by Jake Devlin
Cyberspace
In the Drafts folders of nineteen different email accounts, the same message was posted: "Done; body will never be discovered. Closing payment due." By the close of business the next day, fifteen separate deposits of ten million euros each were made into fifteen different accounts scattered throughout the world. Upon receipt, each deposit was automatically moved into another account at a different bank, then another, then another and another and another, until all 150 million euros wound up in one account, with the 190 million euros already on deposit there, for a total of 340 million euros Despite two additional notices, four final payments were never sent.
Within three weeks, a London oil trader was found dead in a seriously mussed-up bed in an hourly hotel in London's East End, a used condom stuck in his mouth and a necktie, which turned out to be his, wrapped securely around his neck, his wallet, jewelry, cell phone, shoes and briefcase missing. His phone was found a day later in the bed of a lorry traveling north from Leeds to Glasgow; the driver said he had been in the East End a day earlier. The case was never solved.
A lawyer was killed in a freak automobile accident involving his top-end convertible Italian sports car and a wayward elephant that had somehow escaped from the Dothan, Alabama Zoo. A police official, who wished to remain anonymous, was quoted in the local paper as saying, “Ain't never seen a human body that'd been gored by a elephant tusk afore. Bulls? Yeah. Goats? O'course. Sheep? Yup. Even a wahld boar oncet. But a elephant? Never 'fore today. And it sho' ain't purty. In fact – 'scuse me, ma'am. Urp.”
In Rome, a man later identified as a Vatican security commander by the name of Gaetano was discovered in an obscure apartment on Via Tigre, his death attributed unequivocally to twenty-nine wounds made by a large kitchen knife found protruding from his chest, bearing child-sized fingerprints which were never matched to any on file anywhere, despite exhaustive efforts by multiple law enforcement agencies, including Interpol. The case was never solved.
In Medellin, Colombia, the heads of two of the major Colombian drug cartels, despite their heavy security, were both found dead on the same day in their separate swimming pools. The COD, cause of death, in each case was ruled to be accidental drowning.
But the man with many names knew better.
-127-
Friday, January 4, 2042
8:30 p.m.
The White House
Washington, DC
via a 24-hour news channel
Gordon Olin Donne faced the camera from behind the podium in the Press Room, this time in a plain pale blue short-sleeved polo shirt, a somber look on his aged face. The room was SRO, standing room only, filled with both press and White House staff.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight is perhaps the most important announcement for you that I have ever made. For tonight, after more than thirty years owning this country, I am turning a good part of it back over to you, the people, with a new constitution that may … and I can only say 'MAY' … give the US of A the chance to continue the progress that we have made together over the last generation and a half, for which I congratulate all of you who have made it happen.
“Even with the China-India-Arab War and our ongoing embargo on Chinese imports; even with atmospheric cooling, which has ended a third of our agriculture in our northernmost states; with the loss of Western California in the Great Quake of 2036; with the devastating assaults by Hurricane Gabrielle in 2013, Hurricane Thornton in 2018, Hurricane Mitzy in 2028 and Hurricane Bitzy in 2035; with the loss of over seven billion lives in the Tofu Plague of 2037, bringing the world's total population back down to ten billion; with the Church's publicity stunt of the Antichrist in 2022 and the over six thousand infanticides that resulted; even with all that and the hundreds of other tragedies that have befallen us all, even with all that, this country and you, its people, have conquered and prospered beyond my and your own wildest expectations. Congratulations.
“You are now the proud owners of the largest economy in the world, more than the total of the seventeen next-largest economies combined, a debt of less than one trillion dollars, a continuing large trade surplus, an unemployment rate of under two percent, an annual budget surplus of nearly nine hundred and fifty billion dollars, and a government that consumes less than six percent of GDP, even with a budget of 7.8 trillion dollars. We also have the strongest, meanest and leanest military in the world, and no one has dared to challenge us since 2026, and that threat was totally eradicated in nineteen days, like a bug on a windshield of one of those antique cars that only drove on the ground.
“We have accomplished incredible things together these past thirty years, and it is time for me to return from whence I came, and leave the future in your hopefully capable hands.
“As you can see from this face and bald, wrinkled pate, time has done its work on this now-frail body, but my spirit is still strong and will endure for many years to come.
“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 s
oon 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 explo
ded 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.
