The Final Twist

by Jeffery Deaver

  Why was Gahl as desperate to destroy this document as Devereux was to get his hands on it?

  Then an idea occurred to Shaw. He pulled out his Android and placed a call to her equally shielded burner phone.

  Mary Dove answered on the second ring.

  “How is it there?”

  “We’re good. Tom Pepper’s men are here. They’ve set up a perimeter. Electronic warning. And, Colt, they have a machine gun. I mean, a big one, on a bipod. Can you imagine?”

  “Good. I don’t think it’ll come to that.”

  “Hope not. We don’t want to disturb the bears. We’re right in the heart of mating season. Are you all right?”

  “We’re both good, Russell and I.”

  “Russell?”

  “He came back to help me on Ashton’s job.”

  “Well.”

  “I just have a minute. But I’ve got a question. And you’re the only one who can answer it.”

  47

  After a complicated drive, to make sure no one was following—and a scan for drones in the area by the resourceful Karin—they arrived in Berkeley, across the Bay, north of Oakland.

  They were on their way to meet one of Ashton Shaw’s academic colleagues, who lived near campus: Steven Field. He was a semi-retired professor of political history. When Shaw had called his mother a half hour ago, he’d asked if she knew of any of Ashton’s associates who had this specialty. Mary Dove immediately mentioned Field.

  Shaw had a vague recollection of seeing the man several times years back. Field had come to visit at the Compound. Those were the days when Ashton was at his peak. Oh, Shaw could remember a few bouts of bizarre behavior but Mary Dove would put on her psychiatrist’s hat and make sure he got the right meds and monitored his behavior and he’d soon return to his animated, witty self.

  One of the hardest parts of the move from the Bay Area to the Compound was the severing of social contacts. This was true for Colter and, particularly, his older brother; Dorion was just a toddler. Looking back, Shaw was sure it had been tough on Ashton and his wife too. They had both been professors and she had had the additional job of university principal investigator. Those vocations were callings that came with daily contact with colleagues, administrators, corporate executives and students. All of that vanished abruptly when he took the family to the Sierra Nevadas.

  He would, however, encourage a few, select colleagues from the Bay Area to come for visits. Young Colter could recall men and women sitting in the living room in front of the huge fireplace, talking far into the night. Like all children, he paid little attention to the words but from time to time he would note the adults’ animation, and feel, rather than hear, the laughter. As a child he didn’t grasp all the nuances, but he enjoyed the animated talk about political science, law, government, American history and—Ashton’s odd hobby—advanced physics.

  Though invariably as the night grew later, the restless boy would become bored and head outside to listen to owls and wolves and gaze at the radiant canopy of stars.

  Sometimes he’d take short nighttime hikes.

  Often, with Russell.

  His brother now asked, “You think Field was part of Ash’s circle—to take on BlackBridge?”

  Shaw had wondered that himself. Then, considering the matter, he said, “Doubt it. Those people’re all gone now. I’d say they were just friends, fellow professors.”

  Earlier, Shaw had called Field and arranged to meet him in the privacy of his home.

  But with a stipulation.

  “We’d like to come in through your back door, off the alley.”

  The man’s cheerful voice had said, “You must be a Shaw. You sound just like your father. He was always going on: They’re watching me.” Then he paused and laughed. “I was going to give you my address but if you know there’s an alley—I won’t even ask how you found that out—I guess you don’t need it.”

  Shaw was aware of an urgency—the attack on the SP family was now a little more than twenty-four hours away. But they had to be careful and were taking a long route to Field’s house, looking out for any sign of Droon or Braxton, as well as the mysterious green Honda.

  They registered no threats, and Russell turned onto the street that would take them to the professor’s home.

  He found they had to divert, though. A protest was underway and the street was blocked.

  Ashton had read his children plenty of fiction as bedtime approached in the Compound, but he also read them the news and history too—among those the rich history of demonstrations at the university and in the town itself. Civil rights, the Vietnam War and free speech were the main topics in the mid-sixties protests. Recently there’d been a series of violent clashes, mostly political and often involving free speech.

  Shaw caught a glimpse of one of the signs.

  Corporate Sellouts—No!

  That seemed to be the theme of the past few days.

  Russell parked the SUV on the street two blocks from Field’s house, standard procedure within his group, Shaw guessed. The huge vehicle was a sore thumb at the curb. Most of the modes of transportation here were hybrids, electric or human powered. Shaw even noted a few of the now-discontinued Smart cars.

  Berkeley. Say no more.

  The men proceeded into the alley. They continued along the pebbly lane for about fifty yards and then slipped through the gate in the picket fence into Field’s backyard, where they followed a gently curving, moss-dotted flagstone path to the back door. The house might have been transplanted from a small English Midlands village. Clapboard siding in brown, forest-green windows, trim and doors. The garden was more lush and meticulously tended than the garden of Eleanor Nadler—Amos Gahl’s mother.

  Goateed Steven Field invited them into the kitchen, fragrant with the scents of baking. He was thin, balding and of grayish pallor—though he didn’t seem unhealthy. He probably didn’t get outside very much. He certainly had plenty to occupy him here. There must have been five thousand books neatly arranged on shelves in all the visible rooms—which didn’t include the bedrooms. Even the kitchen was filled with reading matter.

  Field wore pressed gray wool slacks, a white shirt and tie and a gray cardigan sweater. Shaw had a sense that he dressed this way every day, whether he was teaching or staying home.

  He was sorry they couldn’t meet his wife. She was teaching a class.

  “Gertie’s a professor at Cal too.” His eyes crinkled. “Last year, I got married. A younger woman . . . One month younger!” He chuckled.

  The three men sat in overstuffed chairs in the library, Field, against a dark wood-paneled wall, on which were mounted delft blue plates, pastoral scenes of Dutch farmhouses, windmills and level countryside.

  Shaw and Russell opted out of any offered refreshments. Field was drinking tea from a cup that still had the bags—two of them—inside. The aroma was of herbs.

  He looked them over. Now came the resemblance comment, how each brother bore some characteristics of his father, and how they differed. “I was so sorry to hear about Ash. An accident of some kind?”

  “That’s right.” There was no time for details. To explain what had happened at Echo Ridge could take hours, and the clock was ticking down on SP and their family.

  “Unfortunate. And Mary Dove, and Dorion?”

  “They’re doing well.”

  As well as can be expected while hunkering down in survival mode.

  “Dorion’s married and has two girls.”

  “Ah, wonderful.” He looked them over carefully. “Now what can I do you gentlemen for?”

  Shaw explained that they’d found a document, an old one. “A lot of people want to get their hands on it. I remember you and Ashton would spend hours talking political science and law and government. We thought maybe you could help us figure out what it is, why it’s so important.” />
  “Ash didn’t teach poli sci, I believe, but it was one of his passions. And with your father, that’s passion with an uppercase ‘P.’”

  Shaw took the ruling from his backpack and handed it to the professor.

  Before he read, Field turned it over in his hand, held it up to the light. “Original.”

  “That’s right. Nineteen oh-six.”

  “Typewritten. Most official documents were, back then. People think typewriters’re a modern invention.” Field produced glasses and pulled it closer, pushing aside the teacup so there’d be no accidents. He began to read, speaking absently. “Did you know the first electric typewriter was invented by Edison in the eighteen seventies? It became the ticker tape for the stock market and—”

  He stopped speaking abruptly and his eyes grew wide as he stared at the words.

  “Professor Field?” Shaw asked.

  The man didn’t seem to hear. He leapt to his feet and pulled down an old leather-bound book from the shelf. He cracked it open and read, his face a knot of concentration. He closed this volume and found another. He flipped pages again and, still standing, traced a passage with his finger.

  Then he uttered a gasp of shock and whispered, “Holy Jesus.”

  48

  Field ushered the brothers into the kitchen. “Bigger table. We need a bigger table.”

  The professor cleared the round piece of furniture of flowers and cookbooks. Then he set about gathering books from the library and stacking them here.

  “Can we help?” Shaw asked.

  Field didn’t answer. He was lost in thought—and clearly dismayed.

  Russell ran the back of his hand over the beard and he and his brother eyed the titles of the books the professor had plucked from shelves, all of which seemed to have to do with California history.

  The last batch involved law books, California reporters and treatises. A U.S. Supreme Court Reporter too.

  The professor didn’t say a word. He kept skimming passages, marking some with a Post-it note and, in other instances, apparently synopsizing them on a yellow pad. Finally he sat back and muttered to himself. “It’s true. It can’t be but it is . . .”

  “Professor?” Shaw was getting impatient. It was clear that Russell was too.

  Staring at the tally certificate as if it were a land mine, Field said, “California’s always had direct democracy—where citizens themselves approve or reject a certain law, including constitutional amendments. The governor and legislature approve a measure and then it goes to the people directly for a vote. If the majority approves, it changes the constitution. No further action’s required.

  “Enter Roland C. T. Briggs. Nineteen oh-six.” Field tapped a thin, leather-bound volume with the man’s name embossed in gold on the cover and spine. “He commissioned this biography himself. It wasn’t exactly a bestseller. The subject was, let’s say, unappealing. He should have had a co-author byline: written with his ego. Briggs was a real estate and railroad baron. Typical of the time: stole Native American land, worked his employees to death, drove competitors out of business illegally, monopolized industries. And I won’t even get into his personal peccadillos.”

  Shaw thought immediately of Devereux.

  “His team of lawyers drafted Proposition Oh-Six. It was full of obscure changes to trade and taxation. Briggs and his operatives managed to coerce and cajole—and bribe—the state assembly and the governor into approving the referendum vote. And it went on the ballot.

  “His bludgeoning didn’t stop there. He and his political machine pressured the people to vote for the referendum and it nearly made it. But it failed by a hairsbreadth. Everyone thought that was the end of the matter. But—according to this—no. It actually passed.” He nodded at the tally.

  “I guess someone noticed irregularities in voting in the Twelfth Congressional District. That’s San Francisco. Maybe new ballots were discovered or there was evidence some were forged or duplicates. Anyway, a complaint must have been lodged and a state court judge reviewed the ballots and certified the new count—which was enough for the measure to pass and amend the constitution. Except that never happened.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of the earthquake. Look at the date on the certified vote tally. April seventeenth. The earthquake was at five in the morning the next day. A number of government buildings and records were destroyed, and dozens of officials were killed. The judge, this Selmer Clarke, was one of the fatalities. In the chaos and destruction after the earthquake, the recount was forgotten—and no one knew the proposition had in fact passed. Briggs probably wanted to put the matter on the ballot again but he died not long after—of syphilis, it seems—and the whole question of the amendment went away.”

  Shaw asked, “What’s the ‘Holy Jesus’ factor?”

  “Proposition Oh-Six was dozens of pages long, but Briggs didn’t care about ninety-nine percent of the measure. That was all smoke screen—so no one would focus on the only provision he cared about. Paragraph Fifteen.”

  Field opened a book and thumbed through musty pages. “Here.” He pushed the volume toward the brothers.

  Proposition 06

  Paragraph 15. That section of the Constitution of the State of California which sets forth the requirements to hold office in the State shall be amended by the following:

  To hold any public office in this State, all persons:

  must have been a resident of California for the five years preceding their election or appointment,

  must have attained the age of 21 years, and

  must have been a citizen of these United States for 10 years, if a natural person.

  Shaw and Russell read the passage then both looked toward the professor questioningly.

  “Let me explain. Like all business tycoons of the day Briggs hated Marxism, and the growing communist movement, which said basically all the woes of the earth come from the elite owning the means of production and oppressing the working class. Lenin wouldn’t start the revolution in Russia for another ten years but there was plenty of evidence that communism as a form of government was coming.

  “Briggs—and more than a few of his ‘comrades,’ if I may use the word—wanted to start an opposing movement. He wanted capitalism intertwined with government. And so—this.”

  Another tap of the book containing the language of Proposition 06.

  Field said, in a whisper, “Does anything strike you as odd about those words? Anything bizarre? Anything revolutionary?”

  Russell looked his way impatiently.

  “Maybe in the third qualification,” Field prompted.

  Shaw suddenly understood. “Can’t be,” he whispered.

  Field replied, “Oh, yes. This amendment gives a corporation the right to run for and hold office in California.”

  49

  Impossible,” Russell said.

  The professor said, “Not impossible at all. It’s one of the smartest political coups of all time. Most subversive too.”

  His finger traced the tally, then perhaps realizing it was an original, historic document he quickly removed his hand.

  Russell said, “It doesn’t say anything about corporations.”

  It was Shaw’s legal experience that had given him a rough understanding of the implication. “Yes, it actually does.”

  Field nodded. “You’re right, Colter. Let me explain.” Field’s eyes shone, both troubled and exhibiting a hint of admiration, as he stared at the paragraph. “Read it again.”

  The brothers both did.

  “One, to hold office a person must have been a California resident for five years. The law is well settled that corporations can be residents of states. For tax purposes, they must be. Two, the person must have attained the age of twenty-one. It’s an easy argument to make that a corporation begins to age from the date of incorporation
.

  “Ah, but the third line . . .” Field said this as if the words he was referring to were a magical incantation. “The third line is the key. To hold office a person must have been a U.S. citizen for ten years, but only if you’re a natural person, not a corporate one. Corporations are excluded from that requirement. So to hold office in California, a company need only be a resident of the state for five years and incorporated at least twenty-one years ago.”

  His eyes on the judge’s order, Russell said, “But this thing is over a hundred years old. It can’t become law.”

  Field said, “It is the law. Now.”

  Shaw frowned. This was beyond his legal ken.

  “In nineteen oh-six, the minute it passed, the constitution was amended. The governor, the state assembly—they don’t need to approve anything. This has been the law for a hundred and ten years. It’s just that nobody knows it.”

  Russell’s face was still, as he stared out the window.

  “And there’s more.” The man’s visage revealed how unnerved he was.

  “Go on,” Shaw encouraged.

  “Now, any U.S. citizen can run for office in California, unless you’re a convicted felon or disqualified by term limits. The law doesn’t require you to have been a citizen for a certain amount of time.” A tap near the voting tally. “This, though, requires you to be a citizen for ten years.”

  Shaw said, “Which has the effect of ousting, what? Hundreds of people holding office now?”

  Field nodded. “There’ll have to be special elections or appointments for all the seats.”

  Shaw looked at Russell, who apparently had Shaw’s very thought in mind.