The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (28 page)

“Probably not.”

“The historical society also runs a kind of scavenger hunt
every March, where they hide a snook replica somewhere in the city
and run clues in the local paper. It's called 'Sammy the Snook,' and
they have sponsors who put up prizes for whoever finds him first,
usually around fifteen hundred bucks or so.”

“Sounds like fun. But what's a snook?”

“It's a fish. Apparently it's got a great taste.”

“Apparently?”

“I've never tasted it.”

“I guess I haven't, either. Maybe we'll have to fix that
sometime. I'll buy.”

Jake smiled. “You're on.” He held out his hand and Pam
shook it, holding on a bit longer than one might expect.

She said, “Deal, then.”

“Done.” They both laughed as they got to their spot on
the beach and settled back in.

The Mimosa twins turned their equipment back on and returned to
be-bopping to the soft but rhythmic music on their earbuds.

-49-

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

10:30 a.m.

The White House

Washington, DC

Emily escorted three men and a woman into the Oval Office, handed
Donne four sheets of paper, nodded to Donne and spoke to the
newcomers.

“Please introduce yourself to Mr. Donne.”

The woman spoke first. “Dawson Skinner, Esquire, on behalf of
my client, Richard _______.”

“Leonard Seacrest, Esquire, on behalf of Andy ______.”

“Rollin Creek, Esquire, on behalf of Robert ______.”

“Ryan Stone, Esquire, on behalf of Lee ________.”

“Thank you, Emily. Have our guests all signed the release
form?”

“Yes, sir, they have.”

“Did they read them carefully?”

“No, sir, they did not.”

“Too bad; those are binding, whether they did or not. Thank
you, Emily. Please stay with us for a moment.

“Now, gentlemen, ma'am, what brings you here so urgently?”

Ms. Skinner said, “We have four orders for habeas corpus for
our clients, each signed by Judge Maude Williams. We demand to see
them immediately.” She held out the papers, which Donne took
and reviewed closely for a full minute.

“Well, these seem to be in order, and I have no problem at all
with meeting that demand. But first, I have something to show you.

“Emily, if you would?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Donne.” She pressed a button on a remote
on the corner of the desk and a large TV screen was revealed on the
wall. She pressed another button and the screen showed a replay of
the scene between Donne and the four union bosses the previous
Thursday. The four lawyers watched intently, initially frowning,
then clenching their fists as Donne ordered the guards in and the
bosses were handcuffed and removed.

“If you are worthy of the title 'attorney,' you'll have no
argument with the fact that your clients deserved the sentence I gave
them. I'll also assure you that they have been treated well and are
comfortable in their cell. No, no arguments now. Emily here will
take you down to see your clients. You'll have two hours before
we'll check in and see if you need more time. Good day.”

Ms. Skinner said, “But, Mr. --”

Donne cut in. “No, Ms. Skinner, save it for after you've
spoken with your client. Same for you all, gentlemen. Good day.

“Emily?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Donne.

“This way.” She led the four attorneys out of the Oval
Office.

Once the door closed, Donne pressed a button on his desk, and Tony
entered from a hidden doorway.

“Ready for Round Two, Tony?”

“Absolutely, Mr. D-D-Donne.” He smiled sheepishly.

“Good smile, Tony.”

“Thanks, Gordy. Got my toofies, glasses and wig right here.”

“Great. Any problems?

“Nah; easy peazy.”

“Give 'em about an hour and then have at it.”

“Will do. This'll be fun.”

As the door closed behind Tony, Donne's intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Emily?”

“They're on their way down with the guards. And Amy Christian
is here.”

“Oh, good. Just send her on in. Thanks.”

“Right-o, boss.”

A moment later, a 40-ish, slim, pretty, ebony-skinned woman with a
briefcase and a brown paper bag entered, walked right over to Donne
and gave him a hug and an air kiss, both of which he returned.

“God, Amy, you're looking good.”

“Thanks, Gordy. You too … but maybe a little tired.
You getting enough sleep?”

“Not really. But there's so much stuff that just needs to be
done immediately, if not sooner.”

“I know what you mean. I'm getting a lot of flack and pushback
from the current Secretary.”

“Well, she's a tough woman, and now that she can't run in '16,
I'd bet she and Bill are both really pissed.”

“You got that right, Gordy.”

“But you're tougher and I'm sure you can handle her. You're
not doing much that's different from what you did at DEI.”

“It'll probably take a couple of months, but we'll get that
place flattened out.”

“Of all the departments, that one's got the most excessive
levels of bureaucrats I've ever seen anywhere, and most of them are
just political appointees, big contributors' family and friends.
'Deputy Assistant to the Assistant to the Deputy Assistant to the
Deputy Director for' … whatever. Christ, you should be able
to cut through ten or more layers, flatten it down by 50 percent.”

“Oh, more than that, Gordy; maybe 70, 80 percent.”

“That much, Amy?”

“Absolutely. And without losing any operational efficiencies.”

“Well, you've looked at it more closely than I have, and you're
in there every day.

“If you want me to give her a call and remind her that you're
the boss on personnel and restructuring, I'd be happy to do that.”

“Not yet, Gordy. I can handle her for now. But I may need
that when it comes to getting rid of some of her most top-level
people and some of the most incompetent political ambassadors.”

“And her, when and if.”

“Right. For now, she's doing okay, but I'll need to put some
closer reins on her soon.”

“Indeed,” Donne agreed.

Amy opened her briefcase and took out a thin manila folder, checked
its contents and gave it to Donne.

“The first twenty pages there is a list of the people and
positions I've eliminated so far, the next thirty is the next bunch
to go, the next seven list the programs that were redundant and have
now been or soon will be eliminated, and the final five list how the
essential functions have been or will be redistributed at each step
of the process.”

Donne glanced through the folder and then put it in his inbox.

“I'll have to set aside some time to go over that more closely
later today, but it sounds good. Keep at it, but be sure to get
enough rest to stay sharp. She'll try to sabotage you whenever she
can. And don't worry about reporting to me too often, just when you
think you need to.”

“No worry about that, Gordy. I know the rule: 'The amount of
time spent reporting on a function is inversely proportional to the
amount of time spent actually performing the function. Stasis is
achieved when all of your time is spent making excuses for why
nothing was done.'”

“Bravo, Amy; you've learned well.

“And how are you doing on finding candidates to be the new
Secretary?”

“We're vetting about twenty people, experienced diplomats with
minimal political ties. I should be able to get that down to the ten
you asked for within another month at the latest.”

“Good, good.

“Has Cody talked with you about our China plan?”

“Yes, he's got me up to speed on that, and I'm getting him as
much info on that as I can, under the radar, of course.”

“Great.

“Anything else?”

“Nope, that's it, Gordy … at least officially. But
Emily asked me to bring you some of my culinary specialty.”
She set the paper bag on Donne's desk.

“What's that, Amy?”

“Asparagus, artichoke, blueberry, broccoli, cauliflower, kale
and tofu salad, with honey, chocolate and guacamole dressing.”

-50-

Four Months Earlier

Saturday, August 13, 2011

12:20 p.m.

Bonita Beach, Florida

“That was delicious, Jake. Thank you,” Pam said, wiping
her mouth with a napkin, which she then crumpled and put in her beach
bag.

“They are good,” Jake agreed. “Geez, it's hot with
no wind. Ready for some more water time?”

“You got it.”

“Sea breeze should pick up in half an hour or so.” He
got out of his lounge unassisted and held out a hand, which Pam took
and got up out of her chair. Noodles in hand, they headed to the
Gulf.

“Vow, I luff your suit,” a light female voice with a
slight accent bubbled.

Pam said, “Thank you.”

Jake said, “Hey, Dagi. Wie geht's?”

Dagi, a lovely, svelte strawberry blonde, said, “Danke, gut.”

Pam said, “Sind Sie Deutsch?”

“Ja, ja. Und Sie?

“Nein, nein; Amerikanisch.”

“Sie sprechen gut Deutsch.”

“Danke, aber nicht so gut.”

“Na, na, sehr gut.”

“Sie können mich dutzen.”

“Mich auch. Wo hast du Deutsch gelernt?”

“Vor vielen Jahren, wohnte ich drei Jahre in Hamburg.”

“Ah. Und wie heisst du?”

“Pamela, oder Pam. Und du?”

“Dagmar, oder Dagi.”

“Hallo, Dagi.”

“Hallo, Pam.” They shook hands.

“Hey, guys,” Jake cut in. “Could we stick with
English for the old fart?”

“Oh, sorry, Jake,” Pam said. “Haven't spoken
German in years.”

Dagi said, “You speak it very well, good accent, too.”

“Danke – oh, sorry; thank you, Dagi.”

“Bitte – sorry; you're welcome.”

“But, Jake, you spoke some German there.”

“What, 'wie geht's'? 'How are you?' That's about all I know –
oh, danke and bitte, and auf Wieder-see-ya-later, too.”

Pam and Dagi both laughed and said, virtually in unison, “Oh,
Jake.”

“So do you work, Dagi?”

“Ja, ich bin eine Flugbegleiterin – ach, sorry, Jake. I
am a flight attendant.”

“She flies to Europe a lot,” Jake said.

“Oh, cool. To Germany?”

“Ja, ja. Meistens München- – sorry – mostly
Munich.”

“Beautiful city.”

“Ja, ja.. But I must run; Deirdre is waiting. Nice to meet
you, Pam. Tschüss, Jake.”

“Auf Wiederbye-bye.”

“Tschüss, Dagi.”

“Tschüss, Pam.”

As Dagi walked away, Jake said, “You know, I love German food,
but every time I eat any, half an hour later I'm hungry … for
power.”

Pam laughed.

“So, Pam, you're full of surprises. Any other languages?”

“Oh, a few.”

“C'mon. Details, okay?”

“Okay; let's see. French, Italian, Russian, Japanese, Mandarin
Chinese … oh, Spanish, Portugese, a bit of Swahili, and I can
get by in Arabic, but I still have a pretty thick American accent in
that one. I think that's it.”

“Wow! Really?”

“Gotcha. No, I'm pulling your leg, but only on the Swahili.”

Jake laughed tentatively.

“Oh, sorry; I forgot. Also two dialects of Hindi.”

“You're not pulling my leg again?”

“Nope.”

“Wow. Definitely a Renaissance woman.”

“Oh, Jake,” Pam said, “you're embarrassing me.”

“I don't mean to. I'm just continually impressed.”

“Well, just to add to that, I was on the gymnastics team in the
Montreal games.”

“Really?”

“Really. But no medal; broke my ankle getting off the bus.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. And for a 14-year-old, that was devastating.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Long time ago, lots of water under the bridge. Speaking of
water, are we going in or are we just going to stand here and let it
come to us?”

“Oh, we're going in.” And they did.

-51-

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

11:45 a.m.

The White House, Basement

Washington, DC

In the cellblock, the four union bosses and their attorneys had been
conferring for about an hour when they heard a heavy door clang open
and two sets of footsteps approaching, one shuffling and one walking
firmly. Then two figures appeared outside the bars, one up close and
the other staying back four to five feet.

“He's th-th-the one who-who-who s-s-stole m-m-my ph-ph-phone.
And he c-c-called m-m-me a re-re-retard. B-B-Bad m-m-man! No-no-no
f-f-friend of J-J-Jimmy, no-no-no f-f-friend.”

“Is that true, sir? Did you steal his phone?” said the
heretofore silent guard who had been bringing their food since the
beginning of their incarceration.

“I just borrowed it,” Richard protested, holding the
phone out to Jimmy. “Here, Jimmy. Thank you for letting me
use it.”

“So you do have his phone,” the guard said, staring
intently at Richard, but making no move to take the phone.

“He-He-He s-s-stole it, s-s-stole it. B-B-Bad m-m-man.”

“I did not steal it. He loaned it to me.”

“Did he say you could keep it overnight?”

“Well, he --”

“Don't say another word, Richard,” Ms. Skinner cut in
sharply. “Not another word.”

The other attorneys looked at their clients and put their fingers to
their lips. “Shhhh.”

“Your name, ma'am?”

“I am Dawson Skinner, his attorney.”

“Well, Ms. Skinner, your client has just lied to a federal
officer in the course of his official duties, and that will add to
his sentence as soon as Mr. Donne hears about it.”

“What is your name and title, sir?”

“Bradley Deckerson, ma'am, middle initial F, for Franklin.
Senior Guard, Federal Security Service, formerly with the US Secret
Service.”

“Well, sir, you may want to rethink your position. My client
did not steal that phone; he borrowed it, as he stated.”

“Did you ask for your phone back last night, Jimmy?”