Night of the Radish – Part XI

As Pierre-Yves wended his thoughtful way home, some thousands of kilometres to West a crisis meeting was taking place.

The men around the table – and they were all men – were rich, powerful and very, very worried. They represented the secret funding resource behind the bid by one Rev. Elstow J Periwinkle III to become the next President of the United States.

To say that the Reverend was right wing and conservative was a bit like saying the Dead Sea was slightly salty.

Among Elstow Periwinkle’s more popular policies could be listed: a plan to arm all kindergarten teachers; reform of the judicial system so that the families of the guilty shared in their punishment (which could include death by stoning for some offences); a complete ban on women wearing trousers or skirts that came above the knee to “curtail immorality” and the disenfranchisement of anyone receiving welfare benefits.

Foreign policy objectives were similarly robust and based on the principle that “promotion of American values in all nations – if necessary by forcible means – is a Godly mission and one from which we will not shirk. Hallelujah.”

It was all terribly stirring stuff and, coupled with some highly persuasive but entirely unattributable internet conspiracy theories involving all the likely nominees from other parties,  it had seen the Reverend’s Holy Renewal Movement surging in the polls to the point where the mainstream parties were getting more than a little twitchy. It was clear that Elstow J Periwinkle III was very much in with a chance of scoring the Top Slot in November.

Unless, that is, something occurred to put him out of the race.

So when the letters began arriving, outlining some of the more questionable business activities that were funding the Reverend, the assumption had been made that it was the Opposition that was behind them.

And although they were a concern, it had not been a great one. The various enterprises – legal and otherwise – that pumped hundreds of millions of dollars into the Holy Renewal Movement’s coffers were separated from the Movement by multiple layers of shell companies, nominee directorships, blind trusts and brass plates in far flung corners of the globe and could not possibly be linked to the Reverend or to his backers, individuals who felt that they were not already rich enough and saw the chance to make a substantial return on their investment in Elstow Periwinkle once the Moral Rearmament started in earnest.

Thus, it was assumed that the main parties were just flinging mud in the hope that some would stick.

Until, that is, the first detailed description arrived.

It explained how cash generated from an illegal gold mining operation in the Amazon that was poisoning several hundred square kilometres of virgin forest with toxic wastes was air freighted via three Caribbean islands described as machine parts, printer ink cartridges and exotic fruit to Panama, where it was laundered through a more-or-less above bored foreign exchange business. From there, the semi-clean money was “spent” at a chain of a dozen Nevada brothels (owned, ultimately, and in deep obscurity, by the Periwinkle Foundation, a non-profit organisation set up to combat moral turpitude arising from line dancing) before heading to Europe.

Exchanged for Euros in another foreign exchange operation in Estonia, the cash was used to purchase second hand furniture in the Baltic States, which was then shipped to the United Kingdom, to be resold at any number of small auction houses, car boot sales and antique fairs.

The now laundered money was finally used to buy improving literature and DVDs from the Reverend’s own London Mission. From there it was repatriated to the States to partially fund the Movement’s campaigning.

There were many such operations going on under the Movement’s control.

Two things were interesting about the letter: firstly, that it contained information that for reasons of simple security was not known in its entirety by any one person; secondly, that it came with a return name and address.

Two of the Movement’s more senior enforcers (or “heavy clerics” as they were known internally – in this case the Reverends Kelly and Steve) were sent off to France to “interview” the sender, a man calling himself Duncan Michelson-Morley.

They returned a few days later thoroughly bruised and deeply shocked by what they had undergone.

Having found the isolated cottage corresponding to the address, the Reverends had settled down for a few hours to watch the dapper little man they presumed to be Duncan Michelson-Morley as he pottered around his garden, drenching roses with the contents of a large, old fashioned, brass sprayer.

Having satisfied themselves that the man posed no conceivable threat, even though they were missing their accustomed hand guns, the clerics had followed the man as he re-entered the cottage, with a view to employing some “enhanced interrogation” techniques, for fun if for no other reason.

When they came to their senses a few minutes later it was to find themselves in their underwear, strapped firmly into upright chairs. The dapper little man was there too, but now he looked far from harmless. It wasn’t that he was polite and smiling (always a bad sign if one is professionally bound, the reverends knew), it was that he was confidently brandishing a kendo shinai with which he had already – apparently – inflicted a number of livid bruises on arms and legs.

“Now, now my dear fellows,” he had started, “did you really think that I wouldn’t spot your clumsy attempts at discrete surveillance? What do they teach you young people these days? No matter, let me explain what this is all about.”

And so he had. He explained that he knew all that was going on to support the Periwinkle campaign, though he declined to reveal how. He explained that his continued good health and liberty – as evidenced by regular communication by means he was not about to disclose with several lawyers around the world – were key to ensuring that the intelligence remained between “friends”. He explained what he wanted: Elstow Periwinkle to be exposed for the fraud and filthy hypocrite that he was.

“He can even blub on television and beg for forgiveness like that Jimmy Swaggart character who was big your side of the water a while back did, if he wishes. Then he can bugger off to West Virginia or somewhere and take up snake worship or something. I really don’t care. But I want him gone or I pull down everyone and everything associated with him. Just nod your heads if you understand, gentlemen. Jolly good.”

Then he had kicked them out, watching them go from the door, casually swinging the shinai with a practiced ease.

They had found their car and clothes about a kilometre up the quiet lane that led to the lonely house. The reverends dressed quickly, not least because, to their profound surprise given the haste with which they had made the return, when they arrived they found Duncan Michelson-Morely waiting for them, leaning easily against a tree cradling a pump action shotgun.

“I think it best that you leave town very soon. Please be assured that I will be checking.” And off they went.

Once back in the States, their report digested with a degree of incredulity, the Movement’s intelligence machine had swung into overdrive. This was superbly provision with well placed, sympathetic, sources in all of America’s plethora of intelligence agencies, and information flooded in.

The first task had been to place the cottage in France under close observation, rather more adeptly than the Reverends had proven capable of. Everything, every detail of its occupant’s life, was noted for analysis.

Identifying and investigating that occupant proved confusing: Duncan Michelson-Morely did not exist and had never existed. No record of his birth, marriage or death could be found by the extensive network of tentacles the Movement possessed.

The man who lived in the house was named Eric Michelson-Morely, so it was presumed that he was adopting the very thin cover of changing his first name for some reason yet to be discovered.

Eric Michelson-Morely most certainly did exist, but the extensive information gathered – including photographs from various sources – was highly contradictory.

Born 62 years previously in Chepstow, Eric Michelson-Morely had received a decent if undistinguished education and had passed some 37 years working as a provincial solicitor. He had never married and his medical records indicated a decidedly fragile constitution. His interests included amateur dramatics and a near obsession with roses.

On the other hand, Eric Michelson-Morely had cropped up a number of times since his retirement in some unlikely places for a man of previously conservative character; in particular he had gambled, won and lost in spectacular fashion in Las Vegas, frequenting at least one casino controlled by the Movement.

But this was the only tenuous connection that could be found, and nothing whatsoever in Eric Michelson-Morely’s history gave reason to suspect that the Reverends Kelly and Steve should have had any problems whatsoever with him.

And yet the bruises were clear to see, and despite extensive and repeated de-briefing neither man budged one iota from their stories.

What was obvious was that there was no way that Eric Michelson-Morely could ever have assembled the information he was threatening to broadcast. So the Movement began to search for an intelligence connection. And they struck pay dirt.

It was discovered that a recent incomer to the nearby town of St Louis sur Baq was a man who had previously worked for France’s most secretive agency, the DCINCD. His reasons for being so far from Paris were unclear, but the words “special assignment” were whispered locally. And his arrival in the region coincided with the arrival of the first letters.

This was most promising indeed.

To add credence to the notion that any scandal emanating from France and aimed at the Movement was baseless and mischievous, the Movement decided to provide a motive, and in short order the Reverend was on his hind legs announcing that, as President, one of his first tasks would be to pass the “France Sanctions Act” forbidding the performance to the “sinful” Can-Can on American soil and making trade between the two nations unlawful.

This was met with wild cheering (and a certain amount of foaming at the mouth) from the faithful and a two point gain in the polls. The enraged fulmination from the French embassy was music to the collective ears of the Movement.

The Movement then set-about building a back-up laundering system that was to be kept “cold” until the threat posed by Michelson-Morley could be neutralised. Any investigation of his claims post mortem would find nothing.

Finally the means for that neutralisation had to be arranged. To this end, a small dissident group had been established named the Popular Front for the Liberation of Andorra. This had caused a certain amount of bewilderment amongst the law enforcement personal called into to investigate the setting fire to litter bins and the painting of false beards and glasses on statues of President de Gaulle that the PFLA claimed as their work. For a start, Andorra appeared to be liberated already, but Europe was full of vociferous factions making all kinds of statements, so they sighed and got on with it.

They didn’t expect for one moment that the PFLA would involve themselves in assassination.

But what had been missing was one final piece of the jigsaw, a physical link between Michelson- Morley and Pierre – Yves Pompodore de Frou-Frou, and that had finally been established. The previous evening they had been sighted in the same bar where, in accordance with established trade craft, they had steadfastly ignored one another. The watchers waited for something, something out of the ordinary, and they got it.

Without warning, the DCINCD man had consumed every drink on the table in front of him, behaviour so bizarre that it had to be significant, at least to intellects blunted by frustration, greed and an unhealthy love of conspiracy theories.

So now the meeting moved towards a decision. Liquidation was the word they used.

“How long will it take to get the necessary assets in place?” asked the Reverend.

“Not more than a month.”

“Good.” The holy man smiled broadly. “Let’s get on with God’s work then shall we?”