by Brandt Legg
“I know the history of the Illuminati,” Hudson said, sipping tea and ignoring the soda. “It didn’t take long for some of those ‘enlightened’ few to use their knowledge and position to accumulate wealth and power for themselves, to start manipulating the masses as their own pawns. Power corrupts, and the REMies have carried on that tradition quite impressively.”
“Many of them, yes,” the chief of staff said. “But Vonner wants to bring democracy and peace to the world, no matter what cost. He thinks it can happen.”
“Even if it means using the military?”
“Short term pain, long term gains,” Fitz replied. “He’s fighting the others. You know about the CapWars?”
“I do.”
Fitz nodded, as if sizing up Hudson anew, maybe even impressed with how far the hardware store owner had come. “The war with China is going to happen. You can’t stop it, but it won’t be World War III. The REMies don’t want to destroy the planet. Not only will it ensure America as the center of power for another century, but it’ll give Vonner and his allies the advantage in this final CapWar.”
“Vonner is just another snake in the swamp,” Hudson snapped.
“If that’s true,” Fitz said in a severe tone, “then you’ve got bigger problems than you think.”
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The Wizard had been trying to reach Hudson all day, but it was after midnight before the two men finally connected. The president made the call from his private study, the small room that adjoined the Oval Office. The matrix took longer than usual to clear. His old friend appeared, and Hudson was struck by his drawn and weary face. It was the first time he could remember the Wizard without his long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. His splayed hair made him look even more disheveled.
“Dawg, Crane made a big breakthrough. I mean, I don’t have it all yet, because it looks like he was sending it to me when whoever killed him . . . they may not know I have it. I mean, that he got any of it out . . . ” The Wizard was rambling, his eyes darting around. “But he did. He hid it on the DarkNet.”
“Can’t they get it?”
“No, Crane was too smart. He used a freeze grid and sent me the key encrypted with just a few other details, but it’s big stuff. It’s hard to explain how to use it, but it’s not like a key where I can just punch in a series of numbers and unlock all his data. It’s more like scanning trillions of bits out there until we get a match and then we rebuild it one step at a time. Slow, but reliable. It’ll probably take a week. But he got me enough to know—” The Wizard looked over his shoulder. “He gave me three NorthBridge names. Crane identified AKA Washington, AKA Jefferson, and AKA Hancock, with more to follow.”
“Tell me,” Hudson said, knowing the information could potentially save thousands of lives, and his presidency.
“AKA Washington is Booker Lipton.”
Hudson let out an audible gasp. “You're telling me that Booker Lipton tried to have me killed? Multiple times? Back in Colorado, on the campaign trail, that was NorthBridge. They took responsibility for that and the stadium attack! And who knows what else. That bastard burned my house down!” Hudson realized his fists were clenched. He went on a rapid power-trip, imagining sending the FBI, the marines, a CIA assassin to kill Booker. “I told you, Wizard, there’s no such thing as a good REMie!”
“I just can’t believe it. I know the man. It doesn’t fit, but Crane was sure.”
“I believe it!” Hudson said. “And Booker probably had Crane killed to stop us from finding out. Maybe even had the tire shop torched. If Gouge dies—”
“Now wait, we don’t know that Booker had anything to do with the tire shop, that could—”
“Are you defending . . . ” Hudson stood up and yelled into the monitor. “Don’t you dare defend Booker to me!”
“I’m just saying we don’t know everything. NorthBridge may not have been behind those attacks.”
“You’re defending terrorists now? They claimed responsibility!”
“Maybe they didn’t. You know how things can be faked. We should give Booker a chance to explain—”
“Oh, I will,” Hudson said. “I’ll track him down and see what he has to say for himself. But one thing you always seem to forget about Booker is he’s a REMie.”
“So is Vonner.”
“Thank you, you’ve just won my argument,” Hudson said, but he was already thinking about Linh. She was never far from his mind, ever since he’d first met her at an early fundraiser during the election. She possessed both youth and wisdom, power and charity, amazing insight and a contemplative presence that Hudson found addictive. Booker was the chief backer for the Inner Movement she led. Could she be involved in NorthBridge? Was the Inner Movement just another front? He’d heard that the IM had had a radical side known as Inner Force during its early years—perhaps that was another arm of NorthBridge.
The questions battered him. It was impossible to believe such a woman could be a terrorist.
The two men debated Booker and discussed Linh for a few more minutes, neither able to reconcile the facts with their own experiences. But when the Wizard finally told him who the other two AKAs Crane had uncovered were, Hudson lost all his remaining fight.
After little more than four hours sleep, the President was back at his desk. His secretary handed him a cup of hot tea. “Your favorite,” she said with a smile, and told him she’d managed to reach Booker Lipton.
Hudson picked up the phone. “Good morning, Booker. Or do you prefer AKA Washington?”
“Hudson, I always knew you were worth the trouble. Congratulations.”
“You aren’t even going to try to deny it?” Hudson said, wondering if he should disable the SonicBlock so the call could be recorded. “What arrogance.”
Booker had his own scrambler making it safe for him to speak. “This is a complicated time.”
“I’ve noticed,” Hudson said. “I’m deep in it. But is that the best you’ve got? Why don’t you tell me about Colorado, or the stadium?”
“Colorado was a surgical strike to take out Fitz and rogue Secret Service agents, but it went wrong and got out of hand. Revolutions are a risky business.”
“Fitz?”
“He’s a Vonner plant, as you must have known. Tells everything to the codger.” Hudson had assumed, but it went back to the old question—was Vonner good, or bad?
“And the stadium?”
“NorthBridge,” Booker said, “but there were circumstances which must be taken—”
“Liar.” Hudson couldn’t believe this conversation. “Are you trying to rationalize attempting to assassinate a presidential candidate?”
“Careful, Hudson. Don’t let your emotions get in the way of your intellect,” Booker said very calmly, yet emphatically. “You’re smarter than this. Get the facts.”
“You expect me to trust you to give me the truth?”
“Yes.”
“You were trying to kill me?”
“No.”
“But you just said those attacks, on my life, were from NorthBridge. And you’re part of NorthBridge.”
“Yes.”
“It can't be both ways. Knowing this, do you really expect me to believe anything you say?”
“Yes.”
Hudson was silent.
“I understand that since the Air Force One attack, you meditate,” Booker said. “You really should meditate on this, Hudson.”
A sick feeling suddenly hit the president. “Was Air Force One you, too?’
“No, that was David Covington.”
Hudson sucked in a breath. The shocking accusation made perfect sense, but he didn’t believe it because everyone knew Covington couldn’t stand him. “You’re trying to deflect.”
“Covington has a covert military unit at his disposal—”
“Covington is gone.”
“Not really,” Booker said.
“Do you have proof it was him?”
“I have satellite photos
showing the unit’s movements. If you’d like, I can even provide audio transcripts of Covington discussing it, but they’re not for public consumption. Just between you and me.”
“Why not give it to the FBI?” Hudson asked, imagining Covington being arrested, the trial, prison forever.
“My companies are the largest suppliers of surveillance equipment to the federal government, from satellites to servers.”
“You can’t be trusted.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Wait, did you know about the Air Force One attack before it happened?”
“Yes.”
“Incredible! And you . . . Why did you let it happen?”
“I had reasons which I’d be happy to share with you, but this is not the time,” Booker said. “That is a conversation we must have in person.”
“You think there’s a reason good enough to risk my life?” the president asked incredulously. “Go to hell, Booker!”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Covington worked the room, knowing just whom to speak to and whom to ignore. The upper echelons of Washington power and New York business elites were in attendance at the party, hosted by the Swiss ambassador. He saw several REMies, but didn’t think he should speak with them in public. There were plenty of people to schmooze, and Covington thrived at such events. He could talk art as easily as stocks, geopolitical issues as comfortably as wine, sports, technology, even philosophy if need be. He had years of experience navigating between politicians and REMies. He knew influential people. He traded in their wares.
However, this time the situation was a bit different. He’d made an enemy of the president, and although the president was subservient to the REMies, he was still a celebrity—the only president of the United States. With that position came prestige, and as a result, Hudson Pound wielded a little more power than one might think, even more than the president himself probably thought he had, because although the REMies had chosen him, owned him, and ran him, as long as he acted within their agenda, Hudson could use that presidential cachet to interesting effect. The REMies gave him a long leash, the bureaucrats were usually star struck, and this made Hudson Pound potentially dangerous.
Covington was there seeking allies. Over the years, he’d done many things to make sure the right people owed him favors, and now it was time to collect. Hudson Pound had to die, and Covington wanted it to be tomorrow. He’d already sent his superior a proposal to have the old hit squad ready, but he doubted it would be acted upon. And if that arrogant REMie decided to remove Pound, it wouldn’t happen as soon as Covington wanted.
He’d put an interesting twist in his proposal: that Covington should be the next president. It made sense that at a time of great unrest and turmoil, both domestically and internationally, when the country had never been more threatened in its entire history, to elect a president with extensive experience in the military and intelligence. The Director of National Intelligence had gained popularity and distinction by being the first one to push back on NorthBridge, and several editorials had already criticized President Pound for firing him.
The REMies liked to give the public new and different conversation topics to keep them distracted and amused. How often through the years had Covington heard REMies quote Juvenal, the Roman poet: “Just give them bread and circuses.” The line referred to the practice of Roman leaders during the declining years of the empire, giving the citizens free grain and putting on elaborate circus games to keep the populace fat, happy, and distracted. The REMies had long ago adopted the process with the modern equivalents being fast food, TV shows, sporting events, and Walmart.
Covington had just spoken to the ambassador from Russia. Before that, it had been a British Parliamentary official. The public has no idea the amount of international affairs and domestic policy that are determined and decided on the Washington social circuit, Covington thought, smiling broadly as he moved on to a familiar congressman. Minutes later, he spotted the CIA director, a man who had answered to him up until the moment that Pound had fired him. He could count on his support, and wanted a quick face-to-face. However, before he could reach the director, he was intercepted by a lovely woman he did not know.
As he talked to the woman, who had introduced herself as an aide to the president of Greece, he continued to scope the room. Twenty feet away, the FBI director was in a hushed conversation with Colonel Dranick, both Pound loyalists. He’d be sure to avoid them. A contingent from the French government, two of whom owed him favors, was near the CIA director. He needed to excuse himself and keep moving. Yet, as the woman continued to speak, he could not help but be enchanted.
The attractive woman stole his attention, so that for a few moments he actually stopped scanning the room and listened as she spoke, even while thinking about sleeping with her, even though Greece couldn’t offer him much of anything in his current situation. The REMies had all but financially taken over the country a number of years earlier, so there was no real leverage there . . . unless . . .
Perhaps she might want to start a revolution in Greece, a coup. Hmmm . . .
“I wonder,” he began, using his most charming voice, which was quite convincing, “do you have any close connections in the military?” Covington thought of his backup plan: if he couldn’t get the REMies to agree to take out Pound immediately, and establish Covington as the leading candidate to be the next president, then Plan B was to stir up trouble by destabilizing multiple countries around the world simultaneously. But he’d much rather be president.
Momentarily, he became lost in his own thoughts again. The election was only two years away. That would give him a year to declare his candidacy. He was the perfect choice—all his success with NorthBridge, and tough talk about the Chinese, ISIS, Al Qaeda would make him popular. Of course the election would be very close, but he’d win. The REMies liked to keep them close, more drama for the public. Bread and circuses.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Her voice brought him back. “My brother is an advisor to the Hellenic National Defense General Staff.”
“Really?” Covington smiled. “What a coincidence, I have influence with most major governments, but Greece is so insigni . . . er, small. Meeting you is very convenient.” He looked at her figure. “A pleasure, truly.” He put his arm gently around her, and led them to get drinks.
Hopefully he wouldn’t need Plan B. Still, she might be a helpful ally. I really should sleep with her. Covington looked down at her and playfully whispered the only phrase in Greek he knew, “S'agapó.” Her eyes widened and she smiled at hearing “I love you” in her native tongue.
He had the connections and strategic mind to make Plan B happen. He didn’t really need Greece, but it would be an easy target. If this woman had the clout, and he didn't doubt that she did—someone so beautiful, intelligent, and obviously ambitious, in a little country like Greece—she’d probably slept with everybody important. Greece could be fun. She could be fun.
Plan B wouldn’t be that hard to initiate. Of course, it would be done covertly, so that even the REMies wouldn’t know where it was coming from, and they would need him to help restore order.
He raised his eyes to the server, then looked deeply into his prey’s eyes. “What would you like?”
His multi-tasking mind never stopped. Or, if the REMies didn't want order, he could assist in manipulating each crisis to their liking. Covington was a master at that.
But this woman definitely required more attention, preferably in a bed. He had other people to see. He’d arrange to meet her later. Covington handed her a drink. “I need to see someone over there, but I’ll give you my number.” While reaching for a pen, he found a roll of Necco wafers. “Care for one?” he asked.
“Oh my, I haven't seen these for years,” the woman said. “They were my favorite as a girl.”
“You could get them in Greece?”
“Oh, yes, we had a wonderful international candy shop in Athens.”
Covington smile
d. “Which flavor?” She deserved a choice. He wasn't going to force a pink one on her.
“I can’t choose between orange and chocolate,” she said, moving her fingers as if playing the piano.
“I often have the same problem.” Covington knew it was going to be good sex. “Here,” he said, peeling back the wax paper, “have one of each.”
She took them and smiled as if he’d just given her diamonds, then seductively put the orange one on her tongue and savored it as if it were a sexual experience. “I’ll save the chocolate for later.”
There was so much electricity between the two of them that, as he handed her the card with his personal number, he found himself breathing slightly heavily.
“I must go, but I hope we can continue our discussion later.”
“I'd like that.”
He slowly put a chocolate wafer into his mouth, winked at her, and then made his way across the room.
A Japanese banker caught Covington before he made it to the CIA director. He was still thinking about the woman, but when the banker mentioned the pending war with China, Covington managed to put her out of his mind. Ten minutes later, he made it to the French contingency and, after a quick conversation, set up a meeting for the next day. A few eastern European countries later, and a lobbyist from a big defense contractor, he finally reached the CIA director. But Covington suddenly didn’t feel well. He started to perspire, and wasn’t sure his lungs were getting enough air. Each breath grew more labored. He thought he might be slurring his words.
“Are you okay, David?” the CIA director asked.
“What’s happening?” he said, but no one could understand him. “Damn it, drugged.” He collapsed. Several people pulled out phones and called 9-1-1. Someone yelled for a doctor. The CIA director tried to revive him.
David Covington, former Director of National Intelligence, lay dead, surrounded by the upper echelons of Washington power, New York business elites, and several REMies.
The fact that he died so suddenly and publicly meant there would be an autopsy, but as Tarka quietly left the building, she knew the findings would confirm that Covington had died of natural causes. She got into a waiting car driven by another VS agent, carefully took the chocolate wafer out of her pocket, and slipped it into an envelope. “Too many sweets can be a dangerous thing.”