The President's Henchman (26 page)

“It’s no consolation at all,” Crogher snapped.

“Yeah, well. Let’s leave it at this then. You see that funny-looking guy anywhere near the president, you jump on him just like you did on me.”

Then Cheveyo told Crogher he had to go. He had to try to catch up with Todd.

Daryl Cheveyo managed to pick up Damon Todd’s trail. Not on foot. In his car. Foot tracking was beyond him just then. Not only was his neck killing him, he had a pounding headache, too. Fucking blockhead Secret Service agent. Then the CIA man pushed hostile thoughts about Celsus Crogher out of his mind. He couldn’t afford any distractions.

He’d spotted Todd jogging up Wisconsin Avenue, heading north. The hour was late, and the traffic, both pedestrian and vehicular, on the trendy commercial street had thinned considerably from its earlier crush. The few remaining strollers quickly gave way when they saw Todd approach. One or two dared a brief glance over their shoulders after he’d passed.

A
Did-you-see-that?
look on their faces.

Cheveyo had to linger a block behind his quarry. Todd knew his car. One look over his shoulder, and the game would be up. Hanging back, though, Cheveyo could simply turn off into a side street if Todd looked behind him, leaving the guy to wonder if he’d seen Cheveyo’s car or one of many just like it.

As it was, Todd was the one who turned off, hung a right at P Street. Cheveyo didn’t think he’d been spotted, hadn’t seen Todd look back. But he couldn’t take the chance that Todd had set a trap for him. He’d look like a real
putz
if he let a looney-tunes civilian catch him off guard.

Especially after he’d allowed a Secret Service caveman to ambush him.

He turned left on O Street. He drove west a couple of blocks, then came back east on P Street, lights off, a good long straightaway of street ahead to look for Todd. Of course, if the crazed doctor had merely wanted to give him the slip, he could have cut over to Massachusetts Avenue, hail a cab — if one would stop for a freak like him — and been long gone.

If that’d been the case, he’d pick Todd up in the morning. If he could find him.

But he didn’t have to worry. He saw Todd stopped in front of a pale three-story brick building in the block ahead, where P Street curved and overlooked Rock Creek Parkway. The building had been gentrified in keeping with the rest of the neighborhood. A café table sat on the sidewalk outside. He pulled into a parking space and watched.

Todd looked at what Cheveyo guessed was the building’s directory. Then he looked up. Aside from a security light in the entryway, the building was dark. Todd lowered his gaze to street level and looked around. Nobody was on the sidewalks. No cars were moving on the street. Cheveyo’s car was dark, the motor shut down, just another parked vehicle.

Todd slipped around to the back of the building he was checking. What the hell was he up to, the CIA man wondered, a B-and-E? What sense did that make?

When Todd didn’t reappear in ten minutes, Cheveyo thought maybe Todd had spotted him after all. He was lurking at the back of a building he’d picked at random, or because it offered a nice quiet place to dispose of a body. With a guy like Todd, you couldn’t be too careful. It was Cheveyo’s considered opinion that Todd could take it into his head that he was never going to hook on with the CIA, so why get not even and kill the Company’s point man? Him.

The field officer flicked the switch on his car’s dome light so it wouldn’t go on when he opened the door. He silently slipped out of the vehicle, closed the door, and drew his handgun. By law, the CIA wasn’t supposed to operate inside the United States. That statute had been broken often enough in the past, and after 9/11, it was pretty much a dead letter. But it would still be highly embarrassing to him personally if he had to shoot somebody in Washington, D.C.

Be even worse if he left any clues behind.

Much worse if his dead body was found at the scene.

He softly recited prayers in both Hopi and Navajo, asking that his ancestors guide him in both stealth and cunning. The ancient ones must have enjoyed a good laugh because when he slunk around the rear corner of the building the only creature to greet him was a one-eyed alley cat. It took one look at him, yawned, and sauntered off into the darkness.

Of Todd, there was no sign.

Cheveyo went back out front. He checked the building’s directory, to see if he could divine why Todd had stopped there.

It was hardly a challenge. The mad doctor certainly hadn’t been looking for a place to record a CD or have his taxes done. No, he’d come to check out the office of McGill Investigations, Inc. The CIA man, like everyone in town, had heard about the president’s henchman going into the private investigation business.

Until that moment, though, he hadn’t known the location of McGill’s office.

So now Todd had a relationship with a reporter who covered the president and had acquainted himself with the workplace of the president’s husband, pulling both halves of the First Couple into his orbit. Ominous didn’t begin to cover the feelings that gave Cheveyo.

A reasonable man, he thought of taking his discovery directly to the Secret Service. Except his neck hurt so bad. His head, too. He thought he’d better return to Langley while he could still drive. Get himself checked out. Report to his bosses.

Then see to it the Secret Service got notified.

Cheryl Altman never showed up at
Le Petit Voleur
— The Little Thief — the nouvelle cuisine restaurant on M Street she’d chosen as a meeting place. After checking in at the White House and finding no message from the general’s wife, Kira had Welborn’s calls forwarded to her condo. They waited until far into the night to hear from Mrs. Altman. They listened to music, shared a sofa, and didn’t say much to each other. No call ever came.

“Cold feet?” Kira finally asked at ten that night.

Welborn shrugged.

“She had to have some reason to call you.”

“Maybe she liked that picture of me in the
Post.
The one you found so unflattering.”

He didn’t know why he said that. Maybe after all the quiet time, he felt like a little verbal sparring. Or maybe he was just frustrated. Kira responded but not quite in the way he expected.

“You’re not going to sleep with me until this is over, are you?” she asked.

“What?”

“You’re not going to sleep with me until Colonel Linberg meets her fate, whatever that might be.” There was more certainty in her voice this time.

“I didn’t know you were interested.”

“You know. You knew I wanted you the last time you were here. Maybe you only like older women. A mother thing.”

“No mothers,” he said, using the playground admonition.

“What then? You think I’m ugly?”

Welborn grinned. “Nobody has ever called you ugly. I’d bet on that. If some misguided fool actually thought so, he’d be too afraid to tell you.”

“I hate you.”

“I know. I feel the same way.”

“You do?”

He kissed her on the lips this time, but didn’t make too much of it.

“I do. I’d better be going. May I borrow your car again?”

“Where are you going?”

“To see if I can find an older woman.”

Kira drew back from him.

“Mrs. Altman. Maybe there’s an unfortunate reason she didn’t keep her appointment. I think I’d better check with the Metro cops, the hospitals … the morgue.”

“You think she could be dead?”

“I was thinking of another kind of cold feet, the kind that come with toe tags, when you mentioned it just now. So may I borrow your car? Please.”

“Not the Audi for that kind of stuff,” Kira said. “Take the Jeep.”

Alberta Cartwright was sixty-eight years old. She’d driven up to Lafayette Square in Washington that day from Manassas, Virginia. The ladies of her church were going to take their turn marching in protest outside the White House. The very thought that a great woman like Erna Godfrey could be put to death for trying to end the scourge of abortion made Alberta sick to her heart. The idea that she might help avert such a tragedy gave her the energy to keep marching, ’round and ’round, after some of her weaker-limbed sisters had to hand over their protest signs to younger members of the movement.

Truth be told, however, even Alberta’s step was beginning to falter. She’d been at it for hours. Hadn’t had anything to eat in even longer than that. Then she felt a gentle hand fall on her shoulder.

“Allow me to afford you a well-deserved rest, mother,” a deep and instantly recognizable voice said to her.

Alberta turned to look, a smile already formed on her lips, and there he was.

Reverend Burke Godfrey, pastor of the Salvation’s Path Church. Erna’s husband. Walking at her side. Only seeing the Lord Himself would have made Alberta happier.

Reverend Godfrey took the sign from her, took her spot marching in the circle. Alberta kept pace to his right and saw that everyone was smiling. As far as she knew, that was the first time Reverend Godfrey had joined in the protest march to free his wife. Alberta thought it must certainly portend something momentous.

Godfrey recognized the unspoken question in her eyes.

“God has called me here at this moment,” he said.

Shivers rippled through all those lucky enough to be present.

“It’s time to increase the pressure on those who would persecute us,” he added.

“God bless you, Reverend,” Alberta said.

Her words were echoed by those assembled there.

“And may God curse and condemn the evil woman and her wicked consort who live in that fine house.” Alberta thrust a rigid arm at the brightly lit White House.

“Amen,” said Reverend Godfrey.

“Amen,” chorused his followers.

The phone rang in Room 121 of the Traveler’s Rest Motel in Gambier, Ohio, at 3:30 a.m. McGill opened one eye and looked at the digital clock next to the bed where he lay. He knew there was only one person who would call him at that hour.

He picked up the receiver, and said, “The mattress is firm, the pillows are goose down, the bed is altogether snug and comfy. I wish I had you here beside me.”

“Why don’t we keep that between the two of us?” Edwina Byington said with a laugh. Then she added, “Please hold for the president of the United States.”

A few seconds later Patti came on the line, and McGill asked, “You have your personal secretary place your calls at three thirty in the morning?”

“We’re pretty busy around here. Edwina was only saving me a minute in case you were out partying.”

McGill snorted.

“I do appreciate the way you answered the phone,” Patti said.

“That blabbermouth; she said she’d keep it between us. Bet it winds up in her memoirs.”

Patti laughed. “Not that I have any time for you, my love, but I do miss you. It would do me good to know you were near. Do I sound like Abbie?”

“Another sensitive, intelligent woman, yes.”

“I’m sorry about the time, but soon the world will be upon me.”

“Are you up even earlier than usual, or —”

“Or. No rest for the wicked. Well, I might have had a few hours’ sleep, but I chose to stay up and read how John Kennedy handled his Cuban crisis.”

“He probably slept a little here and there.”

“I’ll nap later. If they let me.”

“You’re no good to anyone if you’re too tired to think straight.”

“Another reason to have you come home. You’re the only one everybody around here is afraid of.”

“I should be back this afternoon,” McGill said. “Mr. Meanie, himself.”

Patti said, “Jim, there’s a reason I called besides wanting to hear your voice. Celsus Crogher insisted on seeing me not long ago. He was watching Chana Lochlan’s house last night.”

“Personally?” McGill asked, surprised.

“Yes. It turns out that not long after Celsus took up his observation post he was joined by a field officer from the CIA by the name of Daryl Cheveyo. Have you ever heard of him?”

“No, why was he there?”

“He was assigned to watch a man named Damon Todd, who would like to join the CIA. Mr. Todd was seen leaving Ms. Lochlan’s residence last night. Celsus said he was quote, ‘scary-looking,’ unquote.”

“Celsus
thought someone was scary-looking?” Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

“He’s asked me to have World Wide News reassign Ms. Lochlan. Pull her White House credentials. I thought I’d talk to you before deciding.”

McGill wondered if this Todd character was the guy who’d called Chana. But would she really have had a lover who the Secret Service thought looked frightening? He couldn’t see that. And the name Damon Todd hadn’t appeared on Chana’s list of paramours.

“Did this CIA guy say why he was watching Todd?” McGill asked.

“He didn’t feel free to share with Celsus.”

“Jesus.”

“I have it on my to-do list to chat with the director when I see him a few hours from now.”

“Do you have a press conference scheduled soon?”

“No, but the situation is very fluid. I might call one at any time.”

Damn, McGill thought. “I’d like to speak with Chana Lochlan before she gets bounced. I’m going to talk with her father this morning. He couldn’t see me yesterday.”

Patti said, “I’ll give her one more day.”

“But have Celsus keep a special eye on her.”

“If I call a press conference, he’ll probably make Ms. Lochlan sit on his lap.”

McGill laughed.

Before he said good-bye he asked Patti to sign a picture of herself for Chief Manuala’s family in Honolulu, and do a favor for Kenny he’d thought of last night.

She told him Edwina would have the picture sent to FedEx for the first pickup. The White House Communications Agency should know of a private retailer who could help with the favor for McGill’s son. She’d see that was disposed of that day, too.

“You have to keep the world from falling apart, and you still find time to take care of the little people,” McGill said.

“See what you get with a woman in the Oval Office,” Patti told him.

McGill’s plane had landed at Port Columbus International Airport the day before. The pilot and the crew stayed with the aircraft while Leo and Deke requisitioned a car from the local Treasury Department office. After leaving Ohio’s largest city, they drove for an hour down state roads to reach Gambier. Not wanting to take Chana’s father by surprise, McGill called ahead. Professor Lochlan was at home, but not for long. Two minutes later, he said, and he’d have been out. He was quite surprised that the president’s husband was calling; he hadn’t known of McGill’s current line of work until he was directly informed.

“Why in the world would a private eye want to see me?” he asked. Then he followed up with another question, asked uneasily. “You’re not working for Marianne, are you?”

“No, Professor, this has nothing to do with your ex-wife.”

“Well, that’s good. How about I make you breakfast at my place tomorrow?”

“That’d be fine.”

“Eight?”

“I’ll be there.”

“You don’t travel with a great big retinue, do you? I don’t have enough to feed an army.”

“I have only two men with me, and I don’t feed them at all. Just let them scavenge. Keeps them on their toes.”

Deke shook his head; Leo rolled his eyes.

But the professor laughed, and McGill was pleased both by his sense of humor and Professor Lochlan’s sense of independence. McGill put up for the night at the motel just outside of town. He didn’t want any attention. Didn’t want Gambier’s mayor to give him the key to the city, organize a parade, or do anything else that required a public appearance on his part.

Deke got him a room as far from the highway as possible. Rented rooms on either side of McGill’s as a buffer and firmly instructed the motel manager to keep the situation to himself.

At 8:00 a.m. Leo pulled up in front of Professor Eamon Lochlan’s well-kept two-story frame house not far from the university. Lochlan stood waiting on his front porch. Thankfully, there was no crowd of neighbors to greet McGill. Just one old lady sitting on a rocking chair on the porch of the house next door. McGill thought she had to be Sweetie’s watchful senior songbird, Harriet Greenlea.

Getting out of the car and approaching the Lochlan house, McGill waved to her, and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Greenlea.”

The old woman’s eyes widened in surprise at a stranger knowing her name, but she nodded to him.

McGill climbed the stair of the Lochlan house and extended his hand. “Professor Lochlan, I’m James J. McGill. I know this is unusual, but would you mind if my Secret Service agent takes a quick look inside before I enter?”

McGill could see where Chana got a good deal of her fabulous face. Eamon Lochlan had striking features and a shock of wavy silver hair. Tall and lean, he wore khaki slacks and a denim shirt. The smell of frying bacon drifted through the open doorway behind him.

Eamon Lochlan shook McGill’s hand, stepped aside, and let Deke enter his house.

Then he said to McGill, “If this isn’t about Marianne, it’s about Chana, isn’t it?”

McGill said, “Deke won’t be long, then we can talk inside.”

“She’s all right, isn’t she?”

McGill heard Harriet Greenlea stop rocking, not wanting to miss a word.

“It’ll be just a minute,” McGill repeated.

Professor Lochlan served McGill two eggs over easy, crisp bacon, sourdough toast, and coffee. He had the same and sat directly across the kitchen table from his guest.

“Worked as a short-order cook when I was an undergrad,” he said. “Came in handy after I married a woman who saw a kitchen as a place of female subjugation. Now, sir, would you care to tell me why the hell you’re here?”

Only the two of them were in the room. Deke had the back door; Leo the front.

McGill went with the truth. He’d thought last night of trying to con the man, imagining that was what a practiced P.I. would do. Cops lied at times, too. Some of them more often than not. But McGill usually opted to be honest. He had daughters himself; he’d want to hear straight talk if their welfare was in question.

“Your daughter hired me to investigate a harassing phone call,” he told the professor. He summarized what had happened after that, including talking to Graham Keough, and the fact that the Secret Service wanted to boot Chana out of the White House.

And how he had delayed that action.

Professor Lochlan hadn’t touched his breakfast, and he no longer looked hungry. McGill took the opportunity to eat and give the man time to gather his thoughts. Professor Lochlan had learned his culinary trade well.

“Harriet told me your colleague, Ms. Sweeney, had talked to her,” Eamon Lochlan said finally. “She, of course, said that all she told Ms. Sweeney was that I was a highly regarded faculty member at the college.” He rolled his eyes. “Despite being a very fine neighbor, Harriet likes to look, listen, and talk. Between her and Graham, I imagine you know a good deal about my family already.”

McGill nodded. “Unfortunately, I’d like to know more.”

“At this point, you’re working for your wife, the president, as I understand you.”

“Yes.”

“So I take it her interests are paramount to you.”

“Always. Though equaled by those of my children. I have two daughters and a son.”

“I had another daughter, as I’m sure you know. Would have loved to have had a son.”

“Chana was my first client, Professor Lochlan. I’d still like it to work out that I do the right thing by her.”

“You’re sure she’s in trouble?”

McGill had asked himself the same question. He could come up with only one answer. “Yes, Professor, I think she is.”

McGill’s dialogue with Eamon Lochlan could have ended right there. He’d have understood if the man had thanked him for bringing the matter to his attention, showed him the door, and gotten on the first plane to Washington. Which was why he made his preemptive offer.

McGill said, “I have the use of an aircraft. If you’d like, I can take you to see Chana right away.”

Eamon Lochlan leaned forward as if to get to his feet, paused in thought with his hands flat on the kitchen table, and sat back.

“What would I tell her, Mr. McGill, about why I showed up out of the blue? You certainly don’t want me to tell her what you’re doing. Continuing to work after you’ve been fired.”

“No, I don’t. But as a father I can understand if you don’t give a rat’s backside about what I want.”

“Frankly, I don’t. What I care about is what’s best for Chana.” A tremor passed through him. “I don’t know if I could survive losing her. Not after what happened with Nan.”

McGill stayed quiet, revisited by the fear of how it would kill him to lose one of his children. That fear was swiftly displaced by anger as he recalled that there were people threatening his children’s lives. Lost in his own thoughts, he missed what Eamon Lochlan said next.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “would you mind repeating that?”

“I said I’ve been worried about Chana lately.”

“Why?” McGill asked.

The professor’s face took on a look of guilt.

“After Marianne and I divorced, after I brought Chana home from California so sick, I promised her that I would always be there for her.”

“And you weren’t?”

“Of course, I was,” Eamon Lochlan said self-righteously. But his indignation faded quickly. “What concerns me is that’s about to change.”

McGill’s first thought was, so what? Chana Lochlan was a grown woman, an established professional. Then it hit him for the first time. He, too, would be tied to any promise he made to his children for the rest of his life. Whether they were still young as they were at present or when they were adults like Eamon Lochlan’s daughter. If you loved your kids, you wanted them to make their own ways in life, but if all else failed, you were their safety net.

For as long as you lived.

“Change how?” McGill asked.

“I’m going to Eastern Europe to do research and write a book on the literature of newly freed peoples. See if their works of fiction can show where they’re heading. Whether they’ll succeed in building democratic societies or relapse into authoritarianism. I’ll be gone for at least two years. I thought this would be a good time to make a new start, so I’m retiring from my teaching position and selling this house.”

Sounded to McGill like a good time for Chana to head in a new direction, too. Accompany her father, be his researcher, edit his rough drafts for him. That was until he heard what Professor Lochlan had to say next.