The Echo of the Whip (36 page)

Beck liked the layout of T.W. Rangel’s office and kept his little confab right there. He had Whelan and Rangel seated next to each other in a pair of wing chairs while he perched on a corner of Rangel’s desk. Beck was amused by the fact that his lack of decorum seemed to upset the old man as much as being held captive at gunpoint.

“All right,” he told his two prisoners, “who wants to tell me how the three of us came to be here together? Mercy points will be given for whoever cooperates the most.”

“More,” Rangel said.

“What?” Beck asked.

“You’re addressing two of us. The comparative form, not the superlative, is the one you want. More not most.”

Whelan pointed at Rangel and said, “He’s a stickler for proper grammar. I’m more interested in what mercy points are, and do they extend so far as to include amnesty?”

“You mean a get-out-of-jail-free card?” Beck asked. “Probably not. Mercy means you’re dead before you know it. Lack of mercy means being gut shot, living long enough to wonder if hell could be any worse.” He turned his attention to Rangel. “Did I get all that right, Professor?”

“Might we at least know
why
we have to die?” Rangel asked.

Beck said, “That’s a reasonable request. Mr. Whelan over there has to go because he tried to blackmail me into killing James J. McGill.”

Rangel turned a look of amazement on his former protégé.

“You really did that?”

“That bastard over there with the gun wouldn’t cooperate,” Whelan said, figuring if he was going to die there was no need to be polite. “It’s not like he hasn’t killed plenty of people already.”

“Hey,” Beck objected, “the only people I’ve ever killed were targets selected by your government and mine.”

“You work for the government?” Rangel asked Beck.

“Indirectly.”

“That’s even more interesting.”

“I thought so, too, but look where it’s got me.”

“Gotten,” Rangel corrected.

Whelan said, “He really can’t help himself. You should just shoot us both now.”

Rangel held up his hands. “No, don’t. Not yet anyway. He hasn’t answered my question.” Turning to Whelan, Rangel said, “I didn’t mean why did you use coercion on this man; I meant why did you choose to target McGill?”

Beck said, “That’s one of the things I want to know, too. From everything I’ve seen of the man, he seems like a stand-up guy.”

Whelan put things in the simplest terms he could, telling Beck, “You see who your enemies are; I see who mine are.”

Beck shook his head. “Hey, we’re all Americans here, aren’t we?”

“And yet you’re perfectly willing to kill me,” Rangel said. “Why would you do that?”

The assassin sighed. “You committed the worst mistake anybody can. You’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re collateral damage.”

Rangel took the news with surprising grace. “That’s comforting to know. I’m not undone by a fault of my own but as a matter of mere circumstance.”

Whelan shook his head, telling Rangel. “You’re not getting off that easy, you bastard. We’re both here because you stole my treatise.”

Beck’s jaw fell open. He looked at Whelan and said, “Wait a minute. I thought your ex-wife took your papers. That’s why you brought me into this mess.”

Whelan’s expression turned hang-dog. “I thought she did it, but she told me who it really was.” He pointed at Rangel again.

“Is that right, Professor?” Beck asked.

Rangel looked defensive. “I was trying to preserve my reputation.”

Beck said, “You two assholes are giving me a headache.” Turning to Whelan, he asked, “Were you actually trying to accomplish something by wanting me to kill McGill?”

Whelan stiffened his spine and admitted, “I was hoping to weaken the president.”

Rangel shook his head. “So wrong. I don’t know what I ever saw in you. Look at how Patricia Grant bounced back after her first husband was killed. She went out and
became
the president. Twice. McGill is not the target, Galia Mindel is and …”

Rangel fell silent, looking as if he’d just experienced an epiphany.

“My God,” he said, “how could
I
have been so foolish?”

Before Whelan could tell Rangel about all the mistakes the old fart had made or Beck could get around to shooting the both of them, a cylindrical object, measuring 5.25 inches in length and 1.73 inches in diameter was thrown into the room. Beck knew the precise dimensions because he’d used the M-84 stun grenade himself.

He’d had an angle on the doorway to the office but he had neither heard nor seen anyone approach the room. He reacted to the reality of the threat without wondering about any whys or wherefores. He leaped from the desk, covering his eyes with one arm and slammed sideways into the two seated men. They all went over in a pile as the flash-bang detonated.

The grenade produced a bang of 180 decibels, capable of causing deafness, tinnitus, loss of balance and disorientation. The flash created a light of more than one million candela within five feet of detonation, far more than enough to cause momentary blindness. The effects were intended to be temporary, but there was a risk of permanent injury or even death.

None of that prevented Beck from wrapping an arm around the neck of what felt to him more like Whelan than Rangel and pressing his gun to the side of the man’s head. When he thought he heard footsteps coming on the run, Beck called out, “On the chance this prick means something to you, whoever the hell you are, you better give me the time to recover and the chance to get the hell out of here.”

Problem was, he couldn’t see shit out of his right eye, and the left one resolved the world only to the point of being a blur.

“You don’t shoot at him or me, I won’t shoot you,” a voice replied.

“Who are you?” Beck asked.

“The Co-director of the Office of Justice Services, Bureau of Indian Affairs.”

“Bureau of Indian Affairs?”

Unspoken but clearly implied was the question of what the hell the BIA had to do with anything.

John Tall Wolf said, “I know. Thing is, I freelance for other people. I overheard you mention James J. McGill’s name. How about I give him a call?”

Beck had a moment of doubt but then he smiled. “You can do that?”

“Uh-huh,” Tall Wolf said.

“Okay, do it. If he needs any convincing, tell him if he doesn’t come, I’ll kill this prick.”

He jabbed Whelan’s jaw with the Colt, producing a yelp.

Tall Wolf wasn’t impressed. “I don’t think he gives a damn about him. I’ll just extend the invitation.”

McGill and Patti had turned off any and all phones that might disturb them. They’d even left a do-not-disturb message with Blessing. Short of the launch of hostile ICBMs, they were to be left in peace and quiet. Things were good right from the start for the First Couple and just about to get
really
good when the lights in the bedroom began to brighten.

Lumen after lumen was added. For several moments, husband and wife tried to ignore the fact that the ambience of the room was changing from intimate boudoir to hospital operating room. Yes, nobody had intruded personally. No one had broken phone silence. But the word was being passed nonetheless.

McGill said, “Deliver us from evil.”

“Amen,” Patti added.

“My guess is the interruption is for you.”

“Mine, too, I’m sorry to say.”

She rolled over to her bedside phone, touched a single key and said, “What is it?”

Blessing said, “My apology, Madam President. Your lawyer, Mr. Collison, is on hold for you. He says it’s imperative he talks with you right now.”

McGill was listening closely and heard the name of his wife’s chief defense lawyer in her upcoming trial in the Senate. He gave her a nod and said, “Take it.”

Repressing a groan, the president said, “Put him on.”

McGill got up to use the bathroom, grabbing his phone off the night table as he went. He turned it on just in time to hear his call tone. The ID screen showed John Tall Wolf’s name. McGill closed the bathroom door behind him and tapped the answer button.

“Is that you, John?”

“It’s me,” Tall Wolf said. “I’ve got the guy who was supposed to kill you.”

“
Supposed
to kill me?”

“He says he never intended to do it.”

“It was just a passing notion?” McGill asked.

“He says someone was trying to coerce him but it didn’t work.”

“How can we be sure of that?”

“Well, he’s holding a gun to the guy’s head right now. You might remember the captive’s name, Ed Whelan. The guy with the gun, Eugene Beck, says he’ll kill Whelan unless he gets to talk to you in person. I think Beck is serious, but I don’t think Whelan would be a big loss.”

McGill heard a voice in the background say, “Hey!”

“Mr. Whelan disagrees with my evaluation,” Tall Wolf said. “How would you like me to handle things?”

McGill said, “Maybe between Whelan, Mira Kersten and Eugene Beck, we can finally get some kind of resolution to this case. Where are you?”

Tall Wolf told him. Then he added, “Hold on a minute.”

McGill heard some muffled voices speaking. Tall Wolf must have obstructed his phone’s speaker somehow. Then he came back. “I just negotiated a point with Mr. Beck. I told him before you enter the room, he puts his weapon on the floor and kicks it to me. He’s agreed.”

“The Secret Service will approve of that. So do the president and I. See you soon.”

What worried McGill for the moment was telling Patti he had to go out.

Talk about the ruination of what might have been a beautiful night.

He used the facilities, splashed water on his face and slipped into his clothes in his dressing room. When he returned to the bedroom, he saw his wife was sitting up and had her presidential face on. Romance was definitely out of the question, not solely because of him.

She said, “Yes, thank you for calling. You did the right thing. I’ll see you at eight in the Oval Office. Goodbye.”

McGill gave Patti the moment she needed to organize her thoughts.

She led with the headline: “Joan Renshaw has recanted her accusation that I put her in Erna Godfrey’s cell to kill her.”

For a split second, McGill was ready to cheer. Then he realized there had to be a catch, and a heartbeat later he even knew what it was. “Somebody threatened Joan.”

Patti nodded. Let McGill continue to analyze.

“They’re going to say
you
threatened her.”

“Not personally, of course,” Patti said, “but I had it done.”

“Is there any evidence of a threat?” McGill asked.

“A bouquet of flowers with a note.”

“That no one saw delivered, I’ll bet.”

“Exactly.”

“What are you going to do?” McGill asked.

“Get Galia out of her bed. Talk with her in the Oval Office in fifteen minutes.”

McGill wanted to ask if Patti thought Galia had authored the threat, but he knew even between the two of them some questions were better left unasked.

Patti took advantage of McGill’s silence to ask, “Why are you dressed?”

“John Tall Wolf grabbed the guy who was supposed to kill me.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“He wants to see me.”

“Tall Wolf?”

“No, the alleged assassin. He wants to tell me his side of things.”

Patti frowned.

McGill said, “What?”

“If I didn’t have to speak to Galia immediately, I’d go with you.”

McGill laughed, thinking Patti was as different from his first wife, Carolyn, as she could be. He surprised himself by saying, “Maybe you should see it. Bring Galia along.”

Patti got out of bed and kissed McGill. Gave him a taste of what he’d be missing that night. “No, what I have to say to Galia can’t wait, and is best said just between the two of us. But you do make me so happy.”

McGill said, “I have a few more ideas on that subject, if we ever find the time.”

“You’re in trouble now,” Tyler Busby told Abra.

He was still handcuffed but had rolled on his right side. SOB was
still
hard. He was enjoying the hell out of things. The situation must have been more exciting than any fantasy game he’d ever played. Nobody would ever have told him how much fun he could have playing the damsel in distress, waiting for his heroine to arrive and save him.

Abra stood at an open window, gun in hand, looking out on the street below. She’d been splitting her attention between watching Busby and hoping to see the woman with the baby buggy whom she thought was a cop. Even at the risk of embarrassing herself, Abra wanted to call out for help. But the old saw pertaining to the subject looked to be true.

Anytime you needed a cop, you could never find one.

“Won’t be long now,” Busby said with glee.

Abra had been thinking the same thing herself. That cold Asian broad should have come charging in by now. If that was her style. For all Abra knew, though, she might have a way to vent some kind of incapacitating gas into the room. Abra might wake up to find the Busbys at a whetstone, sharpening their cutlery, getting ready to serve up filets of Abra.

As if he could read her mind, Busby began to giggle.

She whistled a shot past his ear, close enough to make his head snap back, his laughter stop, and his damn erection wither like a vampire exposed to sunlight. Shooting the thing was going to be a lot harder now, but that made Abra smile.

Busby shouted, “Ah-lam, hurry, she’s going to kill me!”

Abra thought she very well might do just that. She sure as hell wasn’t going to go down alone. She focused her attention on the bedroom door. Until a feminine voice from outside called out, “
Oye.
¿Qué está pasando?”
Hey, what’s going on?

Abra turned and looked down. She saw the nanny with her buggy.

The special agent yelled, “I’m an FBI agent, trying to arrest a fugitive. Christ, do you even speak English?”

“Damn right I do,” came the reply.

Abra thought she heard a Texas twang.

“Are you a cop?”

“I am.”

“I need help fast. Call for backup.”

“I got all the backup I need right here,” the cop said.

She pulled an M-4 carbine out of the buggy and ran for the front door.

Abra thought to yell, “Hey, what about the baby?” Only she realized there was no baby. Not down on the street anyway. But the door to the bedroom flew open and there at last was the hard-looking Asian woman.

She
had a baby with her.

Holding the squirming kid up in front of her like a shield.

Advancing on Abra like she meant to cut her heart out.