The Echo of the Whip Read online

  He was taking a bath in the real estate market.

  The distance between La Paz and Buenos Aires via the Ruta Transchaco was 2,081miles or 3,350 kilometers. This time Brock traveled on a Maltese passport. It was a grinding drive, but any pursuer would have to wonder where he might have left the road; maybe he’d had a light plane or helicopter waiting for him.

  In Buenos Aires, he broke out his last passport, this one Canadian. The logic behind it was any U.S. citizen with a brain should be able to fool a South American into thinking he was from Vancouver. That and Canadians had far fewer natural enemies than Americans.

  Operating from Buenos Aires, using his Canadian identity and a local real estate agent, Brock bought a modest — 10-room — but comfortable home across the Rio de la Plata in Punta Del Este, Uruguay.

  Uruguay was ranked first in Latin America in democracy, peace, press freedom, proportional size of the middle class, prosperity, lack of corruption and quality of life. It ranked third in South America for innovation, infrastructure and income growth. Overlooked by Brock, it also ranked third in the world for percentage of the population using the Internet.

  Besides all that it had a mild climate and great beaches.

  All in all, there wasn’t much for an anarchist to rail against, but Brock thought maybe he should put that part of his life behind him. About the only complaint he had was the driving distance from Buenos Aires to Montivideo: 594 miles. Ten-and-a- half hours. If you took the ferry crossing the mouth of the river, though, you cut travel time to a mere two hours and twelve minutes, and you cruised in relative comfort. Providing the seas were calm.

  They were and, except for an excursion to the bar for a soft drink and a potty visit, Brock spent the sea cruise in his Land Rover with a view of the water. His decision to be reclusive proved lucky. As the ferry came abeam of a super-yacht making little or no headway, Brock saw a figure that looked familiar on the yacht’s helicopter pad.

  He got his binoculars out of the glove box just in time to make a positive identification. The hair color was different and the man was wearing sunglasses, but Brock had no doubt of whom and what he was observing.

  Tyler Busby was helping an ill-looking, very pregnant Asian woman into the aircraft. A moment later, it lifted off with Busby and the woman aboard and banked in the direction of Buenos Aires. What a gift, Brock thought.

  Busby was the FBI’s most-wanted man. Handing him to the feds might count for … something, should Brock feel an unexpected urge to surrender. He used his phone to photograph the yacht, capturing its name. Wastrel. That made him laugh.

  Even when Busby was in hiding, he couldn’t help but announce himself.

  But should Brock make contact with, say, the U.S. embassy in Montevideo immediately? Help in the capture of Busby before he could hope to get away. How could Brock do that, though, without taking the risk of exposing himself? On the other hand, if he waited to make sure he was safe, who knew where else Busby might run off to and hide.

  In the end, Brock decided self-preservation had to come first.

  He drove off the ferry and to his new home, met the real estate agent, shook his hand and took the keys.

  As things worked out, Brock needn’t have worried about Busby eluding him. They were to become neighbors. A fact he’d learn before Busby did.

  McGill Investigations, Inc. — Georgetown

  “Sorry to ask you to give up your Sunday morning,” McGill said, extending his hand.

  John Tall Wolf shook it. The two men stood in McGill’s office. Tall Wolf had two, maybe three inches of height on McGill. Standing next to Deke Ky, the BIA man and the Secret Service agent were a real Mutt and Jeff act.

  Tall Wolf said, “No problem. I had time to have breakfast with my fiancée and see her off to the airport.”

  McGill smiled. “You’re getting married? Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m not taking you away from any wedding planning, am I?”

  Tall Wolf smiled. “Rebecca is a lieutenant in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. We’ve got a lot of planning to do to get things right. Our exchange of vows is certain but not imminent.”

  Another commuter marriage, McGill thought. Maybe it was a new trend.

  He offered Tall Wolf a seat, asked if he’d like something to drink. Within a minute, Dikki Missirian, the building owner, delivered two bottles of San Pellegrino, introduced himself to Tall Wolf and bowed out. Deke stepped into the outer office.

  Sweetie, an observant Catholic, was spending the morning at church and a family brunch.

  McGill raised his glass and Tall Wolf did likewise.

  “Here’s to a productive relationship,” McGill said.

  “Getting the job done.” After taking a sip of his sparkling water, Tall Wolf added, “I’ve heard about your basketball game with Senator Michaelson. Would have liked to see it. But were you serious about punching out members of Congress?”

  McGill nodded. “At the time I spoke, yeah. I can be very defensive when it comes to the president. Upon reflection, it’d probably be better if I let one of them take a poke at me first.”

  “Probably best not to tussle with a female member at all.”

  McGill laughed. “Yeah, good point.”

  “I’m not here on a quid pro quo basis, I’m happy to help, but Deputy Director DeWitt said if I help you out maybe you could ask the president to keep an eye out to recruit Native American candidates for Congress. People who are suitably qualified, of course.”

  McGill gave Tall Wolf an assessing look.

  “Is that a suggestion someone asked you to raise?”

  “No, it’s my idea. Seems like every other ethnic group is making sure they have a seat or ten on Capitol Hill. Why not the people who got here first?”

  McGill nodded. “Sounds like a great idea. If you don’t mind, though, I’d like to put a little spin on it.” He opened a desk drawer, took out a business card and gave it to Tall Wolf. “You’ve heard of Cool Blue, right?

  “The new political party, sure.” Tall Wolf smiled. “They won ten seats in the mid-term.”

  “Nine in the House, one in the Senate. Took four seats from the Democrats, five from the GOP and one from True South. You ask me, they’re the coming thing. The guy whose name is on that card is the man to talk to; you can tell him I sent you.”

  “Putnam Shady. That’s some name.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a good guy. Whip smart. Got a real eye for the future. He’s also married to my partner, Margaret Sweeney.”

  Tall Wolf nodded and slipped the card in a coat pocket. “Thanks.”

  The preliminaries taken care of, McGill got down to business.

  He told Tall Wolf about Mira Kersten’s stolen embryos.

  “From an L.A. clinic,” Tall Wolf said, “and you don’t want any hassle with the LAPD.”

  “Right. Them or any other law enforcement agency.”

  “I know a couple of retired officers from LAPD. They should be able to help me find someone to talk to before we arrive.”

  “That would be good,” McGill told him. “I don’t want to step on any toes, and I’m happy to give any credit for a positive outcome to the local police.”

  “That’d be a start.”

  “Yeah, but if the city cops get territorial, I’m not going to stop.”

  “So, that’s where I come in. Being a fed of some standing, they can’t muscle me.”

  “Exactly … and I thought of an angle to make federal involvement inevitable, if they really get cranky.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, not that I particularly agree with the point of view, but there’s any number of people these days who would argue that personhood begins at conception. You see where I’m going?”

  Tall Wolf smiled. The man had a cunning turn of mind that almost reminded him of Marlene Flower Moon. “I do. If being a person begins at conception, those embryos are people, and stealing them isn’t just theft of property,
it’s kidnapping.”

  “Right,” McGill said.

  “You’re a pretty devious thinker, Mr. McGill. But the FBI usually handles kidnappings.”

  “True. Thing is, we know who some but not all of the fathers who helped create those embryos are. It’s possible to think one of the dads might be —”

  “Native American. I take it back. You are a very devious thinker, sir.”

  Even Coyote would have enjoyed McGill’s guile.

  “Thanks, but call me Jim. I’ll call you John, if that’s all right.”

  Tall Wolf nodded.

  “There’s something else I have to tell you,” McGill said. “I have reason to think that the embryos were taken to be ransomed not used for gestation. Only money isn’t what will be demanded. It will be another commodity considered more valuable.”

  McGill’s vague description registered with Tall Wolf.

  “You don’t want to tell me what that commodity is, do you, Jim?”

  “Not yet. Maybe not at all.”

  Tall Wolf thought about that, remembering who McGill’s wife was.

  Just like Byron DeWitt, Tall Wolf had also voted for the president twice. Was well aware that she had just been impeached. Tall Wolf had the feeling he was about to plunge into deep political waters. It could be to his advantage not to know too much. Should he ever be hauled in front of a judge or a congressional committee.

  “Okay,” Tall Wolf said. “You’ll let me know if and when I should know more.”

  McGill nodded. “Absolutely.”

  McGill’s office phone rang. Mira Kersten was calling.

  She tried to remain composed, but her voice was tremulous. She asked for McGill’s e-mail address. She had something she needed to send him.

  “What’s that?” McGill asked.

  “A photograph of a thawed …” Her voice cracked. “An unviable embryo. That bastard killed one of my babies.”

  WWN Studio — Washington, DC

  WorldWide News lured Didi DiMarco away from MSNBC with a huge contract and the promise of more airtime than any of its other reporter-personalities. WWN boss Hugh Collier had two reasons for making the talent raid. Didi was a genuine audience draw, and he wanted to have another powerful woman on board to give him leverage over Ellie Booker.

  Ellie’s trump card had always been her threat to hook up with another network if Hugh didn’t see things her way. Her streak of independence had begun to seep like a toxic waste spill among WWN’s on-air reporters and, more important, the top producers behind the cameras. If Hugh didn’t put a stop to this spread of personal liberty … well, he could imagine his uncle, Sir Edbert Bickford, the network’s founder, laughing at him from some toasty corner of hell.

  Hugh had killed his uncle, inherited his network and would no doubt burn right next to him eventually, but that was a worry for another day.

  Ellie had scored another coup, interviewing both the president and McGill in the wake of the impeachment vote. Hugh would give an arm and a leg — someone else’s — to get video of McGill actually punching a member of Congress in the nose, but as far as he knew that had yet to happen.

  In the meantime, he’d scored a big “get” for Didi DiMarco’s new Sunday morning show: First Thing. As in the first thing you did to keep up with the world, you watched Didi’s show. As her premiere guest, Didi had another scrappy character, Vice President Jean Morrissey.

  Who knew? By the next time Ms. Morrissey appeared on the show, she might be sitting in the Oval Office running the country. Wouldn’t that be a lovely coup to put Ellie Booker and the rest of the rabble back in their places?

  Hugh watched from the control booth as his new show went on the air.

  Didi gave the viewing audience a polite smile and got right down to business.

  “Good morning. I’m Deirdre DiMarco and this is the first show of the program we call First Thing. The focus here will be to bring you the most important news stories of the upcoming week in a substantive but succinct manner. Our first guest is the vice president of the United States and the former governor of Minnesota, Jean Morrissey. Good morning, Ms. Vice President.”

  Jean’s stylist had set her up with a well-coifed but not overly severe look.

  Feminine but not concealing the VP’s athletic muscle tone.

  “Hello, Didi.”

  “Will you tell our audience, Ms. Vice President, how you think President Grant’s impeachment will affect her, the Grant administration, our country and you yourself?”

  “Of course,” Jean said, “and I should let you know that in accepting your invitation to appear this morning, the president and I discussed what the country might like to know about the situation and I’m authorized to tell you the following: The president will continue in her role of commander-in-chief of our armed forces and as the chief architect of our foreign policy without any diminution of those responsibilities.”

  “I’m sensing a ‘but’ coming next,” Didi said.

  “You’re right about that. As a matter of practical politics, the president has to prepare to defend herself in the matter of her trial in the Senate. She also doesn’t want to be seen as conducting any political disputes outside of the context of that trial.”

  “For fear it might work against her?” Didi asked.

  “Because it’s neither the time nor the place for her to do so.”

  “And where does all this leave you, Ms. Vice President?”

  “The same place it always does, a heartbeat away from the presidency. However, with the extraordinary demands currently being placed on President Grant, I’ve been asked to step up to first place in making sure there’s continuity in the president’s domestic agenda.”

  A small smile played on Didi’s lips. “With the hostility between the majorities in Congress and the president, and adding in the spectacle of the trial in the Senate, do you think you can get anything accomplished in that area?”

  “Well, you’re right about the hard feelings. It used to be we had opposition parties in this country, and that’s a good thing. Ideas should contend and compromises should be worked out. But in the past several years, and especially since Patricia Grant became president, the members of Congress on the other side have become more like enemy forces. Doing whatever they can to destroy Patti Grant politically has become the order of the day. The impeachment is just the latest example.”

  Didi, one smart cookie, felt something good, something big, was coming from Jean Morrissey. She did her best to ask her next question with a straight face. “How do you, with your enhanced responsibilities, intend to respond to such a harsh political environment?”

  “Well, you’re right that Congress isn’t going to pass any law that the administration favors. So that leaves only one tool to use: executive action. I’ll set the tone and the direction for the country that the executive branch has within its purview. The president, of course, will have the final word on any proposal I put forward.”

  A tingle ran down Didi’s spine. She reached for self-restraint, and missed.

  “Forgive me, Ms. Vice President, if I’m getting off-track here, but you were a star hockey player during your college days.”

  Jean Morrissey responded with a straight face. “Yes, I was.”

  “You excelled at both defense and scoring.”

  “I did fairly well, yes.”

  “In fact, you were named an All-American for your playing prowess, but what comes to mind is a certain game against Great Lakes State.”

  Jean only nodded.

  Didi said, “The star player of the opposing team hit your face with her hockey stick right after you scored a goal.”

  “In the game, it’s called a cross-check,” Jean said. “The stick is held in both hands and used as a blunt instrument. It’s against the rules. In my case, my nose was broken, and the infraction was ruled a major penalty.”

  “But that wasn’t the end of the matter,” Didi said.

  “No, it wasn’t. Even though I
was bleeding profusely, I was still conscious. I dropped my hockey gloves and retaliated. I knocked out the opposition player with one punch.”

  In a quiet voice, Didi asked, “Should Congress take any lesson from that incident?”

  The vice president smiled. “I’m not James J. McGill, and I think he was kidding about punching people. I’m certainly not going to hit anyone. But in the coming days Congress will see just what they’ll be getting if the Senate convicts Patricia Grant.”

  In the control booth, Hugh Collier rubbed his hands with glee.

  Dupont Circle — Washington, DC

  As a place to live in the capital, Dupont Circle had just about everything going for it. The area had a Walk Score of 98, meaning there was no end of shops, restaurants and entertainment venues within easy walking distance. The streets there were safe, too. Crime was 60% lower than the city average. Of course, all the benefits came at a price. The median cost of a row house came in at $600,000.

  Having moved to DC from the San Francisco Bay Area, Craig MacLaren, chief justice of the United States, was unfazed by the property costs. Bay Area housing prices were even higher and rising faster. His fellow member of the Supreme Court, Associate Justice Daniel Crockett, on the other hand, had paid only one-fifth of the price of his nearby row house for the four-bedroom home he owned in Tennessee.

  Neither man, however, was thinking of real estate or what it cost to become a homeowner in Washington at the moment. Sitting in the chief justice’s den, they’d just finished watching Didi DiMarco interview Jean Morrissey.

  “I think we just saw our next president introduce herself to the American public,” MacLaren said.

  Crockett steepled his hands. “Possibly, Chief, but you never know what might happen.”

  “Are we having a partisan moment here, Daniel?”

  Both men had been appointed to the high court by Patricia Grant. MacLaren, a Democrat, had been the chief judge of the U.S. Ninth Circuit Court; Crockett, a Republican, had been a U.S. Senator from the Volunteer State. The chief justice had been confirmed by little more than a bare majority vote of the Senate; Crockett had been approved overwhelmingly.