THE 11TH APOSTLE
Sunday September 3, 2028: 2355 EDT
1776 Eye Street
Washington DC
At six feet seven and weighing in at a shade over three hundred pounds,
Murtag Burstones II was a big man. At every six monthly check up his
physician told him that if he did not shed at least fifty of those pounds then
he would not live long enough to enjoy his retirement. “There’s no point in
working every hour God sends,” the good Doctor Schreiber would say, “only
to find out you’ve been summoned to shake hands with Him before you pack
in the rat race. I’m serious MT – do something about it!” Regardless, Murtag
had flatly refused all of the suggested tests – there was no way he was going
to let himself be prodded about or scanned.
The biofuel magnate heaved his huge frame out of his sumptuous goathide
executive chair and surveyed the view from the tenth floor. High above his
head rose a bell tower which made the headquarters building of Biolife Inc
resemble a corporate cathedral here in the heart of Washington DC. Below
him the commuting ants streamed in and out of Farragut West and a jazz
band annoyed the passing pedestrians. Fortunately for Murtag there was an
inch of glass to save his eardrums. Behind the building at 1776 I Street (or Eye
Street as the realtors had renamed it) resided a swathe of world influence.
Over Murtag’s left shoulder, a few blocks away stood the headquarters of the
World Bank and International Monetary Fund - silently surveying the
economies of the developed and developing world. Over his right shoulder,
just beyond Lafayette Park, stood the White House – its present occupier
already making plans to pack away the family photographs and retire to
California. The election was just nine weeks away.
The election. Democracy. A piece of theatre played out for an unsuspecting
public.
Many of the public servants working on Capitol Hill had apartments close by.
A quiet word in the right ear over a cappuccino. The right payment texted
through to the right bank account could buy enough persuasion to garner the
required sway. With so many people possessing a global influence operating
within such a small area, Murtag had to be in there – in the heart of
Washington – making sure these people were doing the right things.
Following the right agenda.
The politicians were no different to the bankers who were no different to the
clowder of corporate cats Murtag had to deal with every day. They all wanted
money of course – no one could get off the political starting blocks without it.
But what they craved above all else was power. Power gave them more
influence. More influence gave them more wealth and greater ability to shape
their own individual destiny. Most of them did not care how they achieved it.
The end dictated the means.
Murtag permitted himself a brief smile while he surveyed the scene. If only
they knew the scale of the deception that was being run. Real power had been
selectively maintained within generations of a handful of bloodlines. From
the dynasties of Ancient Egypt, through Roman times, the Renaissance to the
Middle Ages right the way through to the last few centuries - these families
had kept a tight grip on the global tiller, in spite of the occasional blip. They
had been able to manouevre policy to suit their own ends and clinically
remove anyone down the years that had threatened to destabilize their
system.
Burstone’s pocket whistled. He shoved his hammy fingers inside to retrieve
his iPhone. A text with a lurid picture told him that any one of a dozen
Philippino girls were waiting to give him a good time. Not tonight of all
nights, thought Murtag. If all went well, maybe tomorrow.
Of late the magnate had invested his time arranging support for one of the
Democrat candidates in the Presidential race. It had been, so far, the usual
mix of plastic smiles, scandal, backroom deals and tens of millions of dollars
worth of advertising. The Republicans had chosen their man months ago –
Will Clermont. A Harvard graduate with a penchant for economics. The
country certainly believed it needed a keen financial mind in the Oval Office –
a man who could give the markets confidence that the administration could
make meaningful inroads into the ever growing debt mountain.
Unusually, the Democrats had still to decide upon their candidate. Odd
because parties saw the benefit in adopting a candidate early on so they could
focus their huge rumbling marketing machines on getting their message
across. Message. For that, read taking their selected stuffed suit, getting their
teeth sorted out, sending them to a personal presentation coach whilst trying
to dig up as much manure on the opposing candidate as possible and trolling
them on social media. That way they could gather the momentum needed to
get over the finish line come Election Day – the magical 269 Electoral College
votes.
It had been assumed among Democratic circles that ex-President Lee’s
preferred candidate – Justin Hoffman - would stroll though the primaries.
Hoffman. Hah!
He had become an unexpected fly in the political ointment ten years ago, soon
after he contrived to destroy most of The Cylinder. Burstones knew all about
Hoffman’s involvement within the MJ12 but had never thought he would
step out of those shadows so successfully. Hoffman had revived the approval
ratings of the most recent Democrat president by arranging for him to take
kudos from a water pipeline Hoffman had gotten involved with. This had not
been forgotten within the party and Hoffman drew upon this bank of
goodwill when he announced his candidacy. This pipeline project had also
pumped enough dollars into Hoffman’s account to mount his campaign.
Burstones caught his reflection in the huge window pane and smoothed
down his fifty thousand dollars worth of transplanted follicles. He knew this
next presidential term was going to be the most significant in the history of
mankind. And as such, the incumbent needed to be carefully selected.
Groomed. It had taken many, many years of preparation and Burstones was
not going to let this little upstart from Maine piss on the fire he and his kin
had stoked for centuries.
This problem, like similar situations in the past, had been turned into an
opportunity. Murtag’s cell chimed again and he grunted at it in annoyance.
He pulled out the device and glanced at the screen. No pictures this time, just
a text.
“ALL SET. OVER TO YOUR MAN.” It read.
Better make a move. With Hoffman about to be compromised Murtag wanted
to get settled and watch it all unfold on TV from a discreet table at the
Metropolitan Club. With an excited spring in his size fourteen step, the big
man locked his office door and called the elevator.
Sunday September 3, 2028: 2142 PDT
The Pentarch Hotel
San Francisco, CA
This baby is going to have to go on a diet before it’s getting outta me, thought Beryl
Hoffman as she wearily pulled down her skirt and stepped out of it. She
made her toes wriggle within the pile of the carpet, trying to get some life
back into them. Beryl playfully let the awful grey garment with the elasticated
waist hover briefly between two pinched painted nails before letting it fall
over her unflattering plain black, flat, practical size fives from Bloomingdales.
She unbuttoned her blouse and dropped that on top of the skirt for good
measure. Beryl uncomfortably padded over to the bathroom and pulled one
of the white fluffy Pentarch towelling robes from its hook, wrapping herself
in its pristine softness.
Now she felt a rush of comfort. Clean; white; subtle aroma of detergent.
Gorgeous.
She stared guiltily back at the small pile of clothes in front of the closet. In a
few short moments the shoes had been aligned next to the other pairs behind
the closet door and the skirt and blouse had been smartly folded upon the
appropriate shelf. Now she could relax and snuggle in her soft robe and
watch some trashy television until Justin returned.
Life as a first-lady-in-waiting had been everything Beryl had expected.
Helping put together the marketing and communication had, for her, been the
most interesting. As the communication expert within the MJ12 (the covert
group established decades ago upon the discovery of a crashed spacecraft at
Roswell) Beryl knew how to put messages out there that would connect with
the American people. At the same time, she was not naïve enough to believe
that her husband’s candidacy was universally welcome within the
Democratic party. But together they had blown away all the other candidates
with one stubborn exception.
A rap at the door raised a lump of consternation in Beryl’s brain. She had not
ordered room service and Justin was far too organized to have lost his room
key. Beryl quickly checked herself in the mirror – the bathrobe was generous
enough to provide enough coverage even with a third trimester baby bump
very obviously ballooning within her abdomen. She wearily approached the
locked door.
“Who’s there?” called Beryl at the Fire Notice.
“It’s Ellen. Ellen Dass – I’m really sorry to disturb you Beryl. The security
guys in the corridor said it would be okay. I know Justin’s not back yet but do
you mind if I wait for him?”
Ellen Dass had been recently widowed. Her husband Joe was a Democratic
Congressman from Alabama who had taken his own life after a string of
affairs had been revealed by the tabloids. Joe Dass had been seen as one of the
party’s rising stars and the whole mess had been a major blow, coming so late
on in the campaign. Hoffman had been the first to offer public condolences in
a speech at a rally in Texas and defied any man to metaphorically “look in the
mirror and not find something they’d rather wasn’t there.”
“He’s had a very long day Ellen, can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“Not really – I wanted to see him before everything goes completely crazy.”
Beryl huffed in frustration. Was it her hormones or that she was too
sentimental to turn away this tormented young woman who had just had her
private life trashed in front of the eyes of the nation and had her dashing
husband taken cruelly away?
“I was just about to get into the tub,” said Beryl, attempting to keep the
defences up. “Hoffman junior is kicking the shit out of me – almost literally.”
There was a brief pause.
“It is really important – I won’t stop you hopping into the tub, Beryl – you’ve
got the biggest suite in the whole damn hotel. I’ll just sit in a distant corner
until Justin comes back.”
Ellen’s tone was unyielding. Beryl grumpily pulled down the handle and
opened the door. Dressed in a smart rose pink suit, Ellen Dass smiled briefly
and marched into Room 704.
Down in the hotel lobby Justin Hoffman was waiting for the elevator.
Hoffman was no less tanned than he was five and a half years ago when he
had proudly spoken at the official opening of the first AquaPlain pumping
station. His actions in siphoning off funds from the Cylinder rebuilding
budget to help realize Cressida Pell’s vision of irrigating the Saharan plain
had been hijacked by the President of the time. President Lee had been
dogged by claims of ineffective action against an ever-growing terrorist threat
and Hoffman, perhaps with a guilty conscience over his misappropriation of
funds, went along with the charade. It had ended up working to their mutual
benefit – President Lee gaining some precious foreign policy plaudits and in
return Lee had endorsed Hoffman’s candidacy when the announcement had
been made nine months ago.
Through the early primaries Hoffman maintained a steady lead only to be
pegged back by a young Senator from Ohio – Matt Hiace. Hiace had been a
relative unknown, bankrolled by unseen benefactors. Hiace looked the part
for sure but was he the safe pair of hands the country needed right now given
its precarious budgetary situation? Hoffman had all the political experience,
many more contacts and he could not understand where this guy with limited
time on a few House committees had garnered such a large support. Still, the
race had continued with rival candidates dropping out – some pledging
support to Hoffman and some to Hiace. And now it had come down to this –
the final hurdle. Convention time. The 2028 Democratic Convention was
being held at the Moscone Center – just as it had 40 years earlier. It had been
decades since any party had been forced to endure a brokered convention
where two nominees were still in the race. Party elders had intervened and
had spoken to both men. It was arranged that the loser would be included on
the Democrat ticket as vice president – but the big prize was still up for grabs.
The sweet cinnamon aroma of bagels from the Pentarch Juice Bar reminded
Justin’s insides that he had skipped lunch. Again. A meaty hand slapped
Justin on the back of his deep blue blazer. Surprised, Hoffman turned to see
who it was.
“Hi Justin, how’s things?” growled Bob Bejewski. “I hope you got a heck of a
speech lined up for Thursday. I’m in your corner – you’ve done a lotta hard
work for the cause down the years and I don’t forget that.”
Hoffman reached out and shook Bejewski’s sweaty mitt. He had instinctively
done the hand-over-the-handshake manoeuvre he had been taught to make
him look more Presidential for months. Bejewski was known as ‘Big Bob’ for
more than just his rotund appearance. Owner of several major chain stores, he
was a major fundraiser and benefactor for the Party. And he knew only too
well that dollars thrown towards the right campaign bought valuable
lobbying time in the months ahead.
“Appreciate that Bob,” Justin grinned. “And you don’t have to lose any sleep
over the speech – just sit back and enjoy it while I wipe that grin off Hiace’s
face!”
“That’s what I like to hear. You’re the Maine Man after all. Whoever came up
with that campaign slogan is a genius. Hey, I’ll not keep ya – must’ve been a
long day. You get back to that lovely wife of yours. Better tell her to take it
easy – she’s been pressing the flesh all day too.”
“The day my lovely wife listens to what I have to say will be the day hell
freezes over I’m afraid Bob. I’m sure it’ll be even worse when she’s First
Lady!”
“Defy her Commander-in-Chief? Never!”
The two comrades chuckled until the elevator chimed and swished open its
doors. Hoffman raised a departing right hand at Bejewski without looking
back and strode inside. He inserted his key card and pressed the button
marked 7. The Pentarch’s seventh floor had been designated the ideal floor
for dignatories as it offered the most ideal location for security measures. The
architects estimated any small bomb left in the lobby would not damage any
floors above five and other threats such as abseiling intruders, plane strikes
and the like would have difficulty causing an immediate problem as low as
floor seven. As such it was home to the larger more lavish suites.
The elevator smoothly ascended to the ultra-safe seventh floor. Hoffman
checked his watch as he exited – getting close to 10pm. Check on Beryl, get some
room service, catch up on messages, read through the speech again – still plenty to
do. In honour of the convention, someone at the hotel had had the fawning
idea of adorning the funky indigo walls of the seventh floor corridor with
sixteen portraits of each Democrat president. The Presidents’ eyes inspected
Hoffman as he walked to meet the two protection officers on station. His
suite, 704, was located at the extreme West end of the building. Hiace’s suite,
707, was at the opposite end. The guards obediently rose to their feet as their
ward walked towards them. A wave of tiredness suddenly washed over
Hoffman.
“Hi guys,” the diminutive Hoffman said cheerily. “You OK? When was your
last break?”
“Six hours ago sir. But not a problem.” They were both men who could have
passed as linebackers for the 49ers. It had been the black guy who had
spoken. “Your wife got back about forty five minutes ago sir.”
“How’s she doin? Someone tells me she’s been workin’ her ass off in spite of
her condition.”
“She seems fine Mr Hoffman. Complained about her shoes. Seems they’re not
her type of thing.”
Hoffman grinned.
“You got a girl son?”
“No sir. Job does not give me much time for socializing and such like. I got
plenty of time for girls once I got me a Hummer.”
“That your goal, son? Well when you do get a girl – you’ll understand some
things are more important than others to her. Shoes come pretty high up on
the list.”
“I’ll bear that in mind sir.”
“You guys can go grab a coffee downstairs if you want,” Hoffman lifted his
lapel to reveal the belt holding the .22 Walther he still carried, despite his
ultra Secret Service days being well behind him. “I am fully trained in close
combat you know.”
The two guards looked at one another, trying to second guess what the other
was thinking. The onyx-eyed, Hummer motivated guard spoke again.
“It’s very good of you to offer Mr Hoffman sir but we’d probably get fired if
our boss saw us away from our post. We’ve only got three more hours on
shift and I can hold my pee for a while longer. ‘Bout you Gary?”
Gary shrugged his impressive shoulders.
“I’m good,” he said simply.
“All right fellas – good job,” said Hoffman and shook them each by the hand.
As he moved between them Hummer guy said.
“Oh by the way sir, we let Mrs Ellen Dass through to see your wife a few
minutes ago. We scanned her and everything. I remembered your speech
about her husband – you do know her, right?”
A warm glow broke out inside Hoffman. If a security guard on ten dollars an
hour had given attention to his speeches then he must be getting somewhere.
“Yeah, relax guys,” he said. “I knew her husband Joe from way back. And if
you ever need a reference….?” Hoffman’s arched eyebrows were prompting
the guard for his name.
“Archibald, sir. Archibald Quinane.”
“Well Archibald Quinane – you just gotta ask.”
“Thank you sir.”
Hoffman left the two large corridor blockers to their silent duty and pulled
his key card out of his pocket. It took a second attempt for the LED
underneath the door handle to switch from red to green.
The suite was immaculately tidy, which was not surprising considering that
a) he had barely spent any time in it yet and b) he was sharing the room with
Beryl. The large bathroom complete with free standing tub and walk in
shower was immediately off to the right. A short step down led into an
informal office area with a comfy leather couch and a glossy mahogany
writing desk. A small table in the corner allowed for some glasses to sit upon
it with miniature flat paper hats to cover their rims. A reasonably stocked
mini bar sat on the deep green carpet alongside the corner table. A doorway
in the back right of the office led to the bedroom. Hoffman could hear Ellen’s
voice coming from inside.
A moment later and Ellen herself appeared in the doorway.
“Hi Justin,” she held both arms out like a tractor beam to pull him toward her
hug. “I hope you don’t mind me just dropping in. Especially when you’ve got
so much you need to do.”
Hoffman accepted the hug which was a little too enthusiastic in its squeeze.
“Hi Ellen – never mind me, how about you? And your boys – how are they
holding up?”
“That’s the worst of it Justin. Me – I can just about get by. Everyone has been
fantastic with their support of Joe. Not least of all you. And Beryl.”
Beryl looked on frustratedly from the bed.
“Hi honey!” she called from afar.
“Hey!” Justin acknowledged his wife but returned his gaze to his guest who
continued her explanation.
“But the boys. Callum has hardly shed a tear, poor little guy. Boy when it hits
home he’s gonna go crazy I guess. And Josh well, he’s quiet. Wants to keep
me close. They’re at my mom’s tonight – I just had to come over and see you
before you get completely swept up in what’s ahead.”
Justin put his arm around Ellen and led her to the impressive leather couch.
They sat down together and Hoffman allowed Ellen to clasp his hand tightly
within both of hers. He spoke softly.
“Well, it’s gonna be a busy few days for sure. I mean we’re still hopeful of
getting the best possible outcome. Me going for the Presidency and Matt as
my running mate. Clermont’s got no chance against us. The dream team!”
He sat back on the couch and the tiredness spread through his limbs. It had
been a long day. In fact, it had been a long year. Campaigning. Fundraising.
Advertising. Meetings. Speeches.
“Come on Justin don’t be bashful – you can tell me. A little bird tells me your
name is pretty much a certainty to be on those ballot papers. And I thought
with that being the case you might be able to tell me…. Gosh this is rather
delicate. I’m embarrassed to even say it out loud…”
“Hey, come on Ellen. It’s me you’re talking to. There’s no need to be
embarrassed – whatever it is you just gotta ask.”
“All right… With you being pretty much nailed on for the Presidency and all
I wondered if you knew who was behind what happened to Joe. I know all
about the Apostles and just like Joe did, I made arrangements with his
attorney….”
“Wait, wait ,wait. What are you saying? You think I had some inkling about
Joe’s death? Ellen, I’m shocked. Stunned. To the core. And what makes you
think it wasn’t anything other than suicide?”
Ellen’s eyes examined Justin’s in minute detail, trying to garner some clue as
to whether Hoffman was maintaining some impeccable naïve façade.
“No, wait – even if you don’t know anything about Joe you must know
what’s coming next. The currency crisis? Joe warned me about it. He was on
the committee. We managed to get hold of some gold bullion on the quiet –
help us to ride it out. You’re not going to deny that, surely?”
Hoffman raised himself up and perched on the couch. He looked back at
Ellen, perplexed.
“What do you mean? What currency crisis? If I’m in charge I won’t let the
dollar crumble like the President has these past few months. I got some top
guys who tell me that-”
Hoffman let his words stop as he saw a look of disbelief crawl across Ellen’s
features.
“Jesus, Justin – I thought you knew stuff. In the Inner Circle. You were in the
MJ12 for Christ’s Sake? You do know what’s about to happen, right?”
“What are you talking about Ellen? Who’s telling you this stuff? Why did you
come here?”
Beryl came in slowly from the bedroom, intrigued now by the peculiar talk
from their visitor. Somewhere in her handbag, Ellen’s cellphone gave a
muffled chime.
“I’m sorry Justin – I think someone’s trying to set me up here. I can’t believe I
fell for it.” Then more under her breath than to Justin she said: “It’s not
you….. Shit! I gotta go….”
Ellen’s expression had turned from disbelief into sheer terror. She grabbed at
her bag, hooked it up and clutched it anxiously to her midriff. After a
moment’s racing thought, Ellen Dass stood up and moved toward the main
door. Hoffman got up from the couch to grab her arm.
“Ellen, wait!”
Without warning the lights were extinguished. Justin froze where he was,
blinking to try to get his eyes to focus through the fog of blankness. He smelt
something familiar and then was barged back on to the couch. The next
instant he was back on his feet, spinning to his right where the impact had
come – reaching for a gun that was no longer there.
BANG!
Justin saw the muzzle flash and a half yelp. Ellen. Then the sound of a
weapon thunking on to the thick pile of the carpet. Hoffman darted over to
where the flash had come but could see nothing, feel nothing. Just that smell.
Gunpowder.
Now thuds on the other side of the door as Archibald and Gary flung open
the door to 704. As they came bursting in, weapons drawn, the lights in the
room returned.
Ellen Dass was sat on the floor of the suite, next to the writing desk, clasping
at her throat. She was clearly having difficulty in breathing – blood was
foaming through her startled lips. There was a bullet hole in the wall behind
her and a bright jag of blood seemed to have made a short slashing line over
the top of it.
There was no sign of the assailant. They had vanished as quickly as they had
appeared in those deadly moments of darkness.
“Mrs Dass! Are you OK Mr Hoffman sir?” asked Archibald, warily scanning
the corners of the room. “What happened?”
“I – I don’t know… Someone else… in the room.. somewhere..” Hoffman was
too stunned to think.
Beryl crouched down to where Ellen sat. Her fingers could not stem the
blood. It was running down the centre of her pink suit and she was
desperately fighting to get air down her throat instead of her own blood.
Upon seeing her friend, she batted away Beryl’s concerned hand and turned
to face the wall.
“Ellen? What are you doing?” asked Beryl, feverish with concern.
Ellen took a quick look at her scarlet riven fingers and then unclamped one
hand from her throat, using a bloody forefinger to trace a letter on the wall.
The letter K.
“Ellen? Stop that! Have you called 911?” Beryl shouted at Archibald.
“Shit! No, sorry mam. Gary. Dial 911. I’m gonna check out the bedroom.”
Gary clumsily put his Colt back into the chest belt and took out his Samsung
instead.
“Justin – what is she doing?” Beryl’s eyes looked to her husband for help.
Guidance. Or anything. She had seen far too much blood shed in her time –
surely this time they could save their friend.
“Leave her,” said Justin. “She’s focusing – it will calm her. Worst thing we can
do is fight with her right now.” Hoffman was also possessed of a morbid
curiosity. Just what did Ellen want to write on the wall? She added an N and
an O to the K.
Ellen suddenly flung her back against the wall, convulsed and clutched at her
chest, her eyes bulging and her chest wildly rising and fighting for air. Then
the next moment she calmed and returned to her message. She dragged her
finger down the wall two times and then began a third line before slumping
heavily head first on to the carpet.
Monday September 4, 2028: 0233 PDT
SFPD Station, Bryant Street
San Francisco, CA
It all seemed pretty clear cut to Lieutenant Joel “Moonshine” Greer. Ellen
Dass had died of a single gunshot wound to the neck which had ruptured her
carotid artery causing sufficient loss of blood for her heart to give out. The
shot had been fired from a Walther P22 which ballistics had just confirmed
matched to Justin Hoffman’s personal handgun which also exhibited signs of
being recently discharged. Witnesses at the scene had confirmed in their
statements that Hoffman had even displayed this pistol to them upon
returning to his hotel suite.
Hoffman had the temerity to deny it. Officers had retrieved CCTV footage
from The Pentarch’s seventh floor corridor which showed three persons
entering the room – Hoffman’s wife, followed by the victim, followed by the
defendant. Some time later the two protection officers can be seen reacting to
the gunshot and then bungling their way inside. Why Hoffman would shoot a
woman he claimed to be a close personal friend Moonshine could only
speculate. It was late – or early – depending on your point of view and he was
quite happy to charge Hoffman, pass the completed file to the DA’s office
round the back of the station and get back home. He had everything he
needed apart from a motive but he would gladly find one of those tomorrow
after a few hours’ sleep.
He proficiently typed up the final paragraph of his Crime Summary and hit
the print icon. After years of struggling to master modern technology
Moonshine could type fairly quickly these days. Although he had to admit
Spellchecker saved him a heck of a lot of time. Greer had been on the SFPD’s
payroll for the past twenty eight years of the fifty three he had racked up in
total. His nickname a jibe at the fact that he had a hobby of home wine
making. One of Greer’s colleagues had needed to drop off some mail to him
one evening. The officer concerned reported back to the guys at the station he
had spotted an elaborate array of equipment set up in Greer’s kitchen. The
story sprouted from there into a tale of the Lieutenant’s illicit booze
production and distribution.
The officer assigned to front desk duty walked over and stood behind the
Lieutenant’s monitor.
“What is it Lou?” asked Moonshine wearily. He rubbed his fingertips
vigorously over his balding head.
“Hoffman’s attorney has arrived,” replied Lou glumly. “And I’m sorry to be
the one to break it to ya but it is Kastor – just like you suspected. I hope you
got all those boxes ticked or -”
“Clam it Lou! I got Hoffman in the room with the gun – his gun – which
ballistics have just confirmed is the murder weapon. What more do I need?
No one else has come in or out of that hotel room apart from the victim, the
killer and the killer’s wife. Oh and tweedledum and tweedledee the
protection officers burst in after it was all over. But then they weren’t being
paid to protect Mrs Dass so I guess they’re relieved. I don’t care what his
smartass lawyer says his client ain’t getting’ bail – he’s goin’ down for a long
stretch.”
“And Mrs Hoffman is still sat out in reception. Says she’s not leaving until
you let her husband out.”
“Well then start charging her rent ‘cos she’s gonna be sat in that chair for
about forty five years!”
“She’s pregnant too – Hoffman’s wife.”
“Jeez – what a lowlife. Now she’s gotta bring that kid into the world on her
own.”
“Who do you want first?” Lou’s downbeat tone had not wavered.
“Neither! I want to see the inside of my house – preferably the inside of my
fridge to take out a nice cold beer!”
Lou remained motionless and dog-faced.
“Okay, okay! Wife first – she can have ten seconds and then the lawyer. All
this because some dumbass politician was probably sleeping with his friend’s
wife! Friend finds out and blows his own brains out. Friend’s wife threatens
to spill the beans to Hoffman’s wife and he blows her away! Bam! There’s
your motive. Knew I’d find it.”
“Her husband didn’t blow his own brains out, he hung himself,” Lou
advised. “I remember it from the news a few weeks’ back.”
“Thank you for the detail – I got a lot on my mind what with having to take
out a second mortgage for Georgie’s wedding and all. Tell Kastor he’ll have to
take his turn – Hoffman can afford an extra fifteen minutes, no matter what
his hot-shot lawyer’s charging.”
Lou nodded solemnly and made his way back down the stairs to the front
desk. Greer picked his scruffy grey jacket from the back of his chair and
forced his chubby arms through the sleeves. He looked down his front and
made a vain attempt at patting down the creases which would have given an
industrial steam press a run for its money. He meandered through the
detectives’ desks and flung open the door into the corridor. No hollers from
the cells tonight. No disorderly drunken bums like there were most other
nights of the week. Sunday nights into Monday morning did at least provide
some respite from those assholes.
The last few hours had been a daze for Beryl Hoffman.
Paramedics had confirmed there was nothing they could do for poor Ellen.
Someone had called the cops. Beryl had to admit it looked bad but how could
anyone see in the dark to do the shooting? And then disappear? Only some
Special Forces operative could have performed a hit in such a way. Beryl only
hoped the police had performed a thorough search. Even Special Forces
would leave some forensic trace.
Beryl had quickly pulled on a sweater and jogging pants. Matching of course.
The immediacy of social media meant that a small gaggle of photographers
and bystanders with cellphones raised aloft were already lying in wait on the
street outside Pentarch reception to take images of her handcuffed husband
being led to a squad car by two of SFPD’s finest. Beryl had had to hail a cab in
order to follow. Whilst Justin was taken to a cell, Beryl had pressed the desk
sergeant to take her statement – she wanted to make sure she included as
much detail as she could whilst it was still fresh in her mind. And then the
wait. The antiseptic looking waiting area she found herself in was the official
station reception at the front of the building. Beryl had phoned Kurt Kastor’s
personal cellphone, aware that he was in town with celebration plans in mind
for later in the week. Kurt had arrived within twenty minutes and was
immediately admitted inside the station past the secure door.
Beryl feared the reverberations were going to be cataclysmic. Justin’s dreams
of the Presidency had been shredded in those few awful moments, let alone
what the outcome of any charges would be. Trial. Press camped outside the
house. Jail. No father for her unborn child. And then her thoughts turned to
Ellen’s two boys – Josh and Callum. Their father gone and now their mother
slain. Who would be so heartless as to do that? Surely any rational
investigating officer had to realize Justin would be the last person on Earth to
orphan those boys? And then she looked up and saw the paunchy, unkempt
figure of Joel Greer waddling out of the secure pass door into the waiting
area. Maybe the law would take a bit of persuading.
“You Mrs Hoffman?” asked the lieutenant, scratching the back of his head
and then examining his fingernails.
“Hello, yes?” Beryl smiled sweetly. She was savvy enough to realize where all
the power in this relationship was currently residing.
“My name is Lieutenant Greer – I’m in charge of the investigation into the
death of Ellen Dass. So what can I say? There’s not a lot you can do for the
moment Mrs Hoffman – best thing you can do is get off home or call your
folks or friends. Call someone over or stay with them maybe. I’m sure you
don’t wanna be sat here for the next however long – not in your condition.”
“Are you seriously telling me you’re going to charge Justin with this? That’s
just insane.”
“Well people do crazy things mam. What am I saying this for? You were there
– you saw what happened.”
“I saw nothing Lieutenant – the lights went out!”
“Well I only got your word for that. Suffice to say your husband isn’t going
anywhere soon. No matter what his big shot lawyer has got to say. You’d best
get off home.”
“Kurt Kastor is the best – you’ll find that out soon enough. You must see none
of this make any sense. I mean have you even searched for signs of anyone
else leaving the room? A false ceiling or floor? This has all the hallmarks of a
very professional job, Lieutenant. Someone is trying to discredit my husband.
Have you considered investigating any connection between Ellen and Matt
Hiace? She was saying some strange things in that room.”
“I’d be careful Mrs Hoffman before saying things like that out loud. I’m sure
Mr Hiace’s attorney would claim to be the best too. Now go home. Please.
The sooner I talk to your husband and the wonderful Mr Kastor the sooner I
might get to the bottom of all of this.”
The law seemed to be a long way from uncovering the truth of things. Beryl
guessed that she was not going to change that by keeping the officer in charge
away from his date with Kurt. She gave Greer a disapproving look and rose
from the cheap moulded plastic seat. She secured the strap of her purse over
her shoulder and slowly walked towards the main door. Hoffman junior
relocated an elbow and Beryl stopped unsteadily in her tracks and winced,
clutching her abdomen. Greer stood and watched from the pass door. Beryl
rubbed her belly gently to soothe the infant inside. She looked back towards
Greer with contempt.
“Thanks for your concern,” she sniped.
“Sorry Mrs Hoffman – you don’t wanna know how many lawsuits we got
pending for one thing or another. Last month it was a guy we saved the life of
on the street outside. We got a lawyer’s letter three days later – the guy
wanted to sue us for busted ribs due to one of my guys’ overenthusiastic
heart massage. You try and help people and they throw it right back at ya.
Good night.”
And with that the pass door buzzed. Greer turned and pushed it open,
sucking in a long breath to settle the dread in his heart. The wife was one
thing. The infamous Kurt Kastor was another.
Monday September 4, 2028: 1220 WST
Pell Reservation
Six miles south of El Aaiun, Western Sahara
The sun had risen magnificently over a fiery orange horizon around seven
hours ago. The cornflower blue sky allowed a few puffs of cloud to attach
themselves to its otherwise flawless canopy. Birds wheeled and cawed among
the spindly trees and in his small wooden workshop Peter Darnley was
examining a large, unwieldy map of the surrounding area. He ran his finger
along the line that represented the main N5 highway and paused for thought.
Although Darnley was now seventy four years of age he did not feel the ache
and weight of old age. Since moving to the dry, warm climate of North West
Africa he felt invigorated. It was like he had physically stepped back in time
and mentally he had shed a lot of the cares and stresses that weighted down
his life as a Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police. Traffic, rain,
parking, criminals, mind numbing soap operas were some of the abhorrances
which had been left behind. He now had two energetic twin daughters to
raise whom he and his wife Frances adopted soon after their house on the Pell
Reservation had been built. Darnley still acted as a consultant for AquaPlain
Inc. and reported to Nat Walker although he actually worked less than a
dozen hours each month.
The door to the workshop rattled open and his younger daughter Efuru, now
nine years of age and five foot tall, came breathlessly in.
“Daddy, daddy come quickly – mummy says it’s important!” she yelled into
the small structure.
Darnley unwrinkled his eyes after his daughter’s deafening proclamation and
took the half moon reading glasses from his nose.
“What’s happened? Is your mother all right?” he asked.
“It’s not mummy – it’s your friend. From America. Mr Hoffman. He’s killed
someone. It’s all over the news. Come see.”
The ex-Detective Inspector sighed. He folded the map and opened the long
drawer underneath his work table. In the back corner of the drawer he
noticed a chunky white plastic looking bracelet that had once been used to
whisk him thousands of miles in a few frustrating moments some twelve
years before. He had opened this drawer countless times since and somehow
had never spotted it. Dismissing it from his thoughts, Darnley got up from his
chair to follow his excitable daughter into the house.
Frances was waiting for him at the kitchen door.
“Peter – it’s terrible!” she imparted urgently. “Justin’s been arrested. Some
poor woman – the widow of that other chap who committed suicide just a
couple of weeks ago, don’t know if you remember. They say Justin’s shot her
dead in his hotel room. Actually in his room. Can you believe it?”
Darnley arched his eyebrows at his wife to show that he did not believe a
word of it. After a moment’s pause he swept on past her, through the kitchen
and into the living room. In the corner, beyond the low sofas with their large
brightly coloured cushions, the television set displayed a recent photo of
Justin Hoffman in the top left corner of the screen. A red news ticker scrolled
along the foot of the picture repeating the current Breaking News. The main
screen replayed the scene of Hoffman being marched into the police vehicle,
flash bulbs bursting all around with a concerned looking Beryl trying to keep
up.
“What the hell has that little American prat got himself into?” mused Darnley
out loud.
“Hey Dad!” breezed the Darnleys’ elder twin daughter Kemili as she came in
from the dining room, her hair braids clattering behind her. Her father did
not respond – he was trying to absorb what he was reading on the screen.
Kemili stopped to look at the television news report. “Why is this more
interesting than your own daughter may I ask?”
Darnley continued his concentrated gaze. Kemili ducked her head to obstruct
her father’s view.
“Hey Kemmy!” muttered Darnley, irritated. “I’m watching this!”
“What is so fascinating? It’s just some boring American politician.”
At this, Darnley gave up on BBC World News and gave her his most pointed
stare.
“Excuse me little lady but that boring American politician happens to be a
very dear friend,” the Englishman advised.
“Oh, sorry Daddy,” apologized Kemili humbly.
They all stood and watched the news channel for a while. There were
reporters at the hotel, at the police station and outside the Hoffmans’ home in
Washington. Republican politicians could not wait to discuss the whole thing
when approached by the channel’s Washington correspondent. Democrats
were trotting out a “let’s establish the facts” line.
“Poor Beryl,” sympathized Frances. “All this going on and a baby on the
way.”
“It’s obviously a fit-up,” said Darnley darkly. “I mean he waves his gun
around a lot but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him use it. He’s all mouth –
makes a perfect politician.”
“Reports say it was his gun that was used though Peter,” Frances retorted.
“No one else apart from Beryl in the room. So what other explanation could
there be?”
“You and I should know better than most that things are not always as they
first seem. I can’t believe Hoffman would do this. Think what you like about
him but he is smart. Maybe conniving would be a better word – I can’t see
him losing the plot just before he’s due to get the keys to the White House of
all places.”
“Well it’s on the other side of the world. Nothing we can do about it but hope
that it all gets sorted out.”
“Yep.”
Peter continued to stare at the television. He recalled his first meeting with
Hoffman twelve years earlier after being called to attend a quiet suburban
house where the owner had been subjected to a vicious attack. Back then, the
diminutive American upstart had breezed in and assumed control of
Darnley’s investigation. On his patch! It did save Darnley a heap of work – he
never did have to figure out how to report how it had been possible for a man
to have his head clinically removed but still be sat alive in his armchair.
Efuru and Kamili had lost interest and were playing with their tablet
computers. Darnley broke off from his analysis of Hoffman’s plight and cast
his gaze between his two daughters.
“Hey you two – have you not get anything to get ready? You start back at
school next week. No homework to finish off?”
“Yes Daddy but we’ve got days yet,” Efuru answered cheerily.
“What do I do with this pair?” Darnley asked his wife. “They’re so laid back
as to be horizontal.”
“They’re children Peter. Let them enjoy the last days of their holidays. I’ve
already looked at their homework – there’s hardly anything left. It will only
take them half an hour or so.”
“All right. I’m going to carry on checking out this new bypass they’re
proposing. Just need to make sure it doesn’t cause too much risk to the
perimeter fence – you never know these days. Local gangsters pretending
their car’s broken down and then they’re scaling the fence trying to drill
through the bloody pipe. Once I’m done with the road plans I’ll check on the
potatoes.”
“All right love. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Darnley kissed his wife on the cheek and walked back into the kitchen. The
air-conditioning was already motoring at full capacity – it was another typical
Saharan day. But on this dry, hot African afternoon something was leaking
into Peter Darnley’s bones. The thing that had driven him to join the police
force all those years ago – a sense that justice must prevail. Despite Darnley
finding Hoffman acutely annoying they had actually formed a good
partnership and with the little Senator clearly in the centre of some strange
subterfuge, the ageing detective found it difficult to focus on the coming
bypass. His thoughts kept wandering to that trinket tucked in the back of his
workbench drawer.
Monday September 4, 2028: 0944 EDT
Apartment 441, Watergate South Complex
Washington DC
Chilled fresh orange juice splashed into a tall, sparkling glass. The aroma
from the coffee percolator was pervading through the kitchen. He would be
dragging himself down to Sunnie’s in a short while for a well-needed plate of
bacon and pancakes. Murtag did not care much for hangovers but accepted
them as the price for a good celebration. Just like gonorrhea followed several
nights of ilicit pleasure – it was just the way of things.
He sipped on his juice whilst watching ABC News with a sense of immense
satisfaction. Another well executed plan. The Apostles had come good again –
just as they had on 31st July 1997 and 9th September 2001. And numerous other
dates no doubt. But he had not been personally involved in those.
Hoffman had got close. He had been trusted with the AOA Project overseen
by his so-called MJ12. It had been an important project for many years and
details of what had truly happened within the Cylinder had been sketchy.
Budget dollars had continued to be directed to the project until Hoffman was
able to confirm the threat had been confirmed as extinct. This had not brought
him close enough to be invited to partake in the activities of Murtag’s secret
Apostle network. You almost always had to be born into a role – it was rare
for someone to be invited to join. Sure they had plenty of pawns whom they
pushed into positions of power – like Hiace. The Apostles, never more than
twelve in number, had aspired to gain power over the globe for centuries. A
long term plan culminating in a time when every citizen would clamour for a
single global government. And those waiting to rule their world would be the
Apostles. They would always remain unseen but their power would be
undeniable.
And man’s blind thirst for power was what had made Murtag’s job easier. A
nudge here, a bribe there. Everyone believed they were getting what they
wanted. Everybody’s got to believe in something, after all. Some will do
anything for their beliefs. Die for them even. Certainly kill for them.
Murtag Burstones II finished his orange juice and switched off the coffee
machine. He put a meaty hand down the front of his trousers and scratched
his testicles. Maybe he did need to visit the clinic. He put on his shoes trying
to recall Sunnies’ menu in his head. He sure was looking forward to a twelve
hundred calorie breakfast.