The Echo of the Whip (33 page)

Edmond Whelan had plodded across the better part of the National Mall and veered toward Foggy Bottom on his way to Georgetown when a thought struck him that both organized his mind and energized his body. As bleak as things may have looked for him, he still had one last opportunity of which he might avail himself.

He could get even with the SOB who had stolen the original version of his masterwork.

He’d been wrong in thinking Mira had taken the document. It was only natural, he supposed, to suspect a former spouse who was a political strategist for the other side. The current state of politics in Washington practically demanded that he think of her first as someone who would want to bring him down. You threw in the fact that they’d both decided that living together had become a waste of time and, bingo, who else could have robbed him but Mira?

She’d told him who else and, brother, did that name make sense.

Thomas Winston Rangel, his mentor. The man who had made the introductions and greased the way for him to become a power behind the scenes in Congress. His patron, in effect.

All of the old hands who’d held seats in the House and Senate when Rangel had given him his start had long since retired or lost their jobs in subsequent elections. The institutional memory of who had sponsored Ed Whelan’s rise to prominence had vanished. Now that the time had come for Whelan to suffer for his failings, Rangel didn’t want anyone to recall who had launched the one-time golden boy.

Only there remained documentary evidence of the Rangel-Whelan connection: Ed Whelan’s treatise. With Thomas Winston Rangel’s fingerprints literally all over it. Worse than that, so were Winston’s marginal notes. He’d both praised Ed’s ideas and taken a number of them several steps farther. Some of their combined notions had worked brilliantly. Others had been unmitigated disasters, all the more so for the tactical flourishes Winston had added.

The old man must have felt for some time that Whelan was going to get the axe, and so he had to distance himself from his one-time protégé. Whelan didn’t think T.W. was still active in the troughs of political skulduggery; the guy had to be older than Original Sin, but as long as he was still breathing, he would want to protect his legacy.

That would mean he had to retrieve the laudatory notes he’d made on Ed’s treatise.

He’d have had to hire out to get the job done. If he’d been careful about it, he would have had his thief simply destroy the document, turn it to ashes. But Ed would bet he’d want to read the comments he’d written all those years ago. Find a way to rationalize all his mistakes so he could continue to think he was still the smartest guy in town.

Looking to his left, Ed Whelan saw a taxi pull to a stop at a red light. On impulse, he pulled a back door open and jumped in. He gave the cabbie Winston’s address in Virginia, and as the light turned green away they went.

Leaving Eugene Beck, trailing half a block behind, completely taken by surprise.

But not without being able to see the name of the cab company and the number of the vehicle.

The Co-director of Office of Justice Services was also caught off guard.

As John Tall Wolf left McGill’s Hideaway and the door closed behind him, he heard a jazz tune start to play. McGill must have turned it on. The music sounded familiar to Tall Wolf, but he couldn’t place the name.

Blessing was waiting in the corridor to see Tall Wolf out of the building.

Tall Wolf asked the head butler if he knew what the piece of music was.

“It’s ‘Take Five,’ sir, commonly attributed to Dave Brubeck but actually written by Paul Desmond. I do believe that is The Brubeck Quartet playing, though.”

Tall Wolf smiled. It was clear you didn’t get to be head butler at the White House by letting any grass grow under your feet. As an impish test, he thought he’d see if he could push things just a step further.

“You know when that recording was made?”

The butler cocked an ear; Tall Wolf listened with him.

“Definitely The Brubeck Quartet. So I can only think it’s from their
Time Out
album which was recorded in 1959.” They started walking down the hallway and the head butler added as a bonus tidbit, “‘Take Five’ is the biggest-selling jazz single ever.”

Tall Wolf smiled and asked Blessing if he had any plans for his retirement.

That brought the head butler up short. After a moment, he admitted, “I try not to think of that, sir.”

“Sure, after working for the president, what could compare?”

Blessing gave Tall Wolf a look, not as a polished professional but as a man.

“You have something in mind?”

“My cousin and I are thinking of starting a university. It occurs to me we’re going to need a first-rate faculty. What would you think about teaching a bunch of kids on an Indian reservation in New Mexico?”

For just a moment, Blessing looked stuck for an answer. He could only ask, “What would I teach?”

Tall Wolf said, “Understanding and committing to excellence. How about that?”

A twinkle appeared in Blessing’s eyes. Before he could answer, though, a beep sounded. The head butler took a smart phone out of a pocket and read a text message.

Back in professional mode, he looked at Tall Wolf and told him, “If you have the time, sir, the White House chief of staff would like to speak with you.”

“I’ve just spoken to Mira Kersten,” Galia told Tall Wolf once he was seated in her office with the door closed behind him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ms. Kersten told you about the embryo that’s still missing, I understand.”

“She did.”

“But did she tell you whom she feels sure stole Edmond Whelan’s dissertation?”

Tall Wolf said. “She did, Thomas W. Rangel. I have to admit I’m not familiar with the man. I thought about asking Ms. Kersten for a briefing, but I decided doing my own research would provide a more objective picture.”

Galia said, “I can tell you what you need to know. Rangel was Whelan’s mentor, his introduction to the conservative leadership in Congress. Mira is sure Rangel stole Whelan’s precious pile of political misjudgments.”

“Whelan isn’t the hotshot he thinks he is?” Tall Wolf asked.

Galia sketched a mirthless smile. “He’s had his moments, but he swings and misses more often than he hits home runs. T.W. Rangel was thought to be retired for some time now, but I’ve had word from someone who knows that he’s back in the game. He’s more politically dangerous than Whelan ever was but … well, you’re not interested in the political consequences here.”

“Not at all,” Tall Wolf said.

“What’s relevant to you is that Mira feels Whelan will do with Rangel just what he did with her.”

“Drop in for an unexpected visit?”

“Yes, and sooner rather than later.”

“But Whelan didn’t steal the embryos himself; he hired out. Why would he approach Rangel directly?”

Galia gave Tall Wolf a look, expecting him to see the reason quickly.

He did. “Because it’s personal, and maybe he doesn’t see Rangel as a physical threat.”

“Exactly. On the other hand, we’ve come to think that the threat against Mr. McGill’s life is likely represented by a former member of our military, Eugene Beck, who has special forces training. He’s seen as very dangerous.”

Tall Wolf said, “Ms. Kersten told me she thinks Beck has a score to settle with Whelan, might possibly even do him in.”

That was news to Galia and she didn’t like hearing it second hand.

Nor did she want Whelan to die. She told Tall Wolf as much.

“I trust you’ll do what you can to prevent that.”

Tall Wolf said, “Only up to a point for someone like Whelan.”

Still, he understood that, politically, it would be much better for Whelan to live and stand trial for the crimes he’d committed.

He asked Galia, “So do we both think there’s going to be a party at Mr. Rangel’s house?”

Galia nodded. “That’s the way I see things. Whelan’s almost certain to go there. Beck’s a good possibility, too.”

“What I don’t understand,” Tall Wolf said, “is why Whelan would want Mr. McGill dead. The president’s husband has no real power in government. He doesn’t make policy. He doesn’t appoint anyone to an important job. He can’t veto legislation.”

Galia smiled again, this time with feeling.

“You’re absolutely right. At the beginning of President Grant’s first term, my biggest worry was that Mr. McGill would meddle, stick his nose where it didn’t belong and cause me endless headaches.”

“Instead, he saved your life,” Tall Wolf said.

“Yes, he did, and I’ve come to have feelings for him I’d never have thought possible. So you can imagine how much he must mean to the president. Losing him would effectively end Patricia Grant’s presidency. She might remain in office or she might resign. If she stayed, though, going through the motions would be the best she could do.”

Having talked to the president less than an hour earlier and gotten some small measure of the woman, Tall Wolf had his doubts about that. He thought Patricia Grant might become an avenging angel if she lost a second husband to political violence. Of course, the White House chief of staff might have insights he lacked.

Tall Wolf said, “In any case, it would set a terrible precedent, assassinating a presidential spouse in the hope of destroying an administration.”

“Yes, it would. Without going into specifics, there’s good reason to believe Beck is capable of killing a so-called hard target.”

Tall Wolf only nodded. He understood he’d just been told the man had killed other people.

“Do you understand what I’d like you to accomplish, Mr. Co-director?”

“Bring in the whole shebang of them, if I’ve got my Irish right.”

“You do.”

Tall Wolf got to his feet. “If you’ll give me Mr. Rangel’s address and your phone number, I’ll head right out.”

“I can offer you armed back-up,” Galia said, clearly wanting him to take it.

Tall Wolf shrugged. “Who ever heard of an Indian with a sidekick?”

Galia frowned mightily.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll take Leo Levy as my driver. He carries a gun. If we need more help, I’ll call.”

FBI Deputy Director Byron DeWitt was working late when he got a call from the National Police of Uruguay in the person of Captain Antonio Calvo. The news Calvo had to share amounted to winning the exacta at the Kentucky Derby. Or so it seemed at first. Calvo told DeWitt that the National Police had arrested an American for entering Uruguay illegally, using a fake Canadian passport.

That alone was enough to make DeWitt’s scalp tingle.

Careful not to get ahead of himself, DeWitt replied, “And this person is someone who might be of interest to the FBI?”

“Only if you and your people are still looking for one of your congressmen named Philip Brock. Your notice to Interpol says you are.”

DeWitt wanted to shout in jubilation, but he thought it best to play things cool. “Yes, we are. Will you please detain him until we can arrange for extradition?”

“We would be happy to do that,” Calvo said. “I feel you should know, however, that Señor Brock is already claiming status as a political refugee. He says he is …
momentito
.”

DeWitt overheard Calvo confer with someone on his end.

“Cómo se dicé …”
How do you say …

Calvo returned to the call. “Yes, Señor Brock says he is being
framed
in the matter of planning an assassination of your president.”

“I’m sure he does,” DeWitt said. “He’ll have the opportunity to defend himself in court. Philip Brock has a lot of money; he’ll be able to afford the best defense lawyers.”

“Yes, he has already told us you would say that. He says he is rich, but not so rich as your president, and your countrymen will demand that someone must pay for the crime no matter how much money he has.”

DeWitt intuited what else Brock might have told the National Police. “Let me make a guess here, Captain. Mr. Brock has also suggested he should be able to put up an enormous sum of money as a bond to be allowed to remain free in your country.”

“
Exactamente.
I have recommended that this not be allowed, but my word is not the final one, and if you are familiar with our courts and government in Uruguay, you know we are not swayed by money.”

“Of course,” DeWitt said, “I’m sure you have great respect for the rule of law. If, however, anyone in your legal system were to be inclined to give Brock the benefit of the doubt, you should remember that he used a false passport to enter your country. A man of his resources might obtain another one to leave Uruguay. The FBI has already discovered he traveled from Costa Rica to Panama using a New Zealand passport.”

There was another brief conversation on the Uruguayan end of the call.

“We did not know this,” Calvo said, returning to DeWitt.

“Here are a couple more things you should pass along to your superiors, Captain. The FBI also strongly suspects Mr. Brock murdered a United States senator and a diplomat from Jordan who was stationed here in Washington. Philip Brock is one seriously dangerous man.”

The off-phone conversation in South America was longer this time and a loud female voice seemed to dominate it. DeWitt regretted that he’d never studied Spanish, but hearing a strong woman speak gave him an idea to keep in his hip pocket.

When Calvo came back on the line, he said, “Please be assured I will pass this information along. What you say will be taken into serious consideration. I have something more to tell you: Señor Brock has told us of the whereabouts of another fugitive you are looking for.”

It was all DeWitt could do not to let himself get a woody.

“Tyler Busby?” he asked in a soft voice.

“Sí.”

“Busby is also in your country, Captain?”

“As fate would have it, yes. Señor Brock thought he would give us Busby, hoping to distract us from himself is our guess. He approached an undercover officer, not knowing who she was. He asked her to take a message to the police for him.”

DeWitt laughed audibly. Shit-birds of a feather flocked together, even when they had the whole world to use. The deputy director said, “You see what I mean about Brock being tricky, Captain?”

The captain asked, off-phone, what tricky meant. The female on his end told him and then she came on the phone. “This is Lieutenant Silvina Reyes speaking.”

The woman had a lot of American tonality in her English.

“You’ve lived in the United States, Lieutenant?”

“For many years, yes. My father was a diplomat at the United Nations. Mr. Brock approached me on a street in Punta del Este, a wealthy neighborhood here in Montevideo. I was posing as a nanny. He asked me to go to the police for him. We put a watch on him and arrested him as he was trying to board the ferry to Buenos Aires.”

DeWitt said, “Sure. He scoots out of your country until the uproar over Busby’s arrest blows over and then he comes back when things are quiet. If anyone from your police talks to him then, he just says he was an upstanding guy doing what was right. If you didn’t know any better, he might get a commendation from your government, solidifying his place in your country.”

Silvina said, “And if he feels uneasy when he comes back he just runs and hides somewhere else.”

“Exactly. Please allow me to give you a bit of advice about Tyler Busby. His money makes Brock’s look like chump change. You know what I mean?”

“I do.”

“He also has powerful friends around the world, people in governments that have no love for the United States. If push came to shove, they might give Busby asylum. He wouldn’t like living in those places, but it would be better than a super-max prison here.”

“Might these friends even fly him out of our little country clandestinely, if he was given the chance to remain free on bond?” Silvina asked.

“I know it sounds melodramatic but, yes, something like that is a possibility,” DeWitt told her.

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Deputy Director. I will talk with my father. He will know much more than I do about how the upper reaches of my government might feel about all this, and about what foreign nations might do to assist Mr. Busby. I will get his opinions and forward them to the top of the National Police chain of command.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Please include this in your report. The United States will be very grateful if Uruguay, lawfully, extradites both Busby and Brock to us.”

“I will mention that, yes.”

“You’ll have the time to do everything you need to do?”

“We have learned there is an infant and a new mother in Mr. Busby’s house. We have decided to wait until morning to make the arrest.”

DeWitt was surprised to learn that Busby had, what, acquired a family while he was on the run. Still, he didn’t know if that would be enough to … he had another idea. A risky one. He’d have to consult his own experts before moving on it. But now he was glad the Uruguayan police had given him a window of opportunity.

“Thank you, Lieutenant, and please give my thanks to your Captain. I’m very happy to have heard from both of you.”

“De nada,”
Silvina Reyes said.