A Pale Horse

by Wendy Alec

  “We’ve got to change for the funeral,” Polly said. Lily nodded. “Pick you up at eleven.” She kissed Lily on the head and followed Alex out.

  Lily heard the front door bang, then wheeled herself into her bedroom, to a large chest of drawers. Opening a lingerie drawer, she removed a small leather jewelry box. She opened it, lifted a compartment, and took out four photos. The first was of her and Alex when she was 6, in Jason and Julia’s New York garden. The second was of Alex at 12, another at his graduation, and then the most recent one. His highlights were gone, and his dark hair was much longer. Alex the investigative journalist. He was smiling. Lily’s tears fell down onto the photograph as, slowly, she tore it and then the others into pieces, one by one.

  There was a soft knock at the door. Lily froze, then turned.

  Julia stood in the doorway. She walked over to Lily. Very gently she took the pieces of Alex’s photographs out of her grasp and placed them on the chest of drawers, then held her to her chest.

  Lily sobbed in Julia’s arms, her heart breaking.

  “Its okay, Lily. It’ll all be okay,” Julia whispered.

  “I love Polly, Mom. I’m so glad she’s happy. But I’ve always loved him.”

  Julia looked deeply into Lily’s eyes.

  “At eighteen, love . . . ” She heaved a sigh. “Love is complicated. Even at my age, it’s complicated. Just look at your dad and me. Alex loves you, sweetheart, but as . . . ”

  “But as a friend.” Tears streamed down Lily’s cheeks.” Because I’m in a wheelchair.”

  “No!” Julia shook her head emphatically.” Not because you’re in a wheelchair, Lily. Because he loves Polly. They’re getting married, Lily, sweetheart. You have to get over it.”

  Lily clasped Julia’s hand tightly.

  “There are some things, Lily, darling, that are just not meant to be.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. I’ll deal with it.”

  “Promise?” Julia whispered.

  Lily squeezed Julia’s hand. “I promise.”

  She picked up her phone and pressed redial.

  “Hi, Adam. Yes, I got your message. Tonight’ll be great.” She wheeled herself out of the bedroom.

  Julia walked to the bedroom window, then stared down at the engagement ring on her left hand. Callum. Callum was arriving tonight from Nice.

  He was everything she’d dreamed of: tall, elegant, intelligent . . . compassionate . . . handsome . . . considerate. They had the perfect wedding planned. August seventeenth, Summer Marquee. Six hundred guests, champagne, fairy-tale dress.

  Then why, why could she not get Jason out of her mind? He was stubborn, insensitive, inconsiderate, as always . . . and yet . . .

  She tapped the digital photograph of Jason and Lily on Lily’s shelf. It was recent. Alex had taken it in Central Park. It zoomed in on Jason.

  He had aged since the divorce. But in the photograph he was smiling—a rare thing for Jason De Vere. Nowadays, only Lily could make him smile. Julia’s eyes grew distant. Up until their lean years, Julia had been the only person in Jason De Vere’s frenetic and well-guarded world who could make him laugh till he cried. And could make him see red within thirty seconds. She wondered if there was anyone else in his life. Julia placed the photograph gently back on the shelf. All her sources said no.

  She sighed. She had known it the moment she opened the door to him last Thursday and saw him soaking, cantankerous as always, standing in the pouring rain on her doorstep.

  She was still deeply in love with Jason Ambrose De Vere.

  And she had to get over it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Ritz, London

  “Sorry, sir.” The waiter looked Jason up and down sniffily. “Formal dress code.”

  “For afternoon tea!” Jason glared at him.

  “Particularly for afternoon tea, sir,” he said frostily.

  Jason scowled, then took a rolled-up gray silk tie from his left jacket pocket and grudgingly tied it around his neck. He scowled again at the waiter, then walked toward the Palm Court, weaving in and out of the chairs toward an elegant old man with silver hair, seated in the far corner.

  “Cab got caught in five o’clock traffic. Worse than New York.” He looked the old man up and down. “Good to see you, Uncle Xavier.”

  The old man embraced Jason affectionately.

  “It’s been months. Don’t give it a moment’s thought, my boy—gave Sinclair and me a chance to catch up on the World Bank’s latest negotiations in China.” He frowned. “You do know Alistair Sinclair.”

  Jason nodded. He recognized him from the world summit that VOX had televised last week.

  “Sinclair represents the Solidarity Fund,” Xavier said. “He’s heading up the development of the new one-world currency. Tea, dear boy?”

  Jason shook his head, then turned to the hovering waitress.

  “Filter coffee—strong.”

  “It’s afternoon tea, dear boy.” Xavier Chessler shook his head affectionately at Jason. “The English are very particular about their tea.”

  “Well, good for the limeys, Uncle Xavier. I’m very particular about my coffee.”

  Sinclair took the silver teapot and poured Darjeeing into a bone china cup in front of Chessler. Chessler picked up a finger sandwich of thinly sliced cucumber.

  “Ah, the niceties of what once was the British Empire: cake, champagne . . . Sinclair here says the champagne is not to be believed.

  “Nah. I’ll wait for the coffee, thanks.”

  Chessler sipped delicately at his tea. “Jason, there was a reason I asked you to meet with me . . . apart from catching up. We need a favor from VOX.” He took a second delicate sip of tea. “From you, dear boy.”

  Jason raised his eyebrows. “All these years, Uncle Xavier, I don’t think you’ve ever asked for a favor. How can I help?”

  “I’ve never wanted to use my position as a VOX board member.” Chessler took another neat bite out of the sandwich. “I wanted to have an informal conversation with you, not the board.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Off the record, as they say. What I’m about to disclose you may not fully comprehend, but the consequences will be of paramount importance in the months to come.”

  Jason looked over to Sinclair.

  “Oh, don’t worry about Sinclair. He’s one of us.”

  He set down his teacup.

  “Our plans for a one-world banking system have been, as you are aware, taking shape very nicely. However, after the economic summit last Sunday, we now find ourselves facing what could be a major setback.”

  The waitress set down a silver cafetière and cup and saucer.

  Jason frowned. “Setback?” he echoed.

  Chessler nodded. “Adrian has achieved the unachievable. As you and the rest of the planet are no doubt fully aware, the ten-kingdom multinational confederacy was finally signed into existence on Sunday.”

  Jason stiffened at the mention of his brother.

  “Yes. It’s signed.”

  “The AXIS Ten Accord. And the creation of a One World Bank spanning all continents, in the works for two decades, is finally sealed. Every central bank in over a hundred nations now operate under one economic system.

  “The next step is an immediate withdrawal of all ten-kingdom currencies, including the IMF’s SDR and the WOCU, the world currency unit we launched in 2009. We challenged the U.S. dollar as the world’s foremost reserve currency.” Chessler dabbed his mouth neatly with his napkin. “The rest is history. Our case rests. Now we implement our master plan.”

  He studied Jason intently, then said, “The introduction of a singular one-world currency, in conjunction with a system of digital enumeration of every human being on Earth.”

  He turned to Sinclair, who opened a glass X-pad.

  “Your brother conducted a trial across twenty members of the European Superstate,” Sinclair said, “the UK and Ireland excluded. An RFID chip—call it an ID tag—a special ink deposited in a unique bar-co
de pattern for each individual, which would be injected under the surface of the skin. Think of it as a virtual fingerprint—the prototype was called the Mark.”

  Chessler smiled. “It has proved successful beyond our wildest dreams. A virtual fingerprint that traverses all economic borders.”

  Sinclair continued. “We have set a date for the introduction of the worldwide ‘Mark.’ Trials were also initiated in all ten member kingdoms this past eighteen months. Everything has proceeded like clockwork.”

  Chessler lowered his voice. “Except for . . . well, we’re encountering—how would you put it?—some resistance in certain sectors of the ten-kingdom alliance. After the 2012–13 fiasco with the euro . . . ” He coughed politely. “ . . . certain factions appear to be more reluctant in their compliance.”

  Jason shrugged. “They don’t want to relinquish their currency. Understandable. The UK?”

  “The United Kingdom have been most amicable,” Sinclair declared.

  Chessler nodded. “Unlike our country of birth.”

  Jason grinned. “You’ve got a fight on your hands with the good old USA, haven’t you, Uncle Xavier? The Patriot Movement already fought tooth and nail for state sovereignty in 2012, and they’re not going to give it back. It dates all the way back to the Tea Party and the libertarians—Ron Paul and that bunch—in 2012. You’ll have a people’s revolution on your hands if you try to take their electronic gold currency system away from them.”

  Chessler dabbed again at his pale lips with the pressed linen napkin. “We the people,” he murmured. “Let me be quite clear.” His voice grew very soft. “Twenty-four states, including California and New York, have already signed the new world currency treaty.”

  Jason loosened his collar and leaned back in his chair, studying Chessler languidly. “You forgot, I’ve been living in New York again since the beginning of the year. Twenty-six states rejected the accord, if our reporting at VOX is to be believed.”

  Chessler smiled. “It’s a complicated issue, dear boy. To put it mildly, the Patriot Movement is awash with religious sects steeped in mythology, legends, folklore. Their views on the one-world currency are antiquated, to say the least, especially the Midwest’s.”

  He lowered his voice and affectionately placed a manicured hand on Jason’s arm.

  “The problem isn’t confined to the Patriots, Jason. The past decade has seen the development of a worldwide resistance movement. The resisters are set to pose a major threat to our global economic future.

  Jason gave a dry smile. “Resisters?”

  “Two point one billion if you believe the statistics.”

  Jason looked at him in disbelief.

  “But, of course, it’s only a minor section of these that are putting up active resistance to the one-world currency.”

  “How many?”

  “Active resisters? A hundred eighty million, maybe more.”

  “A hundred eighty million?”

  Chessler took Jason’s arm. “They view the world in a most simplistic fashion, dear boy. To say the least, they regard the one-world currency as a symbol, a symbol of assigning themselves to a world system belonging to . . . ” He sighed. “ . . . in their symbology, the devil.”

  The warlock brand on his forearm was burning. He stopped and took a breath, then studied Jason intently.

  “The mark of the Beast, the book of Revelation. Naive, credulous sects all over the world are refusing to relinquish their currencies.”

  “You’re talking about the Christians,” Jason said.

  “Correct.” Xavier Chessler picked up a second cucumber finger sandwich. “They’ve been problematic, to say the least.”

  Jason looked at him in astonishment.

  “In three of the ten kingdoms. North America, naturallyAnd China, of all places—the underground church movement’s been spreading consistently the past ten years since the government relaxed its state laws. A hundred and four million Protestants, over forty million radicals. They’re popping up in government everywhere. The economy is riddled with them. China’s been rigorously opposed to our plans for a new world order, but they have always been highly supportive of a one-world currency—until the new moderates rose to power.”

  Jason raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

  “As for Russia, they went moggy after the nuclear strikes on Moscow, and millions headed back to church. The whole Russian Federation’s gone back to the Dark Ages mythology. Russia’s rife with tales of Revelation: the mark of the Beast, a one-world government under the Antichrist.”

  “You’re not serious,” Jason said. “Surely Christians can’t pose a threat to a one-world currency.”

  “I’m afraid, my dear Jason, they can and they are. North America—sixty-nine million of them, radicals, resisters . . . ”

  Chessler finished his cucumber sandwich. “New York, Los Angeles, the East and West Coasts aren’t our concern. But among the sixty-nine million radicals, the top tier of them happen to hold posts as governors, legislators, state attorneys of all twenty-six resisting states.”

  “The Midwest,” Jason interjected.

  “And others.” Sinclair took out a crimson folder bearing the gold seal of the One World Bank. He flipped it open and rifled through documents. “Missouri—riddled with resisters, always has been.”

  Sinclair looked up from his digital tablet.

  “The health care resolution of 2010. They were working towards state sovereignty for years.”

  Chessler nodded. “They were the instigators, you know. The Tenth Amendment. Kansas followed suit. Then Iowa, Indiana, Ohio, South Dakota. The Bible Belt fell like a pack of cards: Central Florida, Alabama, Tennessee, Mississippi, Kentucky, Virginia, Texas, Louisiana, the Carolinas . . . ”

  “I get the picture,” Jason said.

  “All those twenty-six states have rejected the Mark, our new one-world currency. Voted as one to retain their patriot electronic gold currency. China, Russia—a similar scenario.

  “The Bank for International Settlements, Global Security Fund, the United Nations are concerned. Gravely concerned.”

  Jason shook his head. “Where does VOX come in?”

  “Look, Jason.” Chessler smiled affectionately. “I know you’re not a religious man. But you may be aware that for decades I’ve been a member of the European Council of Princes, organized in 1946 as the International Council of Government.”

  Jason shook his head.

  Chessler coughed, then continued. “It serves as a constitutional advisory body to the European Union. But the members also serve, let us term it, the esoteric realm. The Council of Princes, consisting of thirty-three Merovingian kings, was created as the occult hierarchy of Europe. Some view us as divine because our ancestors believe that they descended from the angels of Genesis six: two—the Nephilim.”

  Jason looked back at him with a glazed stare. “Mumbo jumbo to me, Uncle Xavier.” He shrugged.

  Chessler smiled back benevolently. “Jason, what I’m about to say may sound far-fetched, but I’m speaking as a scholar with over five decades of esoteric study. These resisters, this particular Christian sect, believe they will all be transported.” He coughed into his handkerchief. “Evacuated, if you will. Transported to another planet, plane of existence, or level of Earth’s consciousness, where they can be contained. The main point is that they will lose, for the time being, their access to the etheric planes of power, and the ability to control or influence developments on Earth.”

  Jason grinned in amused disbelief. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got a Baptist secretary, and Lily’s best friend is a vicar’s daughter who goes to some clap-happy church. They call it the Rapture.” He laughed out loud. “The whole thing’s ludricrous. I don’t believe a word of it!”

  Chessler sighed. “Of course, of course. We agree. It’s all a lot of mythological folklore. But the fact is,” he said softly, “there are things . . . occurrences in the ether, a parallel dimension that doesn’t always make sense to
the common man.” He stirred his tea distractedly. “I’m about to let you in on something beyond top secret, Jason. Over seventy years ago, after the Roswell incident in ’forty-seven, a treaty was signed. A treaty between the President of the United States and a group of extraterrestrials.”

  He held Jason’s gaze.

  “President Eisenhower.”

  Jason stared at him in amazement. He had known Xavier Chessler since he was a babe in arms. Chessler was not one to embellish the truth.

  “Yes. A piece of technology came into his hands. Into the hands of the United States. Into the hands of President Eisenhower.”

  He paused again.

  “A piece of extraterrestrial technology. A black box called simply ‘the Cube.’ It enabled our scientists to see something staggering: the future.”

  Incredulous, Jason stared at him. “You’re not serious, Uncle Xavier!”

  “Deadly serious.” Chessler looked at him, stone faced. “You are aware that when I was young, very young, I was the youngest aide in the White House . . . ”

  “ . . . aide to President Eisenhower,” Jason said, finishing the sentence. “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “As your father knew, I worked for him when I was just sixteen. The youngest aide he’d ever had. I attended that meeting, Jason. I was there. I have held the cube in my own hands.”

  A waiter appeared next to Jason. “More coffee, sir?”

  Jason nodded.

  “I think you need a stiff drink, my dear Jason.” Chessler nodded to the waiter.

  The waiter filled Jason’s cup from the cafetière.

  Chessler lowered his voice. “Eisenhower intended it to go to the UN. Certain shadow factions of the military sequestered it. It was in our hands for over seven decades. Our organization has sunk hundreds of billions of dollars into diverse black-ops programs: Looking Glass technology, portals, stargates, the European Organization for Nuclear Research.”

  Jason frowned. “CERN?”

  “Established by twelve European governments in 1952. By 2012, it had twenty member states—all European. It now operates solely under the presidential authority. You remember the commotion over CERN. The world governments decommissioned Project Looking Glass last decade. Every government in the world is still hunting the cube.”