The Snoodle Contract: A Provocative Power Play of Political Perfidy

By Gerry Burke

President Gus Snoodle has obviously rubbed someone the wrong way. Despite the fact that there have been no escalating wars, no sizzling scandals, and no bad reviews of his performance on Dancing with the Stars, his poll numbers are plunging, there is a contract out on him, and his conspirators will stop at nothing to bring him down.
No one is prepared for the intervention of visiting Aussie dynamo Paddy Pest: probably the greatest sleuth to have been denied recognition in his own country or any other. With help from the CIA, the Secret Service, and several beautiful women, Paddy attempts to find a motive for the conspiracy. From a high rollers room in Las Vegas to a Texas airfield, Paddy and his delightful wing person, Saffron Splendido, must ingratiate themselves with the president to avoid a catastrophe. A budding romance only complicates matters as White House deputy chief of staff, Jack Rice, takes a shine to Saffron, leaving everyone to contemplate whether she will become Mrs. Saffron Rice. With more questions than answers, the presidential caravan rolls from Massachusetts to Memphis in search of votes, while a killer quietly waits to strike.
In this humorous political tale, an American president, who is the victim of a diabolical conspiracy, must rely on the talents of a fearless Aussie detective to save his lifeand hopefully his presidency.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491786055

Gerry Burke

Gerry Burke received a Jesuit inspired education at Xavier College in Melbourne, Australia, where he still lives. Before commencing his long career in advertising, he was employed by an international mining company, which included a three year stint in New Guinea. He also dabbled in the horse-racing industry, as an owner and breeder, with some success. Being a former accountant and advertising creative, no one expected Gerry to become a published author, but he embraced this initiative in order to stave off dementia. He has since penned 6 novels, 6 volumes of short stories, and 2 offerings of commentary and opinion relating to Politics, Entertainment, Sport, and Travel. The PEST pseudonym was subjected to a sea change with the introduction of his popular protagonist Paddy Pest to booklovers everywhere. Most people see the garrulous gumshoe from Down Under as a cross between James Bond and Maxwell Smart, and he has been the centre-point of the author’s humour-laden resume. In recent times, there have been diversions into Science Fiction and absolute fiction, all of which have won enthusiastic acclaim. Mr. Burke’s credentials have been well established with ten of his books featuring as a winner or finalist in a variety of international literary competitions. His last three volumes have received multiple citations. Gerry is single and lives with photographs of his best racehorses. http://gerryburke.net

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Copyright © 2016 Gerry Burke.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8606-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8607-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8605-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016900882

iUniverse rev. date: 1/25/2016

Contents

AUTHOR’S PREVIOUS WORKS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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

DISCLAIMER

EDIFYING POSTSCRIPT

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

AUTHOR’S PREVIOUS WORKS

From Beer to Paternity

— one man’s journey through life as we know it

Down-Under Shorts

— stories to read while they’re fumigating your pants

Pest Takes a Chance*

— and other humorous stories from the Paddy Pest Chronicles

The Lady on the Train

— more humorous Paddy Pest yarns for children over thirty

Pest on the Run*

— more humorous short stories from the Paddy Pest Chronicles

Paddy’s People#

—tales of life, love, laughter and smelly horses

The Hero of Hucklebuck Drive*

—Another Paddy Pest mystery

* Finalist USA Best Book Awards

# IPPY Bronze Medal: Best Fiction Australia and New Zealand

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Editing: Kylie Moreland

Pictorial content courtesy of various Thinkstock libraries.

Warning: This volume is categorized as a political thriller. It is, however, also politically incorrect in relation to certain characterizations of ethnic minorities, small people and cherished American icons. The latter have been included in an effort to procure a movie deal.

PROLOGUE

Manfred Knuth’s 1935 Auburn Speedster was the pride of his life. The two-door cabriolet featured leather interior, a black convertible top, rear mounted spare, a fold-up windscreen and a continental tire kit. The 4.6 liter straight eight came with a 150 hp supercharger option which could take the Boat Tail model to over 100 mph.

The proud owner was particularly fond of the canvas roof, which was activated by hydraulics, the immaculate powder-blue duco and the spacious trunk which could accommodate golf clubs, his wife’s shopping, and his realty sandwich boards.

Frankie Filou always maintained he borrowed the vehicle, but in fact, he stole it. He was some twenty miles from Manfred’s front drive, when the rear left wheel of the Speedster punctured and the exasperated driver opened the trunk in search of a repair kit. There was a dead body in the boot and the deceased was already starting to smell.

1ClassicCar103311571.jpg

Manfred and his classic car.

CHAPTER 1

It was almost three years into his first term as president, and Gus Snoodle and his advisors were a little nervous with their standing in the polls. There had been few scandals, no escalating wars, and the commander-in-chief’s performance on Dancing with the Stars had been inspiring. The man didn’t have the charisma of Kennedy or Clinton but, after all, he was a Republican, and it always takes time to cement a reputation. The election results may have been a surprise to many and the outcome could have been different if the former Governor of Arizona hadn’t helped Snoodle carry the Southwest. Vice President Geronimo Jordan was not popular outside of Phoenix and Tucson but his wife was. Rada Jordan was fifteen years younger than her husband and she was foreign. A little bit of European chic goes a long way with the female voters.

Over the years, Arizona had been a Republican stronghold and John McCain had been the standard bearer. The new power couple had come from nowhere and were aggressive, ambitious and newsworthy. Gus Snoodle had been happy to go with a compromise candidate but once in the Oval Office, he liked to keep the VP at arm’s length. He should have watched him more closely.

***

Las Vegas tends to be a popular choice for a convention and it doesn’t matter whether you are wheeling and dealing or finding an excuse for a tax deductible junket. The Mirage Resort and Casino is found at the best end of the strip and on a daily basis hosts any number of conferences. The Syncopation Reality Company doesn’t do conventions, as such, but they always keep a team on hand to infiltrate the symposiums and manipulate the poor buggers who attend, who are usually in holiday mode and often alcoholically compromised. Manfred Knuth met Paddy Pest at the bar, after the latter gentleman completed a sixty-minute session at the gymnasium and slot machine hall. The realtor made the first play.

You seem to be a pretty fit dude—lucky too. Did you win all that cash on the bench press machines or the bicycle slots?

Out of habit, Pest eyed-off the newcomer with suspicion, but the Australian was generally gregarious and carefree when he came into easy money. He caught the attention of the barman and soon his new found friend was cradling a sour mash whiskey.

Thank you very much. Your generosity is appreciated, but let me buy the beer nuts.

Pest smiled because they both knew the nuts were free. Nevertheless, he was happy to introduce himself, although not prepared to release the specific details of his trip to Las Vegas. The second International Convention of Covert Operatives had been long in the planning and difficult to organize. Many members lived in the shadows and proved hard to locate. The event was booked as the Smith Family Reunion—all the delegates claimed to be named Smith.

If the con artist had realized Paddy was a detective and sometime secret agent, he may have sought a more gullible prospect. It didn’t bother him that the fellow resided in Australia, as he often sold worthless land in the desert to non-nationals. The Aussies were usually easy marks, as they fancied timeshares, one of Manfred’s specialties. Being a professional huckster, the SRC representative would always tread warily and small talk was the essence of his opening gambit.

‘Paddy’ seems Irish but isn’t ‘Smith’ of English derivation? I seem to recall arrowsmiths, coppersmiths, even goldsmiths.

I’m Australian, actually, but my forebears were Celtic blacksmiths. Surely, you had such a profession in America during the wild west days?

Possibly, but they would be from the Deep South. My people came from Germany. My grandfather used to sell hot air to the dirigible people. Count Zeppelin was a personal friend.

Paddy Pest was ready to believe the chap’s granddad might have been a close pal of the Red Baron, and who could argue with his hot air credentials? These kinds of things can be hereditary. The sleuth from Down-Under had met hucksters before but Manfred’s pitch came across as novel, and the gumshoe was keen to see where it might be heading. He authorized another hit on his tab and urged the stranger to continue with his story. Time could be his friend, at least until his lady friend arrived.

Nadia Nickoff appeared half-way through Manfred’s discussion regarding the fruit bowl opportunities in the Mojave Desert, not far from Las Vegas—unfortunately, not close enough for immediate inspection. The dissertation trailed-off into oblivion as the Belarusian beauty brushed past the hot-air salesman, and planted a lingering kiss on Paddy’s most prolific orifice. She eyed him up and down, and satisfied with what she saw, snapped her fingers for the barman. Paddy didn’t want to be impolite and immediately introduced his new-found friend to the minx from Minsk.

Manfred, I’d like you to meet Nadia Smith. Nadia is one of the delegates at our conference.

Because Mr. Knuth was mesmerized and almost gagging on the lady’s perfume, his greeting was slow in coming. The lady took a sip from her recently arrived vodka cocktail and proffered her hand for kissing. Her smile was totally irresistible and the German became a willing captive of her seductive and captivating magnetism.

Hello darlink, I am liking you already. Are you another Smith from the West? I vill embrace everyone. You are so ’andsome, so young.

I think it is fair to say Nadia was more Smith and Wesson than anything else. She had been a competent KGB assassin and, although no longer the nubile young killer of days gone by, she was still attractive and in good physical condition. Certainly, Manfred thought so, because he couldn’t take his eyes off her exquisite form. Her choice of apparel redefined the alluring concept of the seductive cocktail dress, and this was all she appeared to be wearing. Nadia’s natural brown hair was pulled back from her face, and no member of the male race could hope to avoid her penetrating blue eyes, which lingered long and lasciviously. Should you fraternize with this femme fatale, you would immediately be pitted against a woman not to be underestimated. Paddy Pest was well aware of this fact because she had tried to kill him on a number of occasions. Of course, all this happened before Perestroika and Glasnost.

Once the delicious delegate arrived, the presence of the SRC representative seemed superfluous, and the gumshoe made his farewell with appropriate grace and dignity.

We have to split, Manny, but I’m sure we’ll cross paths again before the reunion is over. I’ll look forward to further discussion regarding your prognostications for the Mojave Desert and the Tumbleweed oasis development. Nadia is looking for a warm retreat, away from the chilling winters of Belarus.

Having made their farewell, the man and his companion disappeared into the night and the real estate rogue reveled in his reverie. What a likable couple, he reflected. Nevertheless, he learned little about them, apart from Paddy’s blacksmith lineage; and, what about the woman? When she brushed past him, he felt something against her leg. Was it a gun? Manfred Knuth knew something about guns.

***

The International Convention of Covert Operatives was an initiative sponsored by the U.S. State Department, under the auspices of the vice president. Evidently, the White House thought it would be nice to give the second banana something to do.

In an effort to be politically ecumenical, the Americans, as host nation, invited operatives from al Qaeda, Islamic State, Hezbollah, the Muslim Brotherhood and Boko Haram. They fully expected all of them to decline on the basis of passport difficulties, but all these organizations advised they already had members on the ground in the United States, and would be delighted to send representation to the convention. Predominantly, these people were the big winners at the tables. Saman Smith won a gold Cadillac and Mohammad Smith hit the jackpot at the slots. He scored a weekend for two at Lake Tahoe and the word was he would be accompanied by his granny, known to all as Bambi.

The thing about reunions is you touch base with people you haven’t seen for some time, and Paddy was in his element. Through the years, the sleuth had accepted employment offers from various régimes in roles always deniable. The Aussie snoop didn’t mind, as it gave him the opportunity to operate outside his own country, where he often became mired in boring mainstream investigations. Over time, the fellow acquired some kind of international reputation and although he couldn’t be compared to James Bond, he did promote his self-imposed license to thrill, which resonated with certain female members of government agencies, friend and foe. In this instance the lucky woman was Nadia Nickoff, a former protagonist, who had become a victim of his charm and magnetic personality.

The convener of the get together, Leon Butterbum, may have failed to truly appreciate the nebulous nature of Paddy’s reputation and his inadequate grasp of reality. He asked him to present a paper on alternative opportunities for coverts in Oz. Leon was a serious person from the State Department, who also failed to realize most of the delegates were there for a good time, not a long time.

Paddy, of course, got it wrong but did highlight the fact his hometown was particularly progressive. The administration had made the most dramatic and extraordinary conciliatory gesture towards a former enemy—they appointed the Taliban to run their transport network. Paddy tabled all the facts and figures, and supported them with his verbal summary.

Since taking on their five-year contract, fare evasion has dwindled to less than 1%. Limbless graffiti artists are no longer a threat, and the compulsory wearing of hijab and niqab has reduced the incidence of communal flu on our trams, trains and buses.

Although there appeared to be grudging support for the peacekeeping initiatives of the Melbourne authority, one of Moscow’s meanest delegates felt obliged to mock Paddy’s goody two-shoes presentation.

Zis may be true, comrade, but since the Mujahedeen and other jihadist organizations drifted towards respectability, rogue members have gone private and signed up with assassination.com. There iz a glut on the market for contract killers and our rates are being discounted. Where iz the justice?

The prospect of cut-throat criminals on the poverty line with no chance of gainful employment was an appealing thought to the crime buster, and he smiled at the absurdity of it all. As Pest gathered his papers, prior to the lunch break, he caught sight of the CIA contingent deep in discussion. If there were cheap killers on the loose, they would want first bite at the cherry. The American delegates were talking animatedly, and Paddy reflected on his past history with the world’s largest clandestine organization. He didn’t realize somebody was standing next to him.

Hello, Paddy, long time no see.

The Mirage Hotel and Casino is owned by an entertainment consortium called Milton, Grimes & Malkovich (MGM) and Nicky Mickey Milton was one of the founding fathers. Actually, he was more of a mother, if you take into account his sex change operation in 1989. Mickey had been running guns into Nicaragua for the CIA and it wasn’t long before it was his turn to run. A disguise is one thing but did he go too far? Anyway, Mickey is now Nicky, and the lady signs some big checks. Few people doubted government money kept this hotel afloat, so Paddy allowed Ms Milton to buy lunch. She selected one of the outdoor areas, the Paradise Café—a good choice. The only thing missing was Hawaiian hula girls to perform under the imported island palms.

It’s a nice place you’ve got here, Nicky. What did it set you back, a few billion?

Something like that, but let’s not talk about me. The buzz is you’re a legend in your own lunch hour back in Australia. Do they realize you used to work for the Contras along the Mosquito Coast? Those mines you guys planted blew up a lot of shipping, and the Sandinistas put a fancy price on your head. Ever wanted to revisit for old times’ sake?

Not with luxury like this at my disposal. All this soft living hasn’t gone to your head has it? I can remember when Mickey Milton was happy to sleep three to a bed and bathe in a river full of piranha.

My God, are you talking about last week’s Realty Roustabout party? Have you meet Manfred Knuth yet? He’s one of us.

Get out of here. A spy? I don’t believe it. He seems such a regular guy.

It’s a good cover, Paddy. He sells worthless land to worthless people, who are usually worth less than they think. He can float around all the casinos and not raise any suspicion. We entertain high rollers from every country, and if we can compromise them in any way, we will. Doesn’t it make you feel good to be an American?

I’m an Australian, Nicky; Manfred is German. We are both appalled.

CHAPTER 2

In a backroom at the Mirage Casino, Karl Bodowski’s eyes remained transfixed to one particular monitor, a camera feed from the Lobby Bar. It was unusual for the hotel’s security chief to be spying on a location which didn’t involve money or chips, but all suspicious characters needed to be investigated. It wasn’t readily apparent whether the big man was interested in Manfred Knuth, Paddy Pest or Nadia Nickoff. He certainly recognized one of them, and from the sneer on his face, these were not cherished memories. Before he left the operations center, Karl always checked with his staff to determine if all was well in the gaming rooms. His night shift lieutenant, Darley Godolphin, halfway into a Big Mac with double cheese, wiped his mouth and gave his superior the news he wanted to hear.

All quiet on the Western Front, Karl. There are few pros in the house and we’re raking it in, but there are a lot of strange looking individuals on the floor. According to their name tags, they’re all called Smith.

In a former life, Bodowski often could have benefited from an alias, but he had never gone down that path. He looked nothing like a Smith and neither did Nadia Nickoff. He wondered what the minx from Minsk might be doing on his patch. Trouble was brewing, he could feel it in his bones, but he didn’t want to alarm his people. Not yet.

They’re probably harmless, Darley. There’s a family reunion in the hotel and many of them have probably never been to a casino before. Smith is the most boring name on the birth register but some of them can change it if they want—we’re offering 50% discount in the wedding chapel, this month. Of course, if they want an Elvis celebrant, that’s extra.

Darley Godolphin went back to his Big Mac, as the security chief left the room and the other staff members continued to scan the monitors for any hint of irregular behavior on the gaming floors. They should have looked elsewhere.

Karl Bodowski ought to have gone home but the inquisitive chap suspected this large family reunion was not all it seemed, and that this man with Nadia and Manfred could be worth investigating. Initially, he hadn’t intended to follow the Belarusian beauty and her companion but he was ready to clock-off and there wasn’t much for him at home except pork and beans and an overly vocal fishwife. Should the truth be known, he wanted to, once again, see the female assassin up close. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since their infamous and mildly hilarious episode together.

This confrontation had taken place more than ten years earlier but bad memories were hard to forget. Bodowski was the station resident under Siggy Leiter in the Bahamas and the CIA were doing furtive back-up for a British agent. As usual, there was some master criminal with world domination on his agenda and, quite frankly, it’s a mystery how the Russkies became involved. Nevertheless, Nadia, working for SMERSH at the time, arrived on the scene all powdered-up, pouting and pontificating. During a night-time surveillance exercise, Bodowski got a .45 slug in his ass, and the Russian agent scampered with his trousers. How do you explain something like that to your boss?

One can imagine the security implications if a lady with her qualifications cut loose in the hotel. Karl didn’t buy the Smith Family Reunion, but neither had he been briefed as to the real purpose of the shindig. He had asked his staff to profile the lady’s dinner date but the results would not be through until morning. The hungry supervisor searched for a small table in the Portofino restaurant, with line of sight to his prey. The waiter immediately recognized the security chief, and found him a suitable table beneath the sculpture of Michelangelo’s David.

Can I get you a cocktail, Mr. Bodowski? We don’t often see you dining here. Is there trouble brewing?

Not unless there’s a bomb in the Bombe Vesuvius. Why don’t you bring me a glass of your best Chianti, Dakota? I’ll decide later whether I eat.

Certainly, sir, replied the compliant waiter, as he scuttled off to inform the other staff of the important person about to dine in their restaurant. Yesterday, Bodowski had come into the kitchen and now they were communicating on a first-name basis. It had been a big month for celebrities and some of them actually paid their bill. Chef Michael LaPlaca knew this man wasn’t going to be one of them.

What a shame Karl decided to stay and eat because, fifteen minutes after he ordered his meal, Michelangelo’s statue fell on him and killed him outright. If you were Italian, you’d probably be honored to go out this way, but Bodowski was a poor Pole with hardly a hundred enemies in the whole wide world. Who would do such a thing?

Naturally, panic erupted at the other tables because, somehow, they had deduced this was no accident. Above it all was the plaintive cry of the disorientated waiter, searching for one of his customers.

Who wanted the Veal Saltimbocca?

In fact, it was Karl who had ordered this meal and, in retrospect, he would have been better off with the pork and beans. Too much salt is bad for your blood pressure. As Paddy and Nadia inspected the rubble around the corpse, the paramedics arrived and attempted to revive the poor fellow, but to no avail. News spread of the catastrophe quickly, and it wasn’t long before the tourist ghouls were jostling in the doorway. They were joined by Nicky Milton, who dragged the couple to the side of the room and whispered vehemently at Paddy.

Tell me if either of you have got anything to do with this. We imported that statue from Rome at considerable expense.

And the security chief was expendable? questioned the gumshoe. Is that it, Nicky?

Well no, not really. I wanted you to know we don’t tolerate this kind of behavior in our upmarket restaurants. Have you crossed swords with Karl before?

Well, not me, but Nadia seemed to recognize him. I was more interested in the remnants of the shattered marble. There’s a distinct hand mark on the bottom of the statue. This was no accident. You’re looking for a small person with unusual fingerprints on his right hand.

Nicky Milton may have been perplexed by this extraordinary appraisal of the situation, but she didn’t sound surprised—just ready to blame her most irritable competitor.

"Jeez, it’s those midgets from Circus Circus, down the strip. They’ve been trying to sabotage our operation for years. When this reunion is over, there could be a job for you, Paddy. In the meantime, don’t