The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (12 page)

"And that got your Marine killed.”

"Right. And now he's trying to blame me for that. So he had me
suspended pending the outcome of an investigation.”

"Geez, what an asshole.”

"Got that right, Jake. At least I put my objections in writing
and they're logged.”

"That's good.”

"I can handle that. But I emailed you because he's gonna want
to justify himself, and that means he might be coming after you to
prove that you are a security risk.”

"What? Because of a silly little piece of fiction?”

"Yup; you can't believe the ego this guy has, and he's got to
save face. That's part of why I wanted to get together with you
now.”

"Oh, geez.”

"To warn you.”

"Oh, geez.”

At that point, Chelsea returned with their glasses, put them down,
looked at Jake and asked, “You okay, Jake?”

"Yeah, Chel, fine, fine,” he choked out, taking a big sip
of his water.

"Okay, hon. You need anything, just let me know.”

"I will; thanks, Chel.” As Chelsea went back into the
restaurant, Jake pulled out a cigarette and lit it, his hands
trembling.

"Geez, Pam, you've got me paranoid. Now I'm even wondering
about them.” He gestured subtly toward the Mimosa twins, who
were looking at a cell phone and giggling loudly.

Pam glanced over at the twins, shrugged and said, “Like I said,
they look like pros to me, and pretty skilled at hiding it.”

"Oh, geez. I've been thinking of them as just cute little sun
bunnies.”

"Well, I could be wrong, Jake, but I don't think so. I can tell
you they're not with us.”

"Us?”

"Secret Service. Could be FBI … or CIA … or
somebody else.”

"CIA? Oh, geez. But they're so young.”

"Some agents look even younger.”

Jake took another puff of his cigarette and coughed deeply, then took
a big gulp of his water and started coughing even harder. Pam
reached over and patted his back, but that didn't help; he kept
coughing.

The Mimosa twins looked over, concerned looks on both their faces.
Carie (or was it Jill?) dug in their beach bag, took out a box of
cough drops and held it up, offering it to Jake. He shook his head,
but steepled his hands in front of his face and nodded his thanks,
still coughing.

Pam, who had been digging in her bag at the same time, pulled out an
identical box, offered it to Jake, who looked at her suspiciously,
until she shook one out into her hand and put it in her own mouth.
Then he accepted one and popped it in. He stubbed his cigarette out
in the ashtray and took a small sip of his water, and his coughing
gradually subsided.

"You gonna be okay, Jake?”

"Just went down the wrong pipe, I think. Geez. Sorry.”

“Don't worry about it. Happens to me sometimes, too. That's
why I always carry these with me.”

"They DO work, but, god, they taste awful.”

"You get used to them. Here, keep these; I've got more in my
car.”

"You sure?”

"Yup, no problem.”

"Thanks – wait. No little high-tech tracking device in
there, right?”

Pam crossed her heart and smiled. “Nope; I promise.”

"No eavesdropping … ah … thingie?”

"Thingie? Nope, no listening device, either. Nothing like
that.”

"You have got me paranoid now – but what about that
DS380/17 in your sunglasses?”

"Chaney insisted on that. It recorded everything, video and
audio. And I made a copy for myself before I gave it to him. Like I
said, you're off the hook as far as I'm concerned. But how did you
know about that? It's supposed to be classified.”

Jake shrugged, glanced over at the Mimosa twins, who were back to
giggling with their cell phones, then said, “I don't think so.
I read a lot of defense and spy stuff … research, you know;
Donne will have assassins and surveillance people after him …
and that little device was very clever. I don't remember just where
I read about it, though.”

"Hmm. Maybe I'm wrong. Okay.”

"You said you made a copy. Can I get a copy of that?”

"Oh, Jake, I can't. I've probably already told you too much.
Maybe when my suspension is over … or when I retire. And with
what's going on right now, I'm gonna do that as soon as I hit 50 next
month; I've got enough time in and I've just about had it with all
the BS and the egos.”

"Like your boss.” Jake shivered.

"Yeah. He's been hitting on me for years and he's pissed 'cause
I've rejected him each and every time, even filed a few complaints,
but nothing's ever come of them. He's too well connected.”

"What an asshole.”

"Absolutely. Lots of them around … in every agency,
too.”

"Lots of 'em out in the civilian world, too.”

"Yeah.”

"But with the way you look, I would guess you get hit on a lot.”

Pam shrugged and sighed. “Yeah, it happens.”

Jake took a small sip of his water, coughed once, and then said,
tentatively, “Can I make an admission?”

"Sure.” Pam looked at him expectantly.

"When I first saw you, the very first thought that crossed my
mind was – well, actually the second; I'm always concerned
about some other author or publisher ripping off my idea – was
that you might be setting me up for a honey trap.”

Pam blanched. “Wh- – why would you think that?”

"First, no wedding ring, and then look at you, look at me.
Women that look like you don't just come up to guys that look like
me and are as old as I am … well, unless they're looking for a
sugar daddy.”

"I'm not looking for that; promise. But a honey trap?”

"Well, it sorta was, wasn't it?”

Pam took a sip of her water, ran her fingers through her hair, and
finally said, “I – I guess you could see it that way.
And I'm sure my boss would think that way, too. But it wasn't like
that in my mind; looks aren't everything. I just wanted to prove
that you were not a risk. Really.”

Jake looked closely at Pam, frowning in concentration as he
scrutinized her face, and said, “Look me in the eyes and tell
me that again, okay?”

“Okay.” Pam looked directly at Jake and said, “I
just wanted to prove that you were not a security risk.” She
paused. “Really.”

Jake, after a brief pause, said, “Okay. I believe you.”

Pam sighed and smiled. “I'm glad.”

“Or maybe they taught you how to lie really well in the CIA.”

“How did you – oh, shit.”

“Just a shot in the dark, Pam. And I'm sorry for that. But I
had to know.”

“That was a long time ago, Jake. I've been with the Secret
Service since '93.”

“And how long with the Company before that?”

“You know I can't discuss that, Jake.”

“Or you'd have to kill me?”

“That's just a bad movie cliché.”

“Whew.”

“Of course, it's true.”

“What?”

“Kidding, Jake, just kidding. Gotcha.”

“Oh, geez, Pam. My nerves are on edge enough right now.”

“Sorry; really. But you set that up so nicely, I just couldn't
resist.”

“Geez.”

Jake pulled out another cigarette, but just fiddled with it for a
moment, then put it back in the pack, took a deep breath and sighed.

“So, Pam, seriously, how much danger am I in from your boss and
his cohorts?”

“I don't know for sure, Jake. He's a devious sonofabitch and
he can manipulate the government in all kinds of ways to get at you.”

“Like how?”

“Shhh. What's this?” She looked up as Chelsea
approached their table with a small piece of paper in her hand.

“What's up, Chel?” Jake asked.

“Sorry to intrude, Jake, ma'am, but some guy asked me to give
this to you.” Jake reached out and accepted the paper from
her.

“Okay; thanks, Chel.”

As Chelsea returned into the restaurant, Jake looked at the paper,
then read it to Pam. “Search the internet for 'Jesse Jackson
Al Sharpton Extortion' and for 'Sinclair Young Obama Murder.' Wonder
what that's about.”

Pam leaned in to Jake, dropped her voice and said, “Oh, Jake,
you don't want to touch that second one. It's a VERY dangerous
subject.”

“What? Why?”

“Take my word for it. You'd be in a lot more danger, and not
only from my boss.”

“Me? More? Geez … wait a minute. Don't we have free
speech in this country?”

Pam shook her head. “Oh, Jake, you are so naive. Politics is
a LOT dirtier than anyone, even you, could imagine. People die and
disappear.”

“Oh, geez.” Jake dropped his face into his hands. “So
what now? I should get one of those long-handled mirrors to check
for bombs under my car? Get a remote control to start it? Put a
heavy-duty security system in my house? Video cameras? Hire a bunch
of bodyguards to watch my back wherever I go? Maybe a sniper on the
roof of the condos across the street from the beach? Anti-aircraft
guns?”

“I don't think you need to go that far, but if I were you, I
sure would NOT do anything with these,” Pam said, tapping the
paper, “and I'd sure keep an eye out for anything that looks at
all hinky.”

Jake dropped his voice to a whisper. “Like the twins over
there?”

“Yup, like that.”

“Oh, geez.”

“One idea. When you're doing that stretching thing on the
beach, looking for upwind umbrellas, you should also pay more
attention to the people you see, especially if they seem out of place
or hinky.”

“I can do that, I think.”

“Look, Jake, you're a nice guy and I like you, but I'm afraid
you may get in way over your head if you're not careful.”

“So I need to be paranoid?”

“Well, not really paranoid, just a lot more cautious.”

“Watch my six, huh?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe I can do that. Thanks.”

Pam dug into her bag, pulled out a business card and wrote a number
on the back.

“Here, Jake. You've got my email, but if you run into anything
or just want to talk, here's my cell number. Call me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I've got to get back to DC, see how I can fight Chaney on
this.”

She reached for her sunglasses and started to get up, but Jake said,
“Wait a second. Let me give you my number, too. No cell, but
I've got voicemail.” He wrote a number on a page from his tiny
notebook and gave it to Pam.

“Thanks, Jake. No cell phone? Really?”

“Nope; never bothered with that.”

“Wow. Maybe you are that old … oh, sorry.”

“No problem; I'm used to it.”

“Okay. Now you take care, okay?” Pam leaned over and
gave Jake a quick peck on the cheek, gave his shoulder a quick
squeeze, then stood up, smiled, glanced at the Mimosa twins and left.
The twins seemed not to notice her, as Chelsea was setting large
sandwiches in front of them.

“Okay,” Jake said to Pam's receding backside as she
opened the door into the restaurant. Then he pulled his notebook out
of his shirt pocket, wrote “BS and ego,” put the notebook
back, looked over at the Mimosa twins, saw that Chelsea was still
talking with them, sipped the last of his water, put a ten on the
table and got up. He caught Chelsea's eye, pointed to the table and
waved goodbye.

Carefully checking his surroundings, Jake headed toward the
restaurant's door, but instead of going inside, he turned left into
the atrium in the center of the tower, saw it was empty and headed
in.

He pulled out the box of cough drops Pam had given him, popped
another one in his mouth and started to put the box back in his
pocket. Then he held it up close and looked it over from all angles,
shook it a few times and palmed it.

When he got to where he could see his car, parked on the north side
of the building, away from the restaurant's front entrance, he
noticed an old pickup truck parked a couple of spaces away, between
him and his car. He held up for a moment, looking around carefully,
then used his remote to start the car. He then jogged through the
drizzle, passing the pickup, unobtrusively dropped the cough drop box
in the bed, got into his own car and headed out.

But instead of heading straight home, he took a left from Forester,
drove east to the closest convenience store, where he bought a few
boxes of cough drops, then drove randomly around several blocks in
Bonita Shores for a few minutes, keeping an eye on his rearview
mirror, and when he saw no one following him, turned west on Bonita
Beach Road and headed home.

-17-

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

9:15 a.m.

Bonita Springs, Florida

On the Tuesday of Donne's first press conference, commuters awoke to
a series of freshly painted decorations in the right-hand lanes of
Bonita Beach Road, eastbound and westbound, repeated approximately
every mile between I-75 and the beach.

Paul and Gayle Rutledge and their three children, aged six, nine and
13, left their hotel, stopped at Dotty's for a to-go breakfast and
headed to the beach on this, the fourth day of their two-week
vacation from Paul's job as an advertising agency CEO in St. Paul and
Gayle's much more demanding job as a full-time mom.

Cindy, the oldest, riding shotgun, was the first to notice. “Look,
Dad,” she whooped, and started laughing loudly.

Paul looked over and saw the word “OLD” stenciled in
white paint in the right lane, then about thirty feet farther on,
the word “FART,” and another thirty feet on, the word
“LANE,” all in letters at least six feet tall.

Cindy said, “You better switch lanes,” and laughed again.

Paul chuckled and said, “Why me, smartass? You're the old
fart.”

“No, I'm not. You are.”

“No, you are.”

“No, you are.”

Jordan, the nine-year-old, piped up from the back seat, “You're
the old fart, you're the old fart,” and Skyler, his
six-year-old sister, joined in, “You're the old fart, you're
the old fart.”