Whirlwind
By Joseph GarberHarperCollins Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2005 Joseph Garber
All right reserved.ISBN: 006059652XChapter One
Ah, Vengeance!
Tuesday, July 21.
0700 Hours Eastern Time,
0500 Hours Mountain Time
Charlie McKenzie glared over the rims of his half-moon readingglasses. Shuffling his Washington Post in what he hoped was, but suspectedwas not, an intimidating manner, he reached for his coffee. A newspaper, acup of coffee, a dozy cat in his lap, and a peaceful morning in which to enjoythem -- were they not every man's natural-born prerogatives?
Hugging two-year-old Jason to her hip, Carly brandished a portable telephone."Dad," she said breathlessly. "It's the White House! The national securityadvisor!"
Apparently his daughter held the rights of men, or at least males, in lowesteem. Charlie had no one to blame but himself. Up until the day she died,Mary had insisted that Carly certainly did not get that sort of behavior fromher side of the family.
He turned in his wicker chair, looking out beyond the screened porch,past the long green expanse of a stately lawn, down to Chesapeake Bay. It wasa lovely summer morning, bright but not yet hot. Perfect weather as far as theeye could see -- except in the climatological zone directly above Charlie'sthundercloud brow. "Tell him to go piss up a rope."
"Dad!"
"Tiss upa row," echoed Jason. To which Molly, aged six and peeking around her mother's skirts, added, "Mommy, Jason's saying dirty words."
"Your grandfather's influence. Again!" hissed Carly, thrusting the phoneinto Charlie's lap, then dragging her children away from what doubtlesswould be another bad example.
Charlie raised the phone to his ear. He spoke softly, gently. "Mornin', Sam."
An unctuous answer, amiability's illusion in every syllable: "Charlie! It'sgood to hear you, man! Thank God I caught you at home! Listen, there's aproblem, a helluva problem, and the president personally asked that I call -- "
Speaking in the gentlemanly tones of a sweetly reasonable soul, Charlieinterrupted. "Give him my best personal regards, and tell him I said he canscrew himself."
The portable phone chirped like a digital bird as Charlie fingered theOff button.
Eight seconds, he estimated as he glanced at his outrageously garishwristwatch, a solid gold Rolex President with numbers set in colored gemstones.The preposterous thing was a gift from the Philippine government.That figured. No one in that part of the world had a bit of taste.
... three, four, five ...
As opposed, for example, to the Italians. It was one of their presidents --who could remember which, they never stayed out of jail long enough tomake memorizing their names worth the effort -- who'd given Charlie themonumentally expensive, solid silver Faema espresso maker whose ambrosiahe was savoring at this very moment.
... six, seven, eight ... Ring!
Perfect timing. Charlie McKenzie never missed. Clicking the On button,he smiled beatifically, a man who had been waiting two long years forSam to call, and who planned to enjoy himself mightily now that the rolypolylittle weasel needed help. "Okay, Sam, if bunny brains doesn't know howto do it, tell him first thing he needs a dildo."
Sam's oiliness had dissipated. "Charlie, we don't have time for this."
"'Dildo' usually is synonymous with 'national security advisor,' but notthis time."
Now Sam was feigning sincerity. "This is an emergency. More than anemergency. The word 'crisis' doesn't even begin -- "
"And an industrial-strength motor, the kind they use to run jackhammers."
Goodbye sincerity, hello desperation. "Okay, okay, whatever you want.Name it. It's yours." He paused, then hastily added, "Short of an apology, that is."
Charlie ran a hand down his stubbled cheek. He'd have to shave beforeSam showed up on his doorstep. And that would be -- he eyed his watch -- infifty-seven minutes. "Anything, Sam?"
"If it's in my power, yes."
Yup, definitely desperation. It was a step in the right direction. "Ten milliondollars." Charlie heard a barely audible Shit! "The actuarial tables tellme I've got another thirty-five years to live. Ten million works out to abouttwo hundred and eighty grand a year. That's not much in light of my decadesof loyal and faithful service."
"Put it in T-bills, and the interest is three hundred thousand."
Charlie snorted, "Hey, Sam, if you're so good at math, how come theWhite House can't balance the budget?"
"Quit busting my chops." He cleared his throat before predictablywheedling, "I don't suppose I could appeal to your patriotism?"
Charlie pictured the expression on Sam's pudgy face: slit-eyed calculation.It always was. "You did that last time. This time I'll take cash."
"Damnit, man, you know there's no way I can come up with ten million-- "
"The president's discretionary fund. The unaudited and unpoliced accountCongress dispenses once per annum. Everyone since Millard Fillmorehas used it to pay for botched assassinations, fund quote-freedomfighters-unquote, and compensate that compliant abortionist on J Street whocaters to careless interns."
"This is a pro-life administration, and you know it."
Rumor had it that beneath his exquisitely shellacked exterior, Sam concealeda dangerously explosive temper. Too bad Charlie liked playing withfireworks. "Same as every other administration, the only thing you're pro ispro-reelection."
"Jesus, what turned you into such a cynic?"
"A lifetime in government service."
There was a long silence, broken only by the nearly inaudible drum ofSam's fingers on his desk. Charlie smiled. Charlie waited. And, just asCharlie expected, Sam caved in: "Ten million. Okay. I can handle that. Itwon't be easy, but I think -- "
"Think? You've never thought in your life, Sam. Connived, schemed,and plotted? Sure. But thinking? Uh-uh, no."
"All I'm saying is that it will take time."
"That it will. Five minutes to be precise. I'm logging on to my Swiss bankthen. If my account is ten million dollars plumper than it was yesterday, I'llanswer the phone when you call back. If not ... " Charlie regretted Samcouldn't see his fine and wolfish smirk “. . . then not. Bye now, Sam."
"No! Wait! I don't have your account number!"
"Oh, spare me! My personnel file is on your desk, and my account numberis right there on the first page."
"Err ... why, so it is, but -- "
The phone chirped merrily, a happy little songbird soon to be fed.
Charlie polished off his coffee, set his partially read newspaper on awicker table, and ambled back into the house. The porch led directly to hisden. His Apple PowerBook computer was already alive, alert, and scanningthe Internet for such dubious data as people like Charlie always found beguiling.
He pecked out his Swiss bank's computer address, entered his password,and was just in time to watch his account grow from the token thousand dollarshe kept in it to ten million, one thousand dollars and no (0) cents.
Charlie reached beneath his desk and threw a toggle switch. The computerscreen flickered. His modem was no longer connected to the ultrahigh-bandwidth line the Agency had kindly let him keep after dispensingwith his services. Charlie was now dialing into the World Wide Web via an ordinarytelephone line.
Well, not entirely ordinary ....
Continues...
Excerpted from Whirlwindby Joseph Garber Copyright © 2005 by Joseph Garber. Excerpted by permission.
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