The Resurrectionist

by Jackson, Gil

  ‘Where are they now?’ Hamilton said.

  ‘Long dead, I’d have thought. The last mention I had of one of them was in the fifties, an Associate Director of the FBI ... as to the other, well, as I said.’

  ‘Couldn’t you check FBI records?’

  ‘No, no, no, not anymore. Records all went missing at the time of the change-over. Checked. But someone was definitely involved ... from the Bureau, in mean.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Hamilton said.

  ‘That’s where Frank helped. You see the rotor arm your grandfather removed from one of the cars outside of Giuseppi’s house the night in question happened to be from a Duesenberg, a rarity even then. It was the only lead that I had so I made some inquiries and came across a car in the Minnesota Museum of Transport – it’s still there as far as I’m aware – whoever had it was making sure that it wouldn’t be found. They didn’t account for Irish logic though ‘cause I found it. And with the enlisted help of a fingerprint expert, was given permission by the museum to make a search for famous prints for a book ...’

  Annie interrupted. ‘Surely there wouldn’t be any trace of fingerprints after all that time, the car would have been washed and valeted over the years?’

  ‘That’s right, it would have been, was, but there’s one place that fingerprints would remain ...’

  ‘The starting handle?’ Hamilton added.

  ‘Nearly. The wheel brace and we found dozens of prints but obviously to make a positive identification I needed access to records. Another clue that someone knew more than they were letting on and keen to hide it: could find none.’

  ‘Perhaps there were none to find.’ Annie said.

  ‘The time that car would have been owned, during our period of inquiry into Marco Giuseppi, two years either side, four years’ of fingerprint record sheets were missing from their files. Except that is one....’

  ‘And did it match either of these two agents that gave you your promotions?’ Annie said.

  Charlie smiled. ‘No it didn’t. Except a name that ... for an oversight on their part; and a chance encounter on mine ... a finger print record ...’

  ‘What chance encounter?’ Hamilton said.

  ‘Well, I happened to buy some tobacco from the same store as he did. He was going out as I was coming in and I noticed he was smoking a Lordhamercy ...’

  ‘What in God’s name is that?’ said Annie expecting some wisecrack answer.

  ‘A Lordhamercy? Is a tobacco filled clay pipe that is handed out at Irish wakes to all; in fact, along with whiskey and porter, they’re central to proceedings. Anyway, I says to him in passing, thinking that perhaps he might be Irish, Morning. Claypipe, eh! Expecting him to say that he was on his way to a wake, but instead he replies, obviously not hearing me too clearly on account of his apparent accent, what with it being inferior to mine and all, No, it’s Claypole, and if you want a job in the dockyard you’ll have to see the gaffer, or words something like it. So, as you see, when I read that name ... Claypole....’

  ‘You’re putting two and two together.’ Annie said.

  ‘Well it might take care of one of them, though a probable long-shot.’

  ‘So what made you think of him? and what was he doing working in, what the dockyard? in, when did you say?’ Hamilton said.

  ‘1920! Well, it’s obvious now, not so then. They may have been passing as overseers and working undercover at the start of all of this. And for whom? I’ve still no real idea. It might have been Hoover becoming head of the newly formed General Intelligence of the Bureau within the Justice Department, keeping an eye out for saboteurs and enemy aliens or the like. The war hadn’t been over long ... I don’t know, anything’s possible.’ he shrugged.

  ‘But you couldn’t tie this Claypole fellow up with the Duesenberg?’ Annie said.

  ‘Not as an owner, no. He could have been an investigating officer. They’re usually pretty thorough. He might have left his prints though.’

  ‘So, you’ve no more of a clue who he was than now?’ Hamilton said. ‘Great!’

  Annie was not so downbeat. ‘Doesn’t matter though, does it? The fact remains, people are involved. Living people. That have influence. And, Charlie ... Claypole. I’ve remembered something. Didn’t give it any thought before you mentioned that name. The girl, the angel....’

  ‘What about her?’ Hamilton said.

  She turned to Charlie. ‘When I went down to Santos County to investigate her abduction from our centre — we tracked a four-wheeler spotted by one of our security cameras from the security firm that was operating them. Just as well since the building was blown to smithereens. It led us to Cheyne Ridge....’

  ‘Yes, you said there was some cover up involving two deputy sheriffs. How one had been murdered by the other. The murderer, tried and executed in double quick time with no appeal on account of how he had confessed.’ Charlie said.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Hamilton asked her.

  ‘Apparently, the executed man had first said that his partner had been murdered by the ghost of some woman in some mine workings. A Jeep, we suspected as being the vehicle used for the abduction of the girl, had been hurriedly dragged from the ravine, its plates removed. When I started asking questions ... what was his name? ... Sheriff Bell.’ Charlie nodded. ‘A right numb-nut and a more uncooperative man-of-the-law I’ve yet to meet, wouldn’t allow me anywhere near it. Told the agents that were with me they had no jurisdiction in his county. When we went to leave to get a writ from the Mayor’s office to have the Jeep checked over, we were shot at and driven off the road. By the time we had walked to the next town, reported in, and returned, Sheriff Bell had conveniently had the Jeep crushed. And guess what, when I asked him who the driver was he lost his temper, told us to piss off. One of the agents said that he should be careful and told him he could be disciplined for withholding information from the FBI....’

  ‘Being a bit on the polite side, wasn’t he? Given the circumstances—’ Hamilton said.

  ‘Um. No. I was. What he actually said to him, after he had him up against the office wall, strangling him with his own uniform collar was: Fucking answer the lady, properly; have some respect for a woman of the cloth ... Then he blurted out the name, Clay, after he had been kneed in the groin area.’ She smiled. ‘When questioned further for the rest of the name, he said no, he’d made a mistake it wasn’t, he was called, Mahon.’

  ‘Clay!. Did he say the name on purpose?’ Charlie said.

  ‘No. He didn’t. It was as if he’d made a slip of the tongue.’ Annie said.

  * * *

  Hamilton sensed a man that had his finger on the pulse. Annie Carter for all her deviation, was his spiritual guide; and he: the fact that he had hereditary qualifications would not have been enough for the both of them, had it not been for his integrity as a man that could see with his own eyes and not question, in spite of the science of conjuring tricks, was capable of working out how it was done, and seeing no trick would not fall fail of gullibility and not accept it for what it was: for what it was, was acts of God and Devils made flesh. His hereditary status would take him beyond African Queens, still alive, and capable of putting family ghosts to rest.

  ‘And have you seen this man since?’ Hamilton said.

  ‘No. But if he is one and the same, I know where to draw my pension.’

  ‘You do, why don’t we go for them there?’ Hamilton said.

  ‘Because he shot Charlie and thinks him dead. Is that them, Charlie?’ Annie replied with a smile.

  Charlie smiled back. ‘If he’s with the President when we see him, he’ll get the shock of his life, so he will.’

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 29 – 1997

  OVAL OFFICE I

  What followed next was guaranteed to unearth the most fanatical of organisations to seek the mercy of the President of America.

  Henry Clancy Montgomery III; 42nd president of a self-proclaimed country that would stop at nothing from
being found out — especially anyone that had any preconceived ideas of a President bearing such a handle — added nothing to the responsibility for anymore cover-ups.

  Following on the destruction of the town of Becland came two more States; parts of two continents of such fire that it rocked the world on its axis to the extent that countries traditionally opposed to the West pleaded in a unanimous voice to be believed that their people were not responsible. In spite of their protestations of innocence every single faction in America that were considered alien were rounded up and taken out of the equation by the placement of such souls into concentration camps; the leaders of their countries of birth ignored for the acts of human rights’ abuse. Such was their frightful realisation that America was any longer in a mood for talk: and that they would be doing what everyone knew they were capable of — without permission from their most loyal friends, take on these countries and wipe them from the face of the earth at a moment’s notice.

  And here I am, Charlie O’Hare. Ex- New York cop; FBI officer; humanist, dreamer; and God knows what the fook-else sitting in the Oval office with Hamilton Fitch, Annie Carter, the President and various officials from, again, God knows where, having explained, not for the first time; but probably the last, my side of events and their side of non-involvement in this attack on freedom.

  I have been, for the time being, in this matter at least, for as long as I can remember, smiling the smile of a man with the resignation that at last events can be taken out of my hands and put squarely into those that can do something about them, but probably won’t, and watch them squirm and skate round the issues before us knowing that they must come to the conclusion that they must be rid of the bogus Divine Third Circle and its building labelled with the title: administrative (annexe ii-38) section pen.gov in red lettering: Venus extra bold condensed lower case.

  And Frederick Spannocs! Where is he in all of this? Well I’ll tell, so I will, because I’ve had a message from the gentleman in question. Waiting for his time to come. Losing his powers fast. In an Alaskan forest, hundreds of miles from civilisation, and banging on the side door of an old USAF establishment. (Can’t wait to see who’s the other side of that one!)

  ‘He’s come good for the son of Italian immigrants,’ Annie Carter innocently said.

  The remark got her a silent admonishment from Henry Clancy Montgomery III. He might have spoken had not the Italian president been at the table. For her irony, lost on him, assumed to be lost on Signor Carlos, but not on me: for the man, not the nation.

  As for Frederik Spannocs himself. What he had become, everything he stood for; that good men stood against, or should do; or paid lip service for what they were supposed to be standing for as long as it didn’t include them personally; was to be trashed; their wages of sin to be credited to all Men with no taxes or insurances deducted.

  The President, and after much deliberation made the suggestion: ‘If it comes to it I will save the world; and if it’s within my power, I’ll put it back on the straight and narrow.’

  For myself, I put my head in my hands in disbelief. What can you do? How can you argue with that? Annie Carter looked at me as if to say, Has he been listening? Hamilton observed but you could see he had an otherwise opinion.

  The President looked around the room at the global gathering before his eyes settled on me and Annie Carter. ‘What else would you people have me do?’ he said. ‘There may only be one faith after all.’ Taking a morbid satisfaction from a United Nations that had come together from the perspective of a common goal was not to upset Uncle Sam any further; the expectation by the President that the entire spectrum of their country’s faith entering a prism to emerge as a single white light of one was probably pushing nation’s a little too far. And he was clearly relying on the trick of opportunity to pull it off.

  Was this it? If it was, and I’m supposed wrong as I think they are. What if my judgment is impaired by bias? It could so easily be, after all I’ve lived with the Holy-damned-Spirit for more years than a bloody tortoise and it hasn’t counted for anything. Have I overlooked something here?

  Annie Carter knows the score and recognises my dilemmas. The library of the Vatican’s secret archives have chronographed this and similar since the year dot. She knows what I’ve been through.

  ‘You’re the emissary, I am the nuncio,’ she had said to me. ‘You’re not responsible for any of your thoughts in this matter. They’ve been planted by a messenger from God with her own message of grievance and only half His mandate. She’s earthbound until it can be purged from her system, so stop carrying the world’s burden for it. We thank you for what you’ve told us; for what you’ve done. When this is over you can go in peace yourself.’ She had smiled the smile of the wise, adding, ‘And knowing that, Charlie, hadn’t stopped you straying into the path of unrighteousness common to man. (She was right there.) He’ll think none the less of you; you are after all, one of His.’

  ‘He’ll forgive any sin — but one.’ She told the assembly of nations. ‘The deed we’ll all have to take the responsibility to our fellow man for and the one sin common to all our faiths: the corruption of an immature man’s mind. For that, He and His servants are ruthless, you’ve witnessed that much ... and that Mr. President, is where we’re at.’ She gathered me and Hamilton among that collective with her hands. ‘We’re all responsible, Mr. President, do you understand the implication of such a decision?’

  I compounded her comments before the President got a look in and made the point, ‘That to me, that man’s responsibilities for his brothers’ actions were to be shared out in the unforgiveness stakes? And if we can agree that, we’re all pretty well damned together on this. A corporate complicity out of a committee of complacency.’ She didn’t add anything further. She didn’t need to. The look of devastation was in her eyes.

  * * *

  All this time Hamilton hadn’t said a word like he had more important things on his mind. Sat there expressionless like a typical journalist that had seen it all before. But he hadn’t seen anything like this! Living on the memory of a woman with no personal bits lying on a mortician’s trolley that he couldn’t photograph, couldn’t interview and couldn’t put to bed Press-wise. That would be enough for most. There was me sitting talking to the President like an old friend. He was no longer sure, only what I’d told him of his forebears and their contributions all these years doing right by our fellow citizens and the FBI. But he could see, there would be no persuading Henry Clancy Montgomery III of what was right and what wasn’t. Truth to him existed: only lies were invented. Fraught with a fear that the right decision was to be made he pushed a note to the President’s secretary, who immediately passed it under the President’s eyes. With barely a comma between his summing up and nodding to Hamilton, I watched Hamilton excuse himself from the meeting ten minutes before the President’s own exit for deliberations.

  * * *

  The President returned after what seemed like hours but was nearer fifty minutes. Looked at Annie Carter and grimaced the look of a man that had struck dread and was mining it with broken fingernails. Barely looking in my direction. ‘This coming to a decision has caused me a degree of heart-searching that no man should ever have to make and one which I wish I didn’t. However ...’, Forcing himself to look at me out of some respect I suppose, made a noise in his throat and resumed, ‘... I hold that office that demands such decisions’, rightly or wrongly, cannot be delegated elsewhere. There are some of you here, out of a sincerity of belief, consider that the world as we know it is likely to come to an end if we follow the path of good and righteousness. And that is as it should be. However, the many paths to God were not constructed by man — much as all our faiths might have us believe — and as such would not have been designed comfortable for us. And, we have drifted from that precept; perhaps it is time that we were once more reminded of His way and let Him show us. And with that in mind, I have made the decision to run with our people and their research; trustin
g in their faith to do the right thing; but more importantly the people that are seeking the ultimate secret of the universe, of life, why we are here, and what it’s all about. The search for that kind of knowledge was, I am confident, in-built into man by his Creator and as such will not be condemned by Him for trying to seek; and am confident in that knowledge that when an outcome is established, and man learns that ultimate knowledge — and I do use that loosely in this context because I believe that such revelations will not be so easily achievable: if they are, His master plan will merely result in the moving of His catcher further out the field. I, of course, could be entirely wrong in my prognosis, but, so could any of us.’

  He looked round the assembly of world leaders knowing that they knew there was little room for argument or time; confident that they had not been asked to make such a decision would accept that it had to be made by someone and that it was not an entirely inappropriate decision made and the best that could be hoped for. But for me it didn’t sit too comfortable. Henry Clancy Montgomery III’s solution to the problem was the correct one as far as he, and those around the table were concerned, but not for me, and I put my head back into my hands.

  * * *

  Nor did it, I suspect for Hamilton; he didn’t say that he was leaving. He was after all the observer, the journalist, the reporter, and the recorder of men’s deeds good, bad, or indifferent. Whether out of design or not, a wedge had been driven between our two families inasmuch as his family had paid the price for my compulsive investigations, and, selfishly from my point of view the reason for getting him involved, would need to be made clear to him, to give him the chance of disassociating himself from the curse that history dictated was all too apparent. He could not walk away. The bile message that had been sent to Sarah Weinberg, resulting in our first conversation in twenty-odd years — that he had been abducted — she took surprisingly well — well, she was over 90. She had changed; it was true, except for tear stains down her face that she had had most of her adult life. But she had made the right decision in time and contacted me as well as Max Stenna. Frederik Spannocs’s had abducted him but had as quickly released him. Rather surprisingly, back into our hands after Max Stenna threatened to reveal to Wall Street, that his company, Ocean International — that he had gone to such pains to keep as a legitimate American company with credentials to equal Coca Cola — was in fact not what it purported to be; had share values that had been grossly over inflated by its accountants; was an organisation founded and funded for the laundering of assets from nothing more than child slavery, child abuse, and paedophilia of global proportion.