Deliver us from evil, p.1
Deliver Us from Evil, page 1
DELIVER US FROM EVIL
FRANK FRANCIS
Copyright © 2023 George F. Brown and Guillaume Jest
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The right of George F. Brown and Guillaume Jest to be identified as the Authors of the Work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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First published in 2023 by Bloodhound Books.
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Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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www.bloodhoundbooks.com
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Print ISBN: 978-1-916978-04-1
CONTENTS
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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
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A note from the publisher
Never let the truth spoil the dream.
PROLOGUE
It was the day Maureen Finn’s life changed forever.
The White House was just as opulent as she had dreamed it would be. There was something so striking about the smooth, ivory tones of the walls, pillars and windowpanes that stretched across nearly every inch of the house, as if the entire building had been carved from chalk and bone. As she entered with the other guests, Maureen felt an undeniable sense of pride. She looked in awe at everything around her as the party were led by their guide, treading on either shining stone floors or vibrant red carpet as they were shown the luxury of the dining rooms, decked out in china and gold, while the woman sporting an immaculate blazer at the front pointed at whatever historic object they were closest to. They were afforded glimpses into the winter garden that she had seen in so many pictures, and while they weren’t allowed inside, they stood outside the door to the Oval Office. Maureen felt distinctly affected by this, knowing she was so close to perhaps the most prominent and important room in the country.
Their tour ended at one of the large reception halls in the East Wing. As they were guided through the domed entrance, they were greeted by the flash of cameras and the murmurs of a smattering of press officers who had gathered around the giant room. There were military guards in their immaculate, gleaming uniforms stationed in various positions as the procession made its way into the space. One raised an arm tightly to his head to salute them as they passed. There were long tables with silk cloths bearing drinks and refreshments and a collection of pictures, showing presidents old and new and snapshots of various pivotal meetings over the years. Maureen looked up at John F. Kennedy, who flashed his trademark smile back at her.
Maureen was one of the youngest attendees. She had maintained a childlike brightness to her face, even though she had now passed thirty, her cheeks round and her saucer-shaped eyes with irises of a burnished, mahogany brown. The leverage granted by the heels of her shoes made her as tall as the majority of the men around her and she wore a smart but safe dress that didn’t emphasise her slim figure, but didn’t hide it either. She had kept her hair shorter in recent years, deciding this was the mark of an accomplished, professional woman, and she had carefully tucked the loose strands of her bob behind her ears.
As she continued through the room, she kept her head low and maintained a polite smile while avoiding eye contact with the reporters as she passed. It was as she made her way beyond a sprightly, glamorous blonde woman that her plan to remain undetected was undone.
“Maureen. Maureen Finn!” cried the woman, gesturing wildly to attract her attention.
Maureen sighed under her breath but projected her smile outwards and slowly made her way over to the reporter, who thrust a microphone a few inches in front of her. Maureen felt the large, square lens of the nearest camera swivel towards her in an intimidating manner.
The reporter began to speak, positioning herself adjacent to the camera, “We are here today at the White House, at a ceremony to commemorate the lives of Peace Corps officers who gave their lives in service. And I’m delighted to be joined by the award-winning journalist and author, Maureen Finn, whose father was among the honourees today.”
She turned to address Maureen directly. “Maureen, tell us about the ceremony that just took place.”
Maureen nodded and began to reel off a rehearsed response. “Yes, well it’s a fantastic occasion of course and a true privilege to be here to celebrate the lives of the men and women who have given so much to protect the safety and freedom of this country.”
“Can you tell us a little about the role of your father, Sean Finn?”
Maureen felt a pang of nervousness in her chest and tensed her muscles slightly to counteract it. “Well, I can’t say too much because so much of his work is yet to be fully disclosed, but what I can tell you is that my father was a man who loved this country and gave his life to serve it.”
She paused, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the sentiment that enveloped her, and gulped back some of the dryness that had formed in the back of her throat before adding, “And on a personal level, it has been an honour to receive this recognition on his behalf today… he continues to inspire me and the rest of my family every single day.”
Maureen smiled and turned on her heel to walk away, but the reporter had one final question.
“Is your father going to be the subject of your next book?”
“I haven’t decided what I’m going to write the next one about actually. It’s not a bad idea, I suppose!” said Maureen, chuckling graciously.
The reporter thanked her and Maureen headed for the drinks table. She politely chatted to the other honourees and continued to admire the beautiful interior that surrounded her, stopping at the portrait of the president she admired most, Franklin D. Roosevelt. She reflected once more on the gravity of the occasion and a surge of emotion shot through her body. Roosevelt, for his part, maintained his intense and aloof stare into the middle distance.
When she was finally granted a moment to herself, in the back of the car that drove her away from the White House, she took out the medal she had received an hour previously and held it carefully. The pristine gold caught the light and reflected it back. Her thoughts returned to her father, as they often did in her quieter moments. The medal was spectacular, but as she held it close to her, she couldn’t help but feel that she would swap it in a heartbeat for more time with the man it honoured.
Hundreds of miles away, in a large apartment in New York, a man sat in a stylish velvet armchair, eyes fixed to the images on the television screen. The room was grand but bare, with next to no decoration on the bright cream walls and just two objects placed thoughtlessly on the marble mantelpiece. A framed letter, of sophisticated and careful penmanship and marked with unique stamps, and a picture of two smiling children, both no more than five years old. A little boy with his arms wrapped around the shoulders of an even smaller girl. There were large oak bookshelves pushed against each wall, filled with books, documents and photos. It resembled an office or the working room of an academic more than a place to live. A setting fitting of a man who had taken his work home with him and had never asked it to leave.
The TV was playing a live interview from inside the White House, with a perky, blonde reporter beaming into the camera. The man sat forwards in his chair as the reporter turned to interview another woman, who had a more delicate appearance. As Maureen Finn began to speak about the achievements of her deceased father, the man in New York chuckled to himself and shook his head from side to side. He had found his missing piece.
CHAPTER ONE
Maureen waited nervously in the wings, listening to the gentle murmur of hundreds of different conversations echoing around the lecture hall. Her hand twitched as she scanned the notes of her speech, her eyes barely taking in the words but the process itself making her more relaxed. Maureen was a confident public speaker, but this was another level. This was Harvard. The Kennedy School. She studied the smooth sheen of wood that covered the hall and took in the earthy fragrance that seemed to emanate from the walls. There was a noticeable hush in the noises coming from the audience and a voice echoed out:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the renowned journalist and author, Maureen Finn, who will be delivering a lecture on her latest book, Truth vs State: How the Watergate Investigation Changed America.”
Maureen took a deep breath and allowed the applause to run for a few seconds before she emerged into view. The lecture hall was beautiful, with rows of pews staggered back from the stage and two levels of boxes stretching out above them, all sporting t
“Watergate was a pivotal moment in the history of our national consciousness. It was the moment that caused the average American citizen to lose faith in our respected and tenured institutions. To realise, perhaps for the first time, that the people who governed us were capable of dishonesty and deceit. The moment that we discovered that a president could lead a conspiracy to hide the truth from the public. Now, my question is this: was it worth it? Was the investigation and pursuit of the truth worth the political crisis it has created in its aftermath? Was it worth the uncharted, long-term effects on the relationship between America and its leaders? To put it simply: should we uncover the truth at all costs?
“Watergate marks a crucial collision of two opposing fundamental, almost philosophical, ideals: the belief that lies are unavoidable in national politics versus the belief that truth is a pillar of democracy. No news story in my experience ever dominated conversation, newspapers, radio and TV broadcasts the way Watergate did. Former Washington Post executive editor Ben Bradlee recalled: ‘People literally couldn’t wait for the radio and TV stations to read the next day’s Post stories on the eleven o’clock news.’ Nixon’s downfall, spurred by the Watergate scandal, made legends of investigative journalists and rocketed the profession into the career of choice for young, aspiring reporters. As a journalist and investigator myself, I am proud to serve my country by relentlessly seeking the truth, uncovering the facts, no matter how important the financial, moral or even personal pressures. And I have benefitted from the increased desire of the public to question and challenge the decisions of those above them. As faith in our institutions has waned, journalists have become like goldsmiths. We assess whether what’s in front of us is truly as good as it might look. And in my experience at least, it’s pretty rare that our leaders present us with the equivalent of pure gold.”
Maureen paused and allowed her words to sink into her audience. They responded with a collection of laughs and smiles and she felt a rush of confidence. She began to look less and less at her notes as the speech went on and allowed herself to enjoy the experience. The time seemed to disappear and before she knew it, she clicked onto her last slide, a picture of the same president who had been smiling down at her a month before.
“To conclude, I would like to quote President Kennedy, the man this wonderful school is named after: ‘A nation that is afraid to let its people judge the truth and falsehood in an open market is a nation that is afraid of its people.’” She stopped and looked up and out into the expanse of the hall once more. “Thank you.”
The audience rose as one to applaud. Maureen stepped away from the lectern and raised her hands in thanks. She couldn’t resist feeling a sense of pride and accomplishment; the people clapping her were no doubt intelligent and cultured individuals and she had managed to earn their respect. There was a slight tingling sensation that vibrated in her arms and legs as the tension she had been feeling evaporated out of her body and into the expanse of the grand old hall.
An elderly man with untamed white hair and a suede waistcoat joined her on stage, joining in the applause. He was a professor at the school and had been Maureen’s contact in the organisation of the event. He mouthed his thanks to her, which she accepted with a smile and nod of her own, and then he addressed the audience.
“Thank you, Maureen, for that wonderful and engaging insight into one of the core debates that shapes our social and political understanding. You are at the forefront of your profession, and it has been an honour to hear you speak. Maureen will be sticking around to sign copies of her book in the study room next door, so you are all welcome to join us for that. And now, one more time, a huge thank you from all of us at the Harvard Kennedy School… Miss Maureen Finn!”
Maureen was led through to another room, less grand than the lecture hall but still boasting walls filled with pictures and displays of the Kennedy School’s achievements, past and present. Taking a seat behind a long table with a red silk tablecloth tucked neatly across it, she noticed that someone had taken the liberty of creating a decorative arrangement of her books, shaped into a semicircle. Maureen picked one up and absently flicked through it; the pleasure of holding something she had written herself in her hand had never really waned. The organisers of the event had held back the audience for a few minutes to allow her to get settled, or perhaps so that they could have time to come up with questions for Maureen or offer their own random anecdotes on the topic. It was nothing she hadn’t experienced before and she enjoyed being indulged in such a way, by an institution as prestigious as Harvard no less.
The doors to the room were pushed open and the first members of the queue were admitted. Maureen placed the book down and smiled at her visitors. A small and sweet-looking lady of sixty or more was first up and she approached Maureen nervously, her hand shaking slightly on the spine of her copy.
“Excuse me, Miss Finn. Would you mind addressing this to my granddaughter. She wants to be a journalist, just like you, you see.”
Maureen felt a wave of affection roll over her. “Of course; I am going to need to know her name…”
The lady aimed a tutting noise at herself and said, “Of course, I’m sorry. Her name is Maureen as well.”
“Perfect,” said Maureen, meeting her eye with a smile.
She wrote in the inside cover, carefully crafting the words with her pen:
To my namesake Maureen who one day will write a book that I will be happy to read.
She offered the page up to the lady, who lit up as she read it.
“Thank you so much!”
“It’s my pleasure.”
The next twenty or so people passed through in much the same manner. They might offer their favourite part of the book to Maureen or tell her a story about who it was for and why it was meaningful to them, and she made sure to react with genuine interest and engagement each time. It was a strange interaction, she thought to herself, as it was probably the only time she would meet these people and yet they had such a legitimate connection to her. It was one of the things Maureen most loved about writing; it was something that could be shared with anyone.
As she looked up from signing another copy, her eyes briefly flashed along the line to see the next recipients. And for the first time she recognised one of the members of the queue. An elderly man with thin wisps of hair neatly placed on his forehead and a face that seemed to have become permanently set in a welcoming grin. It was only his choice of clothing that had briefly confused her: a neat shirt and a well-worn, navy-blue jumper instead of his normal outfit of a cassock.
Father McCluskey was the priest of Maureen’s local church in Boston and a lifelong friend of her family. He waited in line as patiently as the others and only approached Maureen when she turned in his direction. She rose from her chair for the first time and reached out her hands.
“Father! It’s so kind of you to come.”
McCluskey beamed back at her. “A member of my church has a lecture and book signing at Harvard University and I don’t put in an appearance? What kind of priest would that make me?”
