American Conspiracy Read online

  Praise for M.J. Polelle’s American Conspiracy

  “A stellar novel of action, adventure, and intrigue. The twists of betrayal unravel at a perfect pace, and Polelle nails the details of this high-caliber political drama.”

  —Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author

  Praise for The Mithras Conspiracy

  “An enjoyable thriller . . . Polelle rewards readers with uncertainty in every chapter. Leone’s Rome is a dangerous place with a masked attacker around virtually every corner. And that’s what makes it fun to visit.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Things done ‘in the name of religion’ have brought out both the best and worst of humankind. The ‘whatifs’ in this book are real possibilities—ancient legacies that may someday be uncovered and reshape the perceptions of the past and ancestral faiths.”

  —Dr. Steven Derfler, Emeritus Professor, Joint Doctorate in Classics and Archaeology (University Of Minnesota)

  “A fast-paced thriller, very much in keeping with The Da Vinci Code. An enjoyable ride.”

  —The Wishing Shelf Book Awards

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual organizations, places, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 M.J. Polelle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lido Press, Sarasota, Florida

  www.mjpolelle.com

  Edited and designed by Girl Friday Productions

  www.girlfridayproductions.com

  Cover design: Paul Barrett

  Project management: Sara Spees Addicott

  Editorial: Bethany Davis

  Image credits: cover © Shutterstock/Konstantin L

  ISBN (paperback): 978-0-9600863-2-0

  ISBN (ebook): 978-0-9600863-3-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021907618

  First edition

  To the memory of Jim Murphy

  Imagine what would have happened if, God forbid, Barack Obama had been assassinated after becoming the de facto nominee? What would have happened in America?

  —President Joe Biden, August 23, 2019, on the campaign trail at Dartmouth College

  Chapter One

  NOVEMBER 10, 2028

  THIRD DAY AFTER THE ELECTION

  CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  After sixty throws of the presidential dice, the election of 2028 came up snake eyes. Media oracles had prophesied Franklin Dexter Walker the presidential winner by one electoral vote. During a Democratic victory parade to rivet the prediction in the public mind, a ball bounded through police barricades on Michigan Avenue. A girl in a wheelchair cried out for the ball. Detective Jim Murphy stooped to retrieve it and changed the course of American history.

  The air cracked overhead.

  The crowd screamed.

  Looking like the old Soviet politburo on a reviewing stand, roly-poly politicians in black overcoats ducked for cover.

  Murphy turned.

  Walker lay bleeding on the ground behind him.

  “They shot Walker,” said the Secret Service agent in charge, fingering a loose earpiece. “Get the ambulance.”

  Scanning the surrounding buildings with upturned faces, the Secret Service agents ringed Walker.

  Murphy scrambled to join the protective circle.

  “This is on your head, Murphy,” said the special agent in charge. “Get the hell out of our way.”

  The ambulance wailed as it made its way up the line of vehicles to stop near the candidate’s limousine. Paramedics rushed FDW to Northwestern Memorial Hospital. The Secret Service and the ambulance left Murphy holding the ball in the middle of Michigan Avenue. He gave it back to the shaken girl and headed for the hospital.

  At Northwestern Memorial, Murphy joined the crowd of hospital staff, media, and police milling around the ER for news about Franklin Dexter Walker. “Serious” was all the media relations department would say about the candidate’s medical condition. The eyes all around the detective were saying, You’re responsible for this. At headquarters they’d be saying: It’s Murphy’s Law again in spades.

  And they’d be right. He had just passed the detective exam and was on his way up in the Chicago Police Department. Awaiting reassignment to the Bureau of Detectives from his current position as security specialist with the International Relations Department, he had screwed up his career path again.

  “I wanna talk to you,” said the Secret Service agent in charge, tugging at Murphy’s sleeve. Murphy brushed away the agent’s fingers and followed him into a small conference room down the hallway. Closing the door, the agent said, “Why were you out of position?”

  “I wanted to get the ball for the girl.”

  He didn’t add that she reminded him of his younger sister, who died as a child.

  “And I wanna be Sherlock Holmes. That’s no excuse.” The agent removed his hand from the doorknob. “You should’ve taken the bullet.”

  “You don’t know I could have stopped it.”

  “I’ve been around long enough. Forensics will back me up.”

  “And Walker should’ve stayed in the limo.” He reached for the doorknob. “You know damn well he jumped out to grandstand without telling anyone. How could I know what shenanigans he was up to behind my back?”

  “It wasn’t your effing job to chase a ball.”

  “I don’t take orders from you guys.”

  “Your brass is going to get an earful about your colossal blunder.” He shook his head. “And to think you came recommended.”

  “I’m out of here.” Murphy yanked the door open and tromped down the hallway.

  “If Walker dies,” the agent shouted after him, “your career’s down the toilet.”

  Murphy paced outside the ER, waiting for the latest about Franklin Dexter Walker.

  The CPD brass had picked him to join an elite security unit selected for physical prowess. He still aced the three-mile runs he had done at the police academy. Without breaking a sweat, he had kept pace with the limo gliding along the avenue. The Secret Service agents had huffed and puffed, jogging behind him. He earned the honor of guarding FDW fair and square in a city where things weren’t always fair and square.

  And then along came Murphy’s Law and prompted Franklin Dexter Walker to do his shtick as the “walking” candidate by walking out of the limo right into a bullet. The detective collapsed into a chair and waited. He had failed the Chicago police and himself.

  Franklin Dexter Walker was supposed to be with her before the altar as guests of honor at the Holy Savior United Church of Christ on Chicago’s South Side for the four o’clock Wednesday afternoon prayer service. Clapping to the gospel music, Dallas Taylor, the vice-presidential candidate on the Democratic ticket, had had enough of Franklin Dexter Walker’s quirkiness on the campaign trail.

  In tune with the rhythm, her hips swayed under her butterscotch sheath dress with agitation more than with piety. She had promised the pastor her running mate would come to give thanks for support from the African American community. Taylor joined her voice in song with the churchgoers, undulating to the music and clapping hands.

  “Is he coming?” the minister said, about to deliver the afternoon prayer.

  “A
ny minute,” she replied. “He promised.” But sticking to promises isn’t his thing, she thought. The Secret Service had code-named him “the Millennial,” even though Taylor was younger. If she acted older, it was only because she was the responsible one on their unprecedented youth ticket. Being the eldest child in a low-income family of six children, she knew what responsibility was. She wasn’t born with a silver spoon in her mouth like Franklin Dexter Walker.

  While the minister delivered his prayer called “God Shed His Grace on This Land,” she sat down and felt for the cell in her pocket. She had to call him right away. Her name on the ticket got him the presidency by a whisker. He wasn’t going to blow off this congregation waiting to be personally thanked for its support.

  Being the first African American senator from Texas and now the soon-to-be African American vice president meant she didn’t have to take any more crap from him. Taylor slipped out her cell, trying to hide it in her lap, and checked with downward eyes for messages before texting him in all caps.

  The usher built like a bouncer shot her a stern look. She put the cell away.

  At the end of his prayer, the pastor introduced Taylor from the pulpit. Although it was music to her ears, the pastor was dragging out his praise of her accomplishments in the hope Walker would show up. But what he most dwelled on and what most pleased her was his recollection of her tap-dancing skill and all the awards she had won. Probably running out of things to say, he asked her to do a few of her basic moves in the Lord’s praise. She objected that she didn’t have the right shoes. Just a few moves, he insisted. The congregation seconded the pastor with a round of clapping.

  Love to, her heart wanted her to say. But her head said: Hell no! If the media got wind of tap dancing in church, the tight-assed tycoons bankrolling their election would mutter something about inappropriate behavior. “Love to,” she said, “but my foot’s troubling me.” It wasn’t her foot troubling her. It was politics. And she hated herself for her acquiescence.

  The buzz of her cell startled her. He could have texted instead of disrupting a church service. Walker was one of the most inconsiderate SOBs she had ever met. She’d give him an earful. She stormed from the front of the church into a side room and jabbed Accept on her cell.

  “Why aren’t you here, Frankie? Are you playing me for a fool?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Dallas, this is Candace from Franklin’s staff. He’s been shot. He just came out of surgery.”

  “Oh my God; I’m on my way.”

  As heads turned to mark her entrance, a Chicago alderman gave up his seat for Dallas Taylor in the packed waiting room of Northwestern Memorial Hospital.

  “You? Why are you here?” Taylor asked Detective Murphy as she slid into the seat next to him.

  “Same as you, waiting for the latest on Walker.”

  He had pulled her over on Lake Shore Drive under suspicion of driving a stolen vehicle. Because of him, she was late for the last campaign rally before the election. If the waiting room hadn’t been filled with reporters and local politicians, she would have taken another seat. Taylor didn’t like being late or the person who had made her late.

  “I’m going to report you for stopping me.”

  “I told you. Your car’s description matched a stolen vehicle.”

  “My Jaguar’s not the only one on the road.”

  “You were speeding and didn’t pull over right away.”

  “But it wasn’t stolen, was it?” She got up and folded her arms. “You disrupted an important political rally I had to attend.”

  “I had to run a license check to verify it wasn’t stolen.”

  “You sure took your sweet time doing that.”

  “Like you took your sweet time pulling over and stopping.”

  “You forgot the most important reason for stopping me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Driving while black.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Don’t give me—”

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” A representative of the Northwestern Memorial media department cleared her throat. “I have an announcement to make about the medical condition of Franklin Dexter Walker.”

  Chapter Two

  They will pay. Sebastian Senex simmered watching the YouTube video of his mugging outside the Meridian Club. It wasn’t enough for the hoodlum pack to rob him. The video showed a quivering old man begging for his life at the point of a gun barrel while the robbers laughed. The video went viral, forcing him into humiliated seclusion until the internet frenzy died down.

  He had to save his city and his country.

  Chicago had become number one in homicides even as it sank further into debt and decline on the borderline of bankruptcy. TV news stringers called “night crawlers” slithered out at dark through back alleys and streets in their vans to record the rising number of gang shootings. Some even paid the gangs to stage mock shootings on slow nights. Gangbangers edged beyond their territories to terrorize the downtown area like barbarians at the gates. Grandson gangbangers now accompanied their elders to apprentice the criminal craft. A hereditary class of gang nobility had been spawned out of the major criminal tribes infesting the city.

  They increasingly outgunned Chicago law enforcement with armor-piercing ammunition. The police drew back from confrontation to avoid the risk of brutality complaints. A vigilante band of PTSD-afflicted veterans had risen up to organize sporadic counterattacks against the gangs. In the neighborhoods of Back of the Yards and Brighton Park, gangs increased their firepower with military-designed AR-15 and AK-47 rifles. Abandoned buildings popped up like poisonous mushrooms in once solid neighborhoods. In one of history’s ironies, the African American middle class was packing up and moving back to the South, to cities such as Atlanta, for safety and a future. An underclass of gangbangers and immigrant aliens gnawed away at the foundations of Senex’s society.

  Diagnosed with Huntington’s disease at age sixty-five, the doctors gave him ten to fifteen more years to live. Now seventy-nine, he was on borrowed time, desperate enough to even try colonic irrigation and a chimp’s diet of green and raw food to prolong life. Nothing worked.

  His final hope was the Phoenix Project. Dr. Angelo Mora, his concierge physician and medical researcher, was about to discover the fountain of youth. He and his city did not deserve to die. Only the gangbangers did. The way he intended them to die would be karma in action.

  He ran agitated hands along the tufts of white hair on either side of his bald crown. It had been nature’s bad joke to give an aging atheist the tonsured hair of a medieval monk. He padded across the antique Persian rug of his penthouse in pink bunny slippers with fluffy cotton-ball tails.

  If others knew about the slippers he wore in private during times of tension, they would call it early-onset dementia related to Huntington’s. But he knew better. His mother had bought him such a pair when he was a child before a drunken illegal alien had killed both his parents in a car accident. Not even the bunny slippers calmed him this time.

  He checked his Rolex. It was time. In his rage he almost forgot.

  He stumbled against a Louis XVI walnut chair on his way to the medicine chest. From shelves crammed with prescription bottles, he popped pills manufactured by Promethean Pharma. He was the CEO and founder of Promethean Pharma, and he had the wonders of modern medicine available at the snap of his fingers. If anyone could cheat death, he was the one.

  From the top-floor perch of his corporate headquarters in the nearby suburbs, he piled up astronomical profits from patented medications for deadly diseases . . . which the envious called obscene . . . and controlled city and state decisions in the shadows. Not bad for a somebody whose nobody father was a political hack from the Bridgeport neighborhood with a white-collar sinecure in Streets and Sanitation.
r />   The somebody had chased the monkey of success and caught it. He had a fortune in the bank to prove it, but he was bored. He needed Dr. Angelo Mora to keep his body alive and another monkey to give him a reason to live. And that monkey was political power on a national level. The politics of national salvation got his juices bubbling up again through the black mud of rising despair.

  He clicked the TV remote to watch history in the making. An ambulance and police cars flashing red and blue lights blockaded the emergency room entrance to Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Police officers held back a knot of pedestrians trying to get as close to the door as possible. The announcer killed time repeating what already was known about Walker’s shooting until the network had more news.

  Franklin Dexter Walker deserved what he got for threatening to take over the pharmaceutical industry. FDW was out to ruin him and was a traitor to his social class just like FDR. Walker had sucked up Promethean Pharma’s campaign contributions when running as a wannabe politician for the Illinois legislature. He then turned against his benefactor. If the turncoat had his way, he’d ruin Promethean Pharma and destroy those who had made America great. And the election results opened the door to that disaster.

  The new generation of whiners and leftists led by Franklin Dexter Walker accelerated the fall and decline of Senex’s Chicago and his America. Walker’s success over Senex’s boy, Governor Brock Brewster from Ohio, was an unacceptable constitutional fluke. The Republican presidential candidate, supported by Promethean Pharma’s thirty-million-dollar contribution through a daisy chain of anonymous and untraceable political contributions from tax-exempt organizations, should have won. At his suggestion, Brewster even picked Luisa Garcia as his Hispanic vice-presidential candidate to balance out the old, white male Republican running for president.

  BREAKING NEWS: GENERATIONAL WARFARE! scrolled across the TV screen in red letters. The anchorperson reported that a Democratic youth PAC had scammed retired seniors living in gated assisted-living facilities operated by the New Pastures Corporation. The business chain had been set up after the COVID-19 scourge to offer pandemic-proof fortresses for seniors.