The President's Henchman (39 page)

“Then if Altman had been sleeping with the colonel, the affair was over. And he’d have to be a pretty vengeful guy to push an adultery charge against a
former
lover, don’t you think?”

“Yes, he would. But push it he did. So something had to be motivating him.” Then Patti saw what McGill was getting at.

He nodded. “What if Colonel Linberg had been sleeping with
Mrs.
Altman to get ahead?”

“Oh, my,” the president said. “That certainly would have embarrassed the general once it got out.”

“Not to mention the Air Force,” McGill added.

“But why would she have done it?”

“Mrs. Altman? Sleep with the colonel?” McGill shrugged. “She found her alluring. Possibly, she was following her husband’s example. Sleeping with comely junior officers. Be a heckuva way for a senior military wife to get even with a wandering husband. Especially if Mrs. Altman was also blackmailing the general into advancing the colonel’s career.”

“All right, but then why would Mrs. Altman want to confess? Why did she set up that lunch date with Welborn?”

McGill had a notion. “The general wants to break up his wife’s relationship with the colonel by sending the colonel to prison. So he brings in Captain Cowan. That punishes his wife in two ways. It shows Mrs. Altman just what a tramp Colonel Linberg is, and it sends Mrs. Altman’s lover off to languish in durance vile. Mrs. Altman doesn’t want her husband to win. So she plans the unthinkable: going public. She’ll have to reveal her own sins, but she’ll have the pleasure of ruining her husband. Her mistake was letting the general find out what she was about to do.”

“And he couldn’t let that happen,” Patti said.

“No.”

“So he turns to Cowan, whom he’s sponsoring for a cushy job with American Aviation, to get rid of her — and possibly incriminate the pesky Lieutenant Yates. Or at least get him thrown off the case so he can bring in another investigator who will be under his control.”

“Yeah,” McGill said.

“But there’s a hole in your theory, Jim. Even with Cheryl Altman gone, Colonel Linberg, could still testify against General Altman if she was really his wife’s lover. She could still embarrass both him and the Air Force. Why wouldn’t the colonel just preempt the possibility of facing a court-martial by saying she’d reveal her affair with Mrs. Altman?”

McGill had considered that. “If she made that threat to General Altman up front, she’d be confessing to adultery. Cheryl Altman was, after all, a married woman. Plus she’d be admitting a lesbian relationship, and as far as I know, the military still frowns on homosexuality. She might have relied initially on Mrs. Altman to keep her from anything worse than being discharged from the Air Force. But then for further protection, the alluring Colonel Linberg gets Captain Cowan to fall in love with her. He double-crosses the general. He plans not to testify against the colonel but to take her along with him to enjoy gainful employment in the defense industry. How can the general object without risking that Cowan, too, will turn against him?”

“And I thought I’d seen it all in Hollywood,” Patti said. “And the American Aviation connection tells us that Roger Michaelson is also involved in this mess through the Merriman brothers.”

“A fine Washington stew, indeed,” McGill said. “But to confirm
any
of it, you’ll have to get Cowan talking.”

“Lieutenant Yates intends to arrest him today,” Patti said.

Damon Todd had a new plan for James J. McGill. Death was no longer enough for the man who’d come between him and Chana. He had a much better idea now. He would send McGill deeper into a K-hole than he’d ever sent anyone. When he pulled him out the other side he would know all of McGill’s secrets, understand how the man was put together. With that knowledge in hand he would twist the fundamentals of McGill’s personality.

If McGill had moments of temper, they would become fits of maniacal rage. If he had a suspicious nature, he would become an unrelenting paranoiac. If he had restless nights, he would experience debilitating insomnia.

The possibilities were endless. Everyone had weaknesses. Extending those flaws, amplifying them, would be no harder for him than getting a rock to roll downhill. True, he’d never worked in a destructive fashion before, but that’s what these people, McGill especially, had driven him to. Maybe he should thank them.

Because fucking with people’s heads would be a lot more fun than sorting out their conflicts, defining their goals, winding them up, and sending them off down productive paths they never could have found on their own.

That ungrateful bitch Chana.

There was only one problem with his plan. The means he’d found for getting into McGill’s P Street office, the place Todd intended to ambush him, had been taken away from him.

On the night he’d first cased the building, he’d gone around to the rear and easily clambered up a sturdy drainpipe to the roof. He found a door there that opened to his touch. A stairway from the roof led to a landing and two doorways. Directly ahead was a door that opened to the hallway outside the office of McGill Investigations, Inc. To the right of the landing was another door to the same suite. That door was locked, but it was also concealed from public view. Todd was sure he could quietly force it open.

Last night, however, he’d gone back to make sure he could still gain access from the roof. But he couldn’t. Some cretin had put a sturdy new lock on the roof door.

As he strolled along P Street in the early-morning sunlight, he saw the very man who might have been responsible for creating that problem. He was dark-haired, with a prominent nose and an olive complexion. Fortyish and fairly large but soft. He was placing chairs around the café table in front of McGill’s office building. The man had just opened a Cinzano parasol above the table when Todd stopped a few feet away from him.

Todd was wearing a loosely cut long-sleeve white dress shirt and relaxed-fit khaki slacks. A pair of clear-lens glasses rested on the bridge of his nose. The clothing hid his musculature; the specs gave him a professorial air. The dark-haired man smiled when he saw Todd.

“Good morning to you, sir.”

“Good morning,” Todd replied genially. “Are you the caretaker of this lovely building?”

“No, sir. I am the owner. Dikran Missirian.”

“Well, good for you.” He’d been right. The prick who’d put the lock on. “I’m new to town. Just found a place to live nearby. Now, I’m looking for office space.”

“I am sorry, sir. I have no space here. But may I ask what is your business?”

“I do medical-research grant referrals.”

“I am sorry. You are a doctor?”

“Yes, I am. But I don’t see patients. When other physicians are seeking money from the government to do research, they call me. I find the most likely source of funding for them, usually from the government but sometimes from the private sector. I guess that’s a long way of saying I’m a consultant.”

Todd was making it up as he went along, but he wouldn’t be surprised if people actually did what he’d just described. It sounded useful enough. Certainly respectable and lucrative enough to appeal to a commercial landlord. And he was right again.

“I have another building,” Dikki said. “Quite close, a few blocks away only.”

“As nice as this one?” Todd asked, playing out his role.

“Much the same. Right now it’s being renovated. Workmen very busy, done soon.”

Todd glanced at the list of tenants on the outside of the P Street building.

“I notice you have an accounting firm here.”

“Wentworth and Willoughby, yes. Very fine people.”

“I’ll need new accountants. Do they handle your business?”

Missirian’s smile vanished. “I am sorry. I talk about this only with my wife and God.”

“A wise practice, I’m sure. Would it be all right if I took a peek inside, since your workmen are busy at your other building?”

“No one is here yet, and I cannot let you into their offices, of course. But if you wish to see the common areas …” Dikki shrugged.

“That would be fine.”

The two men walked up and down the stairs. Dikki didn’t comment on having the president’s husband as a tenant when they reached the third floor, and neither did Todd. Back on the ground floor, though, Todd asked, “It’s just the three firms here then?”

“I have a small office at the back of this floor.”

“So, I could contact you there if I decide to look at your other building?”

“Yes, of course. I am here until five thirty.” He deftly pulled a card out of his shirt pocket. “If you need to talk to me later than that, please use my cell phone. I write down address of other building so you can see it from outside.” He wrote the information on the back of the card.

Todd put it into his own shirt pocket.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Missirian.”

“I am happy to help. And your name please, Doctor?”

“Casey,” Todd told him, “Benjamin Casey.”

He couldn’t imagine that an obvious immigrant like Missirian would know the old TV show. It was one of two names that had popped into his head. He’d always liked Ben Casey better than Dr. Kildare. Ben had more muscle.

Daryl Cheveyo woke up to find he’d fallen asleep in a sitting position. A baseball game was being played on a television in front of him. Both circumstances were very strange. He never slept in chairs, and he didn’t like baseball. Glancing up he saw something silver and shiny encircling his head. He reached for the object with his hands and touched it gently.

He knew what it was as soon as he did: a halo brace. Used to stabilize cervical spine injuries. Which explained why he’d slept in a semiupright position. Couldn’t have weight bearing down on a neck injury.

Had he had surgery? Couldn’t remember, but the brace would seem to indic —

The TV blinked off, and he saw the doctor at his bedside.

“Hope the game didn’t disturb you,” the doctor said.

“No … I don’t think so.”

His throat was terribly dry. The doctor heard the raspiness in his voice and gave him water to sip through a straw. He let Cheveyo hold the plastic cup.

“You can move your hands, I see. How about your lower extremities, do you feel your legs, feet, and toes?”

Cheveyo tried to look down, but the halo wouldn’t let him.

“Try a few small movements,” the doctor said. “You’ll know if you succeed. No need to look. Keep your head and neck still.”

He wiggled his toes. At least he thought he did.

“Very good,” the doctor said. “Can you flex your knees slightly. A little’s enough.”

Cheveyo managed the feat without difficulty. Tried not to let the relief he felt show. The doctor obviously had concerns that he might be paralyzed.

The doctor took the cup from Cheveyo after waiting for him to take another sip.

“Looks like you’re going to be all right. You’ll have to take it easy for several weeks, of course, to protect your neck. Then there will be a few months of rehabilitation. All in all, though, you should be able to resume most of your normal activities.”

Cheveyo managed to smile.

“You want the ball game back on?” the doctor asked.

“No, no thank you. Some more water, please.”

The doctor gave him the cup, moved a bedside tray to where he could reach it.

“You can put the cup down here when you’ve had enough. There are some people waiting to talk with you. I’ll go get them and be back in a couple of minutes. If you need anything, just say, ‘Nurse, please.’ They’ll hear you and be right in.”

Which told Cheveyo he was in the Company Clinic. A fully equipped hospital for patients whose unconscious utterances couldn’t be shared with the world at large. No deductible or copay on the room or the doctor’s fees.

Awake and alone with his thoughts, Cheveyo tried to reconstruct how he came to be in his present circumstances. He had only vague memories. The last thing he could recall was being in Georgetown at night. Doing a snoop on somebody’s residence there …

Not alone, though. Somebody’d been with him.

Friend or foe? He couldn’t remember, couldn’t make the distinction.

But he knew he’d learned something important that night.

Something he had to warn someone about. Something really bad. But he couldn’t remember what it was or who needed to be warned. Suddenly he was all wet. He could feel water running down his chest. Then he realized he right hand was
fully
functional. He’d just cracked the water cup he was holding.

“Nurse, please,” he said.

McGill summoned Deke and Leo to the residence. Caitie was off with Blessing and two other household staffers learning how to play bridge. A phone call to Camp David had confirmed that Abbie and Kenny would be delighted to have Patti’s company that night. They were so pleased, in fact, that they didn’t even inquire about their sister’s dental visit. McGill had guessed right as to the Wisconsin resort where Carolyn and Lars would be staying, but they hadn’t checked in yet.

The hotel phone operator was impressed when McGill asked to have Mrs. Enquist call him at the White House the moment she arrived. It bothered him a little that Carolyn wasn’t there already. The trip shouldn’t have taken long. He told himself that his ex-wife and her husband had simply stopped for lunch or maybe some antique hunting: Lars’s idea of high adventure. They would reach their destination soon enough, and McGill would talk to Carolyn about Caitie’s role in that night’s drama.

A polite knock sounded at the door to McGill’s Hideaway.

“Come in,” he said.

Deke and Leo entered.

“Have a seat, guys. Sorry to call you in on your time off.”

Neither of them grumbled; the right to complain wasn’t a part of their job description.

“Deke, I’m going to need you tonight. You, too, Leo.”

McGill described what Sweetie would be doing that night in Lafayette Square, and that Caitie might be taking part, too.

In a carefully neutral tone, Deke asked, “You’re going to expose your daughter to danger?”

“You’re supposed to see that it’s not dangerous,” McGill replied.

“Are you going to be there, too?”

“Incognito. To back you up.”

“Who’s going to back you up?” Deke asked.

“It won’t get to that. This whole thing is going to be nonviolent.”

“Really? But you’ll want full-measure protection for your daughter.”

Meaning die for her if necessary. Open up with the Uzi if need be.

“It won’t come to that, but yeah.”

“Okay, let’s say it doesn’t. Your daughter’s exposure time will be minimal. I’ll get her out of there safe and sound. Then what? You come with us … or you stay behind to cover Ms. Sweeney until she’s done speaking? And I leave you behind?”

McGill, of course, intended to back up Sweetie.

“I don’t make things easy for you, do I?” McGill asked Deke.

Deke took the question as rhetorical.

“Leo,” McGill said, “you be ready to get Sweetie and me out of there fast, if need be.”

“Sure thing, boss. Always wanted to be a getaway driver.”

“You’ll probably be disappointed about that. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Neither of his minions said a word.

“Then you can get back to your time off.”

They didn’t look like they were counting on that either.

McGill got in touch with Sweetie, told her of his idea to use Caitie that night in Lafayette Square. He suggested meeting her at the office for further discussion, but Caitie, back from her card game, asked if she could see where Sweetie lived.

“Why?” McGill asked.

“I want to see if it’s as big as this place.”

“It’s somewhat smaller than the White House, I’m sure.”

“I’d still like to see.”

“Why?”

“I might want to sleep over the next time I’m in town.”

McGill laughed, but Sweetie said okay. So they convened at Sweetie’s apartment on Florida Avenue. It was the first time either of the McGills had seen the place. James J. thought the apartment was suitably modest for Sweetie, who did her best to eschew most of the world’s material offerings. Caitie thought it was the coolest clubhouse she’d ever seen.

She was particularly taken by the two pieces of art Sweetie had hung on her walls.

A lithograph of T
he Temptation of Jesus
and a black-and-white photo of the Cathedral of Cologne taken shortly after the Allied bombing of World War Two had reduced the center of the city to rubble.

Pointing at the lithograph, Caitie asked, “That’s God and the devil, right?”

Sweetie nodded.

“When Jesus got tempted?”

“Yes.”

McGill took a seat on one of Sweetie’s two kitchen chairs and watched the proceedings.

“I never understood that story,” Caitie said, looking at the picture.

“What don’t you understand?” Sweetie asked.

Caitie turned her attention to Sweetie. “Well, the devil’s offering Jesus all the kingdoms of the world, right?”

“That’s right.”

“But the kingdoms aren’t his to give away, so how can he do that? And what would Jesus want them for, anyway? He could
make
all the kingdoms he wants. He’s
God.”

Sweetie sat on her sleeper sofa; Caitie plopped down next to her.

“The
Son
of God,” Sweetie corrected. “Born of a woman as human as you or me.”

“Or Dad?” Caitie asked.

“Well, we might not want to go that far. Because of his mother, who was still pretty special, Our Lord was subject to some human weaknesses. You’ve learned that he had his moment of doubt, haven’t you?”

Caitie nodded.

“What these stories tell us is that we’re
all
subject to certain weaknesses. There are people who want to trick us. Who want to tempt us. Thing is, sometimes we’re ready to let them. Maybe we even
want
to do the wrong thing. You ever feel like that?”

Admitting to imperfection, especially in front of her father, was a challenge for Caitie, but she said quietly, “Sometimes … maybe.”

“Well, that picture is my warning sign. Tells me when to pull back.

Uncomfortable now, Caitie wanted to change the subject.

“What about the photo of the church?” Caitie asked. “What’s with that?”

Sweetie told her the abridged story of Cologne’s cathedral.

“They started building it in the thirteenth century,” she said. “But they didn’t get around to putting on the finishing touches until the nineteenth century.”

“Wow, they sure worked slow back then.”

“They had a lot to do. Anyway, after six centuries of off-and-on work, they had it done. Then one day in May of 1942, England sent a thousand planes to bomb Cologne, and in a few hours undid a lot of those centuries of work, leaving the cathedral looking like it does in that picture.”

Caitie looked at the blackened shell.

“That’s
awful,”
she said.

“Yeah, and the English were on the good guys’ side.”

“Then why’d they do it?”

“Because the Germans bombed some English cities and cathedrals first.”

“Oh.” Caitie thought things over. “Guess they had it coming then.”

“We’ll talk about that when you’re older. That picture is up there as a reminder to me. Sometimes I have a pretty bad temper. I get mad at people; they get mad at me. And if you’re not careful, well, pretty soon you’re bombing each other’s churches.”

Sweetie took Caitie’s hand. “Are you sure you want to help tonight, kiddo? I won’t think less of you if you don’t.”

Caitie sat up straight. “I want to.”

“Are you scared at all?”

Ten-year-old Caitie McGill looked at her father, then at Sweetie.

“Yeah, a little. It’s like a tickle. It makes me want to run as fast as I can. But I won’t run, not if you and Dad are there with me.”

McGill and Sweetie looked at each other.

They all went outside and got into the car with Deke and Leo. They drove to St. Matthew’s Cathedral on Rhode Island Avenue. It didn’t have the gothic spires of Cologne; it had a Romanesque dome and a red-stone-and-brick facade. The church was where the funeral mass for John F. Kennedy had been said, and apropos of Washington, St. Matthew was the patron saint of civil servants. The McGills and Sweetie partook of the sacrament of confession, reasoning that if you were about to enter a potentially dangerous situation, it was best to do so in a state of grace.

McGill lit two candles before they left. One for all the people he loved. One for the best-laid plans of the president of the United States. When he was still unable to reach Carolyn from his car parked at the curb, he went back inside and lit a third candle. For his ex-wife and her new husband.

Everyone returned to the White House and went up on the roof to look out at Lafayette Square. The Secret Service was not pleased to have anyone outside of the brotherhood see their rooftop defensive emplacements: the radar arrays, missile batteries, and snipers’ stands. Crogher himself had tried to make that point to McGill but to no avail. Unlike Deke and Leo, however, Crogher chose to object, for the record if nothing else.

Looking out across the grounds of the Executive Mansion and the breadth of Pennsylvania Avenue to the park, Caitie said, “This is cool!”

McGill knew that Caitie would boast of the rooftop visit to her brother and Kenny would demand equal treatment, but he’d deal with that when the time came.

Sweetie was studying the FREE ERNA marchers through a pair of binoculars.

“The rev’s not there,” she said. “You think he went home?”

“Maybe,” McGill answered. “Richmond’s not that far away.”

“Should I walk across the street, let his people know I want to chat with him?”

McGill thought it over. He wanted the matter settled. He didn’t know how long his resolve to use Caitie would last, and he didn’t want the threat against his children to remain in place for another minute, much less indefinitely.

“Yeah,” McGill said, “do that.”

Deke offered to go with her, catching Crogher off guard.

Sweetie, however, said no thanks.

“I want all eyes on me,” she explained.

All eyes on the White House roof were. McGill used the binoculars Sweetie had handed him. Caitie cadged a pair from someone else. Everybody watched as Sweetie entered Lafayette Square. The effect was immediate and dramatic. Sweetie brought the marchers to a dead halt.

They all knew who she was. Her face had been on television, arriving at and leaving Erna Godfrey’s trial. Artists’ renderings of Margaret Sweeney testifying at the trial had been published in newspapers and magazines around the country. Here before the assembled believers had come the blonde demon who had seduced or coerced Lindell Ricker into falsely confessing, betraying Erna Godfrey and their holy cause. In Reverend Godfrey’s hierarchy of evil, she was exceeded only by the president, McGill, and Satan himself.

McGill could see the marchers’ expressions, a combination of hostility and fear. For a tense moment it looked like animus might win out, and they would rush her. But Sweetie held up a hand like a traffic cop. Maybe she delivered a few words of wisdom or warning. Whatever the case, she curbed any impetuous feelings the marchers might have had. They went into a huddle like a football team. When they broke from the cluster, one man pointed a finger at Sweetie, then jogged out of the park, heading north, away from the White House.

The others, with impressive discipline, resumed their circular protest route.

Sweetie turned toward the White House and made a gesture with her right hand held tight to her chest. Thumbs-up. The word would be passed to Godfrey. He’d have to show up. How could he fail to do so? He claimed to have God on his side.

“We’re going to do it, Dad?” Caitie asked.

McGill put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. He felt the tickle of fear himself.

“Looks like it, honey.”

“I hope I can be as brave as Sweetie.”

“Me, too.”

McGill was taking Caitie back to the residence when Galia intercepted them.

“Hello, Caitie,” she said. “Do you remember me?”

They’d been introduced on Inauguration Day.

“Yes, you’re Ms. Mindel.” Caitie was good with names and faces. “You’re Patti’s right-hand man.” She was less adept at job titles.

But Galia smiled, and said, “Pretty close. I’m the president’s chief of staff.”

“Is that a good job?” Caitie wanted to know.

“I like it.”

“What do you do?”

“Well, I advise the president, and I do my best to protect her.”

“You mean when my dad’s not here.”

Galia shot McGill a quick look. “Protect her in a different way. Politically. So people will continue to like her.”

“You’d have to be crazy not to like Patti,” Caitie said, “even if she is a Republican.”

McGill intervened, prevailing on a uniformed Secret Service agent to take Caitie back to the residence. Then he turned to Galia.

“The president would like to see me?”