The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

At the stroke of three, Emily led the Cardinal, in a black cassock, scarlet fascia and scarlet skullcap, into the office, where Donne was seated behind his desk, still dressed in jeans and tropical shirt. Emily gave Donne another piece of paper, whispered in his ear, nodded at the Cardinal and left the room.

  Donne glanced at the paper, set it on his desk, stood up and walked over to the Cardinal, who had his hand extended, palm down. But instead of kissing the prelate's ring, Donne shook his hand and said, “Welcome, Your Eminence; good to see you again. It's been what, four years?”

  “I believe so; when the curia signed the contract with DEI.”

  “I trust the software and maintenance are all going well for you.”

  “Technically, all is working fine.”

  “Well, if you have any problems with it, just call Wes; I'm sure he'll be glad to take care of it. As you know, as of last Friday, I'm no longer involved with the company.”

  “Yes; I watched your speech.”

  “Please, let's sit over here,” Donne said, as he guided his guest to one of the couches and took a seat on the opposite one. Again, he took the clipboard off the coffee table and set it beside him.

  “I understand the Pope is not happy with me and my policies here, from what I saw in the papers over the weekend.”

  “He certainly is not.”

  “And you are here representing the entire Church, and speaking directly for the Pope?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, let's get down to brass tacks, then. What are the Church's specific problems with my policies?”

  “You're not a religious man, are you?”

  “Not relevant. Go on.”

  “Do you even believe in God?”

  “Again, not relevant. Go on.”

  “But I need to understand the man to whom I'm speaking.”

  “That didn't seem to keep the Pope from excommunicating me, and I'm not even Catholic. Go on.”

  “We have concerns for your everlasting soul.”

  “I appreciate that, but that is frankly none of your concern. You are here talking to the guy who owns the whole friggin' government of the US of A, and I have faith that your agenda has more concrete items on it than my soul. So let's get to it.”

  “Well --”

  “Oh, before you do, I also have faith that you read and understand the document you signed before you came in here.”

  “I did and I do.”

  “Okay. Now you can go on. Brass tacks, padre.”

  The Cardinal glared at Donne, then pulled several sheets of paper from a briefcase at his feet.

  “First, the Holy Church strenuously objects to your condoning and encouraging the sin of murder of the unborn.”

  Donne picked up the clipboard, made a note and said, “You're talking about my legalizing abortion.”

  “Murder.”

  “As you call it. Are you referring to abortion or not?”

  “I am. Murder of the unborn --”

  “All right; Church objects to legalizing abortion. Next?”

  “We strenuously object to your condoning and encouraging the sin of same- --”

  “Gay marrage; got it. Next?”

  “We strenuously object to your condoning and encouraging the sin of self-murder.”

  “Assisted suicide; got it. Next?”

  “You have no responses to those?”

  “Not yet. What else has your panties in a bunch, padre?”

  “Mr. Donne, you are speaking to a Cardinal of the Holy Catholic Church. I do not appreciate your flip attitude on these issues of major importance to all God-fearing Christians.”

  Donne leaned forward and pointed toward his desk. “See that sign, the one that says 'No BS Zone,' and the one next to it that says, 'No Ego Zone'? That means I'm here to get this country back on its feet and not to pander or massage anyone's ego, and I don't tolerate any BS at all. Zero tolerance on both scores.

  “So you and I can dance around semantics and philosophy and talking points and ego, or we can dig in, roll up our sleeves and get down to brass tacks, down to the bottom line, and get something sorted out, man-to-man. Your choice.”

  The Cardinal simply stared at Donne, expressions of shock, anger and confusion alternately fleeting across his face.

  “Or maybe we could just arm-wrestle and settle it all, padre.”

  Suddenly, shock predominated the Cardinal's face, then he laughed aloud, but nervously.

  “I heard you weren't big on protocol, young man.”

  Donne chuckled. “Well, that's progress; okay.

  “I'll bet you guys are pissed off about the tax on churches and nonprofits, too, of course.”

  “We object to that as unconscionable and an assault on religious freedom, as guaranteed in your Constitution.”

  “Okay; abortion, gay marrage, assisted suicide and the church tax. Anything else on your list there?”

  “Legalizing marijuana and encouraging smoking of tobacco.”

  “Anything else?”

  “We are concerned about the moral decay of this country and will be opposed to any policies that support or continue that, and to any further assaults on our religious freedom.”

  “Anything else?”

  The Cardinal looked at his papers and finally said, “I believe that's it … for now.”

  “Okay. I've noted your objections, but all of those policies will stay.”

  “But --”

  “No buts, Your Eminence. My government is not a means for you to impose your beliefs on everyone else and control their behavior, just as it won't do that for Muslims or Jews, Hindus, Buddhists or atheists … or voodoo priestesses, for that matter. You'd agree, I trust, that not everybody in this country believes what you believe?”

  The Cardinal fidgeted, puffed up his chest, then let it sag, but he stayed silent.

  “Yes or no?”

  Cowed, the Cardinal muttered, “Yes.“

  “Well, you and your church will have freedom of religion, as you have always enjoyed here, but there will also be freedom from religion for non-believers. My government will always remain neutral on that issue. It will never be a theocracy … of ANY brand. That is not our role. And we will not set foot on the slippery slope on those issues you brought up. My policies there will stand.”

  “And you are also firm on the tax on the Church?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But our work for the poor will suffer.”

  “Well, Your Eminence, if that is really as important to you and the Church as you want me to believe it is, you will come up with some creative solutions to keep that from happening, perhaps by finding other ways to economize, MAYBE at the upper management levels of the Church. Word to the wise.”

  The Cardinal glared at Donne, who stared right back. The silence continued for a good thirty seconds, and then the Cardinal spoke.

  “I will advise His Holiness of your position.”

  “You do that, Your Eminence.”

  “And may God have mercy on your soul.”

  “I'm pretty sure She will, padre. Good day.”

  The Cardinal angrily gathered his papers, stuffed them into his briefcase and started to head for the door.

  “Oh, Your Eminence, if you would like a DVD or audio CD of our discussion here, just ask Emily or Jodi for one. No charge.”

  The Cardinal glared one last time at Donne and then left the Oval Office, trying to slam the door, but was prevented from doing so by the hydraulic door closer.

  “Pompous sonofabitch,” Donne murmured to himself as he returned to his desk and the stacks of papers on it, which he got separated into the two piles in a little less than an hour.

  -32-

  Five Months Earlier

  Saturday, July 9, 2011

  12:15 p.m.

  The Seafood Shack

  Bonita Springs, FL

  As soon as Jake and Pam found a table at the far end of the outdoor patio, overlooking the canal, Pam tore a paper towel from the dowe
l in the middle of the table, took off her sunglasses, dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.

  “I'm sorry, Jake. He was so dear, and it's so sad.”

  “You were very good with him,” Jake said, patting her hand, which she turned up to grip his tightly.

  “God, I hate Alzheimer's.” Her tears welled up again and she began sniffling.

  “Someone close to you?” Jake asked.

  Pam nodded and said, “My father.”

  “I'm so sorry, Pam.”

  “His name was George, too, and he looked a lot like him.”

  “Oh, geez, I'm really sorry. How long has he been gone?”

  “Four – no, five months now. And my mom died two weeks after he did. So it's just me and my sister Judy now. I haven't seen any of them much, but when the two of them went so close to each other, it leaves a kind of emptiness behind.”

  “Oh, Pam.”

  Pam pulled her hand away, took another paper towel and dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose again.

  “I'm sorry, Jake.”

  “No, no, Pam, that's okay. Take your time.”

  Pam took a long sip of her drink and dabbed a few final tears from her face, then sighed and smiled weakly at Jake.

  “Okay. Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anything else.”

  “Okay.” Jake took a sip of his wine, wiped his lips with his thumb and then said, “How about your plans after you retire?”

  “Oh, I don't know yet,” Pam said, still sniffling a bit. “I do want to take a few weeks or months and just unwind, and then who knows? I've got offers from a forensic accounting place and a private security firm. Or maybe I'll finish my master's.”

  “Master's? In what?”

  “Physics.”

  “Physics? Really?”

  “Yeah, that was my bachelor's, but it was a long time ago.”

  “And the accounting?”

  “MBA in finance.”

  “And you did some modeling, too, right?”

  “Even a longer time ago, but yeah.”

  “And sometime in there in the CIA.”

  Pam glanced sharply at Jake. “How did – oh, right. Yeah, also a long time ago.”

  “Now, if you were a piano or violin virtuoso, you'd be a real Renaissance woman.”

  Pam looked at Jake in total surprise, then saw the expression on his face, and laughed.

  “Amazing. Piano, but far from a virtuoso. But how did you guess that?”

  “Long fingers,” Jake said as he held his hand up to hers, palms together. “See?”

  “Okay. But yours are pretty long, too. Which was it for you?”

  “Guitar and banjo, but also no virtuoso, and it was a VERY long time ago.”

  “Do you still play?”

  “Geez, no, not in maybe ten years. And since I've been doing the book, I haven't really done anything; too focused, I guess.”

  Jake glanced out at the canal next to the patio, then back at Pam.

  “Like two weeks ago at the beach, there was a herd of manatees mating right at the shoreline, lots of people gathered around taking pictures and videos of it, and my only thought was how to put that in the book, even though it's mostly set in DC; no manatees up there.”

  “Mating? Wow. I've never even seen a manatee.”

  “Oh, they come by the beach a lot when the water's warm enough. And some of the people sent me pics and videos of them mating; I can forward those to you if you want.”

  “Yeah, I'd like that.”

  “Okay. Manatee porn for Pam.” He wrote in his notebook while Pam laughed, then glanced out at the canal again.

  “We get a lot of dolphins down here, too, and sometimes they put on quite a show.”

  “Dolphin porn?”

  “No; sorry. Just occasionally jumping all the way out of the water and once in a while chasing fish really close to shore.”

  “I'd like to see that sometime.”

  “Summer before last, we had a guy on vacation from the East Coast, Miami, I think, who was a marine biologist at one of the research places over there, and he taught us how to call dolphins and manatees.”

  “Really?” said Pam, incredulous. “How?”

  “Well, you stand in the water up to about mid-stomach, facing away from shore, concentrate, hold your hand out like this, and then you go, 'C'mere, dolphins!' and beckon them in.”

  Pam looked at Jake quizzically.

  He continued, “Now, for manatees, since they're so much bigger, you go like this, 'C'mere, manatees,'” in a much deeper voice.

  Pam laughed and then, deadpan, asked, “And just how often does that work?”

  “Oh, maybe five percent of the time,” Jake deadpanned back.

  Pam chortled. “Oh, Jake.”

  “Had you going there for a minute, didn't I?”

  “Yup; definitely a gotcha.”

  Just then, Beverly came over with Jake's doggie box, laughed and said, “Now, now, Jake, are you calling manatees again?” Jake just smiled and nodded … and shrugged very slightly.

  “Okay. Can I get you some refills?”

  Jake nodded at Pam, who nodded back.

  “Sure, Bev; thanks.”

  “I'll bring some more ice water and lemon, too.”

  “Thanks, Bev; you're a love.”

  As Beverly headed back into the restaurant, a huge body-builder type in a tight T-shirt, accompanied by a stunning brunette, came in under the archway from the parking lot and took an empty table two down from Jake and Pam.

  “Hey, Joe, Angela,” Jake called after they got settled in.

  “Oh, hi, Jake. Didn't see you there,” the body-builder replied.

  “Got my camouflage shirt on.”

  Angela smiled and asked, “So how's the book coming?”

  “Coming along. Angela, Joe, this is Pam.”

  Angela and Joe chorused, “Hi, Pam.”

  “Hi, Joe, Angela; nice to meet you.”

  Jake said, “Joe coaches over at Silva's Gym. Right, Joe?”

  “Right.”

  “You known Jake a long time?” Pam asked.

  “Maybe … what? … a year or so,” Joe replied. “Remember what you told me the first time we met?”

  “Um …”

  “The bench press?”

  “Oh. Oh, yeah.”

  Angela said, “What was that?”

  Joe said, “He told me he'd bench-pressed 700 pounds the week before.”

  Angela looked at Jake's body skeptically. “Really?”

  “Yup. And what did you say, Jake?”

  “Two five-pounders, ten reps a day, seven days; 700 pounds.”

  Pam laughed loudly, while Angela looked puzzled, then giggled tentatively and looked at Joe, who whispered in her ear.

  “Oh,” she said, and laughed louder, blushing a little.

  “And I built this whole body without any steroids.”

  Pam and Joe cracked up, but Angela again looked puzzled and blushed.

  “So,” Joe said, “you found a place for us in your book yet, Jake?”

  “Still working on that, but I'll find something for you; promise.”

  “I think Joey would make a great general,” Angela said, caressing his bicep. “He loves to drive his boat.”

  The deafening silence that followed was broken, mercifully, by Bev's arrival with a tray of drinks for Jake and Pam. As she set the last glass down, she glanced out at the canal, then at Jake, and said, “Oh, wow, Jake. Look at that.” All four turned in their chairs, Jake very carefully, and stared at the water.

  -33-

  Thursday, December 15, 2011

  10:25 p.m. local time (4:25 p.m. EST)

  The Papal Chambers

  Vatican City, Rome, Italy

  Hanging up the speakerphone at the end of the report from his emissary to Donne, his neck and face as red as a Cardinal's fascia, the Pope turned and glared at the five members of his inner inner inner circle and roared in his nat
ive language what could best be translated into English as “Who the fuck does this prick think he is?”

  (Author's note: A second translator watched the tapes of this meeting and came up with this: “What does this zucchini believe is his real identity?” A lip reader then reviewed them and claimed he'd said, “Who's gonna bring me a banana? I'm hungry.” Frankly, I can't tell who's right on this, and the same goes for all the dialogue in this section, so I've just gone with sort of consensus translations. I don't suggest that any reader take any of this as absolutely accurate. JD)

  The four Cardinals and one military officer in the room all buzzed with shock at the Pope's choice language. Never before had they seen him so upset, and considering his age, they were appropriately concerned that he might give himself a heart attack or stroke.

  “Half? He wantsa HALF?” the Pope continued, seemingly verging on apoplexy. “Sonovabitcha. We gotta kicka hizza ess.”

  The financial Cardinal spoke first, “Bennie, Bennie, calm down. We'll take care of that. Let me get you some water.”

  “I don't wanna no wine-a. I wanna deas onna how to deal with this pyla peanudda butter.” He glared at each in turn.

  Finally, the marketing Cardinal took a deep breath and said, “I've been thinking since we met last Saturday, and maybe we could go with denouncing him as the Antichrist.”

  The legal Cardinal piped up, “No, no, no, we can't do that. You can't imagine how much liability we'd open ourselves up to.”

  “Liability, schmiability; I could sell it. I've studied gobbles and all his techniques. I can sell anyzing.”

  The doctrinal Cardinal said, “No, the Antichrist plan doesn't come until 2022, after the India-China-Arab war.”

  The financial Cardinal put in his two euros. “No, you're all seeing the problem wrong. How do we get Donne to rescind the tax on the Church? That's the real challenge. Focus, people, focus.”

  The Pope cut in, “Hey, you watcha you language!”

  “No, Bennie, I said, 'focus.'”

  “I told you to watcha you language and you justa say it again. Whassa matta you?”

  “Oh, Bennie, I – never mind. I apologize,” the financial Cardinal said, rolling his eyes. “How about we just refuse to pay the tax?”