The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (63 page)

“Now, I know the human tendency to get complacent when things
are going well, and I urge all of you to guard against that trap each
and every day of your lives. The freedoms and liberties that you now
enjoy are always threatened by those who resent the simple fact that
you have them, whether they be a foreign state or your local
homeowners association board. Your government is always on alert for
those threats, but it is not omnipotent. Your safety is the number
one ongoing priority, but all humans are fallible. So while I
encourage you to enjoy your lives, try to avoid falling into the
complacency trap. Word to the wise, okay?

“In eight weeks, you will hold your first election since 2010,
32 years ago, and there are many highly qualified people who have
thrown their proverbial hats in the ring and who have been given
limited government funds to inform you about themselves and their
positions on the issues you have told us are important to you. Any
of them who indulge in any kind of negative campaigning or private
funding will automatically be disqualified.

“Whoever wins the race in each of the twelve new regions
created by the new Constitution to become one of my successor's
senior advisers will have done so by at least a 92 percent majority,
as the new Constitution mandates, and will then undergo a full year
of orientation and screening before I give each of them my seal of
approval to move into their new position.

“A year from today, my position as owner will be carried on by
my successor, Brian Throcklegate, whom I first met a week after I
bought the country, when he was a member of my social media team. He
did an extraordinary job there, and I watched him move up and finally
took him under my wing ten years ago, with an eye toward making him
my successor when the time came, as it now has.

“He is only the second person ever to beat me at chess, and at
53 years of age, he has the endurance, experience and loyalty to you,
the people, to continue with the light touch of government for
another thirty years, by which time he, too, will have discovered a
person to succeed him when the time comes. I'll continue to serve as
his senior adviser for as long as this frail human body allows me to
do so.

“His chief of staff, Melinda Galt, is someone I first learned
about when she sent me a letter when she was just a little
12-year-old sprout, telling me how her mom had helped her learn to
handle her own finances. Now, at an elegant 43 years of age, Melinda
has a vast range of experience in the private sector, working her way
up at the plastics company from which her mom recently retired, to a
position as vice president of sales and then CFO, Chief Financial
Officer, by the time she was 31.

“Then Wes Farley, may he rest in peace, plucked her away and
gave her the first of several positions at DEI, based solely on her
merit, and she moved up through the ranks to become one of DEI's top
private equity managers, rescuing and restructuring over four hundred
companies in all types of industries in all parts of the world over
her next eight years.

“When she was 39, Wes' successor, Ben Doberstein, found out at
a company party that she was the same Melinda Galt who had sent me
that letter years before, and he put me in touch with her for a
reunion of sorts. As soon as I met her, I knew she was going to be
an important part of the White House staff, and I offered her a
top-end motorcycle as a sign-on bonus, paid for from my own funds,
not taxpayer funds, and she came over as Brian's executive assistant.

“I've prepared both of them over these last years to take over
when my time was done. So both of them have my absolute trust, and I
urge all of you watching this to give them the same support you have
given me over these last three decades. I assure you that trust will
be well worth it.

“With that, let me bring Brian and Melinda up here, and please
give them a warm American welcome.”

Brian and Melinda stepped up, one on each side of Donne, and the
applause was deafening.

“Brian, Melinda, welcome, and let's make the next three decades
as good for the people of the United States as the last three have
been. But watch out. Even after I've gone home, if you fuck it up,
I only have these seven words for you: 'Don't make me come down
there … again.'” With that, the broadcast ended.

-128-

Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Cyberspace

At noon precisely, The Devlin Deception had been uploaded and was
immediately available on the major print-on-demand web site and other
sources, including versions for all e-readers, as well as at
JakeDevlin.com and TheDevlinDeception.com. Profits from all sales
went directly to three private micro-loan programs in Appalachia, New
Mexico and India.

-Epilogue-

Monday, November 5, 2012
10:27 p.m. local
time
Nice, France

The man with many names clicked from the 24-hour
news channel to the local French classical music channel, checked the
time on his diamond-encrusted watch, took another sip from his glass
of the most expensive wine in the world and smiled at his reflection
in the window of his villa overlooking the harbor. In the light of
the quarter moon, he could just make out the imposing silhouette of
his 39-meter yacht, which had been sailed here a month earlier from
St. Tropez. But that was not why he was smiling. What curved the
corners of his mouth slightly up was the certain knowledge that he
was finally permanently retired -- or so he thought.

But as he settled back into his hot tub, setting
his wine glass next to his well-worn copy of Pirandello's play "Six
Characters in Search of an Author," his smile turned into a full
grin as his gaze took in the luscious beauty of the naked redhead
reclining next to him, the water lapping at her tumescent nipples.

He kissed her gently and said, "Well,
tomorrow's the American election. Business as usual continues over
there: all talk, little action, more corruption, more debt, the
'fiscal cliff.' And no matter which pair of bumbleheads wins, the
structural corruption will continue and 'They, the People' will keep
getting screwed, especially the middle class. And I'd bet the US
will be bankrupt, insolvent, whatever you want to call it, broke, in
default, within three years, at the most."

"Can't win 'em all, can you?"

"Apparently not; too bad it was just
fiction."

“But I do like the new title. Much better
than the one I came up with.”

“I'm glad you like it; I do, too.”

"Do you think you accomplished anything?
Anything at all?"

"Probably the only thing would be that
Congress might, just MIGHT, read the bills they have before they pass
'em."

“Not before Guam tips over."

"Nor before the world ends next month ... if
you're Mayan."

“Too bad we forgot to put in that Donne
declared December 22nd as National Oops Day.”

They both laughed.

Catching his breath, he said, "But now we've
got 34 million euros to play with and give away somewhere."

"No concern about any of the clients coming
at us after their money?"

"Nope; I did my job. They all just
contracted for the kill, not to stop the publication. And none of
them would want any disclosure of their involvement. And none of
them has any idea who I really am."

"That's good." She ran a finger down
his cheek, which was healing up well. "I do like your new look,
sort of Charlton Heston-ey."

"It's a bit less nondescript than I usually
like ... you know, for anonymity."

"Well, I do like it. But there was nothing
wrong with your looks when I met you last year."

"That was more nonde- -- oh, that reminds me.
Do you still want me to get us new passports with new names?”

“Might be a good idea, especially if we
start on my memoirs.”

“Okay; how about Paul and Evelyn Burnett,
Andorran expats?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Done.”

He kissed her again and said, "Give me a
minute, okay?" He picked up a sat phone and dialed.
"Authentication 0000001 … Hey, Amber, it's me. …
Yup, all done … Did you get the copy I sent you? … Glad
you liked it. Look, here's what I need you to do. First, new
passports for both of us. Paul and Evelyn Burnett, B-u-r-n-e-t-t,
Andorra … Next, on that 340 million euros I deposited, 147
million should go into the hedge fund account, 146 million into the
profit-sharing fund, a million each for the Mimosa twins, the KSK
triplets, Wayne and Linda, Justin and Lindsay – what? They
did? Oh, too bad. Well, separate checks for them, then -- Rona and
Joel, Sharon and you … Yup, per person, and you're welcome.
Eight million for my personal account, eight for Pam's, six million
for the micro-loan programs and the other 12 million for the
foundation … Great. And how's the cleanup guy who got hurt on
the ninth step? … Good; but too bad he didn't check the list.
Make sure we take care of all his medicals, okay? … And change
the name on the yacht, will ya? 'The Devlin Deception.' Pam and I
are gonna take her out for a few months, get started on her memoirs,
maybe go down to Somalia, hunt some pirates. So we'll need all the
weapons systems checked out, and put an extra 50 – no, make it
a hundred -- RPG's on board, okay? … Five days? That's fine …
Thanks, Amber; we will. That's it from here. Give my love to Gisele
and the girls … Will do. Bye."

He hung up and turned to the beauty in the tub.
"Amber says hi, Pam. Now, where were we?"

She let loose a deep, throaty laugh, running her
fingers lightly over his now-taut stomach. "Well, I was ...
right about here. Amazing what a little exercise can do in a few
weeks, huh?"

"Yup. Tough to get back into that after
three years playing a lazy, bumbling, benign beach bum who smokes.
But here's to a very successful long con. I love taking money from
bad guys and hypocrites."

They clinked their glasses, took another sip and
sighed contentedly.

He ran his fingers through her hair and murmured,
"You're as beautiful a redhead as you were a blonde."

"It's my natural color."

He slid his hand down to her collarbone and then a
bit lower. "I know."

She giggled, nuzzling his neck and, sliding her
hand further down under the water, she whispered, "Feels like
Stevie Bruce is ready to play."

He slid his hand down from her belly and murmured,
"Feels like Ginny May is, too."

She nuzzled him again and moaned softly. "Mmm."

He chuckled, clicked the remote, and the Bolero
began to play.

(Now For Some Alternate/Additional Epilogues:)

Additional possible stuff (not too fond of this'n;
JD):

He chuckled, clicked the remote, and the Bolero
began to play.

Pam reached into her bag, pulled out a pair of
handcuffs and cuffed his wrist to a support bar on the hot tub.

“Oh, kinky,” he said, grinning.

“Sorry, Jake,” Pam said, easing her
naked body out of the tub and walking across the floor toward the
phone. “You're under arrest. I'm with Interpol. We've been
tracking the assassin known as the man with many names for decades,
but until now, we never could find you. Sorry.”

She reached for the phone.

Further possible stuff (which I like even less;
JD)

She reached for the phone.

He opened a hidden panel on the side of the tub,
just above the water line, reached in and pulled out a semi-automatic
handgun, pointed and fired. Pam's head exploded in a red mist.

He then fired into the handcuffs, pulled free,
crawled over to Pam's bloody, nearly headless body, held her in his
arms and cried uncontrollably for the rest of the night.

In the morning, he called for a cleanup crew and
checked the OP web site, looking for any new jobs he could do
himself. The closer in to the target, the better.

(Now, this one I like better; JD).

She reached for the phone.

He opened a hidden panel on the side of the tub,
just above the water line, reached in and pulled out a semi-automatic
handgun, pointed and fired, hitting Pam in her gorgeous, perfect
butt. She screamed and fell to the floor.

He then fired into the handcuffs, pulled free,
crawled over to Pam, pointing the gun at her gorgeous face.

“Why, Pam, why? Interpol? What the fuck?”
His finger trembled on the trigger guard.

“Just a joke, Jake, just a gotcha, like you
did with the zombies. Now do something about the goddamn bullet in my
fuckin' ass.”

“Oh, Pam, I'm sorry. Shit, shit, shit.”

“Paranoia keeps us alive, Jake. I forgot
you've been living that for over four decades. Bad joke. I'm
sorry.” She wiped a tear from Jake's eye.

He grabbed a towel, applied pressure and called
for his private doctor, who arrived twenty minutes later and tended
to Pam's butt.

“Guess now I'm gonna have to shoot you in
the ass, Jake Devlin, so we're still symmetrical.” Then the
sedative kicked in.

Jake called Amber and told her their visit to
Somalia would be delayed and she should hold off on the added RPG's
and put the yacht back out for charter. And leave the name as is.

(This one I like even better; JD. Hee-hee.)

She giggled, nuzzling his neck and, sliding her
hand further down under the water, she whispered, "Feels like
Stevie Bruce is ready to play."

He slid his hand down from her belly and murmured,
"Feels like Ginny May is, too."

She nuzzled him again and moaned softly. "Mmm."

He chuckled, clicked the remote, and the Bolero
began to play.

“You two going to start without me again?”

He said, “Thought you were asleep, JJ;
sorry. C'mon in.”

-Another Alternate Epilogue-

Jake awoke in a clean, white room, bathed in clear, white light. He
was naked, his scaly skin and crested head resting on a cold,
metallic surface, with his tail curled across his belly and cradled
in and around his seven arms. He was completely comfortable and
quickly became totally alert, opening his three eyes.