Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 2 Page 10

  The two senators saw Galia staring at them. If there was a leak from either of them, she’d have no trouble tracing it. Federal funds due to their states might encounter unexpected bottlenecks of long duration.

  Wexford and Bergen looked at each other and exchanged a silent message.

  “Perhaps it would be better to wait for that information,” Wexford said.

  “As you like,” the president said. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen.”

  She shook hands with both men on their way out. Unless he was a dolt, and he wasn’t, Senator Bergen recognized that his handshake had been a bit longer and warmer. He’d just been recruited as the president’s eyes and ears in the Senate.

  After the door to the Oval Office had closed behind the senators and Galia had silently counted to ten to make sure no one poked his head back in, she said, “Well done, Madam President. Wexford needed to have his courage bucked up a little; Bergen will be ready for the fight. You handled each of them just right.”

  Patti nodded, her mind already elsewhere.

  “Something I should know?” Galia asked, reading her.

  “Jim and I heard from SAC Crogher this morning. Someone broke a window at Jim’s house in Evanston. The rock had a decal on it, an elephant.”

  “That’s not good,” Galia said.

  The president nodded.

  “Whoever did it is going to find out I’m ready for a fight, too.”

  McGill Investigations, Inc.

  McGill and Sweetie had the inner office to themselves. Elspeth and Leo had been left to occupy themselves in the outer office. McGill was relying on Sweetie’s Mother Superior sense of proximate mischief to sniff out anyone — Elspeth — eavesdropping just the other side of the door.

  Sweetie stared at the door as if she could see through it. She turned to McGill and nodded. All clear.

  He’d told her about the rock being thrown through the window of his home in Evanston.

  “I think one of Damon Todd’s new CIA pals did it.”

  “While Todd and the other one are somewhere around here?” Sweetie asked.

  “Yeah, that’s what I think, if they’re going to make a move anytime soon. That’s their style: create a diversion one place, hit another.”

  “If they’re smart,” Sweetie said, “they have to know you’ve read the files the government kept on them. Maybe what happened with the rock was just a way to psych the security people out and see how they responded, back in Illinois and right here.”

  “Gathering their own intelligence, that would make sense. They could see how the security details were reinforced and then watch as they’re drawn down. If they ‘cry wolf’ a few times, they could lull the people watching out for my family into a sense of complacency.”

  “Your family and you, Jim. You’re the one Todd wants.”

  “What about the CIA guys?” McGill asked. “What do you think they want?”

  “Hard to say. They probably aren’t interested in buying a condo in a retirement community.”

  McGill grinned. “Yeah, I’d say that’s a safe bet. What they might think will happen is I’ll rush home.”

  Sweetie said, “But I’ll take care of that.”

  “Take no risks, Margaret. If one or the other of us has to cross the line and put somebody down, we’ll trust in Saint Peter to sort things out.”

  “No temporal worries? We’ve got the local courts greased?”

  “Presidential pardons will be forthcoming as necessary. I’ve been assured.”

  “Good to know people in high places,” Sweetie said.

  McGill told her, “Good but not always easy.”

  “What do you mean?” Sweetie asked.

  “You know how the Federal Election Commission says political campaigns aren’t supposed to coordinate their efforts with Super-PACs?”

  “Not really,” Sweetie said, “but I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Thank you. Thing is, I’m married to someone who’s going to be campaigning for president, and you’re engaged to marry someone who is running a Super-PAC. And you and I —”

  “Work together,” Sweetie said.

  “Right. Suspicious minds with partisan motives might think we’re acting as a conduit for our respective better halves.”

  Sweetie scowled. “Putnam and I never talk politics. Other than in moral terms.”

  McGill raised a fist. “Great. Please keep it that way. Now, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask if it would be all right for me to hire Putnam as my lawyer.”

  Sweetie said, “You’re not about to turn to a life of crime?”

  “No,” McGill said.

  “If you can afford him and he’s willing, be my guest.”

  Under the present circumstances, Sweetie thought it best not to ask why McGill might need Putnam’s services.

  “You want his mobile number?” she asked.

  “It would be better if I got it from another source,” McGill said.

  Sweetie’s scowl returned. The idea that the two of them had to permit subterfuge to enter their relationship after all this time did not sit well. Sweetie stood up to go.

  “It’s all right if I call from Evanston to let you know what I find?” she asked.

  “Of course, and please be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  “Yeah,” McGill said.

  After Sweetie left, McGill called Byron DeWitt at the FBI to make sure he hadn’t been left out of the loop on the broken window in Illinois. He told McGill he’d heard from Special Agent Kendry, and thanked McGill for the courtesy call. His people were still tracking down Todd’s personal and professional acquaintances and cross-matching them against directories of prominent people. That and looking for Realtors who’d dealt with cash customers. It was labor intensive work, he told McGill. Might be a while before they had anything to act on.

  McGill placed one more call.

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Chana, it’s Jim McGill.”

  A hopeful tone entered Chana Lochlan’s voice. “Have you caught them yet?”

  McGill sighed, answer enough.

  But he said, “No. I’m still looking and so are a lot of other people.”

  McGill’s original reason for making the call was simply to see how Chana was holding up but now, with Damon Todd playing head games, McGill came up with an idea of his own.

  “Are you getting restless?” he asked Chana.

  “I love all the time Graham and I have had together, but I’m going crazy from not being able to do any work.”

  McGill said, “Graham’s okay?”

  “As long as he has his computer and a connection to the Internet, he can work anywhere. He’s fine.”

  Graham Keough, Chana’s husband, was the Manager of All Things Creative for a video game company called MindGames. He also owned a controlling interest in the company. There was no reason why he couldn’t work anywhere he wanted.

  McGill said to Chana, “How would you like to spend some of your free time helping me drive Damon Todd to distraction?”

  “I’d love to,” Chana told him. “Can we do it from a safe distance?”

  Aboard the Poseidon — Capital Yacht Club

  Mike O’Dell, former loudmouth-in-chief at WorldWide News, was still so pissed off about being fired he almost told Sir Edbert Bickford to get fucked when the old man called to invite him to his yacht. Then he thought of demanding a written apology before he’d even consider responding to the invitation. But with an effort that caused his whole face to contort, reason elbowed ego aside, and what he said was, “What time would you like to see me, Sir Edbert?”

  O’Dell chose accommodation instead of rebuke because he knew that Sir Edbert, whether he was in legal trouble or not, could still see to it that O’Dell never worked in conservative media again. Where else could he find another job? PBS? Not likely.

  Beyond that, O’Dell had the feeling Sir Edbert had a trick up his sleeve. Firing him
and all the lesser on-air creatures at WWN and hiring that self-righteous prick Ethan Judd had to be a ploy. A con. Now, the boss was calling him back to be in on the payback.

  Hearing the good news on a yacht that he’d been told had cost a million dollars per foot to build was the icing on the cake. God, he loved tough, rich old bastards. The tougher and richer the better. O’Dell thought it would be great sport if they could set up heavy machine guns on the deck of the Poseidon, cruise off to the Indian Ocean and blast Somali pirates like they were ducks in a video arcade.

  They got tired of that, they could turn around and bag wind-surfers off Martha’s Vineyard.

  When O’Dell arrived at the yacht, Sir Edbert had him piped aboard with a bosun’s call.

  How cool was that? He almost got a hard-on.

  The old man invited him into the salon, poured him a drink and got right down to business.

  “You’re too good a man to let lie idle, Mike.”

  O’Dell sat tall in his chair. Had he been on his feet, he might have stood five-seven.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  O’Dell expected the next thing he heard would be that he was back in and Ethan Judd was out. That wasn’t it, but it was almost as good. Maybe better, if he played his cards right.

  “Mike, I’m thinking of starting a new network, one that will run parallel to the new format at WorldWide News. I don’t know if you’ve heard but Ethan Judd has eliminated all forms of commentary over there. There will be no analysts, no spin doctors. There will be journalists only, simple messengers of the facts.”

  O’Dell’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t heard the news.

  The reason for that was simple; Sir Edbert had learned of it only hours ago.

  Had decided things had gone farther at WWN than he could abide.

  “How the hell will people know what to think if we don’t tell them?” O’Dell asked.

  “Exactly, Mike, exactly.”

  O’Dell was a natural street fighter — except he’d never bruised a knuckle or suffered a split lip — and had the instinct to know what was coming next.

  “Your new network, Sir Edbert? That’s the answer to the problem?”

  “Indeed it will be. I’m going to call it WorldWide News in Review. If the original franchise will be strictly journalism, the new effort will be exclusively opinion.”

  O’Dell all but swooned. There would be no need to pretend they were objective. They could rant and vent and shout around the clock. Facts would not only not be checked, they’d be beside the point. Whatever they felt was right would be right. Their ratings would skyrocket.

  Leave the solar system entirely.

  And he —

  O’Dell felt a sudden flutter in his stomach.

  He was going to be in on the whole thing, right?

  The old man hadn’t called him just to yank his chain?

  Sir Edbert saw his minion’s moment of doubt and reassured him.

  “Mike, I want you to lead the effort. You’ll get two hours in prime time, Monday through Friday, and any time there’s a marquee news story, you’ll go on the air from wherever you are. And I want you to choose every member of a conservative all-star supporting cast.”

  Sir Edbert’s words were the realization of a dream O’Dell hadn’t dared to conceive. He felt giddy. Like a kid in a — No, he felt as if he were Harvey Korman in Blazing Saddles. Recruiting every vile desperado in the Old West to further his evil plans.

  His eyes filled with tears of joy. He got to his feet and hugged Sir Edbert.

  Who thought, happily, they hadn’t even talked money yet.

  He patted O’Dell on the back and counseled him, “This will take some time to set up, Mike, and we must keep things quiet until we’re ready to make our big splash.”

  O’Dell blubbered, “Of course.”

  But Sir Edbert’s secret was already under assault.

  The bosun who’d piped O’Dell aboard was on Hugh Collier’s payroll.

  3

  January, 2012

  Reserve Drive — Dublin, Ohio

  Vice President Mather Wyman got weekends off. Weekdays, too, lately, if he wanted them. He couldn’t blame the president for taking all his responsibilities away from him. He would soon be trying to take the presidency away from her. She would have looked foolish to her new Democratic colleagues if she’d let him maintain a portfolio of even ceremonial duties.

  If some foreign dignitary died anytime soon, the secretary of state would have to go to the funeral.

  That being the case, Wyman had taken to spending less and less time in his White House office. The estrangement from the power he’d enjoyed as acting president began to make him bitter. His mind kept churning out ways he could make sure he would be the next person to take the oath of office as president.

  Most of his ideas were so melodramatic they couldn’t have sustained a B-movie. Not that they made those things anymore. But they might like the high concept of a closeted widower getting elected and revealing he was gay during his inaugural speech.

  More than one gay man had shielded himself with an unsuspecting wife and children. Wyman had always thought that was a terrible thing to do. He understood well the impulse to protect oneself, but to do so at the expense of deceiving others was just not right. He and his dear Elvie had revealed themselves to each other before they had wed. They had been willing and informed coconspirators.

  They’d been able to pull off the masquerade because they’d gotten along so well when they had both pretended to be straight. Carrying on with that affection and having it ripen into true if platonic love had been easy. They’d both delighted their parents when they’d announced their engagement. Everyone on both sides of the family thought the two young people couldn’t have made a better match.

  Except for the small matter of a mutual lack of sexual attraction, those people were right. When Mather and Elvie had explained that she wouldn’t be able to conceive — they’d gone to the best specialists in New York, they said — they’d been told they should adopt. But that would have meant deceiving a child, along with everyone else, and they wouldn’t do that.

  Mather Wyman had come home to Ohio for the new year because for the moment he had nowhere else to hang his hat. He’d decided he would return to the White House only on such occasions as the president requested his presence. That being the case, his official residence at Number One Observatory Circle had lost its charm and even its legitimacy.

  Moving back into the last home he’d shared with Elvie had been bittersweet. Walking through the old familiar rooms both brought her back to him in a rush of memory and broke his heart all over again. He wondered, had Elvie lived, if they could have come out together.

  Come out together, stay married and have separate discreet affairs.

  As he continued to hold public office.

  The very idea brought a smile to Wyman’s face.

  That would be a high concept for a French movie.

  When Kira came to visit with Welborn and told him she was pregnant, the news brought tears to his eyes. Learning from Welborn how the bastard who’d killed his Air Force friends had died reassured him that his daughter in all but name would have a good man to share her life. He felt happier than he had since losing Elvie.

  The bliss he felt made him wonder if he, too, should take his secret to his grave.

  What purpose would be served by revealing the truth?

  None at all, if it was a matter of telling the man who just arrived at his front door.

  The Oval Office

  Aggie Wu, in addition to all her other duties as White House press secretary, scanned as many national and global media outlets as she could in a given day. She looked for news of any sort that might not only have an impact on the way the president did her job but also stories that would catch the president’s personal interest … and, if possible, be of political benefit.

  She’d found one of the latter, a good one, too.

  But she was
not about to bury her lead.

  The first thing she told the president was, “Ethan Judd would like to do an hour-long interview with you, Madam President.”

  Patti thought about that. She’d long admired Judd’s objectivity, in-depth research and elegant writing when he’d been at the New York Times and other papers that made an honest effort to maintain a sense of professional ethics. It had come as a surprise to her to learn that he taken over the news operation at WWN.

  “What’s your take on this, Aggie?” the president asked.

  “He’s cleaning house at WorldWide News, Madam President. I think what has happened over there is Sir Edbert Bickford is busy with his international legal problems. His nephew, Hugh Collier, has taken over day-to-day management of the company. Either as a public relations move, a different point of view by Collier or a combination of the two, the focus of the company has changed, at least for the short term. It would be hard for them to fire the new crew and round up the old gang. I’d say you’ve got at least six months of a new WWN.”

  “Is that reason enough to think that one of my favorite journalists hasn’t decided to cash in? Mr. Judd can’t be too far from thinking about retirement.”

  “I wouldn’t know his personal plans about that, but my guess is he’ll work until he drops. He knew you wouldn’t say yes quickly. What he asks is that you keep an eye on what he does with the network. Whenever you feel you can trust him, if that day comes, he says he’ll be ready to do the interview at a moment’s notice.”

  “That’s both fair and noncommittal. Please let Mr. Judd know I’ll be keeping an eye on his work. Meaning you’ll do that for me, Aggie.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is there anything else?” the president asked.

  “Yes, Madam President. I have a video clip from WTHR, the NBC affiliate in Indianapolis, I thought you might like to see.”

  “Good news or bad?” the president asked.

  “Heroic, Madam President. With a connection to Senator Talbert.”

  Patti Grant, in her former life as a congresswoman, had cosponsored three bills with Senator Charles Talbert. She had a warm spot in her heart for him. She took the iPad Aggie offered her and played the video.