The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (22 page)

As the SUV left the parking lot, Pam came back in and said, “Okay.
Let's go finish our drinks, guys. I've got a few minutes before
I'll need to head up there and get started on the paperwork.”

Jake said, “Oh, geez, I completely forgot. I asked Angela to
keep an eye on our table.”

Pam said, “Let's hope she didn't take that literally. Oh,
sorry, Joe.”

Joe said, “I'm sorry. What?”

Pam said, “Nothing; never mind.”

Jake said, “How do you do that, Pam? I'm still shaking and
you're calm as a zucchini and making a joke.”

“Cucumber, Jake, not zucchini.”

“Oh, sorry; old habit, old joke.”

“Compartmentalization, Jake, that's all. It's another old
habit of mine. From the job.”

As they got to the table, Angela saw them and said, “Nobody
touched anything, Jake.”

Jake smiled, “Thanks, Angela.”

“So what's going on?”

Joe looked at Pam, who nodded and said, “Sure, it's okay.”

“Me and Jake helped Pam catch some fugitives.”

Angela smiled. “Sure you did, honey; sure you did.”

“No, really, baby.”

Pam interjected and said, “Yes, Angela, they did.” Jake
nodded.

“Really? You're not pulling my leg?” She looked up and
around the patio, fluffing her hair. “Okay. Where's the
cameras?”

“No, baby, no cameras; it's for real.”

“I'm Secret Service, Angela.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“Wow. And my Joey helped?”

“Yes, Angela, he did.”

“Oh, cool. Honey, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. But Jake got a little --”

“Oh, Jakey, Jakey, are you hurt? Is that your blood?”

“Yup; but I just pulled some stitches. I'll get it treated
soon.”

Pam glanced at Jake and mouthed “Jakey?” Jake shrugged
and sipped the last of his wine, focusing his attention on the bottom
of the glass.

He winced and looked up as he felt a hand on his injured shoulder; it
was Beverly's.

“Can I get you another, Jake? Pam?” Pam shook her head.

“No, thanks, Bev. We've got to head out. Just the check,
okay?”

“No check. A lady on the lanai paid for you two, left a big
tip on top of that. She said to give you a big thanks from, ah,
George.”

Pam gasped, then took a deep breath and sighed.

“Oh, that's very nice, but I can't accept. I'll have to go
talk to her.”

“Not possible; they left a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, dear. I can't accept gifts. I'm a Se- – federal
employee.”

Jake said, “Well, I was going to pay anyway, so could you think
of it as a gift to me, and let it go at that?”

“Well, that's a stretch, but … wait, I can't even let
you pay for me; I was going to go Dutch.”

Jake, perplexed, said, “Oh, geez. I have no --”

Angela interrupted. “I have an idea. How about this? Pam, you
give Jake whatever half the bill would have been, and that should let
you off the hook, right?”

Pam and Jake both looked at Angela in amazement, and then Pam said
tentatively, “I guess … I think I could be okay with
that, maybe. Jake, what do you think?”

“I think … I think … I think that's your call,
Pam.”

“Oh. Um … okay, I guess that'd work. How much was the
check, Bev?”

“Let's see.” Bev pulled some checks from her pocket and
thumbed through them. “38 dollars and 27 cents. That woman
gave me fifty bucks in case you wanted dessert or more drinks.”

“So why don't you just give Jake twenty bucks and call it
even,” Angela suggested.

Jake said, “Fine with me.”

Pam pulled out a twenty and a five and gave them to Jake. “Works
for me. Thanks, Angela.

“And Bev, the next time you see them, please, please, please
pass on my sincere thank you, okay?”

“Will do. Jake, you know your shoulder is bleeding, right?”

“Yup. I'm going to get it fixed as soon as we leave.”

“Which should be right now,” Pam said, swigging the last
of her Mimosa. “I'm sorry, guys. Joe, thanks again, and
Angela, so nice to meet you.”

Angela smiled and said, “Backatcha, Secret Service lady.”

Bev, perplexed, said, “Secret Service?”

Pam looked at her, put a finger to her lips and said, “Our
little secret, okay?”

Bev zipped her finger across her lips. “Yup. And next time
you're in, I'll be your secret server. Shhh.”

Pam chuckled. “Next time I'm in, I'll probably be retired.”

“Oh, don't wait that long.”

“Not that long; about three weeks.”

“Really? Congratulations. We'll have a party.”

Angela said, “Oh, I love parties. Can we come, too?”

Bev said, “Sure. But you look too young to retire.”

“Why, thank you, thank you very much.”

Bev chuckled, “Wow. Are you an Elvis fan, too?”

“Not as much as you, but yeah.”

“Cool.”

“Oh, Bev, that couple that was sitting over at that table, they
won't be coming back. I'll take care of their check.”

“Oh, the Dunns?”

“You know them?”

“Sure; they've been regulars here for years.”

“Well, you won't be seeing 'em again. Do you have their check?”

“Sure.” She pulled out another check. “Here. 57
dollars and 83 cents.”

Pam reached into her bag, pulled out Dylan's wallet and took out four
twenties, examined them closely and gave them to Bev. “Keep
the change, Bev. But I'll need a receipt, okay? Handwritten is
fine.”

Bev wrote one out and gave it to Pam, who tucked it into the wallet
and put it back in her bag. “That's a big tip, Pam. Thanks.”

“Thank you, Bev. But now I'm afraid I really have to run.
Bye, y'all.” She leaned over and gave Jake a peck on the
cheek, nodded at the others and headed for the archway to the parking
lot. After three steps, she started giggling and turned back.

“Jake, say goodbye to Steve for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

Pam then burst out laughing. “And to Bruce.”

Jake laughed, too. “Okay.”

Beverly, Angela and Joe all said in unison, “Bruce?”

Jake, now laughing uncontrollably, managed to say, “Long story.
Another time. Thanks, all. I've got to go get this looked at.
Bye. Oops.” He pulled off another paper towel and pressed it
against his shoulder on top of the other bloodied one.

After a minute or so, he followed Pam out of the archway, carrying
his doggie box and leaving three very perplexed people behind,
shaking their heads and mumbling, “Bruce?”

But when he got out to the parking lot, he saw Pam sitting behind the
wheel of a dark blue SUV, dabbing at her eyes with another towel as
her shoulders shook. Jake couldn't tell if she was laughing or
crying, and he debated going over to see what, if anything, he might
do to help or if he should just let her deal with whatever was
bothering her, but then she sat up, started the engine and drove off,
heading west, saving Jake from making a decision. He started his car
and headed east to the clinic, briefly puzzled. Then he figured it
out.

“Compartmentalization.”

-39-

Saturday, December 17, 2011

10:57 a.m.

The Eiffel Tower

Paris, France

Two men in expensive business suits, one light gray, one black,
strolled around the edges of the crowd in front of the Tower,
chatting very quietly.

The man in the black suit, speaking English with a mild Italian
accent, said, "20 million Euros is a lot, even for us."

Light gray suit shrugged. "I understand, but that's his price.
Same terms: half down, nonrefundable, the remainder when the job is
done, and, of course, the life of your principal as collateral."

"As usual; no problem. Guaranteed no blowback on us?"

"Guaranteed. You know his reputation for discretion."

"That's why we came to you. We need complete deniability."

"That you'll have, absolutely. He's never let you down, has
he?"

"No, but he's never done a head of state for us before."

"Not for you."

"You mean -- no, I shouldn't ask, should I?"

"No, you should not."

"Can he get him even in the White House?"

"Well, obviously that's tougher, but he can do it."

"We need it done immediately, if not sooner."

"He's got one job to finish first, but he'll get to him as soon
as that's done. You'll need to be patient."

"How patient? We need it done by the end of January at the
latest."

"January? No problem."

"And nothing extra for the tougher security?"

"Nope. His price is always the same, no matter the target, from
an unfaithful husband in Milano to any head of state anywhere. No
discounts, no extras, ever."

"I guess that's why he's called The Egal- --"

"No, no, no; none of that. You know better."

"Sorry."

"Sorry? Sorry doesn't cut it. You want him to come after you?"

"No, no, please."

The man in the gray suit stared at him for several moments, then
relaxed a bit, but didn't smile. He held out a business card.

"All right. See these numbers?"

"Yes."

"Memorize them."

"Okay." He paused. "Got 'em." Gray suit took
the card back.

"I'll expect to see a deposit for ten million euros in that
account by close of business Monday."

"You'll have it."

"Then we're done. Now walk away."

The two men parted. After a few moments, the man in the black suit
pulled out a cell phone and dialed, speaking in rapid Italian,
translated as follows:

"Gaetano here. Write this down." He repeated the numbers
he had memorized, but too quietly for the woman with shotgun-miked
sunglasses to record or hear them as she moved closer. "Repeat
them back." He paused. "Good. Ten million euros to that
account by close of business Monday." Another pause. "No,
you don't. HIs (inaudible)-ness has authorized this himself --
minchia! No, that wasn't for you. Take care of it. I'll be back by
tomorrow night." He closed his phone and headed toward the
Metro.

The woman with the miked sunglasses pulled out her own cell phone and
dialed. "Authentication 4583021. They've met and agreed. Get
to the KSK Triplets and tell them we need 'em again, and this time
they'll be going after The Egalitarian; they'll love that. I'll be
in the office in about fifteen, and Ilario can translate the Italian
stuff."

-40-

Five Months Earlier

Saturday, July 9, 2011

5:25 p.m.

Bonita Springs, FL

When Jake drove home from the clinic, new stitches in his shoulder
and his wallet another $217 lighter, he did his now-habitual
surveillance detection route through Bonita Shores and detected
nothing.

After he'd parked the car and replenished his wallet cash from the
hidden safe, he went upstairs, put the doggie box in the kitchen
fridge and booted up his PC.

He found 13 emails in his inbox objecting to Donne legalizing
abortion in his book, all in the same format and with exactly the
same wording.

“Well, well, well, so it begins.” He created a new file,
named it “Abortion,” and filed the emails there.

There was also one supportive email, which liked the Al Capone tax
idea, and seemed personally written. Jake sent a quick thank you
email to that sender.

His stomach grumbled, so he went to the fridge, cut off a third of
the remaining burger and nuked it, then he settled in … again
carefully … at his PC and continued working on the novel. He
also put a sticky note on the PC tower that said, “Stevie Bruce
:-) how to use?” By the time he finished his snack, he had
that figured out.

-41-

Monday, December 19, 2011

11:30 a.m.

The White House

Washington, DC

Donne's chief of staff escorted the Director of Central Intelligence,
Grant Costello, and his deputy, Lou Abbott, into the Oval Office,
where Donne and his Attorney General, Lannie O. “Bud”
Longstreet, were awaiting them, standing near the couches in the
center of the room. Emily nodded to Donne and then returned to the
outer office.

Donne walked over and enthusiastically shook both their hands.
“Grant, Lou, again, great job leading up to last week. And
you've passed my congratulations on to everybody involved, right?”

“Yes, we have, Gordy,” Grant replied. Lou nodded, her
jowls bouncing slightly.

“Good, good. Lannie, you remember Grant from when we did that
stuff with him in Riyadh back in '05, right?”

“Hi, Grant; good to see you again.”

“Hey, Lannie; been a long time.”

“And, Lou, this is Lannie Longstreet, my AG. Lannie, Lou,
Deputy DCI.”

“Lou, good to meet at last. I've heard good things about you.”

“Nice to meet you, Lannie.”

“All right,” Donne said, “enough blah-blah. Sit,
sit, and let's get started.” Grant and Lou sat on one couch,
facing Donne and Longstreet on the other. Donne picked up his
ever-present clipboard.

“So, Grant, have we gotten anything good out of those AQs yet?”

“Just a little bit, Gordy; they're tough nuts to crack.”

“Where have you got them?”

“Are you sure you want to know that?”

“Look, I don't care about plausible deniability; that's for the
politicians. So yes, I want to know. And you know Lannie and I are
both cleared.”

“Okay. They're in our chalet in Andorra, in the mountains
north of Soldeu, only accessible by helicopter.”

“Good, good. All okay with the Andorran government?”

“Yup, everything's fine. They have no idea we're there, and
we're keeping the same low profile we've had for twenty years.”

“Good. I don't want any international incidents this soon.”

“Right. Everybody's clear on that. It's just a corporate
retreat.”

“Good, good. But I want you to squeeze these jihadists as dry
as you can. Lannie and I have the written guidelines for you.
Lannie?