he sucked it up and delivered the bad news to Whelan.

“Your services here are no longer required, sir.”

Whelan blinked and his ears began to ring.

As if he knew he had to compensate, Creedy raised his voice. “You’ve been fired.”

“Who … who told you that?”

“Representative Coleman. The speaker was with him at the time I was informed. Your personal belongings have been packed up and will be delivered to your residence. I was told to ask for your office keys the next time I saw you.”

He held out a large, calloused palm.

Whelan was dazed but didn’t hesitate. He handed over a ring of keys.

“Would you like me to escort you out, sir?”

The former echo of the whip found enough self-respect to straighten his spine.

“I know the way,” he said.

Creedy watched him go, followed, but allowed a buffer of several feet.

The chill March air should have cleared Whelan’s head as he stepped outside but all it did was make him shiver. He started down the steps of the Capitol, needing a moment when he reached the sidewalk to recall how to get home. He’d arrived in a taxi, but he decided to walk back. The distance was almost four miles; he hoped inspiration might strike somewhere along the way. As things stood, he saw his publishing contract and any chance for a major think tank job vanishing. The phrase, “Don’t back no losers,” may have originated in Chicago politics, but as a point of view it was also held dear in Washington.

Nobody in town liked a loser much less rewarded one, and he’d just been fired from his job by two of the most powerful men in Congress.

The thought popped into Whelan’s head that Union Station was nearby.

Maybe he should go step in front of a train.

He didn’t have the resolve to do that. Instead, he mentally catalogued the bars that lay between him and his front door. Drinking himself into oblivion would be a better choice. He headed off, his eyes glazed and his gait wobbling.

He never noticed Eugene Beck following him.

Tall Wolf thought the president seemed pretty chipper for someone who might be booted out of office in the coming week. He took the hand Patricia Grant extended to him and shook it gently and looked at her closely. She smiled at him with a gleam in her eye.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Co-director, do I have some spinach stuck between my teeth?”

“No, ma’am, your teeth are perfect.”

“Didn’t start out that way. A fair piece of money from my parents and the dedicated work of an orthodontist who knew his stuff got things moving in the right direction. A little more work in Hollywood put the polish on, so to speak.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With his substantial height advantage, Tall Wolf didn’t have any problem seeing he was alone with the president. He hadn’t expected that. She noticed him checking out his surroundings.

“You were expecting someone else to be here?”

“I was told Mr. McGill also wanted to see me, ma’am.”

“He does. He’s upstairs in the residence waiting for you. I just wanted a few minutes of your time, before you see Jim. Is that all right?”

“Whatever you want, ma’am.”

“Good. Please take a seat.” She gestured to the guest chairs placed in front of her desk. Tall Wolf waited until she sat before he did the same.

“How may I help, Madam President?”

Patricia Grant asked Tall Wolf if he’d seen or read about her Committed Capital announcement.

“Both, ma’am.”

“Good. As a spin-off, the board of CC has decided to award a hundred scholarships to incoming college freshmen who choose to major in math, science and technology. These will be full-ride funding: tuition, fees, room and board and education-related travel and lodging. The
quid pro quo
will be that each recipient will promise to work in the United States for ten years. If they start a company, it must be based here and the people they hire must be their fellow Americans.”

“I like it,” Tall Wolf said with a smile. “Who else knows about this, ma’am?”

“Other than the people directly involved, you’re the first.”

Tall Wolf didn’t hide his surprise.

“I hope you don’t mind, John. I wanted a candid reaction.”

Tall Wolf told the president about the idea he and his cousin had to start a major Native American university on the Northern Apache reservation.

Patricia Grant beamed. “I think that’s brilliant. I hope you’ll let me be part of your fundraising effort.”

Tall Wolf allowed that they might find room for her.

The president laughed. “The particular reason I asked you to see me is I want to make sure every American student will be eligible for Committed Capital scholarships. I want you to help me reach out to the children of the people who got to this country first.”

“Before there even was a country, as such,” Tall Wolf said.

“Exactly. I know you have your own job to do, but if you could put together a list of people for me to contact, individuals you hold in high esteem, I’d appreciate it.”

“Of course, but if I may ask, why me?”

“I told Jim what I needed. He recommended you as a starting point. Now that I’ve heard about your plans, I’m glad he did.”

Tall Wolf was pretty happy himself.

McGill met Tall Wolf at the door to his hideaway. The White House head butler, Blessing, was on hand to take the visitor’s drink order. McGill recommended the White House ice tea and Tall Wolf went with the suggestion. The two men chatted for a few minutes, McGill hearing about Tall Wolf’s meeting with the president, before Blessing returned with the drinks.

Once they were alone, McGill said, “How do you feel about the way things went in California?”

Tall Wolf told him about his follow-up visit with Mira and the fact that one embryo was still missing.

“Damn,” McGill said. “I hate loose ends.”

“Ms. Kersten indicated the embryo she doesn’t have is the one she wants most.”

McGill made the correct assumption who the male contributor was.

Tall Wolf confirmed his guess.

McGill said, “So it’s not just a loose end, it’s the grand prize. All those other potential kids are just orphans in the storm. I’m thinking less and less of this client as time goes by.”

Tall Wolf replied, “A peril of the private sector. You don’t always get to work for the righteous.”

“Yeah, I seem to remember things being the same way when I was a cop. How about you? Everything copacetic at the Office of Justice Services?”

“I had to lock up an old man I truly admire not too long ago. There’s a chance he might even be my grandfather. The woman who was my estranged grandmother tried to have me killed and came to a bad end.”

McGill gave a soft whistle. “Other than that, everything’s okay?”

Tall Wolf laughed and took a hit of his ice tea. “Yeah, pretty much, once my fiancée and I figure out how we can get married and be together while living and working in two different countries.”

“Sounds like someone will have to relocate, but I’m sure you’ve already thought of that. Meanwhile, back here in DC, I’m tied up for the immediate future. I’m going to be at the president’s side for the duration of her trial in the Senate. Some of the prominent pundits suggest that this is going to be the quickest case in U.S. history, but once something like this gets started, things have a way of setting their own pace.”

Tall Wolf nodded. “You never know who’s going to want his or her moment in the spotlight.”

“Right. Being a footnote in history isn’t much fun if you can manage a paragraph or even a whole page you can call your own. Anyway, my hope is you can take time away from your other duties and catch the SOB who grabbed the embryos in the first place, find the missing one as well. Even if we don’t like the client, the bad guy shouldn’t get away clean. We need to discourage him from continuing his wicked ways.”

Tall Wolf said, “That was my plan, too. I told Ms. Kersten I’d keep on, but not as someone working for her.”

“Right, if she benefits, it will be incidental to our main goal. Please keep in close touch. I want this one to turn out right. If anyone gets in your way, let me know about that, too. I have certain connections.”

Tall Wolf smiled. “I’ll bet you do.”

The two men stood and shook hands.

“May I ask a question?” Tall Wolf said.

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you turn to your partner, Ms. Sweeney, for help with this?”

A sad smile formed on McGill’s face. “She gave me the news when we touched down on our flight from L.A. As far as police work goes, public or private, she is now officially retired.”

Tall Wolf thought about that for a moment.

“But if you weren’t available and I needed to speak with someone?”

McGill nodded. “Sure, if you need to know something, give Sweetie a call.”

He gave Tall Wolf the phone number.