by Blake Banner
The screen cut from Zain Asher to a shot of Hennessy at the offices of the Hennessy Foundation. He looked relaxed and amused. He was talking into a microphone that was being held in front of him. “I have always been a great admirer of Professor Gibbons and I am sorry that he takes that view of the efforts of the Hennessy Foundation. I think he needs to have a word with his researchers because they clearly haven’t been doing their homework. The Hennessy Foundation has invested many, many millions of dollars in helping developing communities to grow and prepare for the world’s changing environment.”
Asher’s voice was heard asking, “What do you say to the allegation that you were able to find two and a half billion dollars to bomb a foreign nation because it was a threat to American economic interests, but you never started a single initiative to counter climate change?”
He laughed. “Obviously I haven’t got the figures at my fingertips. I will have tomorrow evening when I meet with Professor Gibbons. But I will say this, when we bombed Irastan, the U.S. and her allies were facing a direct threat and Congress was virtually united in a bipartisan condemnation of Irastan’s development of weapons of mass destruction. However, climate change is a threat that affects the entire planet, and the U.S. cannot act alone. For all sorts of reasons…”
He smiled, excused himself and walked away.
It cut back to Zain Asher in the studio.
“Dick Hennessy’s response there to Professor Gibbons’ challenge. And we have been informed by Mr. David Staines, the chief UN organizer of the Conference, that last minute alterations have been made to the conference schedule to accommodate this impromptu debate, called by the professor. It will be attended by the world press and media and it will be free to the general public on a first come, first served basis. It is worth stressing that this is probably a first in UN conference history, and certainly I have never come across anything like it in my experience…”
I muted the TV and sat thinking, smoking, sipping my whiskey and listening to the small, inarticulate sounds issuing from my laptop. The implications of what I had just seen and heard were almost too huge to comprehend. Gibbons was taking on a former President of the U.S.; taking him on as a first step in exposing the government within a government.
Taking him on as though he was a member of Omega.
I picked up the phone and called Ben. He answered straight away with a question.
“Are you watching it?”
I nodded. “Yeah, what does it mean?”
“Join us and I’ll tell you.”
“I need a ticket.”
“I have one for you. I’ll courier it over.”
Seven
In slightly more than twenty-four hours, the unprecedented debate had generated so much publicity that by the time I got there at fifteen minutes after five, First Avenue was crammed with people, there were cops trying to clear a path for the traffic, and the UN had taken the unusual step of letting people into the plaza and setting up a giant screen to broadcast the event to the onlookers.
I forced my way through the crowd, showed my ticket, and was admitted to the main building. There were signs saying that the conference had been moved from Conference Room 12 to the much larger Conference Room 4. Arrows pointed the way to the first basement, where all the conference rooms were.
When I got down, the place was milling with people. There was tension in the air and the mood was taut with expectation. People were clustered in small groups and the conversations were animated and loud. I looked around for Ben, but he wasn’t there, so I made my way into the conference room and found my seat.
The room was more of a traditional lecture theater than the amphitheater design of the smaller conference rooms. Two lecterns had been set up, facing each other across a stage, as though it were a presidential debate. Gradually, the seats began to fill as the crowds drifted in from the lobby outside. As the hands of the clock moved toward six, the lights dimmed and a man I recognized as David Staines walked onto the stage. The room hushed.
“I can think of few occasions in the history of our organization when a conference has caused so much expectation, and such a stir beyond the confines of the group having an immediate interest in the subject of the conference. But from the start, this event has proved, if proof were needed, that the general public is deeply concerned with climate change and the issues of overpopulation. This is not, by any means, a subject exclusively for climatologists. It is a subject that affects every man, every woman, and every child on the planet.
“However, the dramatic, unexpected developments of the last twenty-four hours have placed this conference firmly in the public eye, as has been demonstrated by the fact that we are today packed to capacity, both inside and out! I am informed by the New York Police Department that traffic has had to be diverted away from First Avenue, to allow for the overspill from the United Nations Plaza.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have before us a week of fascinating events, talks, and debates. The highlight will be next Friday, as you know, when Professor Gibbons and Dr. Marni Gilbert will present to us research which, in their words, will transform the world’s view of climate change, and galvanize governments worldwide into positive action. But tonight, to open the conference, will you please welcome Professor Philip Gibbons and former President Dick Hennessy!”
There was animated applause as Hennessy, tall and urbane with his thick, silver hair, strolled onto the stage in his understated Saville Row suit. Opposite him, on the left, Gibbons strutted out in his tweed jacket, with his short legs and his pugnacious expression. After the applause had died down, Staines said, “Professor Gibbons, will you please open the debate.”
Gibbons nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”
As the Oxford Don that he was, rooted in the modern world’s oldest and finest tradition of debating, he orated with power and confidence. He seemed to grow in stature as he spoke, and his conviction seemed to inform every statement he made with weight and credibility.
“It must surely,” he started, “have crossed everybody’s mind at some point, to ask the question, how is it possible that the governments of the U.K. and the U.S. can mobilize a million troops, billions of dollars worth of weaponry and hardware, and incalculable sums of money in food, medication, and ammunition—all in order to wage war on a third world regime that threatens to take control of crude oil reserves…” He paused, looking around the room, then went on, “How is it possible that these two governments can mount a huge international diplomatic offensive, putting pressure on every nation on Earth to support that military offensive, all within the space of a few months… then go ahead with that military offensive in spite of the lack of international support—and yet, after thirty years they are incapable of coming up with one single initiative that works to confront climate change? How is it possible?”
He thrust his hands in his pockets, stared down at his feet, and took three slow steps toward the center of the stage then. Then he turned and walked back again. He was like a stand up comic and some people in the audience had started to laugh. He came back to the lectern and leaned on it. He was laughing himself.
“In three months, they lobbied the United Nation, the Security Council, and every major government on Earth. From the President,” he gestured over at Hennessy, “and the Vice President, down to the lowliest White House aide, they were all engaged in a frenzied, single-minded campaign to make that war work. In the U.K. it was a similar, unedifying spectacle at Number Ten, with the Prime Minister and his cabinet falling over themselves, each other, and their various illicit affairs, to find money and influence to wage that war. The cost of that war to the U.S. is close to seven trillion dollars. Just to the U.S. alone.” He held up his hand and laughed. “But wait! I haven’t come to the punch line yet! Seven trillion dollars of borrowed money! Because that war was fought with borrowed money!” He paused, staring at the audience. “Now here’s a question for you. Don’t worry, it’s a simple one. You’ll know the answer.�
� He laughed again. “I guarantee it. Who benefits when you borrow money?” He looked around, like he was waiting for an answer in a classroom. “Anyone? Who benefits when you borrow money?” He stopped, nodding. “Yes, that’s right, the banks. Specifically, the banks that lent you the money.” He grinned. “Duh! So, I wonder, I wonder, I wonder, who were the banks that supplied the money for the war in question? Well, you’ll have to wait till Friday for the names, though I do invite you to go and do some research for yourselves in the meantime. You might start by perusing the Federal Reserve. You might find that very enlightening.
“Meanwhile, getting back to the subject of tonight’s debate, my point is that here is a government, here is a president, who is not just willing, but able, to spend some seven trillion dollars for the purpose of waging war in order to protect oil interests. And yet, in thirty years, has been unable and unwilling to start a single, serious initiative, either as president of the U.S. or president of his foundation, to deal with climate change and overpopulation. Why?
“Is it because climate change is not real? You have heard all the lobbyists crying out that climate change is a left wing conspiracy. But where were all these sleuths when the CIA and MI5 found all those weapons of mass destruction, that weren’t there? No, climate change is real. The reason for their inaction is a different one.
“Let me tell you, the only possible explanation for the lack of motivation in tackling climate change and overpopulation, is that these people have a vested interest in allowing it to run its course. What kind of vested interest? A very simple one, a financial one. And the reason I have challenged former President Dick Hennessy to this debate today is because he, his wife, and his foundation are central to the conspiracy by which they and others will profit from this catastrophic change.”
There was a collective gasp. Gibbons grinned. “You don’t believe me? I shall give you facts and figures and name names on Friday—I promise you we will deliver documentary proof. But for now, let me just return to the interesting question of the government’s borrowing for the war. Exactly whom they borrowed the money from is very hard to establish, because it is hidden under a paper trail that would drive most accountants to suicide. But we are diligent and we worked our way through it, so let me sum it up for you. The government borrowed one point five billion dollars to fund the war, indirectly, through pension funds and similar, from a number of banks, both national and foreign…” He paused, stared at the audience, and then glared at Hennessy. Then he bellowed in a huge voice, “Every single one of whom is either owned by Hennessy Investments or have directors sitting on the board of the Hennessy Foundation!”
There was total silence in the room. I saw Hennessy lean over and speak to somebody in the shadows. Then Gibbons was bellowing again.
“And the seven trillion balance is profit! Interest! Interest paid to Hennessy and his cohorts through the Hennessy Foundation! Interest sucked from the blood of fallen soldiers!” His face was flushed and you could see he was barely controlling his rage, but when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “If the necessary steps were taken to address climate change and world overpopulation, the Hennessy Foundation and the criminals who associate with them—you can find most of them in Forbes—would lose trillions, trillions, of dollars, and all their global influence. Their plan, which is infinitely more profitable, is to allow climate change to run its course, allow catastrophic change to happen, and when it does, make sure they are in the dominant position of top dog so that they can profit from it. And they plan to do this through an organization….”
There was a stir and a gasp in the audience. Gibbons faltered and stared. I turned and looked. There was a scuffle at the back of the room. Somebody shouted, “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”
A woman screamed. I saw the guy shouting. He looked Middle Eastern. A couple of security guards were wrestling with him, but half a dozen other guys joined him and a fight broke out. There was more shouting of, “Allahu akbar!” and a voice screamed, “He has a gun!” Then pandemonium broke out. People were scrambling and running in all directions. I looked back at the stage. Gibbons was scowling at Hennessy. Hennessy was smiling back. He shrugged and left the stage.
I sat and waited for the chaos to subside. I saw Gibbons turn and walk off the stage in the opposite direction. It had been a good attempt. I was impressed by the way he spoke. It showed another side of the man, he was intelligent, charismatic and powerful. But it had been naïve. Omega were dirty fighters. They always had been and always would be. To expect to outsmart them like this was unrealistic. What he had managed to do was to damage his own reputation. He would appear in the press the next day as a deranged crank and the establishment media would have a feeding frenzy picking over his bones.
Eventually, a security guard came down and asked me to vacate the room. I followed the throng up to the first floor and into the night. There I pushed my way through the crowd and made it to First Avenue, where the people dispersed some, and I walked down to 41st, where I had left my car. I had opened the door and was about to climb in when I saw a large, black limo emerge up the ramp from the UN parking garage. As it cruised past, I saw that it had the Awad royal family crest on it. I climbed into the Zombie and followed at a discreet distance.
I wasn’t very surprised to see them take West 42nd as far as Madison Avenue, and then turn north. I followed them as far as East 79th. There I parked on the corner and watched them pull up in front of Prince Mohamed’s house, where we’d had the party the night before. I watched as an Arab in his fifties, in an elegant suit, climbed out of the limo, closely followed by Ben and Dick Hennessy. They walked into the house and I drove away.
As I drove I could feel hot excitement in my belly. I couldn’t see it clearly yet, but I knew the connections were there as surely as I knew that I was breathing. I needed to get Marni out of that conference. I needed to get her to safety, and I had to do it within the next couple of days or it would be too late.
I dialed Gibbons’ number. It rang for thirty seconds, then stopped, and a voice told me it was either switched off or out of range. That left me just one option. I needed to go back to Echo Bay and take Marni by force. I didn’t want to hurt Gibbons, but if he stood in the way, I would have to. One thing was real clear to me right then. The opponents we were up against—the problem we were up against—was vaster than even I had imagined. Whatever Gibbons and Marni intended to do, they were headed for disaster and Gibbons was refusing to see it.
I decided to go home and work out how I would take Marni, which I would execute that night. If I was lucky, Gibbons would stay in Brooklyn and Marni would be alone. I pulled my tracking device from the glove compartment and switched it on. The cell I’d dropped into Gibbons’ pocket was still active and it showed him heading south toward Brooklyn Bridge. I smiled to myself. At least that was in my favor.
I left the car in the parking garage and rode the elevator to my penthouse. I went through my usual routine but the apartment was clear, so I cracked a beer and switched on the laptop. I selected the audio file for the bug at Amethyst Street and while I listened to the meaningless noises of people opening and closing cutlery drawers, coughing, spitting, and mumbling, I opened Google Earth and found Marni’s safe house.
It didn’t help much. The focus was poor and there was little detail. If I postponed the operation by a day, my best bet was an inflatable dingy. I could purchase that in the morning, but if I went that night I would have to swim, so I should take a change of clothes in a plastic bag. The advantage of going that night was that I would not have to deal with Gibbons.
I decided that that advantage outweighed the inconvenience of getting wet. Power and phone cables to the house were probably underground, so there was no chance of cutting them. My best plan, then, was to go in late, after she had gone to bed, find the fuse box, and disable the phones and the wifi. I would use my night-vision goggles and find her room. An unknown quantity was the staff. I had no idea how many there were or i
f they were live-in or went home at night. I would have to get there early and watch to see who arrived, who left, and how many upstairs lights went on and off after bedtime.
It wouldn’t be hard. It would be a straightforward in-and-out operation.
That was when a new voice on the audio file made me stop and listen. There was a lot of effusive greeting and praising of Allah. Then, a strong, clear voice asked them all to sit down and listen, because he had important news.
“Today, my brothers, I can identify for you your target. You will strike at the United Nations. This will be even bigger than nine-eleven!”
There were whoops and laughter that were pathetically reminiscent of excited schoolboys. Then a voice I knew to be the Pakistani kid asked, “Abdul, Allah be praised, how will we get the bomb into the building? The security is very tight! It will not be easy!”
“Don’t worry about that, Ali, that is not your concern. Trust me, that has been taken care of. I have the components here for you. You will each carry a separate part. Ali, you will carry the C4. Hassan, you will carry the detonator, Aatifa, you will carry the agent. You will arrive separately on Friday, at eleven o’clock, eleven fifteen, and eleven thirty. You will not be detected at security. Forget about that.” Then again, more emphatically, “Forget about that! You go down to the basement at exactly eleven thirty-five and you meet in the gentlemen’s toilets between the Public Counter and the coffee shop. There you assemble the device exactly as you have practiced it. Then you take it up to the second floor, to the General Assembly Hall. Any questions so far?”
There was a general, negative murmuring.
“OK, you will be provided with passes for Professor Gibbons and Doctor Marni Gilbert’s talk. It will begin at twelve noon. You will detonate the device as the talk begins. Your deaths will be the most glorious of heroic acts in the eyes of Allah.”