Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure (3 page)

He pulls a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabs away at the shine glistening on his forehead, waiting for the applause to stop before he continues.

“
I
am
the
son
of
a
poor
farmhand
and
a
schoolteacher
in
the
Valley
.
I
did
not
always
have
the
wealth
I
enjoy
today
.
My
riches
are
the
very
reason
I
choose
to
serve
.
I
know
there
are
other
poor
sons
and
daughters
out
there
who
have
dreams
.
I
want
to
help
them
realize
those
dreams
.
I
want
to
give
back
to
you
what
Texas
and
the
United
States
of
America
has
given
to
me
.” More applause. “
My
daughter
,
Bella
,
said
to
me
, ‘
Papa’
—
that’s
what
she
calls
me
—
Papa
,
why
should
I
vote
for
you
?
’
”

The crowd laughs again. They seem enraptured.

“
She
tells
me
she
knows
I
am
a
good
father
and
businessperson
.
She
wonders
what
would
make
me
a
good
Governor
.”

Buell steps back from the mic, pauses, and bites his lower lip gently. He takes off his Italian cut suit jacket and hands it to an aide. He unbuttons his custom fit white cotton shirt at the collar and loosens the double Windsor knot of his tie. This is show. This is theatre. And I am his captive audience.

“
I
will
be
a
good
Governor
because
I
will
help
Texans
from
the
bottom
up
and
not
from
the
top
down
.
From
the
bottom
up
!
I
have
ninety
days
to
convince
you
and
your
friends
and
your
coworkers
and
your
neighbors
and
anyone
who
will
listen
I
should
be
your
next
Governor
.
I
need
your
help
.
Will
you
help
me
?”

The crowd cheers and chants “BU-ELL, BU-ELL” affirming their willingness to follow and support their candidate. It lasts for two full minutes before Buell quiets them with a finger to his lips.

“
Now
,
I
know
,” his tone is softer and less excited, “
there
are
those
out
there
who
will
tell
you
I
cannot
do
what
I
promise
.
There
are
naysayers
who
believe
Texas
is
better
off
with
the
cronyism
and
favoritism
that
exists
today
in
Austin
.
You
know
what
they
don’t
know
?”

“
What
?” yells the crowd in unison.

“
Do
you
know
?”

“
What
?” This time louder.

“
They
don’t
know
about
you
!
They
don’t
know
about
your
concerns
and
worries
.
They
don’t
know
about
how
difficult
it
is
to
make
a
mortgage
and
pay
for
milk
at
the
store
.
They
don’t
know
about
making
a
difference
through
hard
work
.
They
don’t
know
about
working
from
the
bottom
up
.
They
don’t
know
these
things
because
they
don’t
listen
!
They
haven’t
heard
you
.
They
don’t
want
to
hear
you
.”

Buell raises his arms, expecting another cheer, but suddenly wrenches and collapses to the floor of the stage, like someone invisible punched him to the ground. There’s a spray of what looks like blood coming from his chest. The delayed sound of a gunshot cracks like a backyard lightning strike.

What
the
hell
???

My eyes involuntarily widen from the shock, hurting from the influx of light. The cheers are replaced with screams as the blood pools from underneath Buell’s back. I don’t think the cheap speakers on the laptop convey the terror in those voices.

The Saint, his breath on my neck again, reaches from behind me to stop the video and close the lid of the laptop.“Tell me about the iPod, Jackson,” he whispers.

The iPod?
The
iPod
? What does the iPod have to do with what I saw? How is the iPod connected to the assassination of a political candidate? How does he know about the iPod?Nobody is supposed to know about it. Nobody. I’ve done everything asked of me to keep it secret; to give it only to those for whom it is intended.

“What iPod?” I say, playing stupid.

“
The
iPod.”

The lights are bright, and I think The Saint has turned on the heat. Maybe it’s not the heat. There’s sweat dripping down my back.

“I can’t help you.”
I
won’t
help
you
.

“London, Caracas, Omaha, Anchorage, Baton Rouge, Oklahoma City, Tallahassee, Rio. Can you help me now?” The Saint is snarling and he knows where I’ve been.

“If you’re not going to tell me what you know about the iPod,” he said, his breath hot against my left ear, “I am going to tell you what it is
I
know.”

What
does
he
know
?

“You’ve taken at least eight trips in the last six months and on each said trip you carried a different iPod.”

I say nothing.

***

I saw the first iPod months ago.

“I have a job for you,” my boss told me. “It’s an important job that requires a certain amount of discretion.” My boss, the Governor of Texas, has a penchant for the dramatic. It’s what makes him an effective politician.

“Okay,” I told him. What else
would
I tell him? I value my job. At least I did six months ago when I accepted the assignment.

We were at the Governor’s ranch located about an hour northwest of Austin. The sprawling 1500 acre estate ran along the Lampasas River in between Lampasas and Copperas Cove. It’s a beautiful piece of rolling land dotted with mesquite, oak, pecan, and cedar trees.

It was my first time at the ranch and I was surprised by the invitation. There I was, sitting on the back porch of his Texas limestone retreat. It was one of two houses on the property. This was the main house. He’d brought us each a glass of blood red wine from the climate controlled closet. I refused his offer of a Cohiba, but he indulged. He puffed and sipped and we talked about the weather and the white tailed deer which ate the garden day lilies at night.

I fell into my job working for the Governor. He was in his second term and, through a friend of a friend, he hired me as part of his communications staff. In another life, I was a television reporter in Tyler, Texas and in San Antonio. I liked TV, but not enough. I didn’t like being a radio deejay either, or a website sales representative, or the host of other jobs I tried. I always found myself restless and needing to move. After falling off of the grid for a couple of years, I made the jump to politics. It was either that or public relations. I picked what I believed was the lesser of two evils.

Within a couple of months, I was taken out of the press department and moved to the Governor’s personal staff. I ran errands for him. I returned phone calls. I did whatever he needed me to do. I didn’t question it. He told me I reminded him of himself when he was my age; ambitious but without direction.

I work hard. I’m thorough and dependable. I don’t have any family obligations to preoccupy me.

“I need there to be some communications with various friends of ours,” the Governor said. He smiled and leaned into me, the cigar in the right corner of his mouth. “I can’t really talk to these people in public, put them on the official calendar, or have them sign the guest register at the mansion. Understood?”

I nodded.

“Now I promise you there is nothing illegal here,” he winked as he said it. “It’s sensitive stuff. This could be good for you, you know. Maybe a promotion, more responsibility down the line.” His Texas drawl curled the vowels, making his words sound almost lyrical. His tone reminded me of Andy Griffith in that old TV courtroom show,
Matlock
. The lawyer was always a step ahead, even if he seemed a beat behind. It was the drawl. It was the perfect cover for his brilliance.

“What is it?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Paperwork. Some digital documentation.” He looked at me intently and licked a spot of wine from his upper lip. No smile. No pretense. I understood no follow up question was necessary.

He pulled the latest generation iPod from his pocket.

“So, you’ll be doing some travel. You’ll be taking an iPod like this one to a handful of places. When there’s a trip to make, you’ll know about it.”

The word iPod sounded like ‘ah-Pawd’. Lyrical. Almost.

The Governor sure knew how to spin a phrase, and the accent when always thicker when he was trying to sell something.

My first trip was to London. It was a ten hour nonstop flight from Houston to London Heathrow. After the tiring early morning drive from Austin to Houston, I slept through most of the flight. I was next to the window, cramped and uncomfortable with the narrow seat. I had with me a carry-on bag with my laptop, a change of clothes, and the Governor’s iPod. I’d also brought a small duffel bag with enough clothing and toiletries to last me the 48-hour length of the trip.

Once I cleared passport control, I walked down the stairs to baggage claim. At the bottom of the steps was an ATM. I withdrew a couple hundred British Pounds and waited for my bag. It was the last one off of the carousel.

I followed the signs to the exit and ground transportation. As I left baggage claim, I was hit by a mob of limo drivers holding signs. They were held back by a velvet rope, like paparazzi at a movie premiere. I unconsciously puffed my chest, stood a little straighter. I found the man holding the sign with my name: JACKSON QUICK.

“That’s me,” I said, pointing at the sign. The man, who looked to be of Middle Eastern descent, nodded and waved me around the rope. I followed him to the garage outside the terminal. He had a Bluetooth earpiece in his left ear and was chattering in Arabic.

He didn’t offer to take either of my bags.

His car was a two-door Citroën DS3. It was small for a taxi, but whatever. It didn’t matter. I was traveling light.

“Where you want me take you?” His English was broken but intelligible.

“Admiralty Arch.”

“Okay,” the driver said. “Good.” He continued his conversation in Arabic.

Within minutes we were on the M4 traveling east into London’s city center. At Brentford we merged onto the A4 into town. I was amazed by the amount of construction on the southern side of the highway. It looked like a series of life-sized Erector sets with one large contemporary office building after another. The skies were gray, almost blending into the steel of the construction.

Forty-five minutes after I climbed into the back of the DS3, I was climbing out. My right knee was stiff and ached from the long trip.

“Sixty.” The driver was holding out his hand. “Cash.” The light on his Bluetooth headset was flashing. He was still in the midst of a conversation.

I gave him seventy and grabbed my bags. The arch was directly ahead of me to my left, a beautiful old office building that marked one end of the Mall near Trafalgar Square. After looking at it for a moment to take it in, I slung my duffel onto my back and walked northeast toward Trafalgar.

I had to remind myself to look right before crossing the street. A small car whirred past me as I balanced myself on a curb.

Navigating the streets wasn’t difficult. They were well-labeled: Spring Gardens, Kennard, and then Cockspur.

I laughed at the gold painted lettering above the large glass doors.

“THE TEXAS EMBASSY”

The large limestone building was once the home office of the White Star shipping line, owners of the Titanic. Now it was London’s finest Tex-Mex cantina. I’d thought the Governor was joking when he told me the meeting place.