by Jake Devlin
“Yes, Mr. Chairman. Gordon O'Hickenfrankenofskiopoulostein.”
“Have you ever been known by any other name or names?”
“I have. I shortened my original last name.”
“Which was?”
“O'Hickenfrankenofskiopoulosteinerossovitch, which was far too GermanoRussian for my taste, so when I turned 18, I legally changed it.”
“Any other names?”
“I write under a pseudonym, Jake Devlin.”
“And that's why you're here, sir.
“Any other names, any at all?”
“Well, Mr. Chairman, there's one guy I know that calls me 'schlub,' and sometimes 'asshole,' but I don't think either of those would qualify as a name.”
The two reporters and five other people in the gallery snickered, but only until the Chairman gavelled them to silence.
“Mr. O'Hicken- – sir, this hearing is not a place or time for levity.”
“I understand, Mr. Chairman.”
“Any other name or names?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Very well.
“Now, sir, you understand that this Committee has called you to testify before us as to the anti-democratic, un-American and possibly treasonous book you have written.”
“I understand that, Mr. Chairman, but before I begin, I do have one question. Have any of you actually read the book?”
The Chairman looked around at the other Senators, all of whom shook their heads.
“It appears not, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman.
“Now I have a brief statement, as well as several documents I wish to provide to the members of the Committee before I read from them. Would you ask the bailiff to distribute these, please?”
The Chairman nodded and the bailiff approached the witness, who handed him several large, thin envelopes and said quietly, “Please be sure each of these goes to the person whose name is on the outside.” The bailiff nodded.
“While the bailiff is distributing those, Mr. Chairman, may I begin with my statement?”
“You may, sir.”
“It's quite brief, Mr. Chairman; in fact, it's only six words: Free Speech, First Amendment and It's Fiction.
“I'll pause now while the bailiff finishes the distribution and you each have a chance to review the documents before I go on to read from them.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the bailiff's footsteps, the opening of envelopes and then a series of splutters, gasps and groans from each and every one of the reddening senators at the front of the room.
Smiling and opening a folder in front of him, Gordy said, “Now, Mr. Chairman, if I may, I'll begin with the document which you're currently reviewing.”
“You may not, sir. You are excused and this hearing is adjourned.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Oh, if I may, you and your fellow Senators may keep those documents. We have copies and lots more of the same kind of information.” Gordy stuffed the papers into his briefcase and headed toward the back of the hearing room.
The Chairman, rising from his chair and gathering his papers, glared angrily yet anxiously at Gordy's receding back as he strolled to the doors at the back of the hearing room, pulling off his necktie and stuffing it in the pocket of his suit coat. Then he turned back, caught the Chairman's eyes, smiled broadly, gave him a quick, jaunty salute, spun around and left the room.
- 62 -
December 18, 2012
1:27 a.m. local time
A Casino Floor
Monte Carlo, Monaco
When Carlo Mozzarello collapsed over the roulette wheel, his arm sent the ball flying into the cleavage of a buxom brunette leaning over the table, hands clenched for luck.
A round-faced, mustachioed man in a tuxedo next to her tapped his cufflink, set his vodka martini (stirred, not shaken) down and offered to help retrieve it. The brunette shook her head and reached down, digging about until her hand emerged victorious.
The croupier nodded to the security man standing nearby, who strode over, checked the old man's pulse, shook his head and removed the Mafia don's body from the table, carrying it away to a nearly invisible doorway hidden behind the closest of the columns encircling the room.
The croupier took the ball from the brunette, spun the wheel again and threw the ball into the rim.
“Yes, yes, yes!” the brunette cried when the ball landed on her number and the croupier passed her several stacks of chips, which brought her winnings to a little over 143,000 euros.
The man in the tuxedo patted the brunette's bottom, swilled down the last of his martini and headed through the front door and outside, smiling to himself the whole time. He gave the valet the claim check for his car and waited.
A few minutes later, the brunette joined him, her bag bulging with large-denomination notes, and they got into the luxurious coupe that the valet had driven up, happily accepting Tuxedo Man's hundred- euro tip.
- 63 -
December 18, 2012
11:36 a.m. local time
Outside a Senate Hearing Room
In the Hart Senate Office Building
Washington, DC
When the doors from the hearing room closed behind him, Gordy took a deep breath of the minimally fresher hallway air and pulled out a satellite phone, but before he could dial, one of the reporters caught up with him.
“Sir, sir, excuse me. How do you spell your last name?”
“And you are?” he asked, returning the sat phone to his pocket.
“Sondra ______, ______ News, S-o-n-d-r-a” she replied, brushing her auburn hair away from her face and fumbling in her bag, finally managing to withdraw a business card, which she handed to him.
“And you were assigned to this? Slow news day or low man on the totem pole? Sorry; low woman, I mean,” he said, smiling.
She blushed and said, “Both, I guess; I'm the pool girl this week.”
“'Pool girl'? Jargon?”
“Jargon. I know, I know. But it's my first job, and I want to keep it.
“So how do you spell your last name?”
“Why?”
“So I get it right in my article.”
“What ar- – you're gonna write about THAT? That little nothing?”
“Wasn't nothing from where I was sitting. What was in all those envelopes? And what was that about a book you wrote?”
“Sorry, can't tell you anything about the envelopes. But the book, that I can talk about.”
“Why can't you say anything about the envelopes?”
“Sorry, can't even tell you that.”
“But why? Or then you'd have to kill me?”
He chuckled. “Ah, that's just an old movie cliché.”
“I know.”
“Of course, it's true,” he deadpanned.
Sondra stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening.
“Gotcha,” he said, smiling again.
She brushed her hair back from her face and sighed in relief.
“But sometimes it IS true,” he said, then, seeing her eyes start to widen again, he added, “but I'm not one of those guys.”
She relaxed again.
“At least not recently.”
“Wait, wait” --
“Just kidding, Sondra. Relax. C'mon.”
She stated walking again, caught up with him.
“You're just out of J school, aren't you?”
“It's that obvious?”
“Yup. You're what, 23, 24?”
“24.”
“Same as my granddaughter” --
“Really?”
-- “would be, if I had one.”
“Do you” --
“How long have you been working here?”
“Um, almost seven months now.”
“And what kind of stories have you written so far?”
“Nothing much, just covering these committee and subcommittee hearings, mostly just waiting around for the senators to show up in th
e first place or get back from somewhere else, like when they leave for a vote or get called away for some” -- and here she made quote signs in the air – “'important' business.”
“And what kind of stories would you like to do?”
“Investigative. Corruption.”
“Those can be tough … and dangerous.”
“I know, but someday I want to do them.”
“Ever done a story on that Chairman?”
“Senator Brickelmortimer?”
“Yup.”
“Nope – well, just when he asks some especially stupid question or” --
“Was he the one that was worried about Guam tipping over?”
“About what?”
“Guam tipping over.”
“Guam? Isn't Guam an island?”
“Right.”
“So how could it tip over?”
“It couldn't. That's why it was stupid.”
“But he was really worried about it?”
“Yeah, if the Marines added 8,000 more troops.”
“That IS stupid.”
“Wait – no, it wasn't him; it was a Representative, not a Senator. So not him.”
“Well, he's asked some pretty stupid questions, too – oh, don't tell anyone I said that.”
“Promise. Your secret's safe with me.”
“Oh, good. Now, how DO you spell your last name?”
“Off the record?” he said, digging into a shirt pocket as they reached the elevators. He pushed the Down button.
“Well, I've got to write some kind of a story, and I can get your name from the Committee's agenda, but what you say to me now can be off.”
Gordy looked at her closely, but finally said, “Fair enough,” and handed her a business card.
“'The Devlin Deception,' Jake Devlin dot com?”
“Web site for my novel, under my pen name.
“Let me give you one with my real name. Good luck if you ever have to pronounce it.” He dug into another pocket and gave her a different card; she put both in her bag.
“Can I go down with you?”
“With me? Sure.”
“Thanks. So what can you tell me about your book? Why did the Chairman call it un-American?”
“'Cause he hasn't read it, so he's going on what somebody told him, and whoever that may be, they probably haven't read it, either.”
“So what's it about?”
Gordy pulled a copy out of his briefcase and handed it to her as the empty elevator arrived and they both got in.
“Here. Read the back cover.”
“Oh, thanks.”
- 64 -
December 18, 2012
1:47 a.m. local time
Av. des Beaux Arts
Monte Carlo, Monaco
Safely away from the casino, the brunette patted her bag and said, “Well, that was an unexpected bonus. For the micro-loan programs?”
“Of course.”
“Should I call Amber and report in?”
“Let's wait till we get back to the hotel.”
“Good. I can hardly wait to get these boobs off and get rid of the wig. It scratches.”
“Same for the cheek puffers, the mustache and all these wires.” He pointed to his cufflink. “But the DD-943 worked fine, even from that distance; stopped his pacemaker instantly. Barnaby Jack was on the right track.”
“Think it had anything to do with my winning?”
“Well, Pam, that's something I can neither confirm nor deny. I'll just say that that roulette wheel will be honest for a while.”
“Oh, you,” she said, gently slapping his shoulder.
Smiling back at her, he said, “So any ideas on what you'd like to do once we get back?”
“That hot tub with the jets was nice this morning. Want to join me in it again?” she asked, her hand resting on his thigh.
“Even Interpol couldn't keep me away.”
“Oh, Jake, you're never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Maybe. Depends on how things go in the hot tub.”
She chuckled. “Ah-ha! A challenge? I'm sure I can rise to the – oh, wait. No, that'll be your part.”
“No problem there.”
“I know. Hello, Stevie Bruce.”
“Ohhhhh. No, wait, wait. We still have to go through the lobby.”
“Well, how long till we get to the hotel?”
“Maybe ten minutes.”
“Plenty of time. Ah, there we go.”
“Oh, geez. Careful, your wig's coming loose.”
“I'll fix it later. Just drive, okay? Hmmmm.”
- 65 -
December 18, 2012
11:41 a.m. local time
In an elevator in the Hart Senate Office Building
Washington, DC
She finished reading the back cover just as the elevator reached the lobby and they stepped out and walked toward the front doors.
“By the way, Sondra is considered a very posh name in the UK.”
“A very what name?”
“Posh, p-o-s-h. Never heard that before?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you can use your investigative skills to figure it out. And by the way, Sondra is a name I used in that novel. She's not an important character, but it's your name and occupation.”
“Really?”
“Yup. You can tell your friends it's based on you, if you want.”
“Wow, kewl,” she said, with the glottally-stopped pronunciation. “Guess I'll have to get a copy,” she said, holding the book out to him. He waved it away.
“Nah, keep it and drop me an email when you've finished it. Then I may give you a story.”
“An exclusive?”
“Can't promise you that, but if you read it fast, you might be the first.”
“Wow. Thank you.”
“But not too fast; it should make you think while it's making you laugh. And it should answer a lot of your questions. Oh, don't miss the online alternate epilogue at the end of the book, okay? Deal?” He held out his hand.
“Oh, yes, sir; deal. Thank you.” They shook on it.
“But for now, Sondra, I need to get back to Florida. I'll look forward to hearing from you.”
“Oh, you will, sir, you will.”
“Hey, kid, you can call me Gordy.”
“Okay … Gordy.”
“Good, good. Talk with you.”
As he headed to the front doors, she tucked the book under her arm and headed back to the elevator.
Once he was outside the building and across the street, he pulled out his sat phone again.
“Authentication 0000002, encryption on. Hi, Amber. Is he still on the boat? Oh, really? Okay; no problem. I'll catch up with him when I get back to Florida. Can you let him know it went just as planned. My flight's in a couple – uh-oh, looks like I've picked up a tail. Bear with me.” He raised his voice and picked up his pace slightly.
“What? No, no, no, that won't do! I need those lobsters by noon tomorrow! I don't care what you've got to do, get them to me, do you understand? Six dozen. Six! Noon. Tomorrow. No excuses. Get it done!” He listened for a brief moment, then stopped midstride on the crowded sidewalk, almost being bumped by a few people walking behind him.
“What??? Don't you dare use that tone of voice with me, you little whippersnapper!” He turned around and moved over to the curb, nodding and bowing slightly to the people moving past him, his eyes subtly roving.
“Sorry, sorry. No, that wasn't for you, you little punk. Now I'm going to say this for the last time. Noon. Tomorrow. Absolutely. And if they're not in my hands by then, I'll sue your ass all the way up to your esophagus! So get it done! Amateurs!”
He slammed the phone shut, ignoring Amber's laughter on the other end, looked at the crowd surging by with a look and a shrug that said, “What is this world coming to,” all the while noting with his peripheral vision the locations of the two followers.
Then he turned again and stalked off
in his original direction, keeping all his senses on high alert.
A few blocks along, when he turned a corner and found a recessed doorway providing cover, he ducked into it and waited. A moment later, one of the two tails came around the corner and looked around, perplexed.
“Looking for me?” Gordy asked as he stepped out and grabbed the young and now quite frightened man by the arm, propelling him along the street, then into an alley a few dozen feet along.
“I'm not going to hurt you, fella, nor your buddy who should be coming around the corner about … ah, here he is … now.
“Hey, kid, come over here … no, don't touch your phone.”
The second tail started to turn away, but Gordy gripped the man next to him by the throat and said, “Come here or your buddy gets hurt … or worse.”
The man turned back and stopped, facing Gordy. “W-we just” –
“I know. I saw you behind the Senator at the hearing. He told you to follow me, didn't he?”
“Y-y-yes.”
“Ever had any training in following someone?”
“N-n-no, sir; we're just interns.”
“It shows. Let me see some ID, both of you.” They shakily pulled out driver's licenses; Gordy took them.
“Business cards; I'm sure you have them.” They both nodded and gave them to Gordy, who compared them with the licenses, then gave the latter back to each.
“Now here's what you're going to do. Go back to the Senator and tell him you got caught and you have a message for him.”
Still shaking, both men nodded.
“Tell him – verbatim – that I told you to tell him, 'There's more where that came from.' Got it?”
They both nodded.
“Frank, repeat it.”
“There's more where that came from.”
“Eric.”
“There's more where that came from.”
“Good, good. Now go – oh, Frank, your throat is okay. You don't have to keep rubbing it. Go.”
They nearly ran to the mouth of the alley, Gordy behind them, and he watched them almost power-walking back the way they'd all come, looking back at Gordy with wide eyes.
“Amateurs.”
Gordy sauntered on for another block, seeing no other tails, then picked up a cab to the airport and took the next available commercial flight back to Florida. When he landed in Fort Myers about 4:30, he made a call.