Gospel

by Sydney Bauer

  ‘Nancy Doyle is dead.’

  ‘Good. What else?’

  ‘A small detail. I hear Montgomery has fired his lawyer, which is probably no surprise. I expect he is looking for another as we speak.’

  John said nothing so Matthew went on.

  ‘My people have their ears to the ground. If he approaches anyone in Washington, we’ll know about it within minutes. All of the viable alternatives will be “unavailable” and any others are not worthy of our concern.’

  ‘He may go to New York, or Los Angeles.’

  ‘If he does, we have it covered.’

  John said nothing, obviously trusting in Ramirez’s ability to see things through.

  ‘What about Ryan?’ asked Ramirez.

  ‘He has nothing,’ answered John. ‘The man had been holding on to Tom’s coat tails since Harvard, he lost his only ally when the Vice President died. His power base is being eroded. Even if he did decide to pursue his suspicions, his accusations sound fantastic and there is no one there to listen. I have made sure of it.’

  ‘And after the election . . .’ began Ramirez, wanting confirmation of John’s promise.

  ‘CIA funding will be reduced and the power of the FBI consolidated. As for Ryan, he will be replaced by someone we can control. Nothing has changed, Matthew. On the contrary, all is going to plan.’

  ‘Did you speak with her?’ asked Ramirez.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘When the President makes his decision she will accept it. She knows no other way. Politics is her life.’

  ‘We need her on board.’

  ‘She won’t be a problem. She will stand behind me, an asset not a liability,’ said John, a little frustrated by Matthew’s concern. ‘You have to remember, Matthew, that in the end it is the President’s decision. He has no choice but to select a running mate most likely to win him the election. When faced with the alternatives there really is no better option. Latham is not stupid. I have his ear. All will play out as expected.’

  ‘All right,’ Ramirez said.

  ‘Keep me posted on the new lawyer.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And don’t call me here again.’

  Ramirez hung up the phone and took a sip of his JW before reaching across the desk to press the automatic drapes button, shutting out the city beyond.

  ‘Not long now,’ he said to himself, allowing the smooth amber liquid to settle upon his resolve. ‘Not long now.’

  Tonight, for some reason, John was overcome with nostalgia. There was no specific reason for it – at least none John could put a finger on, but the conversation with Ramirez had made John realise just how close they were to achieving their goals and perhaps, given all that had happened in the past few months, that was as good a reason as any for the first of the Gospel Four to sit back and offer some self-congratulations for what had been achieved.

  Was it only four years ago that John had started out on this journey? Four years ago when the three compatriots had been identified and assembled and given their religious monikers by the chairman of the group?

  At the time John had insisted they refer to each other by their biblical pseudonyms at all times, a security precaution they initially saw as extreme. But John realised the importance of separating their ‘official’ positions from those of their Gospel identities – providing an anonymity that allowed them to do the ‘unthinkable’ while still maintaining their positions of power and influence.

  John remembered their faces then, the disbelief, the uncertainty, the doubt that someone such as John was strong enough to carry out what was proposed. But it did not take long for John to alleviate their concerns – they soon came to appreciate the full force of their leader’s unwavering dedication to their plan and then it no longer mattered that John was who John is – a woman with grand ambitions and the guts to see them through.

  It was never about her sex, she thought to herself as she stood from her desk to move to a nearby side table and pour herself a glass of ice cold water. On the contrary, she saw her gender as an advantage over men who were nullified by bigotry in a political playing field flooded with testosterone. The truth was, she had never had any need for muscle flexing and thought the procedure insecure and pathetic. Being a woman, and a beautiful one at that, had in fact given her the power to pull this thing off, and she had pulled it off – or at least, was very close to doing so.

  That is how it had started she thought, as she felt the refreshingly cool liquid slide down her throat, with the realisation that opportunities were endless for someone such as her, someone who thrived in this political universe where aesthetics were appreciated. She loved everything about it – the energy, the power play, the exhilarating pace. The Congressional hearings, the policy committees, the mark up sessions, the caucus forums, the task forces, the voting strategies and the wonderful resolution results.

  Then there were the even more powerful occasions dressed up as ‘festivity’ but saturated with opportunity – the banquets, the dinners, the breakfasts, the balls, with Congressmen and Senators, Admirals and Generals, Governors and Ambassadors and Presidential staff. It was like being part of a privileged club of history makers who controlled the lives of billions, all over a tasteful selection of the finest local produce and appropriate imported wines.

  She knew there were those who initially thought she had taken the wrong route – that a State Governor could shoot straight for the Presidency rather than settle for a position that was ‘close enough’. But she knew better then, and she knew better now. Small, calculated, patiently executed steps – over days, weeks, years – were the key. Until it all fell into place, exactly as she had planned.

  John poured herself another glass of the pure clear liquid, the slight twist of lemon offering the tart cleansing sensation of unadulterated refreshment. She then returned to her desk and relaxed back in her blue silk-upholstered chair, allowing her eyes to close for the first time in close to eighteen hours, calming her thoughts as she realised how close they were to victory.

  She knew that the key to power in Washington lay in the ‘numbers’ and that it was pointless to control any one area or individual. If you really wanted to pack a punch in DC you had to cast your footprint wide and gather all those in its shadow into your camp, voluntarily or otherwise. And ironically it was Tom who had given her the idea that made it all happen – the notion of using the drugs.

  ‘Drug addiction is America’s most virulent and non-discriminatory disease,’ she had heard him say thousands of times. ‘It is deceitful and cruel and does not show prejudice.’

  He was right, and it was upon this truth that John had based her new ‘business’.

  The addicts were everywhere. They were the sons of Senators and the daughters of Congresswomen, the nieces of Governors and the brothers of Presidential advisors. In some cases they were the ‘big guys’ themselves, like the powerful lobbyist with a penchant for cocaine or up-and-coming Senate Appropriations Committee member addicted to Percodan.

  These ‘blue chip’ users had four things in common: the lust for drugs, the desire for a clean supply, the need for confidentiality and the money to pay handsomely for all of the above. They were largely high-functioning recreational users with big ambitions and the necessarily chaste reputations to match. In other words they were ripe for the picking, the perfect clientele for a business based on blackmail.

  John opened her eyes and allowed herself a smile, realising the sensation she was feeling was not just nostalgia but a small insight into the rush of power that was to come. She was proud of her efforts and even prouder of her ability to find the three people who had assisted her in making it all happen.

  Ironically, she recalled, choosing the first key ‘member’ had been surprisingly easy. The criteria was for an individual in a superior law enforcement position who could not only research and identify the potential ‘clientele’ – with particular attention given to their usefulness in
the future, either personally or through their powerful relatives – but could also run interference as the ‘business’ got under way. Antonio Ramirez, FBI Washington Field Office Assistant Director in Charge no less, was perfect – arrogant, ambitious, with top level access to confidential files and other information on all members of government and their immediate families. He was focused enough to get the job done, smart enough to see the big picture and devoid of the scruples which might jeopardise his ability to carry out his duties effectively. He was the primary installation and, John had to admit, a major reason for the project’s success to date.

  Next came the recruitment of the two other personnel, a process Ramirez would also facilitate by tapping into the FBI database on senior Department of Justice and Homeland Security employees. He began by locating an experienced operative at the Drug Enforcement Administration who could not only identify the appropriate South American drug suppliers but also approach them regarding a new ‘venture’ which was basically an offer too good to refuse. The operative would negotiate the supply of top quality narcotics at a fair but reasonable price – with the cartels assured of ongoing business and the rare advantage of protection from prosecution guaranteed.

  As it turned out, Robert Doyle, a forty-eight-year-old undercover veteran was ideal. For not only did he have open access to the senior members of quality producing Colombian organisations, and further contacts in Panama where the drugs could be packaged and dispatched, he also had a wife with a penchant for the finer things in life, and the near-bankrupt financials to prove it. One look at Doyle’s personal profile told Ramirez he was ripe for a well-timed employment opportunity which would make his current government income look like a piss in a pot by a dehydrated mule.

  And he was right. It took Ramirez nine hours to fly to Bogota to hold a discreet meeting with the DEA Agent who was on one of his covert Colombian operations at the time, and exactly one hour and ten minutes to secure his services. ‘Luke’ was in, with one more to go.

  ‘Mark,’ said John aloud as she crossed her legs and stretched her neck to the right and recalled the more difficult task of finding the final link in their directorate of four. From the onset she and Ramirez knew this member would have a dual role in the business – monitoring their import security and making sure the narcotics were beyond detection by having them re-classified as legitimate dietary supplements. They had to find someone in Customs with contacts in the Food and Drug Administration, which was not as easy as it seemed.

  Since 9/11, the public profile of the normally less than interesting Department of Homeland Security’s US Bureau of Customs and Border Protection had gone from ‘ho-hum’ to ‘hero-incorporated’ with the government recognising their role in the ‘War Against Terror’ as ‘uncompromising, unwavering and invaluable’. In other words the geeks from customs had stepped up to the plate and were enjoying their long overdue minute in the sun.

  As Ramirez soon discovered, the gang from CBP were a patriotic bunch which, while at first appearing a handicap, eventually turned the recruitment process in his favour. Travis Toovey, the newly appointed Assistant Director of the Bureau of Customs and Border Protection’s (CBP’s) Office of Intelligence, and former Special Agent of the FDA’s Office of Criminal Investigations, was known for both his ambition and his criticism for red tape and bureaucracy, an epidemic he claimed stemmed from governmental faction fighting and opposition party nitpicking which not only wasted time but jeopardised national security in the process.

  Thus John’s mantra of a ‘United America’, combined with the promise of the plush pay packet and a fast track to the top job of Commissioner of CBP, was enough to clinch the deal. Toovey’s Customs and FDA contacts, along with his idealism (and John’s ability to manipulate it) won him the job and their quad of conspiracy was complete.

  John extended her neck in the opposite direction, feeling a wonderful relief in the stretch as she contemplated the numbers of others involved. There were hundreds of course – all miniature but important parts in a ‘business’ protected by its intricacy. The beauty of it was, that each of these handsomely paid individuals was completely ignorant of the true nature of the business. Many believed they worked for a legitimate dietary supplement company who packaged and couriered vitamins to patients across the country and none of them had any idea exactly who was ‘running the show’.

  In fact, the entire business was built on protecting the identities of the four key players right down to the clients’ specific instructions on ordering the narcotics electronically on a specially formulated encrypted data base, the payment of accounts made in advance via wire transfer to untraceable off-shore bank accounts, and the delivery of the merchandise via a series of unsuspecting couriers who believed they were carrying vitamin and mineral supplements.

  For the ‘Four’ this meant their growing income was both secure and gathering interest at a top international rate and for the clients it brought the comfort of a sterile, anonymous system which eliminated the need for ugly face-to-faces with dealers. They paid their money and the drugs landed in their safety deposit boxes, secure and clean and more importantly, at pre-requested intervals. In other words the ‘system’ was a blue blood junkie’s idea of heaven – dependable, discreet and delivered on time.

  For four profitable years, the business ran like clockwork, aside from one staffing hitch which occurred when Doyle was placed into witness protection. It was a hiccup that could not be avoided, as a notorious South American drug lord made it known the DEA Agent was on the top of his own personal hit list and Ramirez could not interfere with the US Marshal’s directive to relocate Doyle and his family in the best interests of their personal ‘safety and protection’.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t a problem in any case as their four-year plan was coming to a close and Doyle’s intermediary services were no longer necessary. His reluctance to commit to Tom Bradshaw’s elimination clinched his fate and his removal was both timely and effective.

  How ironic, she thought then as she ran her hand through her glossy blonde hair, that this next stage would see an end to all they had built. On one hand a shame considering the success of their short term commercial venture; on the other, essential as their second and final phase was put into place.

  ‘Vice President,’ she said quietly to herself, relishing the sound of it and knowing it was just a stepping stone to the ultimate appointment.

  The President was the easy part, Latham knew a sure thing when he saw it – he saw it in Tom and he saw it in her. The announcement would no doubt trigger a national intake of breath – there had never been a female Vice President after all. But that sharp inhale would soon be followed by a universal sigh of relief, as America took comfort in the perfection of it all – a truly just alternative to the late, great Tom Bradshaw.

  There would be some administrative hurdles to leap, but once the American people absorbed and embraced the idea there would be no turning back. The early polls would confirm her popularity and the Party would stand behind her, a bastion of support. By then the business would have been shut down; the suppliers paid off, the employees made redundant, the couriers cancelled and the deliveries halted without explanation. The clients would be pissed – but that was all part of the plan.

  Ramirez would then begin the phase John knew he would enjoy the most – calling in the chips. The procedure was simple. He would approach said clients and/or their powerful relatives and explain that they, or their loved ones, had been identified on a controversial list of high profile drug users in a top secret anti-drug operation which had been uncovered by the FBI, and was in the process of being promptly dismantled.

  He would tell them of the seriousness of such allegations, especially considering the anti-narcotics mantra of the current government, and warn them that their (or their relative’s) part in the ‘heinous association with narcotics dealers and traffickers’ was punishable to the full extent of the law, especially when they were in democratically elec
ted positions of power and responsibility. Ramirez would claim the operation leaders were being arrested as he spoke and that each and every name on their list of criminal customers would ‘face arrest and/or subsequent disgrace and humiliation via their relationship with the very dealers this administration was devoted to exposing and bringing to justice’.

  It was beautiful. He would have them. He would let them sweat for days, perhaps a week as ‘investigations continued’. And then all he had to do was give them a way out. Ramirez would explain that the newly appointed Vice President, an individual with a vested interest in continuing Tom Bradshaw’s hard line on narcotics traders, had been informed of the FBI’s latest coup in discovering and destroying this new and highly profitable covert drug operation. The Vice President had also been given the confidential list of clientele and had responded to their name(s) with both disappointment and sadness.

  ‘The Vice President acknowledges the important role you play within the administration,’ Ramirez would say, looking into their eyes as they searched his with fear and trepidation. ‘And while she is wholeheartedly disappointed to see your name on this list of criminals, she is, like her predecessor, more interested in prosecuting the suppliers than persecuting addicts.’

  A pause. Further torture.

  ‘She suggests that perhaps we could reconsider the alternative of legal action and public disclosure in return for your support both now and after the election.’ A sigh of relief, a glimpse of hope. ‘When your dedication to support the objectives of the new administration could really make a difference.’

  Irony at its best. The users were being used by the dealers once again, and this time at a much higher price.

  And so the grateful addicts or their powerful relatives would agree to assist the new Vice President in her quest for a United America. They would follow her objectives, vote the way she wanted, pass bills, support joint resolutions, secure funding and play their part in creating an unbeatable majority in a parliament so often hogtied by the process of debate. They may not like it, it may even make them sick to their stomachs, but they will be smart and pragmatic and experienced enough to know a good deal when they see one. And this was a good deal – illegal, fraudulent, criminal – but still, a very good deal.