Withthatanticlimacticsummation,withthatridiculouspretensiontobethe harbingerofthefutureemancipationofhumanity,lackingcompletelyinany explanation,whichlandedontheearswithanuncomfortablethud,helookedup fromhisnotesawkwardlyandstaredblankly,waitingforapplause.Afteran uncomfortablemoment,peoplebegantoclap.
“Thisguy’safascist,”Chesterfieldwhisperedtome,aseverybodystoodupand cheered.
“No,he’sananarchist,”Drexellareplied,glaringathim.Sheobviouslyadmired Rosenberg’sphilosophy.
Aftertheapplausedieddown,hecamedownandspoketopeoplefromthe audienceindividually,startingwiththewomanattheextremerightofourrowin thefront.Irecognizedherfromthepreviousnight’snewsreportasDameMarcia
Martina,theLordMayoroftheCity.Theirwarmhandshake,whichmorphed intoahug,indeedindicatedthattheywere“quitechummy.”
Rosenbergmadehiswaydowntherow,andsoonfoundhiswaytoDrexella, whomheuncomfortablyallowedtohughim.Istoodstaringatthem,wondering howtheykneweachother,andwonderingwhatIwouldsaytohimwhenIgot thechancetotouchhissweatypalm.ButIdidn’thavetoworryaboutthat.The problemsolveditself.
Inastunningturnofevents,Rosenberg,whohadnotlookedinmydirectionthis entiretime,letalonemadeeyecontact,allofthesuddenturnedtowardsmeand staredmeinthefacedirectlyanddeliberately.Hehadamischievousexpression: asmallamountofnervousnessmixedwithalargeamountofexcitement.
“Drexella,howdoyouknowPamelaAuger?”hesaid.“Youneverceaseto surprisemewithyourinterestingpersonalconnections.Aren’tyougoingto introduceme?”
Heheldoutahandforshaking.Igrabbeditforasingleshakeandthenletgo, staringatthembothconfusedly,panicking,butstilltryingtosmile.
IliedtoDrexellaaboutmyname.HowdidRosenbergknowit? Ithought.
“IhaveyourbookabouttheTemplaridol,andyourtranslationoftheHammer-Purgstalltext,”hesaid.“Itwasamazinghowyoufoundthoseartifactsrighthere inLondon,inthemuseum.”
Icouldn’tbelieveit.Thesixthmostwealthymanintheworldwasreadingmy self‐publishedbooks.ForamomentIwasflattered.ThenIthoughtmoreabout theimplicationsofwhathehadsaid.
CantherebeanydoubtthateverythingI’veexperiencedsinceIarrivedhere has beenconnectedsinceacceptingLeopold’sbizarreinvitation?The disappearance oftheMetecofferfromthemuseum.Mykidnapping.The undergroundbull sacrifice.TheforcedliverdivinationatStratfordHouse.The videoofcastration andchildrapesenttoMI5.Themurderoftheagency’s director.Drexella alertingustotheopeningofthe mithraeum .AndRosenberg readingmybook.
IlookedtoChesterfieldforhelp,buthewasjuststaringatRosenberginshock.
“Howaboutmeetingmeandsomefriendsforadinnerpartywe’rehaving tonight?It’sjustnextdoor.Youcanautographmybooks!Iactuallyhavethem sittinginmyofficehere.I’llbringthemtonight.”
Foramoment,IletmyselfconsiderthatmaybeIwasbeingparanoidtosuspect himofnefariousdeeds.Afterall,itwasLeopold/Thomaswhowasundeniably guilty.TheevidenceagainstRosenbergwasstilltechnicallycircumstantial.
Maybe, Ithought, thistripwillfinallyopenthingsupformycareer,justlike I’d hopeditwould.
ButIshookoffmyegoresponseandlistenedtomyfear.
You’regoingtogetrapedandkilled,andnobodywilleverknowwhat happened toyou,Ithoughtmoresensibly.
“AslongasIcanbringmyfriend,sure!”Isaid,grabbingChesterfield’shand.
“Ofcourse!”heresponded.“Who’sthis?”
Thequestionwasdirectedatme,obviouslypromptingmetointroducehim.But Drexellabuttedin.
“That’sAgentChesterfieldfromMI5,”shesaid.“He’sacutie,itn’t‘e?”She winkedathim.Herecoiledbuttriedtohideit.Rosenbergsmiledinamusement.
“I’mverysorrytohearaboutCômePindar.Ihopeyoucatchtheguy,”hesaid.
Thenheturnedtome.
“It’sadatethen.I’llseeyouat5o’clock.JustgototheNewCourtbuildingat St.Swithin’sLane,rightbehindtheSt.StephenChurch.It’sjustoffWalbrook, rightbehindus.Giveyournametothefrontdeskwhenyougetthere.”
“You’restillcomingtothePing‐PongTournament,aren’tyou?”Drexellaasked him.
“Oh,youknowit,”heansweredenthusiastically.“I’mbringingfriends!”And withthat,hemovedontoshakemorehands.
Chapter20:EquinoxoftheGods
Hail!yetwinwarriorsaboutthepillarsoftheworld!foryourtimeisnighat hand.
…mylefthandisempty,forIhavecrushedanUniverse;
&noughtremains .
—AleisterCrowley, TheBookoftheLawKnowingthatweabsolutelycouldnot consumeanyofthefoodatRosenberg’sparty,ChesterfieldandIoptedforapub lunchattheGreenMan,rightacrossQueenVictoriaStreet.Itwasinsideof anotherofficebuildingthathadaremarkabletriangularcourtyardbuiltinthe centerofit.Weenjoyedfishandchipswhilewetriedtocometogripswithall thathadjusthappened.
“Doesn’titseemstrangethatRosenberg’shavinghispartyinanotheroffice building?”Iasked.“Whynothisown?Surelyhehasspacetoentertainguests.”
“It’sprobablyhisfriendtheLordMayorwhoisthrowingthepartyforhim,”
Chesterfieldsaid.
“Whydoyousaythat?”Iasked“Wouldn’tthepartybeatMansionHousethen?”
“Shehardlyspendsmuchtimethere,”saidChesterfield.“She’susuallyatNew CourtfromwhatI’veheard.Andit’shardtobeattheSkyBoxatNewCourtfor entertainingbillionaires.Itwasbuiltforthat.Ithasthebestviewinthearea.”
Istaredathim,waitingforafullerexplanation,sinceIobviouslydidn’tknow whathewastalkingabout.Finally,hecontinued.
“NewCourtisthesiteoftheRothschildempireinLondon.They’velivedand runtheirbusinessfromthatverysitesincethe1800s.Theyusedtofixtheprice ofgold thereeveryday,beforetheBullionAssociationstarteddoingitnextdoor.
AndMarciaMartinaisaRothschildheiress.Shemarriedintothefamily.Herson CrispinworksforRosenbergashisright‐handman.”
“Isee,”Isaid,whippingmylaptopoutofmybagandsettingitupatthetable.
“Whatareyoulookingup?”askedChesterfield.
“I’mgoingtolookatthesiteonGoogleMapsagain.”Idialeditupandstaredat theSupermanlogo‐shapedplotofland,withtheNewCourtbuilding,labeled simply“Rothschilds,”justeastofit.
“IwonderwhyParisisn’tansweringhisphone,”saidChesterfield,whohadjust triedtocallhim.“Surelyheisn’tstillgettinggrilledbyMissEquitone.MaybeI shouldcheckonhimafterall.Maybeit’ssafe.”
Allofthesuddentherewasadramaticchangeintheatmosphereoftheroom.
Themusicwasswitchedoff.TheTV,whichhadbeentunedtoRosenberg’s financialnewsnetworkwiththesoundmuted,wassimultaneouslyturnedup.
Severalpeoplemovedtostandclosertothetelevision.Apparently,itwasavery baddayonthestockmarketsofar.Thenewsshowedpeopleonthefloorsofthe NewYorkStockExchange,theLondonStockExchange,andtheEuronext exchangeinAmsterdamrunningaroundinapanic.
“What’sgoingon?”Iasked.
“FrancelefttheEurozone,”saidthemantomyleft.“AndthePresidentsays they’regoingtodefaultontheirdebt.TheEuro’scollapsing.”
AswestoodtheirwatchingtheEuropeanprojectfallapart,ascreamwasheard fromthebackofthepub.Itwasawomanseatednearthewindow.Amanhad justjumpedfromabalconyontothepavementbelow,deliberately,shesaid.
Helaidfacedownonthegroundofthebuilding’scentralcourtyardwithapool ofbloodaroundhim.
Justthen,ChesterfieldreceivedatextfromParis.Heshowedmewhatitsaid.
Don’tcomeintotheoffice.Anddon’tcall.
“Well,Iguessit’snotsafeafterall,”hesaid.“Andhesankintoananxious quietude,tappinghisfeetcompulsivelywithhishandstuckedcrosswaysunder hisarmpits.Iknewwhathewasthinking.Hewasworriedabouthiscountry.
Andhispartner.Andhiscat.
Sowithnoparticularplacetogountil5pm,wesattherewatchingtheworld’s economycollapseonRosenbergTV,drinkingShirleyTempleswhilethe
businessmenaroundusfreakedoutanddrankthemselvessilly.Wewatchedthe paramedicscomeandscrapeupthedeadguyonthepavementwhileanews crewfilmedit.Wesawthenewsreportonthisandseveralothersuicidesrelated tothemarketcrash.
Manyofthepeopleinthebarweretornbetweenfearoftheunknownfutureand excitement,evenglee,atwatchingapoliticalentitytheydespisedfinallykick thebucket.Someweremorose,havingobviouslylosttheirinvestments.Some knewtheywouldbelosingtheirjobssoonbecauseofthis.Allwerenervous, rightly,aboutpricevolatility.Theyknewthatthechainreactionaroundthe worldwouldbecausingallsortsofcatastrophicissuesasinvestorsfreakedout aboutthelikelihoodofacurrencycrisisinEuropeandtheuncertaintyoftrade agreements.
SomeofthepunditsonTVweresmirkingwrylyatrumorstrendingonTwitter allegingthattheeventswerecausedbyacursethatthemarketshadbrought uponthemselves.Forthefirsttimeever,GoodFridayand“EasterMonday”had beenremovedfromthelistofnationalbankholidaysintheUSA,theUK,and theEU—adecisionmadebyinternationalagreementthepreviousyearbasedon theprojectedsavingsofopportunitycostsinvolvedinallowingafour‐day weekend.Theydiditsothateverybodycouldmakemoremoney—
because,hey,moremoney! Instead,manyCatholicsandAnglicansagreed,that decisionmayhavecosttheWestagreatdeal,perhapseven,somesuggested,the burstingoftheentiredecades‐olddebtbubblethatsupporteditsfloundering economy.
“Butthisisallnonsensebasedonurbanlegends,”ArtCashinsaidinalive interviewonRosenbergTV.“PeoplesaythattheBlackFridaygoldcrashin 1869
wasonGoodFriday,butitwasactuallySeptember24th.ThelasttimetheNew YorkStockExchangewasopenonGoodFridaywasMarch29,1907,andthe marketwasupwhenitclosedattheendoftheday.”
“Butthatwasthepeakofthemarketthatyear,”counteredSeamusMolony,a journalistwithanIrishaccentalsobeinginterviewedinthesamesegment.“It wentdownafterthat.“AndtheIrishCatholictradersalllamentedtothemen runningtheexchange:‘WetoldyounottoopenonGoodFriday.’That’s
recordedatthetime.”
Nobodyknewwhattomakeofthissuperstition.Theonlythingthatwasforsure wasthatnobodyhadanyfaithinanything:notthegovernment,theQueen,orthe banks.Certainlynot“thePeople”—thatis,thelazymob.Andnot,mostuseless ofall,theChurchorGod.WhenthePopereleasedastatementagainst
“globalpanic,”blamedtheEurozonebreakupon“xenophobia,”andlecturedthe
“rich”oftheworldnottobe“greedy”duringtheunfoldingcrisis,peoplestarted throwingfoodattheTVamidloudjeering.
Ofcourse,alotofthesepeoplewerealsoontheircellphones,callingbrokers andtellingthemtomovemoneyaround.Goldandsilverwerenaturalfallbacks, buttheseweregettingridiculouslymoreexpensivebytheminute.Or,asthe pessimistwouldseeit,currencieswerebecomingmoreworthlessrelativeto metalbytheminute.ThenewsaboutFrancehadcomejustminutesbeforethe priceofgoldwas“fixed”bytheLondonBullionMarketat3PM,soitwasset bythebankerswiththebenefitofthatknowledge.TheFTSEclosed20%down fortheday,thebiggestone‐daylossever,almostdoublethepreviousrecord,and gotshutdown30minutesearlyat4PM.
Chesterfield’sonlycommentwastopointoutthatDirectorPindar’shead mountedonTempleBarwasdirectlyfacingtheLondonStockExchange buildingrightacrossPaternosterSquare.Itoldhimitremindedmeofa“nithing pole,”theNorseformofcursinganenemybypointingtheseveredheadofa horseathishouse,mountedonastick.Thentheconnectionwiththeimageryof bullsacrifice—specificallythebloodbaptismsofCybele’s tauroboliumrite—
waspointedouttousbytheheadlinesusedonRosenbergTVtointroducethe latestreportsontheglobalstockmarketcollapse:BLOODBATHONWALL
STREET
and:
BADFRIDAY:EUROPASLAYSTHEBULL
“Howironic,”IsaidtoChesterfield.“EuropawasrapedbyZeusintheformofa bull,aneventthatwascommemoratedonEurocoins.Nowthecontinentnamed afterherhaskilledthebullmarket.
“IwonderedhowRosenbergisreactingtothenews,”hesaid.
“There’sonlyonewaytofindout,”Isaid.
At4:45,wefinallyleftthebarandwalkedovertoNewCourt,tokeepour appointment.Littledidweknowatthetimethatifwe’dstayedanotherfive minutes,wewouldhaveheardMr.Rosenberg’spubliccommentsonthemarket breakdown,ashewasbeinginterviewedliveonhisownnetworkfromhisown officethereinLondonwhilewewereonourwaytomeethimattheRothschild compoundnextdoor.
WecrossedQueenVictoriaStreet,thenpassedRosenbergPlazaonthenorth side.WewentdownBucklersburyandacrossWalbrook,thenthroughanarrow alleyin‐betweenMansionHouseandSt.Stephen’s,abeautifulChristopher Wren‐designedchurchalmostcompletelyobscuredonallsidesbytalloffice buildings.Iwantedtogoinandcheckitoutforaminute.Butthefrontdoorwas locked,andtherewasasignpostedsayingitwasclosedforrepairs.Sowetook onemoreleftaroundonemorebuilding,andthenwewerethere,standingin frontoftheplacewheretheRothschildfamilyhadbeenrunningtheirglobal financeempireforovertwocenturies.
Weopenedthefrontdoorandwalkedintothereceptionarea,whichwasa gigantic,virtuallyemptyspacewithaceilingoddlyidenticaltothefloor,looking likeblondwoodpaneling.Wefoundtheelevators,buttheywerelocked.Behind us,someoneclearedhisthroat.ItwasaHawaiian‐lookingmanwithbroad shoulders,dressedinadarksuit,withawhitecorddanglingfromhisleftear.He wasstandingatthesecuritydesk.Wewalkeduptohim.
“Hi,I’mPamelaAuger,”Isaid.“Andthisis—”
“AgentChesterfield,Iknow,”hesaid,interruptingme.Heshowedusatouch-screentablethewascarrying,withpicturesofusboth,aswellasseveralothers.
IrecognizedmineasmyFacebookprofilepicture.TheoneofChesterfield matchedtheoneonhisSecurityServicebadge.Iwonderedhowtheygotit.
Chesterfieldlookedalarmed.Themanmotionedforustoautographasign‐in sheetonhisdesk.
“Letmehelpyouwiththeelevator,”theguardsaid.Heusedacardcarriedina lanyardaroundhisnecktounlocktheelevator,thenpunchedthefloor
number,whichIdon’trecall.Whenthedoorsopened,hesteppedinwithus,and rodeallthewayup.
Whenthedoorsopenedagain,wefoundourselvesinyetanothervastempty room.Therewasalmostnothinginitexceptonelongwoodentable,positioneda fewfeetawayfromthefarwall,atwhichseveralpeoplewerealreadyseated.
OneofthemwasRosenberg.HewastalkingtoMarciaMartina.
Mostremarkableofallwerethewallsaroundus.Theywereincrediblytall,all glass,withamagnificentviewofthecityonallsidesofus.Itwaslikebeingon topofMountOlympus.Indeed,I’mcertainthat’swhatitwasdesignedtofeel like.ThesidethatthetablewasplacedonlookedoutovertheroofofRosenberg Plaza,which,atonlytenstoriestall,wasquiteawaysbeneathus.Thesetting sunreflectedoffthesunroofwithareddishpinkglow.
Thismustbethe‘SkyBox’Chesterfieldmentioned,Ithoughttomyself.
Chesterfieldmadehisarmintoabow,intowhichIinsertedmyown,andthenhe ledmeovertowhereRosenbergwasseated.Weallsaid“Hello”aga
in,andthen heintroducedustotheLordMayor.ToherrightwasCrispinMartina,herson andthechiefoperatingofficerforRosenbergInc.UK.Blue‐eyed,blond-haired, comelyandectomorphic,wearingafinely‐tailoredsuitthecolorofEgyptian blue,heresembledatwinkfromthecoverofamen’sfashionmagazine.
Hecouldn’thavepossiblybeenmorethan22yearsoldfromthelooksofhim.
That’squiteanimpressivepositionforsomeonesoyoung,Ithought.Ihavesince learnedthathewasthe youngest persontoeveryholdsuchatitleinamajor corporation.
OntheothersideofthetablewasMarkWetzel,thenewEditorofthe Financial Times.Hewaswhiteandchubbywiththinninggrayhairandapinstripedsuit.
Helookedtobeabout60.Finally,toRosenberg’sleftwasahomely‐looking twelve‐year‐oldgirl,wearingwhiteculottesandawhitepoloshirt,withher permedhairinaponytail,andshehadbracesonherteeth.Rosenberg introducedherasPhilippine,hisdaughter.
“Ohyes,”IsaidasItookherhand.“I’veheardaboutyoursteeplechases.”
Shelookedveryshyanduncomfortable,whichwashowIfeltinaroomfullof
financialelites,soIthoughtthatbreakingtheicewithherfirstwouldbeeasiest.
Sheblushedandturnedhergazeawayfromme,smilinglimplyatnothing.
TheLordMayorgrabbedmebythearmandwhispered.
“Don’tgetherstarted.Theonlythingthatempty‐headedgirlevertalksaboutis horses.”
WesatdownnexttoWetzel.Ayoungdark‐hairedwhitemaleinablacktuxedo cameandpoureduschampagnefromabottlethatprobablycostmorethanIhad madeintheprevioustaxyear.EverybodyexceptforPhilippinelookedlikethey werealreadysomewhatdrunk.
“Blakealreadytoldusalittlebitaboutyouguys,particularlyyou,MissAuger,”
saidWetzel.“Soundslikeyou’vedonesomeinterestingwork.”Ismiled.
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