The Echo of the Whip (31 page)

Everyone was spoiled at Bright Wing Country Club where House Speaker Peter Profitt and House Whip Carter Coleman met with T.W. Rangel. As a place where three wealthy old white guys could blend in with the early-bird dinner crowd, though, it couldn’t be beat. Still, just about all the members recognized Profitt and Coleman. They were on the golf course there more often than they were on the floor of the House. They were well known as being among the players most likely to take a mulligan.

Far fewer knew Rangel. He didn’t play golf and consciously avoided media exposure. But in demeanor and dress he might have been the chairman of the membership committee. The three men convened in a private dining room. They all had the filet mignon, well done. At Rangel’s insistence, they abstained from alcohol until their business was concluded.

Rangel had also been the one to suggest using the country club. “What with the upcoming trial of the president in the Senate, certain media outlets might have assigned stringers to follow your movements,” he told the congressmen, “and report on anything curious you do.”

The two politicians said they were outraged by the very thought that they might be tailed like members of organized crime.

“Remember what Mark Twain had to say about that,” Rangel told them. “‘There is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress.’” He added, “Also recall with whom we are dealing.”

“Galia Mindel,” they said in unison.

“Exactly. If you don’t think she has minions among the media, you should retire now.”

Profitt said, “She’s exactly why we’re here, T.W. Someone got to Joan Renshaw at Walter Reed.”

“What do you mean?” Rangel asked.

Coleman told him about the flowers and card delivered to Renshaw’s room.

Rangel understood that the speaker or his whip must have come by their information from a paid insider on staff at the hospital. He didn’t ask for confirmation on that point. It would have been both rude and a rookie mistake. He wouldn’t want to admit to — or lie to — a federal prosecutor that he knew Profitt and Coleman had suborned someone at Walter Reed.

Still, he was curious about one thing: “What did the card say?”

Coleman told him verbatim. “The truth may or may not set you free, but a lie will guarantee you a very bad time.”

Rangel took a moment to think. “Plainly but artfully said. No beneficial promise is made, and if punishment should occur it would be the result of Ms. Renshaw’s own moral failure, not the work of some outside party. I’m not a lawyer, but I can imagine that’s how one might defend the author of that note. I don’t suppose the floral delivery person was caught.”

“No,” Profitt said.

“And now you gentlemen are worried that Ms. Renshaw might withdraw her statement implicating the president as being responsible for Erna Godfrey’s death.”

The speaker nodded. “That’s not all.” He turned to the whip. “Why don’t you deliver this bit of bad news, Carter, in case Mr. Rangel didn’t have his TV on this morning.”

Rangel summoned a small, dusty laugh. Watch television on a Saturday morning? Him? That was the funniest thing he’d heard in years.

Coleman told him about Chief Justice MacLaren’s announcement that he would comment on the way the trial of the president by the Senate would compare to the norms of a typical federal courtroom.

The whip added, “If we do one little thing that looks partisan, that California bleeding heart is going to come down on us like a high plains hailstorm. Majority Leader Worth and the speaker and I have been trying to think how we can stop MacLaren from criticizing us but the best we can come up with is to accuse
him
of playing favorites, if he speaks up.”

Rangel shook his head. “That will only reinforce the partisan divide between the right and the left. The muddled middle will go with whomever they respect more, the chief justice of the United States or Congress.”

Profitt said, “Yeah, well, we can guess what the betting line on that one would be. Voters in the middle of the political spectrum hate the high court maybe half the time, but they hate us
all
the time. So what do we do, T.W.?”

“You call Ms. Renshaw to testify. If she repeats her statement that the president used her to kill Erna Godfrey, that’s your best case. You vote to convict. If Ms. Renshaw comes before the Senate and denies that she ever made such a statement, you bring in your investigator to testify, the woman who took Ms. Renshaw’s statement affirming that the president is guilty as charged. Please tell me your agent recorded Ms. Renshaw’s accusation.”

The two congressmen nodded.

“She did,” Profitt said.

“Thank God for small favors. Try not to lose the recording before it might need to be used. Even with it in hand, though, the other side will say it merely documents a lie.”

Coleman said, “It might be helpful in getting the Democratic votes we need to convict, if Renshaw doesn’t change her original story.”

Rangel sighed. “Gentlemen, the lesson of this exercise is that impeachment really should be left for serious offenses that are plain to everyone. The least taint of political punishment makes the process counterproductive. What the two of you and Majority Leader Worth want right now is to have the briefest trial and the swiftest vote possible. Let each side vote its interests. The required two-thirds majority necessary for conviction will not be reached. Please believe me that Galia Mindel is saving her biggest guns against wavering Democrats until the last moment. Then she’ll make plain that ending Patti Grant’s career will also be committing political suicide, and tell me, please, how often does that happen?”

“So we just eat a big plate of humble pie and like it, is that what you’re saying?” Profitt asked. “We live through one last year with Patricia Grant as president?”

“Mr. Speaker, with whom would you prefer to deal? A wounded, dishonored Patricia Grant who has no choice but to leave the White House at the end of her term or a fire-breathing Jean Morrissey with two possible terms in office ahead of her and an enraged Democratic Party that will vow to stop at nothing to defeat our nominee next year?”

The speaker sighed and conceded, “You’re right, T.W.”

“It’s still a damn bitter pill to swallow,” Coleman said.

Rangel offered them a measure of consolation. “Here’s what you do leading up to the presidential election next year: You do everything possible to bring Galia Mindel down. If you can do that, you’ll really scare the Democrats. Succeed at that and their top political people will be afraid to sign on with Vice President Morrissey. They’ll think if you can get Galia, you can get them, too.”

“I like it,” the speaker said. “If we can get Galia Mindel, that’ll take a lot of the gloss off Patti Grant’s record, too.”

“Yes, it will. I think there’s one more thing you should work on: Put Chief justice MacLaren under the microscope. See if you can find the least indiscretion. Something we might be able to embroider upon. Having the top seat on the Supreme Court come open would be as nice a gift as a new president from our side could want.”

John Tall Wolf’s VIP treatment continued when he arrived at Reagan National Airport in DC. James J. McGill’s own car and driver, Leo Levy, were waiting to take him to the White House. Also present was Colonel Welborn Yates, USAF. He told Tall Wolf he was from that armed service’s Office of Special Investigations but he was detailed to attend to the president’s personal needs and worked at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Hearing all that, Tall Wolf gave a soft whistle and asked, “How’d you gentlemen know where to find me?”

Welborn said, “We spoke to your Co-director at the BIA’s Office of Justice Services.”

“Marlene Flower Moon,” Tall Wolf responded.

“Yes. She said to look for you at the best hotel in town, wherever you were working or, if you were traveling, in an executive aircraft. The word she gave us was you’re an exceptional investigator but you do enjoy your creature comforts.”

Coyote knew him all too well, Tall Wolf thought.

“We called the hotel where you were staying with Mr. McGill,” Welborn continued. “When they told us you had checked out, we checked both commercial and general aviation flights leaving Los Angeles.”

Tall Wolf nodded. “Sounds like you’re a fair hand at investigations yourself, Colonel.”

“Thank you. I’ve had the advantage of top flight training, both institutional and informal.”

The BIA man read between the lines. Colonel Yates had been tutored by McGill.

They reached a gleaming, armored Chevrolet sedan waiting at the curb outside the terminal. A pair of airport cops stood watch over the vehicle to make sure it wasn’t towed or stolen. Leo Levy shook hands with the cops and thanked them for their help.

Then the three men were on their way.

“Why are we going to the White House?” Tall Wolf asked.

“The president would like a word with you. Mr. McGill would also like to see you.”

Tall Wolf raised his eyebrows.

“The president?” His tone implicitly asked what that was all about.

“I’m sure she’ll tell you” Welborn said. “Meanwhile, I’ve been asked to brief you about Eugene Beck.”

“Who’s he?” Tall Wolf asked.

Leo piped up. “That fella we were all looking for out in L.A.”

“The embryo thief?”

“Yes,” Welborn said. “I’ve heard he’s told Mr. McGill’s client where she can find her personal property.”

Tall Wolf said, “Up to a point. I spoke with Ms. Kersten this morning. She shed some light upon the case, including the fact that one embryo is still missing. She asked me to keep looking for it. I explained that I don’t take private clients, but I also don’t like to leave a job unfinished. I’m not going to be told to back off, am I?”

“I don’t think so.” Welborn frowned. “I don’t see why the thief would hold back on just one embryo. Is it to hold as a bargaining chip if he’s caught?”

Tall Wolf said, “
When
he’s caught, if I’m allowed to continue the investigation.”

Leo laughed. “You always get your man, partner?”

“So far. Mostly through dogged determination.”

Welborn said, “Leo and I have read your file, Mr. Co-director. You’ve got more going for you than just persistence.”

“Well, I made good grades in school, and I’ve had some fine training, too.”

“Okay,” Welborn said, “if you’re intent on nailing him, you should know Beck is one dangerous character. He came within a whisker of making Air Force special ops. He drew a paycheck from a private defense contractor after he washed out. I can’t tell you what he did in that capacity, but I will say it was very dangerous work and he always succeeded, too.”

Tall Wolf said, “I’ll take that to mean he’s faced combat or its equivalent, and since he’s still alive and thieving other people likely aren’t.”

“As I said, I can’t speak to that directly, but what I’ve read says Beck likes to whistle a merry tune as he goes about his work.”

“That might mean all sorts of things,” Tall Wolf said.

“None of them especially good,” Leo added.

He pulled up at the Southwest Gate of the White House grounds and talked to the uniformed Secret Service officers. Assured them the big fellow in the back seat was one of the good guys.

Tall Wolf turned to Welborn and told him. “It’s mostly about the leg room.”

“What is?”

“The private planes and luxury hotels. The other amenities are great. But the leg room is a necessity.”

Welborn nodded at the White House as they cleared the checkpoint.

“There’s plenty of that in there.”

Lieutenant Silvina Reyes and Captain Antonio Calvo peered at their respective iPads in the captain’s office. They were reading about the life and times of the fugitive billionaire, Tyler Busby. They’d heard the story, of course, about the planned assassination of the American president. But that was two years ago, and it had happened far away in the giant country north of the equator. So much news was always gushing out of
los estados unidos
that they had forgotten Busby’s name, if they’d taken notice of it in the first place.

Silvina read English much faster than the captain, so she’d moved on from the press accounts about Busby’s doings to a gallery of Google images of the man. It was surprising to her how consistent the man’s appearance remained throughout the years. Oh, he’d aged, certainly, but not nearly so fast as most other people. For a man in his 70s, he still look looked fit and full of energy. Well supplied with ego, too, she thought.

His hair remained full and only slightly streaked with strands of silver. His jawline was firm and his body was lean. His eyes were his best feature, clear and piercing blue, looking like they’d seen wonders and knew secrets others could not even imagine. Throw in his endless access to money, Silvina thought, and there would be women of all ages willing to please him.

The captain looked up from his reading. “The government in Washington wants this man very badly. They would be very pleased with little Uruguay if we handed him to them.”

“You and I might reap a reward as well. Not money perhaps, but advancement. The regard of our superiors and the pride of our fellow citizens. But there is one problem, maybe two.

Captain Calvo sighed. “There are always problems. Tell me the ones you see.”

“Well, we don’t know for sure our informant is reliable. He might simply have made a mistake.”

“Or he is right,” Calvo said, “and Señor Busby is in Uruguay because he made powerful friends in
our
country before he arrived.”

“Exactamente.”

Uruguay’s government had a reputation for probity, but people were people, and even the best of them could fall prey to stunning lapses of judgment. The two cops knew they’d have to be careful. They didn’t want to see a potential triumph turn into a professional disaster.

Nevertheless, the captain said, “This is worth the risk, something that should be pursued. I’m going to have our people watch this fellow.”

“Dressed as those who might be serving the wealthy.”

Calvo rolled his eyes. “Who was it that made you a nanny?”

Silvina gave her superior a friendly salute.

“You,
mi capitán.
” She added, “We should alert all our customs people that this gentleman might decide to leave the country at any moment. Busby hasn’t remained free by being careless. Even if he has powerful friends, he may already have an uneasy feeling that the
policia
are taking an interest in him.”

Calvo smiled. “If he is the man in Punta del Este, he just might. I’ll alert customs.”

“Tell them we especially need our female officers to be on alert.”

“Why women?”

“Busby may have changed many things about his appearance, but I think his eyes will be the same. I think he is too vain to change their color with contact lenses. A woman would notice his beautiful blue eyes more readily than a man would. Tell them to look at the eyes.”

Calvo remembered his premonition that he’d be working for Silvina Reyes one day.

“Sí,”
he said.

He made the call to customs and had no sooner put the phone down than it rang again.

The captain listened to the caller and said, “
Bueno,
bring him in. Yes, to me directly.”

He looked at his future boss and said, “The American you said who was pretending to be a Canadian?”

“Yes?”

“The one who said he was hiding from his brother?”

“Yes, I know who you mean.”

“
He
was trying to escape. He was just picked up trying to board the ferry to Buenos Aires. He has been placed in custody and will be brought to us here directly.”

Lieutenant Silvina Reyes got to her feet and executed a proper salute.

“Bravo, Capitán Calvo.”

He’d been the one to say if the tip Silvina had received was legitimate the fellow who had provided it, this Mallory
hombre,
would try to make himself scarce. Someone who could afford to live in Punta del Este wouldn’t be motivated by money. His self-interest was likely rooted elsewhere.

Perhaps Mallory’s thinking might be if a big fish got caught, pursuing the little fish would be less compelling. Only Captain Calvo was not the sort to ignore minnows. They, too, could be tasty.

The two police officials were tempted to hug each other but they settled for shaking hands.

Knowing they might be on the verge of making themselves legends.