Jim McGill 02 The Hangman's Companion Read online

  Maybe a Porsche like that blonde prick at Callie’s studio was driving.

  Callie Bao. Before he left town, what he ought to do was go see her. Ricky knew she did her old man’s banking. He’d bet the old fuck kept a pile of emergency cash on hand, in case things got hot and he had to di-di. Callie would know where it was; she probably kept her own emergency pile, too. He’d take whatever money he could find and consider it his severance pay. He’d take Callie’s car while he was at it.

  In fact, if she gave him any shit about taking whatever he wanted, he’d tell her he’d rat out her old man. The cops would love to hear about the scam Mr. Respectable Lawyer Horatio Bao had cooked up, using all those kiddy-diddling priests in prison.

  Once Callie heard him say that, she’d settle right down.

  Of course when Ricky told Callie he wanted a taste of her, had from the first time he’d seen her, she might resist. Say that wasn’t part of the bargain. They’d just have to see how much she loved daddy.

  Ricky strode along briskly now, a young criminal with a sense of purpose.

  Magistrate Pruet’s office, Paris

  37

  McGill sat on a corner of Yves Pruet’s table. He was alone for the moment, and took the opportunity to place a call to Muro de Alcoy, Spain. The young man he spoke to was pleasant, helpful, and told him it would take only a minute to see if the item señor requested was in stock.

  Within the promised length of time, the young man came back to the phone.

  “Yes, we have it, señor. Would you like express shipping?”

  “I would,” McGill said, and provided the address.

  “You wish to have the shipping insurance also, señor?”

  “Yes, and please light a candle to see it arrives undamaged.”

  The young man chuckled. “My mother goes to church far more often than I do. Would it be acceptable if she lights the candle?”

  “Yes. Please give my thanks to your mother.”

  With that, McGill provided his name and credit card number. The young man read back the information for confirmation, giving no sign he thought McGill was anyone special, beyond a new customer to be valued for his patronage.

  It reassured the president’s henchman that there were still places he might travel without causing a fuss—provided he wasn’t accompanied by the missus.

  “Gracias, señor. Please let us know if we may ever be of further help.”

  McGill said he would and clicked off. He looked out the door of Pruet’s office, went back inside and made another call. This one was to Chicago and Emilie LaBelle, Glen Kinnard’s daughter, the young woman who had hired him to go to Paris.

  She answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, Emilie. This is Jim McGill. How are you?”

  “I … I’m fine, Mr. McGill.”

  She was surprised to hear from him. He could hear tension in her voice. Just as he’d expected.

  “Your dad make it home yet, Emilie?”

  There was no immediate answer. He heard muffled whispering, as if a hand had been placed over the instrument. Then Emilie came back.

  “Mr. McGill, I feel really bad saying this, but I can’t answer your question.”

  “On the advice of a lawyer?”

  No hand over the phone this time, but somebody in the background whispered again. Emilie disregarded the sotto voce instruction and said, “Yes, on legal advice.”

  McGill thought he heard the sound of a lawyer’s hand hitting a lawyer’s forehead.

  Limiting himself to a smile, McGill said, “Tell everyone not to worry. As long as your dad stays out of the public eye until I give him the word, everything should work out fine.”

  Emilie couldn’t help but ask, “You mean he won’t be arrested?”

  “Not unless he returns to France. Or visits a French possession.”

  Tongue in cheek, Emilie asked, “So a trip to Tahiti’s out?”

  “Did the best I could,” McGill told her.

  “Thank you, Mr. McGill. You did great.”

  “Hope you and your dad get along. Tell him I’m sorry about busting his jaw.”

  A moment later, Pruet entered his office, a gentle hand on the shoulder of Diana Martel, easing her forward. Odo brought up the rear, cutting off the possibility of an impulsive retreat. McGill picked himself up off the corner of Pruet’s table.

  Nodding at the stripper, McGill asked, “Is she ready?”

  “She has been persuaded,” Pruet answered.

  Odo rolled his eyes at his boss’s gentle tone.

  McGill looked at the woman. He could see she was still afraid.

  He told her, “You won’t be able to hide your fear, so use it. Make him think you’re afraid of the police, not him. He’s the one who has to save you.”

  She didn’t meet McGill’s eyes, but nodded all the same.

  “Diana was most helpful,” Pruet said. “She gave us additional information about her friend, how we might have to deal with him.”

  “What kind of information?” McGill asked.

  Pruet looked at the woman, taking his hand away, letting her stand on her own.

  Now, Diana looked at McGill. “One night, a wrestler comes to the club. Romanian. Very big. Close to one hundred fifty kilos.” McGill converted to English measure: three hundred and thirty pounds. NFL lineman size. “His jacket has Olympic rings on it. For first time, I see fear in Etienne’s eyes. The Romanian is very loud, gets very drunk. Wants six girls at his table. Says he’ll pay for every putain in Paris. So all the girls dance for him. He puts his hands on all of us. When time comes to pay, he takes Lili and Nina by the neck.” The memory made Diana briefly close her eyes. “He say he has no money but we must all kiss him goodbye, ask him come back soon, or Lili and Nina…”

  She made the motion of someone breaking a stick.

  “We all look for Etienne, but he has vanished.”

  Good trick for a guy that size, McGill thought.

  “So we all kiss the Romanian, beg him to visit us again. He laughs. Tells us we are good girls. He walks toward door. Then Etienne steps from behind curtain. He has pitcher of vodka. Throws on Romanian. Throws match. Wrestler flambé.”

  Diana smiled now, that memory far more pleasant for her.

  “Etienne not want to burn club, so he hits wrestler’s head with pitcher, jumps on him, smothers flames. Wrestler not so strong now.”

  McGill could see how being set ablaze and hit on the head could take the starch out of a guy. So they’d have to watch The Undertaker for any sign he was carrying an accelerant and matches or a lighter. That and how he might improvise with any found objects.

  “Good to know,” McGill told Diana. “Thank you. Are you ready now?”

  With a shrug, she nodded.

  She was the lure. The Undertaker had to know Diana was a weak link. She could testify against him. So despite any affection he might feel for her, she would have to go. There were always other strippers with which he might console himself.

  McGill understood only a few of the words Diana used during her call.

  But he thought her tone of desperation was pitch perfect.

  The Undertaker would show up that night.

  Under the Pont d’Iéna where the whole thing began.

  Winfield House, London

  38

  As soon as the president got off the phone with McGill, she summoned her chief of staff. Galia appeared at Patti’s private quarters within minutes. Her face was a picture of concern. An urgent summons from the president portended serious matters, especially when the Commander in Chief was visiting a foreign land.

  Galia began to assess the situation at its most basic level.

  “You’re feeling well, Madam President?”

  The question took Patti by surprise. But now that it had been raised…

  “Still recuperating,” she said. “Please have Aggie prepare a press release. Let the media people know that following my appearance at the Queen’s dinner tomorrow, I
’ll be taking a week’s vacation here in Europe. Resting from my labors. Easing my aches and pains.”

  It was, of course, the president’s prerogative to take a holiday when and where she pleased, but Galia had always assumed she would be given proper notice of such a decision, if not consulted on it in advance.

  The president deciphered her chief of staff’s bemused expression precisely.

  “Something the matter, Galia?”

  “No, Madam President. I’ll adjust your schedule accordingly. If the press asks for more specifics as to where you’ll be…”

  “Press Secretary Wu will tell them Europe. That’s all they need to know.”

  Galia understood the president’s natural desire for privacy, but not sharing her vacation plans with the American public might not sit well politically. One look at the president’s face, though, told Galia not to push the matter.

  Seeing that she’d preempted debate on that topic, Patti said, “Galia, who is Jean-Louis Severin’s worst political enemy?”

  “Foreign or domestic?” the chief of staff inquired.

  “Domestic. Who is his Roger Michaelson?”

  “The interior minister, Jules Guerin.”

  “The French interior minister controls the national police?”

  “Yes, Madam President.”

  “Could he force the deportation of someone holding a diplomatic passport?”

  “He might have to consult the Foreign Minister. I’d have to check on that. But even diplomats declared personae non gratae are given forty-eight hours to organize their departures. They’re hardly ever given the bum’s rush, if that’s what you have in mind.”

  What Galia couldn’t keep from thinking was: What had McGill done now?

  Had he created an international incident that would hurt the Grant administration?

  The president, though, didn’t seem intent on damage control.

  Rather, she persisted in her original question. “Work with me on this one, Galia. Could Jules Guerin, if he took it in mind, grab someone and put him on a plane, boat or train out of France?”

  Galia nodded. “If it was important enough to him that he didn’t mind taking the political heat for overstepping his bounds, I imagine he could. After all, he’s got the cops; the cops have the guns. There are long-term institutional checks on his power, but in a moment of madness, maybe he could.” The chief of staff paused momentarily before taking the plunge. “Madam President, are we discussing Mr. McGill here?”

  “Yes.” Patti gave a brief laugh. “But almost certainly not in the way you think, Galia. Will you please find the president of France for me, and tell him I must see him immediately.”

  Galia paused before hopping to it. Hoping for an explanation.

  The president went so far as to tell her: “I’m about to do a big favor for Jean-Louis. So I can collect one later.”

  The collection of IOUs from fellow heads of state was always an agenda to pursue, Galia knew. “I’ll find M’sieur le President right away, ma’am.”

  39

  Indeed, Jean-Louis Severin rushed to Winfield House like a lovesick adolescent. He sat next to Patti on the sofa where he found her, and took her hands in his. Looked into her eyes.

  “Qu’est-ce qui ne vas pas, ma chère?” What’s wrong?

  Patti reclaimed her hands and gently patted his.

  “I’m afraid your interior minister is about to kick my husband out of France.”

  Jean-Louis drew back. “Guerin? Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Because Jim is about to do some dirty work for you with your friend Magistrate Pruet. You know, the fellow you wrote to about your romances with American girls at Yale.”

  The president of France sighed and slouched back into the corner of the sofa.

  “There was but one girl at Yale,” he said, “and we both know who she was. Your husband has learned of this?”

  “He has.”

  “And how did he receive the news?”

  “With great maturity and understanding. He’s been married before himself. Had a romance or two in his time.”

  Patti thought Jim had mentioned another girl besides Carolyn to him one time. But only one time. She’d like to know … but now wasn’t the time.

  “I am very glad to hear that,” Jean-Louis said. “He really should know that a treasured friendship is all that remains between us.”

  “Erika Kirsch should be clear on that point as well.”

  Her former boyfriend laughed.

  “You have always been the smartest one in the room, Patricia.”

  She smiled. “In many ways, I’ve met my match in Jim McGill. But this time he’s overlooked something I’ve seen.”

  “And what is that?” Jean-Louis asked.

  “That if Jim is helping Pruet do some heavy lifting for you against Guerin, then it is in Guerin’s interest to give Jim a quick ticket out of France.”

  The president of France leaned forward, the better to examine that idea.

  “You are right, of course. I should have seen that myself.”

  “New romances can be distracting,” the president of the United States said.

  Jean-Louis nodded. “Mais oui.”

  “Please be careful, old friend. I need you to remain in the Elysée Palace. But after the former Madam Severin has falsely accused me of being your mistress, perhaps she will be more reluctant to accuse anyone else.”

  Patti suspected Jean-Louis’ friend, Magistrate Pruet, might have been deliberately careless in letting his estranged wife browse his old correspondence with the present president of France. But she didn’t say so.

  Jean-Louis leaned forward and took Patti’s hands again.

  “I will be very careful. And I will do anything for you.”

  “Remember those words,” she told him. “Because the day will come when I’ll need your help with something you won’t want to do. But after alerting you to what Jules Guerin is likely thinking, and letting my husband save your derrière, you’re going to owe me a very large favor.”

  It was ironic, Patti thought.

  Jim always did his best to eschew politics, but here he was again.

  Helping her to succeed in her job.

  Arlington, VA

  40

  Horatio Bao hadn’t killed anyone since he’d immigrated to the United States, and he was proud of that. He had ordered the deaths of a dozen people, but had always kept a safe interval, physically and legally, between himself and the blood that had been shed to advance his interests. There was no moral distance between the taking of a life and causing one to be taken, but then morality never had a place in any of Bao’s calculations. Efficacy was everything.

  Holding to that ideal, and having no idea what boobytraps Musette Ky had set for him before fleeing the country, Bao spent hours shredding and burning every piece of paper in his law offices.

  Any record he needed to preserve for future use was encrypted and resided under another name in a server on the far side of the world. Periodically, the lawyer would take a pause from his labors to try to reach his daughter, Calanthe. He tried her cell number, the number at the home they shared, and the number at the townhouse his daughter kept for the times she entertained young men she didn’t wish to introduce to her father.

  Bao understood his daughter’s need to have such a retreat. She was a vibrantly healthy young woman; she required the company of young men. He thought it wise that she indulge herself in casual dalliances before finding the right man to marry. He suspected most of the men Calanthe brought to her townhouse were American. Possibly European. But white, one way or another. He didn’t see her with a non-Vietnamese Asian. The Chinese and Japanese were both historic enemies. The Koreans were … much too fond of garlic.

  Having finally destroyed all the tangible records of more than thirty years of his law practice, Horatio Bao sat down and poured himself a shot of Macallan whisky. He’d learned to appreciate single malt scotch while working with the American
s in Saigon. But he never took more than one drink per day. That built anticipation, made each drop more pleasurable, created a warm glow but didn’t blur his thoughts.

  He tried all three of his daughter’s phone numbers again; got voicemail at each one. It was completely unlike Calanthe to remain unavailable for contact from him for so long. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t bring himself to worry about her. She was too intelligent, too strong, too well trained to fall prey to any common criminal.

  Some sort of automobile accident was possible, a random instance of mischance that even an alert and nimble driver would be unable to avoid, but Bao thought that possibility too unlikely to give much credence.

  Far more likely, he thought, Calanthe had seen a sign she was being observed by the police, or the FBI, and was now on the run. The damnable Madam Ky might have thought it amusing to attack his daughter after he’d set in motion the shooting of her son. God curse her if she had actually caused Calanthe’s death. If that were the case, he would spend the rest of his days hunting down the vile creature.

  But if Calanthe were merely evading the authorities, she would know to turn her cell phone off or dispose of it so they couldn’t track her electronically. Eventually, she would buy a disposable phone and get in touch with him. They would make their plans for a rendezvous and map their futures from there.

  In the early days, Bao and his late wife had a precise evacuation plan, but by the time Calanthe had become his confidante it had become outdated, and he’d become foolishly secure in his status as a prosperous American. He’d come to think he was invincible. It gave him a new insight as to what a huge psychological advantage the Communists had had in their fight against the United States for his homeland.

  Even so, his confidence in his daughter remained complete.