Ryan Andrews sighed, overwhelmed by the task ahead. A ten-foot conference table was littered with file folders, dossiers on potential cabinet appointees, none of whom were members of the Council on Foreign Relations.
Founded in 1921 at the behest of the Rothschilds and funded by moguls like Ford, Rockefeller, and Carnegie, the nonprofit think tank had successfully installed dozens of its members into every presidential cabinet since Woodrow Wilson. And in 1950, CFR member James P. Warburg had informed the Senate Foreign Relations Committee that “We shall have world government, whether or not we like it. The only question is whether World Government will be achieved by conquest or consent.”
Since then, Presidents Eisenhower, Ford, Carter, Bush, and Clinton had ascended from the CFR’s ranks as well as Supreme Court Justices Stephen Breyer, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and Sandra Day O’Connor.
They’ve been dictating policy and subverting American politics for generations, Ryan thought. That shit ends now.
His gaze meandered from Kyle to General Quenten to Admiral Rone. “What’s next on the agenda?”
“Damage control regarding Carter Sidney’s allegations,” Rone said.
A diabolically brilliant setup, Ryan thought. Crooked Carter Sidney knows that Bradley can’t disclose details about his missions. So she can hurl ridiculous accusations with total impunity and he can’t rebut them.
“Masked groups, calling themselves Anti-Tyranny, have taken to the streets,” Rone said, “protesting against Russia collusion by vandalizing property and setting fires in Districts Two, Three, Five, Nine, and Ten—areas where Consortium-connected governors are ordering law enforcement to stand down.”
“We can’t do anything about it,” Kyle huffed. “We’re powerless until the inauguration.”
“Which is why we need to counter the Russia collusion narrative,” Rone continued, “by exposing the real collusion. Votematic smart machines are vulnerable to something called fraction magic—a fractional vote counting mechanism.”
“Are you saying that one person, one vote is bullshit?” Ryan demanded.
“I’m afraid that individuals with access to GEMS—that’s the election tabulation software used in 27 states—can remotely preset the percentage of votes assigned to a particular candidate; thereby, dictating the outcome.”
“If they’re fixing elections how the hell did we win?” Kyle asked.
A self-satisfied smirk tweaked the corners of Rone’s mouth. “White hats hacked into GEMS, deleted the preset percentages, and locked the black hats out.”
Ryan grimaced, unsure how to interpret the Admiral’s statement. “Are you saying that the NSA threw the election in our favor?”
“Negative. They simply leveled the playing field, allowing the American people to decide, one person, one vote. Regrettably, that was not the extent of the tampering. Social-media giants attempted to tip the scales in more subtle ways. Gaggle search results only produced stories beneficial to Carter Sidney. Only favorable news trended on Chatter; and Linkbook only sent get-out-the-vote reminders to Sidney supporters.”
Chuckling, Quenten met Ryan’s gaze. “Explains why they never thought she would lose, doesn’t it?”
Makes sense, Ryan thought. And they can’t claim election fraud for fear of exposing their attempted vote-rigging schemes; hence the Russia collusion narrative.
“We need to devise an end around the media, a platform to educate the public on this and other issues.”
They brainstormed for nearly an hour, without consensus, before breaking for dinner.
Ryan pushed back his chair and stood, rolling his neck in a slow circle to alleviate tension. Could this entrenched, parasitic corruption be rooted out without killing the host?
Quenten, Rone, and Kyle made a hasty exit, then a pudgy hand caught the self-closing door.
Denny Rockenfeld peeked into the conference room. He was a low-level field organizer, who had volunteered to man the phones throughout the transition, and his muddy brown eyes were fixed on Ryan. “Can I speak with you, sir?”
“What’s on your mind, Denny?” Ryan ambled toward the door and rested a hand on the knob, sending a not-so-subtle signal to keep it brief. He was beyond hungry and looking forward to spending time with Franny.
“I have a message to deliver.”
“From?” he asked impatiently.
Ignoring the question, Rockenfeld said, “You’re a political genius ...”
Ryan laughed at the statement. He had shattered every rule of politics, violated every taboo, and drawn the visceral hatred of every reporter, CEO, and celebrity in the country.
“... You defied political gravity and turned prevailing wisdom on its head. I think you should be the one sitting in the Oval Office, and the most powerful people in the world agree.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed. Suspicion and anger were rising like a rogue wave. “The Consortium?” he fumed. “Is that the source of your message?”
“They can make it happen—just like that!” Rockenfeld snapped his fingers to emphasize the speed and ease, as if the presidency was a prize The Consortium could bestow.
Struggling to check his temper, Ryan said, “So what does The Consortium have in mind for Kyle? A resignation, like Nixon? A coup, like Yanukovych in Ukraine? Or a classic assassination, like John F. Kennedy?”
“It’s best if you don’t know.” Rockenfeld’s thin lips curdled into a sickly grin. “Ignorance IS insulation. And The Consortium can make you wealthy beyond imagination. They can shield your wife and unborn child from the ugliness of the world.”
Interpreting that as a veiled threat, Ryan glanced at the phone then thought better of it. There was no way this scumbag would be prosecuted by the current FBI and DOJ. Justice would have to wait until after the inauguration.
“I won’t sell out my friend,” Ryan said, voice seething with venom, “or my country.”
“Be advised that if you decline this gracious offer, in ninety-six days, your world will cease to exist.”
Outrage swamped self-control. Ryan grabbed the little prick by the throat and pinned him against the door. “Why ninety-six days?” he growled. “What’s The Consortium plotting?”
Chapter 6
6 Weeks Later
DAY 671
Wednesday, December 21st
12
District Three, Washington, D.C.
KYLE MURPHY CLIMBED into the backseat of an armored SUV. His bodyguards closed the door, but reporters’ questions seeped into the vehicle.
“Was Denny Rockenfeld murdered to cover up Russia collusion?”
“Did he have information damaging to your campaign?”
Kyle sighed, pondering whether the media would ever give him a fair shot.
The day after Rockenfeld delivered an ominous message from The Consortium, he was found with his belt around his neck, hanging from a doorknob—inside the Murphy-Andrews transition offices.
Did he commit suicide because Ryan fired him and reported the incident to the Secret Service?
Or did The Consortium silence him?
Kyle stared through the tinted rear-passenger window, watching densely packed city streets give way to the Georgetown suburbs.
Was Rockenfeld’s ninety-six-day threat just a bluff? Kyle wondered. A reference to impeachment, come February? Or something more sinister?
The chauffeur of the SUV turned onto a private driveway, passed through a set of stately iron gates, and circled an ostentatious fountain before braking to a stop.
Surrounded by his Secret Service detail, Kyle stepped out of the armored vehicle and strode toward the grand entrance of the French provincial manor. Its stone walls were imposing. Every balcony and window was adorned with masonry swags and medallions; and three stories above the driveway, arched dormers peeked through the hipped roof keeping watch over the twenty-acre estate.
A servant wearing a tuxedo greeted Kyle and led him through a cavernous foyer with an ornate curving staircase and serpentine columns
supporting gilded arches.
The billiard room was a cherry-paneled box with a coffered ceiling and a disturbing array of art. A life-sized gold sculpture of a decapitated person, spine arched backward; a painting of little girls in their underwear, kneeling against a tiled wall, hands clasped over their backsides; and a pair of eight-year-olds lying corpselike, holding hands with foliage growing over their bodies.
The mansion belonged to Prince Al-Waleed Amad, a Saudi billionaire who owned controlling shares of media companies, theme parks, movie studios, and technology giants like Chatter.
“Good-afternoon, President-elect Murphy.”
Kyle obliged Amad’s outstretched hand. The U.S.-educated prince spoke English without a trace of accent and he proffered a disconcerting smile. He was sixty-two, of average height with a black Magnum-P.I. mustache and a receding hairline that created the impression of horns.
“Thank you for meeting with me.” Amad sauntered toward a corner bar. “Come, let us share a drink.”
“Thank you, but no,” Kyle said firmly. “What was so sensitive that it couldn’t be discussed via phone?”
Amad’s mouth tightened in displeasure then softened into a feigned smile. He lifted a short, fat bottle with eighteen stegosaurus spikes, six on the left, six on the stopper, and six on the right. Half the bottle was brushed sterling silver; the other half, encrusted with diamonds; and a twenty-four karat gold disc bore the manufacturer’s logo.
Pouring the caramel-colored liquor into two snifters, the prince said, “This is Henri IV Dudognon Heritage.” He threaded the glass stems between two fingers, cradling each bowl against his palm to warm the cognac, which elevated the flavors and intensified the aroma, then extended a snifter to Kyle. “One-point-nine-million dollars per bottle. You must try it.”
Annoyed with the prince’s coercive cordiality, he said, “Thank you for the gracious offer, but I can’t indulge. I have another important meeting this evening.”
Amad’s black eyes gleamed with indignation. “You do understand that rebuking hospitality is offensive in my culture, yes?”
“And your artwork is offensive in mine. So I guess we’re even.”
Frustration deepened the folds in the Saudi’s forehead. “The work of Serbian painter Biljana Djurdjevic does not offend. It inspires.”
Inspires what? Kyle thought, pinning his host with a stare.
“Okay, I can see you are in no mood to socialize, so let’s get to the purpose of this meeting. Come.”
Finally, Kyle thought. He followed his host through a set of double doors, which led to a massive solarium. A narrow gravel path meandered through lush palm trees and tropical foliage. The humid air smelled like coconut and pineapple, and the sound of rushing water was growing louder.
“A conservatory?” Kyle asked. “You don’t strike me as the gardener type.”
“I enjoy cultivating and reaping beautiful flowers. Treasures best appreciated while sipping cognac.”
Grinning, the prince offered the snifter again, and this time Kyle declined with a headshake.
The gravel walkway curved and opened onto a manmade lagoon with a white-sand beach, two fifteen-foot waterfalls, and a saltwater pool with a swim up bar.
Kyle’s gaze leapfrogged from bikini to bikini, a rainbow of fabric, hair color, and skin tones contrasting against the turquoise water and green foliage. His jaw dropped then, shock yielding to offense, he did an about-face. “I’m out of here.”
Amad scrambled after him. “But I haven’t introduced you to the ladies yet.”
“They’re not ladies. They. Are. Teenagers!”
“This paradise is a place to indulge fantasies. Anything that happens here, stays here.”
“I know a honeypot trap when I see one!” Kyle shouted. “I was a Major League Baseball player. The FBI warned us about this scam. Spike a wealthy athlete’s drink, pose him with an underage girl while he’s unconscious, then extort money by threatening to release the pictures.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t want your money. The cognac in this snifter is worth more than you are.”
“No, you want to blackmail me in order to dictate U.S. policy.”
As Kyle stalked through the colonnade toward the front door, Amad roared, “Spurning my hospitality will prove to be the biggest mistake of your life!”
Chapter 7
DAY 701
Friday, January 20th
13
District Three, Washington, D.C.
SENSING THAT THE train was decelerating, Bradley Webber’s head swiveled toward the filthy Plexiglas windows. A forest of federal buildings zipped past, monuments to a bureaucratic swamp sustained by corruption.
Wheels screeching against rails, the train coasted to a stop. The doors jerked open, and Bradley stood. He smoothed the jacket of his dress uniform and hoisted the strap of his rucksack onto his shoulder. Knowing that Abby was upstairs waiting for him, an involuntary smile curled his lips. Bradley speed walked along the platform, weaving between dawdling passengers, and jogged up the steps. He couldn’t wait to hold Abby in his arms and kiss her.
Union Station felt more like a cathedral than a train depot. A white-granite barrel ceiling, embellished with octagonal gold-leaf coffers, soared ninety-six feet above the marble floor. A series of recessed bays with arched ceilings and half-moon windows flanked the pavilion, each housing a colossal statue that paid homage to an ancient demigod: Prometheus, Thales, Themis, Apollo, Ceres, and Archimedes.
The nape of Bradley’s neck prickled.
How do I know that?
A glimpse of Abby squelched the question. She was gazing up at the arrivals board, and her golden-blonde hair was twisted into a tousled updo that exposed the sexy curve of her neck.
Stealthy strides lengthening, Bradley snuck up on her. His right arm hooked around her waist; his left, behind her knees; and he scooped her into his arms. “I love you, Squirt.” His mouth closed over hers, hungrily, devouringly, with a kiss that conveyed how desperately he wanted her.
Then Bradley felt a thumb jabbing into his left eye.
He recoiled, releasing her legs, and shielded his face with his left hand. “What the hell, Abby?”
Only it wasn’t Abby.
The woman was wearing a low-cut, skin-tight dress that barely covered her derriere, and she had long saddle-brown hair that hung halfway down her back.
How the hell could I have mistaken HER for Abby?
“You got to ante up before sampling the goods,” the woman said with a seductive smile. “But I’ll give you a discount—because you’re a good kisser.”
Resisting the urge to vomit, Bradley offered an awkward apology. “I am so sorry. I thought you were ...” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, that somehow he had mistaken this skanky hooker for his beautiful wife. “... I, uh, thought you were someone else.”
He double-timed it away from the prostitute, scanning the pavilion, praying that Abby hadn’t witnessed the tawdry incident. Given his misstep with Mia Candelori, she would never believe him.
I’m a Sniper; I’m trained to notice details. How could I confuse blonde with brown? An updo with straggly long hair? A hooker’s minidress with a TEradS dress uniform?
Was I hallucinating?
Bradley glanced over his shoulder, as if a logical explanation was lurking amongst bustling passengers, and accidentally bumped into a homeless man with a wild beard, a filthy ball cap, and duct-taped sunglasses. Draped in a threadbare blanket to protect him from the frigid January weather, he stammered, “Sa-sa-scuse me,” while his fingers groped for Bradley’s wallet.
Unbelievable!
He shouted, “Pickpocket!” to warn the other passengers, and the old man took off.
As Bradley gave chase, he realized that the would-be thief had inserted something into his pocket.
Right arm stabilizing his bounding rucksack, scooting and dodging between people and suitcases, he managed to retrieve the item with his left hand; then he skidded
to a stop.
What the hell is—
“The standdown is over, Bradley ...”
He cringed, recognizing Volkov’s raspy voice.
“... Consider yourself activated.”
14
District Three, Washington, D.C.
FROM THE BACKSEAT of a black SUV, Abby Webber scowled at the long string of glowing taillights. It seemed that every vehicle within a thousand miles was on Massachusetts Avenue.
Impatience roiling, Abby checked the dashboard clock for the third time in as many minutes. 0835 hours. Bradley’s train had arrived five minutes ago and, in her mind, she envisioned him scanning the pavilion, mouth pursed with disappointment, hazel eyes glinting with raw hurt, trying to understand why she wasn’t there.
Why does this always happen to us? Abby whined. Every time we get a chance to be together fate screws us over.
Secret Service Agent Peters’ fingers were thrumming against the steering wheel. “This has got to be the first official, post-pulse traffic jam.”
He was a rawboned fortysomething with a gauzy brown comb-over and the pointiest chin Abby had ever seen.
“I’m surprised this many cars survived,” she said, noting that most were recent models with electronic fuel injection. “Why weren’t all the vehicles in D.C. fried?”
“Government assets were protected under COG.”
Abby expelled a derisive chuckle. “Ah, yes, continuity of government, the multi-billion-dollar doomsday program whereby politicians rally all the resources of the federal bureaucracy to protect themselves—not the American people.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be that jaded?” Agent Leezuh asked. She was built like a fire hydrant, short and stocky with thick red hair that sloped to one side like a beret.
Mind Power- America Awakens Page 6