Gospel Read online

  Sydney Bauer has worked as a journalist and TV executive. While Director of Programming for a major Australian network, Sydney was able to indulge a personal passion for US dramas such as 24, Law and Order and The West Wing and meet with revered TV writers such as Steven Bochco. Gospel follows Sydney Bauer’s first page-turning legal suspense, Undertow.

  Also by Sydney Bauer

  Undertow

  GOSPEL

  SYDNEY BAUER

  To Mum

  First published 2007 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Sydney Bauer 2007

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication-data:

  Bauer, Sydney.

  Gospel.

  ISBN 978 1 4050 3802 7 (pbk.).

  I.Title.

  A823.4

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Typeset in 11/15pt Birka by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane, Queensland

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group, Maryborough, Victoria.

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Gospel

  Sydney Bauer

  Adobe eReader format: 978-1-74197-844-5

  Online format: 978-1-74197-967-1

  EPUB format: 978-1-74197-885-8

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online.

  You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  Contents

  COVER

  ABOUT SYDNEY BAUER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  COPYRIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 72

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First up I want to thank all the gang at Pan Macmillan – especially my publisher Cate Paterson, publicist Jane Novak, and editors Julie Crisp and Millie Shilland; for their skill and enthusiasm. They are some of the nicest people I know.

  While my name is on the cover of this book, much of what is in it is the result of information provided by a group of extremely dedicated and helpful people. People like the US Attorney’s Office Public Affairs Liaison Samantha Martin, Assistant US Attorney Emily Schulman, Suffolk County Sherriff’s Office Communications Manager Emily Shortt and Suffolk County Jail’s Deputy Abe Ayuso.

  To the people from the FBI, like Boston Field Office Special Agent Gail Marcinkiewicz and the Quantico based Laboratory Public Affairs Liaison Special Agent Ann Todd; I am eternally grateful for your time and expertise.

  To US Courts Deputy Circuit Executive Susan Goldberg and the wonderful Judge Douglas Woodcock – I thoroughly enjoyed my time at John Joseph Moakley Courthouse and was inspired by both your knowledge and your passion.

  To the Director of Research and Analytical Technology at the National Medical Service in Pennsylvania, Dr Kevin Ballard, and Associate Professor in Pain Management at Sydney’s Royal North Shore Hospital, Doctor Philip Siddall; for their endless knowledge on Oxycontin, undetectable sedatives and other related issues. And to Jessica Badger from the US Surgeon General’s Office; for the run down on how it all works.

  To Mike Armini and the gracious Robb London from Harvard Law School who enabled me to see this historic University through their colourful ex-students’ eyes. And to the wonderful Helen Jhun, University of Richmond Law School grad, who made my first day in Virginia both interesting and a whole lot of fun.

  A big thanks also to Boston’s Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel Public Relations Manager Suzanne Wenz for her kind hospitality.

  My special thanks goes to Officer Michael McCarthy from the Boston Police Department and David Procoppio from the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office for sharing their insights on life and the law. And to my friend, CIA Special Agent and ‘legend’ Chase Brandon – perhaps one of the most courageous people I shall ever meet – for his amazing tour of CIA Headquarters in Langley and his exuberance for everything life has to offer.

  I want to thank my family and friends – Ian, Brian and Sara, Mitch, Mylee, Carolyn, Ros, Ingrid and others whose critiques I value and enthusiasm I cherish.

  Thanks to Julie-Anne and Amanda for getting the word out, and especially to my mother Fae, who was the subject of the very first book I wrote.

  Finally, and most importantly to Jarrod, for the one sentence ideas and the lifetime of support that goes with them. And to Claudia, with the unstoppable spirit and an imagination that knows no bounds.

  PROLOGUE

  Tuesday 19 April

  ‘Against,’ said Luke,
staring at the tall, broad-shouldered man across the table. The windowless room was cold, the single cast iron door locked and bolted, the concrete walls projecting his protest in echo.

  ‘Against,’ he said again, and this time with more conviction. He could see the man was frustrated, but not at all surprised.

  Matthew stared back at him, his dark eyes having obviously foreseen Luke’s negative vote and his calm demeanour indicating it was of no consequence. It was three against one after all and, as usual, Luke was the dissenter.

  ‘Luke,’ he said, placing his large hands on top of the sterile stainless steel table. ‘I know at face value this proposal seems extreme, but it has always been an option that was part of the greater plan. The timing is a little earlier than we had expected but we are ready and . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ interrupted Mark, the youngest of the group. ‘If Bradshaw knows anything we have no choice. We either take action now or risk exposure.’

  Luke knew Matthew was not normally one to tolerate interruptions, and Mark rarely had the balls to make them, but Matthew allowed this disruption from the rookie of the group, which made Luke realise just how far he had fallen out of favour.

  ‘You knew, Luke,’ Matthew went on, ‘when you joined our little group, that this time would come. Mark is right; the risk is now too great. There really is no other . . .’

  ‘Isn’t there? Given the success of the business, there has to be a way to reach our goals without . . .’

  Luke was starting to sweat and he hated himself for it. He was not sure which option would prove less compromising; taking out his handkerchief to mop his brow, or allowing the droplets of perspiration to track down his face. He chose the handkerchief and immediately regretted his decision. His hand was shaking and the other three exchanged glances, Matthew allowing a slight smile to drift across his face.

  ‘All I am saying is,’ Luke took a breath before going on. ‘This is murder, and not just any murder. Listen to yourselves; you are talking about killing the second most powerful man in . . .’

  ‘Oh, wake up to yourself, Doyle,’ said Mark, obviously unable to control himself. Mark was a slight, fidgety, baby-faced man who was equally as nervous about this next step in their plan, but more devoted to their cause, and to self-preservation.

  ‘Stop.’ Matthew banged his fist on the table, causing Luke and Mark to jolt back in their seats. ‘No names, even here. It is not safe.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but enough is enough,’ said Mark. ‘Don’t you see, Matthew? His lack of commitment will bring us all down.’

  Matthew rose from the table to pace around the bunker, a tiny closet of conspiracy underneath the world’s most powerful address. He walked slowly, looking down upon the other three, their features distorted from the 150-watt downlight provided by the single bulb which hung centred from the seamless cinderblock ceiling.

  ‘Perhaps this is no longer in your best interests,’ he said to Luke at last.

  ‘What?’ said Luke, shifting his substantial bulk in the too-small chair, terrified of what Matthew was about to propose.

  ‘Well, let’s be honest, ever since you entered witness protection, your usefulness to the organisation has been somewhat, shall we say, compromised.’

  ‘That’s not true. You could not have done any of this without me. The DEA have no idea what is going on. I still have the contacts. Nothing has changed.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Matthew. ‘But how long will that last? It will be difficult to monitor any potential security risk from the other side of the country, especially with a new identity.’

  The other side of the country, thought Luke. Matthew knew he was in LA.

  Luke was not surprised. Despite the so-called impenetrable fortress of security and confidentiality that was the US Marshall’s witness protection program, it would be naïve of him to think Matthew, considering his position and the extensive means of investigation at his disposal, would not know where Luke had been relocated. But hearing him say it seemed to reinforce the extent of the man’s powers and, as such, sent a fresh chill of terror slipping slowly down Luke’s spine.

  ‘I . . .’ he began. But his voice began to falter as he realised an objection would seal his fate. How could he have been so foolish? This wasn’t about his vote; it was about his chance at survival.

  ‘Do you want me to leave?’ he asked.

  ‘Now Luke,’ said Matthew stopping behind his chair, placing his large hands on Luke’s tensed shoulders. ‘You have been a valued member of this group.’

  Have been.

  ‘Please do not misinterpret my interest in your opinion as anything but that. We operate as a democracy after all. Our decisions have always been made as a unit.’ Matthew began to massage Luke’s now hunched shoulders, his strong hands squeezing deep into Luke’s less than impressive mass, kneading his soft bulk, finding nerve endings underneath the crevasses of his shoulder blades.

  ‘I suppose we just need to know you are with us on this,’ he said. ‘After all, every decision we make is for the greater good. Revolution does not come without sacrifice; our forefathers knew it, our contemporaries will realise it, and our progeny will thank us for it in years to come.’

  Matthew gave Luke’s now aching shoulders one last squeeze before lifting his hands and slapping him solidly on the back before returning to his seat. ‘So let’s take another vote, shall we?’

  He looked to their chairman, the first of the four, who sat silently at the head of the long rectangular table. John nodded, the proof of their leader’s power evident in such customary quiet observation.

  ‘All in favour of activating the next phase of the plan?’ asked Matthew.

  Mark and Matthew raised their hands, followed by John who lowered those steely blue eyes to glare at Luke, the challenge undeniable.

  ‘All right,’ said Luke and he raised his hand, his white handkerchief now high in an unintended symbol of surrender. ‘I’m in,’ he said, looking directly at John. ‘And may God have mercy on our souls.’

  1

  Saturday 30 April

  ‘Uggghh!’ David Cavanaugh let out an involuntary grunt as he felt the full force of the Boston University old boys packing down in a scrum against his Boston College home team.

  How the hell he let his old buddy Tony Bishop talk him into playing in the forwards he did not know. He was an inside centre, too lean for the front row and he knew he would be hurting tomorrow. Hell, he was hurting right now.

  Tony, one of the slickest half backs in the rugby old boys’ network, with even slicker moves in his profession as a blue chip corporate lawyer, fed the ball slightly left of centre giving the BC boots a chance to drive it deep towards their back line.

  David guided the ball to his right and straight back into Tony’s hands where his friend quickly retrieved it and threw it back and to his left where it was caught by a short, stocky player named Evan Murphy. Murphy immediately kicked for touch, sending the ball down the other end of the field, out of their ‘danger zone’, and within ten metres of the opposition’s line. It was a good kick which gave BC the edge just before the referee blew the whistle for half time.

  ‘Jeez, Davy boy, you were on fire out there today, man,’ said Tony, catching up with David as they left the field for the much-needed ten-minute break.

  ‘Thanks, Tony, but this forward pack thing is a one off, okay? Deakin will be here next Saturday and then I am going back to inside centre where I belong.’

  ‘Deakin sucks,’ said Jay Negley, another of David’s law school alumni, his white blond hair matted with blood following a heavy ruck in the first five minutes of play. ‘Hell dude, you seriously aren’t getting any, are you? You haven’t played this good since you broke up with—’

  ‘Jesus, Negley!’ this from Tony who was always throwing water on Negley’s ‘speak before he thinks’ approach to conversation.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said David. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, it has been twelve years since Karin
and I divorced and I could not be happier with my current situation.’

  ‘Except your girlfriend is cooking herself down in Atlanta while you, my friend, are freezing your ass off here in Boston.’

  Jay was right. Sara was experiencing an Indian Summer down in Georgia while Massachusetts seemed stuck in the grip of a winter time warp.

  ‘True, but she is back on Friday,’ said David, who had not seen his fellow attorney girlfriend since Christmas.

  ‘Seriously, that’s great, man,’ said Tony.

  ‘No way,’ said Negley. ‘In case you are forgetting, if we win today we play Penn State in the final next Saturday which means no horizontal tango for at least the first twenty-four hours after Sara’s arrival.’

  ‘Sure,’ laughed Tony. ‘Like that’s going to happen.’

  David smiled. ‘Anyway, your theory is all wrong. Murphy has been married for twelve years and he just scored three tries in the first forty minutes.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Negley. ‘Married twelve years, with three kids and another on the way. The theory is solid, dude. Murphy ain’t had any for over six months and my guess is that situation isn’t going to change any time soon.’

  ‘Then maybe you should put Murphy in the forwards,’ laughed David.

  Three hours later David stepped from a steaming hot shower and wiped his bruised hand across the surface of his foggy bathroom mirror.

  ‘Shit,’ he said to himself as he surveyed the damage: his right eye starting to swell, his left cheek sporting a large red welt. Nora was going to kill him.

  He smiled at the thought of Ms Nora Kelly, the fifty-something, long-serving secretary at Wright, Wallace and Gertz.

  Strictly speaking Nora was Arthur’s assistant, but she was more like a surrogate mother to David and his boss/mentor/friend, Arthur Ishmael Wright, who was at least five years her senior.

  ‘Good Lord, lad,’ she had said, the last time he walked into the office wearing similar battle scars, her thick Irish accent dripping pure County Cork despite her having lived in Boston for over twenty years. ‘Rugby may be the game they play in heaven, but you certainly come off the field looking like you’ve been doing business with the devil. And it appears the devil got the better of you today, lad, which is not surprising.’