Jim McGill 04 The Last Ballot Cast, Part 1 Read online

  Nick chose to ignore it this time. “You are looking tired, understandably. So it might be easier for you to accept the other thing I have to say to you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “For the immediate future,” Nick said, “no activity for you and the president.”

  “Activity?”

  “Do I need to be more … earthy?”

  “No, you don’t. A little smooch now and then is okay?”

  “Most likely beneficial.”

  McGill asked if Nick had anything new on Kenny.

  He didn’t, so McGill went to his Hideaway and called for Elspeth Kendry.

  Wondered what her sense of urgency was all about.

  “Damon Todd has escaped from CIA custody,” Elspeth Kendry told McGill.

  He blinked as if he hadn’t heard her right. He’d been stretched out on the long leather sofa in his private White House retreat. He’d sat up as Elspeth entered. Or thought he had. Now he wondered if he was asleep and dreaming.

  “Escaped?” McGill asked, not wanting to ask a female agent to pinch him.

  See if he really was conscious.

  “Yes, sir. I was notified as you and the president were on your way here. I thought it best to tell you personally.”

  Not share the news where Patti would hear it; that’s what Elspeth was saying.

  “Thank you for that. Do you have any details?”

  She said she did and McGill told her to have a seat. She sat, almost as reluctantly as Celsus Crogher would have, McGill thought.

  Elspeth told him, “From what the CIA was able to reconstruct, Dr. Todd and two other prisoners, Arn Crosby and Olin Anderson, also fled. A fourth inmate, Arlen Stanwick, was found dead at the security feature bordering the property.”

  “Security feature?” McGill asked. He was used to hearing government jargon substituted for plain English, but that was a new one. “Is that supposed to mean a fence or a wall?”

  The special agent struggled to contain her disgust. “The CIA doesn’t use anything that prosaic, sir. They put up something called a hot sheet, a synthetic fabric that conducts electricity. The way it was explained to me, it’s something that can’t be climbed and because the weave of the fabric varies in density from the ground to ten feet in height, from ten to twenty feet and twenty feet to thirty feet, the jolt you’ll get from touching the thing varies, too. Touch it down low, you get knocked on your backside; middle range knocks you out; the upper range fries you.”

  “How about if you have something, an inanimate object, that can blast through it?”

  Elspeth said, “It’s supposed to stretch but not tear.”

  McGill detected a fly in the ointment. “Supposed to?”

  “The fabric was cut, sir, by an edged tool.”

  “Not while it was hot though, right? It was cut after this guy Stanwick ran into or was thrown into the sheet. That did what, cause a need for the system to reset itself? And unless Mr. Stanwick was very small and the others were very strong, they didn’t fling him twenty feet up the security feature.”

  “No, sir. Apparently the hot sheet doesn’t have all the bugs worked out.”

  McGill tried to repress his anger by working out the escape in his mind.

  “Getting to the barrier had to take some doing.”

  “The personnel who were supposed to prevent that have been killed.”

  Damn, McGill thought. The news kept getting worse.

  “How long had Todd known these other two, Crosby and Anderson?”

  “He didn’t. He’d been transferred into their housing unit only the night before. We think he just fell into an escape plan that had been in the works.”

  McGill had to agree with that assessment, only …

  “If Todd hadn’t shown up,” he said, “would Stanwick still have been the one to get electrocuted?”

  Elspeth nodded. “That’s the working assumption, sir.”

  “So why didn’t the others use Todd instead, after he showed up? Personal enmity against Stanwick or something else?”

  The frown on Elspeth’s face showed she didn’t have the answer.

  But McGill thought he had a good guess. “What if the plan was to use Todd to short out the electrical system? Then he saw it coming and forced Stanwick into the sheet.”

  “Is Dr. Todd that smart and capable of being that ruthless?” Elspeth asked.

  McGill nodded. He certainly was.

  Then a jolt that felt electric hit McGill.

  With Todd on the loose, he wasn’t the only one in danger.

  He told Elspeth, “I’ve got to get in touch with Chana Lochlan.”

  Having read the file on Todd, Elspeth knew whom he meant.

  “Yes, sir, right away. Also, the FBI is hoping you can help them find Dr. Todd.”

  After her nap, a shower and a quick once over from Nick, Patti Grant received Acting-President Mather Wyman in the sitting room off her bedroom. She wore pearl gray sweats with the presidential seal on the shirt and fuzzy pink slippers. Wyman was impeccably dressed in a Brooks Brothers suit and looked every inch of what the American people might expect a president to be.

  The thought didn’t cross Patti’s mind very often, but she wondered if, at some subliminal level, the electorate didn’t miss having a man at the head of government. If she were to serve a second term, would that longing rise to the surface? Might a successor even campaign on that issue? It’s time to put a man back in the Oval Office.

  Didn’t have to be a white guy. An African-American, a Latino or an Asian-American might make a case for himself. Mentally surveying the current political landscape, Patti couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather have succeed her than Mather Wyman.

  Well, whatever would happen would happen.

  Her job was simply to make sure she was a damn hard act to follow.

  “You’re looking very impressive, Mr. Acting-President,” Patti said.

  “For an old man who hasn’t gotten much sleep lately? Thank you, Madam President.”

  Patti smiled and gestured Wyman to sit in an armchair.

  She sat opposite him, tempted to curl her feet under her, but keeping them on the floor.

  Mather Wyman was giving her a look of blunt appraisal.

  Patti was sure none of her doctors, certainly not Nick, would have blabbed about her episode of mitral valve prolapse. Jim wouldn’t have told even Sweetie without her permission. So —

  “Please pardon me, Madam President,” Wyman said, “but when you spent an extra day in the hospital, I had a staffer contact the Surgeon General’s office and ask, without specific reference to you, what might extend a bone marrow donor’s time as an inpatient.”

  Patti nodded, an appropriate and thoughtful approach for a man who might wonder when the boss would return.

  “What did you find out, Mather?”

  “I was told a complication from anesthesia would be the most likely cause.”

  “Smart people in the Surgeon General’s office.”

  “I didn’t want to pry, but I plan to make a statement about the assault on the Salvation’s Path property today, and I feel certain that I’ll be asked how you feel about the matter and when you will resume office.”

  Patti thought Wyman had assessed the situation precisely. Which was more than she had done. She didn’t think she was impaired in any permanent way, but for the moment she felt as though … she had lost a step, to use a sports metaphor. Her energy was low. She was able to focus on the moment, for the most part, but looking ahead to see what might come next was harder.

  Her mind kept returning to what Jim had told her last night.

  Kenny had said he could feel her inside him.

  For a woman unable to have her own children …

  “Madam President, are you all right?”

  She looked up and saw Mather standing in front of her, extending his handkerchief to her. She took it and dried her eyes. To reassure Mather, she told him what had given rise to her emotions. />
  Wyman returned to his seat and said, “What a wonderful thing to hear. I can see how that would make you very happy.”

  “It does.” She dabbed her eyes again. “I’ll try to pay closer attention now. What can you tell me about Burke Godfrey? Where is he being held?”

  “At Walter Reed in a guarded room.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  “Concussion and headaches. The doctors say he needs close observation.”

  “Please tell me how the assault went,” Patti said. “Were there any deaths or injuries?”

  “No deaths, I’m happy to say. One man broke his back when he fell off the roof of building. The prognosis is he’ll be paralyzed from the waist down.”

  “How did that happen?” Patti asked.

  Wyman told her of the military’s use of low-flying fighter jets to create prolonged and intense sonic booms. The man who fell was a sniper who had covered his ears to protect himself and lost his balance, according to a witness, another would-be sniper.

  “Did Godfrey’s men shoot at military personnel?”

  Mather Wyman smiled. “Not a round, Madam President.”

  He told her about Ellie Booker having taken Godfrey hostage.

  “I talked to her myself when I called to give Godfrey his last-chance warning. I relayed Ms. Booker’s message to Admiral Dexter. He talked to the SEALs’ commanding officer. They took my word that I felt Ms. Booker was telling the truth. They changed their plans on the spot, deciding to go in, grab Godfrey and get back out without engaging anyone else if possible. That’s exactly what they did, using the tunnels Godfrey had dug for his own purposes. They brought Ms. Booker out along with them. Once that was accomplished, they reported the sonic boom attack was so intimidating that no one in the compound offered the least resistance.”

  Patti smiled and offered brief applause. “Bravo, Mather, bravo.”

  “Thank you, Madam President. After we had Godfrey, we photographed him standing between two SEALs, with their faces concealed, of course. Then we restored power to the compound and broadcast the image. When the people inside saw we had Godfrey, they surrendered. We confiscated their arms and transported them to the disciplinary barracks at Fort Leavenworth.”

  “Maximum security,” Patti said, “but a hospital room for Godfrey?”

  Patti thought she might have done things the other way around.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Wyman said. “I can have Godfrey sent to Leavenworth, too, if you like. My thought was to have him closer to hand, but if you disagree …”

  “No, no, Mather,” she said. “You’ve handled the situation brilliantly. I’m not going to second-guess you now.”

  She might have, if she’d felt more certain of her mental acuity.

  That would have to wait for the moment.

  “Please give everyone involved in our efforts my compliments on a job well done.”

  Mather Wyman beamed. “I will, Madam President.”

  “When you make your announcement to the nation, please say that I completely support your decisions and the execution of them by our armed forces. You may say that I will make a statement about my return to office in the near future, and the nation should rest assured that it is in good hands with you in the Oval Office until I return.”

  Now, Wyman got emotional. “Thank you, Madam President. There is one other issue I feel compelled to discuss with you.”

  “What’s that, Mather?”

  “The charges to be filed against Burke Godfrey and his leadership at Salvation’s Path.”

  The president looked puzzled. “He’ll be charged with the murder of Andrew Hudson Grant.”

  “Yes, of course. I meant in addition to that, for his actions at Salvation’s Path.”

  Patti nodded. She should have thought of that. “What did you and the attorney general decide?”

  “We agreed that only one charge is appropriate: treason.”

  Before Patti could respond, there was a knock at the door.

  Nick stepped into the room, telling the president she needed to rest now.

  30,000 Feet over the North Atlantic

  Sir Hollis Rudd asked Welborn Yates, “Do you think you could fly this bird?”

  The bird in question was a Gulstream G550 that belonged to Sir Hollis. It was carrying the newlywed Mr. and Mrs. Welborn Yates back to the United States from Barcelona on the third day of what was supposed to be a two-week honeymoon. The duration of that nuptial holiday was reinforced by a presidential order; it was not supposed to be cut short.

  Welborn could, conceivably, face a court-martial for disobedience.

  If the president could be bothered with such a trifle.

  Once Mather Wyman had launched the attack on Salvation’s Path, the news spread around the world, even to El Mansou, Spain where Welborn and Kira saw a report on the television in a café. When another bulletin reported that President Patricia Darden Grant had remained in the hospital an extra day, without explanation, after making a bone marrow donation, Welborn and Kira started packing.

  Kira asked, “What’s the fastest way to get home?”

  Flying commercial was not the answer. Welborn said, “I’ll call my father.”

  Sir Robert Reed had lent the young couple the use of his villa in Catalonia. He knew everyone in the British community there. Among them was the billionaire entrepreneur Sir Hollis Rudd. Sir Hollis happened to be leaving for New York the next day and was only too happy to let Welborn and Kira accompany him on his executive jet.

  After making Rudd’s acquaintance and thanking him for his hospitality, Kira took him up on his offer to “kip a bit” in his private cabin. The men sipped soft drinks and Rudd asked Welborn about his military career, learning with great interest that Welborn had been a fighter pilot.

  Answering Rudd’s question about flying his bird, Welborn said, “I might need a minute or two to familiarize myself with the controls but, yes, I’m sure I could.”

  Rudd said, “I can give you a run-through. I’m rated to fly the G550.”

  Of course, he was, Welborn thought. First generation wealth was hands on.

  Rudd said, “I asked because, although you and Kira have been very gracious, I feel a sense of urgency in the two of you. If I’m not mistaken, you’d both like to be home now. I thought you might feel better if you took matters into your own hands, so to speak. Fly this bird from the left-hand seat. With me as your copilot.”

  Welborn got the feeling he’d just stepped into a job interview, but he didn’t care. He felt almost as excited as he had the first night in Spain. When Kira had made sure their honeymoon exceeded expectations.

  The executive jet was a far cry from an F-22 but it would be great to fly again.

  “I’d like that very much,” he told Rudd.

  Welborn got goosebumps when Rudd added, “I think we have sufficient fuel to fly full throttle.”

  The Hay-Adams Hotel, Washington, D.C.

  Reynard Dix, the chairman of the Republican National Committee, had decided to err on the side of caution and move the party’s offices out of the presidential suite when Patti Grant left the party. Despite the urgings of party stalwarts to stay — the hard cases saying the GOP was entitled to stay for a full term even if the turncoat had abandoned them — Dix didn’t want any barbs thrown their way over a symbolic issue. They had bigger fish to fry.

  Besides, moving into the Federal Suite wasn’t exactly slumming it.

  Dix was joined that day by House Majority Leader Peter Profitt of North Carolina and Senator Howard Hurlbert of Mississippi, the first declared candidate for the GOP nomination to be president. He’d announced the day Patti Grant was donating her bone marrow cells.

  In jest, Dix, a Georgian, rapped his knuckles on the table around which they sat and said, “I declare this meeting of the Sons of the Confederacy open.”

  Profitt, who was all business and smiled only when his job required it, replied, “Sorry, I don’t qualify. My family didn’t arriv
e in this country until fifty years after the close of the Civil War.”

  One of the things that kept Profitt from cracking even the slightest of jokes or saying anything that might be considered remotely incriminating was the warning he’d received from his father upon deciding to go into politics.

  “Never say anything you wouldn’t want to repeat in front of a grand jury or your mother’s garden club.”

  Keeping that thought in mind, Profitt spoke as if his every utterance was being recorded by some hostile cabal.

  Howard Hurlbert was far less inhibited. He laughed at Profitt.

  “You were a late arrival because you slick British fellas down in Trinidad got rid of slavery in the 1830s but you made do with indentured help you brought in right up into the twentieth century. When that game was up, that’s when your family and all its money came to America.”

  Hurlbert had his facts exactly right. That told Profitt he had somebody competent doing opposition research for him already. Must be his wife, Bettina, or his chief of staff, Bobby Beckley, pushing the cause forward, Profitt thought, because the senator just didn’t work that hard.

  “Now, now, Howard,” Dix said. “I was just joking about the Stars and Bars, and I’m sure Peter was just keeping the record straight, didn’t intend any offense.”

  Profitt said, “I also don’t intend to run for president so Howard can turn his oppo research efforts elsewhere.”

  “You don’t?” Hurlbert asked, not sure if he could believe his House colleague.

  “I don’t, I won’t, nobody can make me.”

  Hurlbert seemed relieved, but Dix brought up the obvious question.

  “You do intend to become the next speaker, don’t you?”

  With the death of Derek Geiger, the most powerful job in Congress lay vacant.

  “I’m leaning that way, but I haven’t made up my mind.”

  “Why not?” Hurlbert asked.

  He wasn’t one to ignore a prize that dangled in front of him, free for the taking.

  Profitt said, “What’s going to happen the moment a new Speaker takes the gavel?”

  “We’re going to get to the bottom of how Derek Geiger died,” Hurlbert said.