The Echo of the Whip Page 23

  Benjamin nodded and said, “Making what’s not a great big intuitive leap here, you don’t think I could fill in for a French woman —”

  “Who’s also a blonde.”

  “But you do think I might take the place of a, what, Israeli frecha?”

  “I’m sorry, what?” DeWitt asked, not understanding. “A hooker?”

  “Close enough. Frecha is slang borrowed from Arabic. Literally, a chick, as in poultry. Colloquially, a bimbo.”

  DeWitt smiled, happy to expand his linguistic horizons.

  “Well. You got the nationality right,” he said. “Ms. Klein is Israeli, but she was born and raised in Manhattan.”

  As was Benjamin. She sighed. Almost anything to get ahead, she thought.

  “I hope you’re thinking I should let the procurer approach me,” Benjamin said.

  DeWitt nodded. “That’s the only way it would work. We know the hotel where the girls will be staying in Buenos Aires.”

  “Thanks to me,” Benjamin said.

  “Exactly. It’s top-end. You could be visiting wealthy extended family in B.A. Stop in to the hotel bar for a drink looking like a million dollars and —”

  “Wait for a pimp to sweet-talk me into peddling my body.”

  “Well, don’t settle for just any life of vice. Try to make sure Tyler Busby is waiting on the other end.”

  Benjamin rolled her eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  DeWitt said, “Hey, come on. You have to think it’d be pretty cool to have Busby invite you over for what he thinks is going to be a good time and you bust his ass.”

  Benjamin could imagine that scenario and smiled.

  “Yeah, it would.”

  “You can’t have my Warhol,” DeWitt said, “but I’ll help you find something good to hang on the wall when you take over this office.”

  Benjamin said, “Deal.”

  Great Falls, Virginia

  A prominent financial magazine had recently named Great Falls as first in the nation on its list of top earning towns. The residents of a number of locales in Silicon Valley shook their heads in disbelief and laughed at the quaintness of print media. Even so, the ritzy Washington suburb did all right for itself. The housing stock ranged from gracious to gargantuan and the natural beauty of the area was nothing short of spectacular.

  The town also had a reputation as the landing spot for many of the prominent figures who came to Washington to serve the national interest. The fact that they just happened to grow wealthy in the process was simply a sign of the genius of American democracy. Their number included current and former U.S. senators, directors of the FBI and CIA, syndicated media figures and the owner of the local NFL franchise.

  Also included among this elite was Thomas Winston Rangel, retired head of The Maris Foundation think tank, known as T.W. to those he deigned to call friends. On that morning he received at his home Speaker of the House Peter Profitt and House Whip Carter Coleman. As Rangel no longer bothered with going into town, the congressional leaders came to him.

  Exactly as they would do with their top campaign donors.

  Rangel’s houseman, Roosevelt, showed Profitt and Coleman into the solarium, got them seated, inquired as to their needs regarding food and drink, told them the maid would bring their coffee and Mr. Rangel would join them presently.

  Once they were alone, Coleman asked Profitt in a quiet voice, “Not that I’m questioning Roosevelt’s qualifications to do his job, but do you think T.W. hired him for his name? You know, just to have someone with the same name as the Democrats’ most famous president waiting on him hand and foot.”

  Profitt looked around to see if any of the nearby plantings might be hiding a camera or a microphone. Deciding everything he saw was organic not electronic, he nodded. “It’s possible. After all, T.W. was the guy who first suggested that our party do its best to repeal Social Security. If that isn’t a fuck you to FDR, I don’t know what is.”

  Coleman smiled and shook his head.

  “What?” Profitt asked.

  “I was just thinking if Roosevelt, the president not the houseman, hadn’t gotten sick and had some longevity in his family, he might still be president.”

  Profitt feigned a shudder, and then said with a laugh, “At least that would have spared us Patti Grant.”

  For a minute or two the speaker and his whip played a game of conjecture, guessing what other kinds of firsts the Democrats, and don’t forget Cool Blue now either, might nominate as their presidential candidates. They ran through several possibilities, chuckling at each one.

  Coleman said, “It might even come full circle to where running an old white guy might look innovative.”

  The two of them laughed, until they heard T.W. Rangel make his approach, with a maid pushing a silver serving cart bringing up the rear. Profitt and Coleman got to their feet and extended a hand to their host. The strength of Rangel’s grip surprised both of them.

  They all sat and accepted their cups of coffee from the maid. Rangel gave her a smile and a nod. She departed and he wasted no time getting down to business.

  “You gentlemen are in quite the pickle, aren’t you? What with your premature impeachment of the president and the vice president threatening to gut Congress if the president is convicted. But that’s not going to happen, now is it?”

  Both Profitt and Coleman shook their heads.

  Continuing his use of the Socratic method, Rangle asked, “Why not?”

  Coleman, the vote counter, said, “With the arrest of four of our senators, getting to the two-thirds majority needed for conviction will be impossible. We’ll never get enough Democrats to vote with us.”

  “You won’t get any votes from the other side. Not after Senator Pennyman, Democrat of Georgia, had his crimes exposed. You know who was responsible for that, I trust. If you don’t, you’d both better resign your offices, go home and pray your own sins aren’t brought to the attention of the Department of Justice.”

  Coleman looked as if he was about to protest that his soul was spotless, but Profitt laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  “T.W., for the sake of discussion, let’s say that Carter and I haven’t violated any laws. I’m sure, though, we’ve both found ourselves in situations that would be embarrassing if they were made public. Who hasn’t?”

  Rangel didn’t claim to exist in a state of grace. He only remained silent.

  For his part, Coleman settled down, his indignation yielding to honest self-assessment.

  Profitt continued, “But I understand what you’re saying. It had to be Galia Mindel who exposed Pennyman. She sacrificed him to get the other Democrats to fall in line.”

  “Exactly. And if you really wanted to take down Patricia Grant, what should your first step have been?”

  “Get rid of her chief of staff first,” Coleman said.

  “Yes, and then you should have gone after Jean Morrissey and for the coup de grace taken out James J. McGill. And by that I mean destroy his reputation, not kill the man himself. Had you laid that groundwork and then accused the president of Erna Godfrey’s murder, you’d likely have succeeded in convicting her. She might even have been willing to resign. And chances are there would have been no retaliation against the thieves and fools in our party. We’d be looking at a run in power that would be unprecedented in its length.”

  Profitt and Coleman looked at each other, thinking the same thing about Rangel.

  Where the hell were you when we needed you?

  The question was unspoken but Rangel made a further point.

  “Your biggest mistake was trusting Edmond Whelan. As a young man, he showed great promise. His problem was, like so many others, he never lived up to his potential. You gentlemen, though, are older and should have been wiser. You might have retained me long ago to keep an eye on Ed, make sure he didn’t go off the rails. But you came to me only now, after things have been so badly botched.”

  A small shake of Rangel’s head told both Profitt a
nd Coleman how pathetic they were.

  As career politicians, though, they were immune to shame.

  Their only interest now was pulling their party’s backsides out of the fire.

  Profitt said, “So how much will it cost us to get you on board, T.W.?”

  “Figuring in a premium for the urgency of the situation, of course,” Coleman added.

  Rangel told them what he wanted.

  They agreed without hesitation, answering the question that had occurred to them only a moment earlier. Where had Rangel been when they needed him? Waiting for his windfall just like everyone else in town.

  After Rangel had dismissed his visitors, he went to his study and wrote out his notes on the meeting, including the political strategy he’d devised for his new clients. Get the nation’s most well-known general, Warren Altman, former Air Force chief of staff, to be the GOP’s presidential nominee in 2016. True, Altman was not a military figure on a par with Eisenhower or even Kennedy, but he had flown combat missions.

  He’d dropped bombs and killed people.

  Enemies of the United States.

  Let the Democrats nominate their lady hockey player and see how well her record matched up against that. Altman was also a well-known public personality. He’d been a talking head for WorldWide News and later Satellite News America for years. He’d become a polished performer. People who didn’t know any better would trust him to keep them safe.

  Goddamnit, you mess with Warren Altman, he’ll open his bomb bay doors and unload on your sorry ass.

  For a lot of voters, you couldn’t do more for providing peace of mind. Better still, he’d never been a member of the public’s most despised class: the career politician.

  There would be other bases to cover, of course, but as a broadcaster Altman had shown an ease with reading his script and sticking to it. Beyond that, he was a tall, strong, physical presence. He’d intimidate reporters with nothing more than a forceful look. Pretty soon, they’d be asking questions that were meant to please him.

  All of that, of course, had to take place after the nonsense of Patti Grant’s trial in the Senate had been disposed of quickly and put well behind the party. The conservative side of the aisle would unanimously vote to convict, to please its base; the liberal members would vote to acquit to serve its own electorate, and not bring the wrath of Galia Mindel down upon them.

  Soon, it would be yesterday’s news, and while the president would remain in office, she would be a nonentity for the remainder of her term. By her close association with the president, Jean Morrissey would also be politically weakened. Twenty-sixteen would be a tidal wave election year for the right. The White House would be theirs again and their majorities in both houses of Congress would swell.

  Maybe they would even filch the Democrats’ theme song from them.

  “Happy Days Are Here Again.”

  That final thought brought a crocodilian smile to Rangel’s face. He put his pen down and left his handiwork on his desk for Roosevelt to file. He didn’t worry about his servant or anyone else reading what he committed to paper. Rangel composed his thoughts in classical Greek.

  The flaw in Rangel’s thinking on personal security was twofold.

  Roosevelt worked for Galia Mindel as well as for Rangel.

  And she knew people who were also literate in the ancient language.

  Before filing the papers, Roosevelt photographed them with his phone and sent them to a false-front email address where they would be be reviewed within minutes and put to appropriate use before the end of the day. Somewhere, Galia’s spy was sure, FDR was having himself a good laugh.

  The Oval Office — Washington, DC

  Galia Mindel had yet to hear from Roosevelt, but another operative had reported in, causing the chief of staff to hustle down the White House hallway to the Oval Office. Stopping at the desk of the president’s secretary, Edwina Byington, she asked, “Is the president in?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is she alone?”

  “She is.”

  “No visitors or no phone calls until she and I are finished.”

  “Just as soon as the president confirms that, yes, ma’am.”

  Edwina was one of the few people in the White House who had never been intimidated by Galia. Sometimes that rankled; other times it was reassuring. It was good for the chief of staff to know she wasn’t the only tough-minded broad protecting Patricia Grant.

  “You’ll get it,” Galia told Edwina.

  She strode into the Oval Office firmly closing the door behind her.

  The president, Galia saw, was looking out at the White House grounds lost in thought. It was a not uncommon pose for chief executives nearing the end of their terms, she was sure.

  “Pardon me, Madam President, I need a few minutes of your undivided time.”

  Patricia Grant turned and looked at Galia, asking her, “Do you know what I’ve just done?”

  “No, ma’am,” Galia said, hoping not to hear anything that might tarnish the president’s legacy.

  “I was thinking how much my legal fees might amount to, you know, for defending me in my Senate trial.” The president laughed. “I thought I’d better not get caught short, have to make fund-raising appeals to any friends I have left.”

  “Yes, ma’am? I trust you’ll have no worries on that point.”

  The president laughed deeply. “You said we need some time to ourselves? Let me pass the word to Edwina. Have a seat, Galia.”

  The president took her own chair behind her desk.

  She told her secretary no interruptions except for her husband or step-children.

  Then looking her chief of staff in the eye, she said, “If I’ve never told you before, Andy left me money separate from the funds that support the Grant Foundation.”

  “You never talked about it, ma’am, but I assumed that Mr. Grant provided for you.”

  The president nodded. “A blind trust, so there’d be no political damage to me. I explained that to Jim, but he said it was none of his business. Didn’t want to know anything about it.” She beamed. “He said he loved me for my smile not my money.”

  Galia nodded. “Mr. McGill’s charm is legendary.”

  “You have come to like him, haven’t you, Galia?”

  “Yes, ma’am. A man saves your life, you’d be an ingrate not to think well of him.”

  “Jim said he didn’t want to have to break in a new chief of staff.”

  Galia snorted.

  “Anyway,” the president said, “I breached the terms of the trust to see how much loot I have to my name.”

  “And?”

  “And it turns out I’m one of the richest persons in the world. I have billions upon billions at my personal disposal. Andy’s gift for brilliant investing has lived on long after him.”

  Galia took a moment to consider the situation. “That must be both comforting and a bit heartbreaking.”

  “It is both those things, but what also struck me is when I leave the presidency, I’ll be faced with another enormous burden: doing the right thing with this vast amount of money. Keeping all of it just to have it would be immoral. I could simply shift it to the Grant Foundation, but I think … I think it calls for some new planning.”

  “You might tuck away a million or two for Abbie, Kenny and Caitie,” Galia said.

  “If Jim will let me, of course, but that would be just the tiniest start.”

  “You’ll think of something, Madam President. The last time I looked, there were still more problems in the world than resources to solve them.”

  The president said, “You’re right. Now, what problem have you brought me to solve?”

  Galia squared her shoulders and said, “Joan Renshaw is awake and talking.”

  Patricia Grant blinked. “She’s emerged from her catatonic state?”

  “Yes, ma’am. From what I’ve been told her first request was for a drink of water. Then she asked for solid food. She seems to be regaini
ng situational awareness and mental competency at a steady pace. The doctors can’t yet say whether her recovery is temporary or permanent. In either case, though, we have to be prepared.”

  “For what exactly, Galia?”

  “For the very real possibility that a spiteful Joan Renshaw will still have hard feelings about you. That she’ll lie and say you intentionally put her in that cell with Erna Godfrey. That you implicitly intended for her to kill Erna. That a subpoena from the Senate will require her to appear at your trial where she’ll lie about you to the country and the world.”

  The president thought maybe she’d just buy Joan off with a presidential pardon and a spare billion dollars that she’d never miss anyway, but some ideas you didn’t share with anyone.

  “Do what you think is necessary, Galia, but do not go anywhere near Joan Renshaw. That would be the worst mistake we can make. Call my lawyers. Advise them of the situation. Say I’ll talk to them after they’ve had the time to consider this development.”

  Galia nodded. She was glad to see the president was thinking clearly.

  The president talking with her lawyers would be privileged conversation.

  All Galia had done was to inform the president of the new situation. Received instruction to stay clear of Joan Renshaw. If she had to testify at the president’s trial, that fact would play to the president’s favor.

  In the meantime, she had to make sure her spies at Walter Reed overheard every word that came out of Joan Renshaw’s mouth without giving themselves away. Before even that, though, she needed to follow up on what she was about to do before she got the news about the brewing potential crisis. Call James J. McGill.

  Los Angeles, California

  The Commercial Crimes Division of the LAPD had its offices on First Street. Detectives Zapata and MacDuff worked out of the Burglary Special Section. They invited McGill and company to a sit-down in their unit’s conference room. The purpose of the meeting was to share information.

  On the drive downtown, John Tall Wolf had asked McGill, “Do you think a spirit of cooperation is finally taking hold?”