Room 1515

by Bill Wetterman

  “If Edmunds were in power,” she continued. “U.S. troops would be placed under U.N. command. He’d back us on the Stromiehre plan. But he didn’t oppose Monroe’s run for a second term. Monroe could win re-election, even as unpopular as he is, with this third party, the I.C.P., surfacing from the conservative ranks.”

  “I have a meeting in New York next week, Madam,” Throgmorton said. “Arthur Pendleton will assemble a report on Monroe’s chances of winning. We’ll review the situation with our leadership.”

  Throgmorton totally missed the point. The election was five months away. As head of the most powerful financial organization in the world, he had more to lose financially than she did. “If Charles Monroe becomes president again, his economic plan will throw the world into turmoil.”

  “I said I’ll look into it.” His voice grated out a sarcastic, “Cheerio.”

  “Sir, I’m not finished.”

  She needed the W.F.C., but she didn’t have to put up with insolence. If Edmunds wasn’t elected president, she’d have to sell the plan for U.S. troops under U.N. command all over again. America’s military must be on her side. If, God help her, Europe confronted Iran. The situation might escalate into war.

  “I want you to eliminate Monroe! You have MI6’s resources.”

  Throgmorton said nothing.

  Claymore refused to speak.

  “I’ll have Arthur research all possibilities. He’ll enlighten us in New York.”

  “See that you do.”

  Claymore set the phone down in its cradle and eased her aching hip onto her leather armchair cushion. “I’m surrounded by incompetence.”

  She was tired of talking with Throgmorton. Having worked thirty years to rise to power, she didn’t have to put up with the likes of him. Arthur Pendleton was a smart chap. She could reason with him. Pendleton should be heading the W.F.C. and she could work to make that happen.

  She flushed ever so slightly. One day she’d stick a prong into Throgmorton’s ego and deflate her old nemesis.

  “I’ll call Pendleton myself.”

  #

  Arthur Pendleton greeted the financial dignitaries as they arrived for their New York meeting. The conference room on the 63rd floor of the new Global Communications Center was more opulent than the London Headquarters. Soft beams of light reflected off mahogany paneled walls. Seven multi-billionaires attended in person. They took their places around a table shaped like a quarter-moon. Several other members connected in by videoconference from points around the globe. London, Paris, Zurich, Tokyo, Munich, and Sydney were all represented by a member of the W.F.C.

  These financiers owed their allegiance to the European Union and its ally, Japan. They accumulated wealth, loaned money, and aided governments worldwide. Their agenda for this meeting was simple: determine their stance regarding the presidential election in the United States.

  Eric Throgmorton, the W.F.C. Chairman, acted in the role of moderator. He sat facing the table, the attendees, and the monitors. His presence dominated most meetings until now.

  Pendleton sat off to Throgmorton’s left and studied his boss and mentor with disdain. There Throgmorton sat dressed in a charcoal gray business suit with a claret red shirt and tie to match. He must have ten identical outfits, Pendleton marveled. He’d advised Throgmorton he looked better with the suit coat off, more powerful. One of Pendleton’s roles was to make the old bugger look good.

  But Pendleton was becoming the real power within the organization. He put together the agenda and made the contacts. Throgmorton just showed up. Pendleton joined the W.F.C. fresh from Cambridge eleven years earlier. Ambitious and idealistic, he’d proven himself both effective and loyal.

  Throgmorton was learning to depend on him more and more.

  Pendleton warmed inside. Although Throgmorton still controlled the money, he made the mistake of delegating to Pendleton the responsibility of manipulating the deals. Now Pendleton was more popular than Throgmorton within the W.F.C., within the British Parliament, and within many W.F.C. funded corporations.

  To this meeting, Pendleton invited every key player in their network of corporate C.E.O.’s and financiers. Non-W.F.C. members didn’t sit at the quarter-moon table. They sat in theater seats on the fringes. His key invitee was Philip Martin, a United States lobbyist and political influence expert. He was also C.E.O. of Martin & Stern Advertising.

  Martin boasted a Harvard MBA. He had a reputation for building and destroying political careers. He procured the finances to fund political attack ads. On occasion, he worked for both Democrats and Republicans at the same time. Whether he would work on behalf of foreign interests remained to be seen. Pendleton hoped Martin was greedy enough to help bring an end to Charles S. Monroe’s presidency.

  Pendleton almost chuckled. When he controlled the world, political ads and ads in general would cease to exist.

  Pendleton frowned as Thomas Belington, a common lackey who ran Prime Minister Claymore’s errands, entered the room.

  “Why did you invite him?” Throgmorton had screamed when learning of Belington’s invitation.

  “Madam Prime Minister requested his presence.”

  “I don’t bloody much care what Claymore wants. She won’t be Prime Minister much longer if I have my way.”

  Not that Throgmorton didn’t care about the British government and its leadership within the United Nations, he did. So did Pendleton. The success of the European Common Market and the European Union directly affected the growth of W.F.C.’s wealth and might. But Throgmorton despised women with power. He viewed Prime Minister Thatcher as a failure in her time.

  Pendleton knew better. Claymore was brilliant. He had no respect for Belington. But he had his own reasons for inviting the man. In fact, a personal phone call from the Prime Minister had given him an opportunity to bend the knee to her wishes. He was counting on that paying off in the future.

  When Throgmorton called the meeting to order, Belington was the first to speak. “Prime Minister Claymore demands to know your group’s position in regards to the Monroe campaign.”

  Pendleton forced himself to remain quiet. In time, Claymore would come to trust him enough to quit sending in her spies.

  “We have no position as of yet,” Throgmorton said. “By the end of this session, you’ll be able to tell your Prime Minister what our stance is. Monroe is ineffective, as is his party. Although I don’t like his politics, do I really consider him a threat to our plans, probably not? We’ll see.”

  “Madame Prime Minister disagrees,” Belington huffed. “Our political analysts see a strategy at work that places Vice President Edmunds as our strongest ally. We’d like to see Edmunds as president. He fumbles the football in our direction very nicely, so to speak. He wouldn’t challenge a sitting president for the nomination for political reasons. He’s not in a position to be president unless Monroe is somehow out of the way.”

  “Quite so,” Throgmorton said, “but the question is how we push Monroe out? We have our own esteemed researcher doing legwork on that question. Arthur, what are your thoughts?”

  Pendleton waited an appropriate time for those present to focus on him. Then he stood. His skill with words and his ability to win people’s trust were his assets. Trading information, brokering power, all while carrying out Throgmorton’s wishes, gave Pendleton the confidence he needed. He would use this meeting to signal to all present that it was Arthur Pendleton who made things happen.

  “Usually a conservative American third party pulls votes away from the Republicans,” Pendleton said. “But not in this case. This new party attracts the extremists of both ultra-liberal and ultra-conservative views. You wouldn’t think they’d ever align. But they have.”

  Pendleton straightened his tie. He took advantage of his height and muscled chest, strutting from chair to chair. He touched every attendee, placing a hand on a shoulder or shaking a hand as he went. He made eye contact and smiled with authority.

  “Here’s the dilemma. Mo
nroe’s doing exactly what we’d do in his situation.”

  “He’s a smart chap then,” someone said.

  “I agree. With an economy in chaos, he’s pushing to recover every possible dollar he can from his predecessors’ mistakes.”

  Pendleton glanced up at the video conference monitors. “The passage of the ‘All-American Vendors for Military Contracts Bill’ is almost a certainty. Without a major misstep, he’ll get re-elected by a very close vote.”

  Philip Martin waved a hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Martin.”

  “Monroe’s threat to go all-American on military contracts doesn’t have congressional approval, yet. Do you feel he can seriously implement that program?”

  “Yes,” Pendleton said. “Without outside interference, I do. But, and I hold you to keep this confidential, the media doesn’t know that today the E.U. has the upper hand. The United States owes us more than they owe the Chinese. We’re letting them pay the Chinese back first.”

  Pendleton glanced around and focused on the overhead monitors. “Why do you think?”

  “Because he who has the gold rules,” Martin answered.

  “True, but he who controls the military can seize the gold.” Pendleton flashed a military armament chart on the screens. “American military spending exceeds any other time in history. Monroe reneged on over fifty percent of foreign military contracts without the bill. He has control of the allocations committee. U.S. manufacturers secured those contracts, and they're gearing up for future orders. But critical electronic components are Europe’s last citadel of influence, key military aircraft and electronic components only Europe manufactures today.”

  “That’s why you want me.”

  “Yes. We need a seasoned American lobbyist to gain us victories in the Stromiehre bid and others, before U.S. manufactures catch up with us.”

  “I can influence votes for military contracts.” Martin pulled out his wallet. “All I need from you, gentlemen, is a lot of money.”

  The room lit up with laughter. Even Belington managed a good chuckle.

  Pendleton put his hand up to his chin, pondering the nasty business of espionage. “You’ll have sufficient cash. But most important is obtaining votes for the Democrat, Russell, to win the election.”

  “I thought you wanted Edmunds in office?” Martin said.

  If Monroe wins, I’ll have to assassinate him to place Edmunds in power.

  “Under Russell, Edmunds becomes Secretary of Defense as a political gesture.” Pendleton shrugged. “Don’t ask me how I know. Edmunds will then persuade Russell to see things our way. Use bribes, promises, anything you wish to sway voters to reject Monroe’s policies. My concern is your security. We’ll have to provide you a security unit round-the-clock.”

  “Why?”

  “For your safety,” Pendleton said. “It seems the last man on the job is among the missing.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Martin,” Throgmorton said. He didn’t hide his boredom. He was ready to leave the other topics until after the lunch break.

  Let the old fool play the buffoon, Pendleton thought. “We’ll give you a contribution of fifty million Euros. Will that be enough to get the job done?”

  “It’s a great start,” Martin said.

  “Are we in agreement to hire Mr. Martin?” Throgmorton asked, still pushing to adjourn.

  “One moment,” Pendleton said. “Gentlemen, please open the folder in front of you marked Confidential.”

  Papers rustled as the folders were opened and studied.

  “These are the security checks run on Mr. Martin. He passes with honors.”

  “All in favor of hiring him,” Throgmorton’s voice boomed.

  “Aye.”

  “So say one: So say all?”

  “Aye.”

  Throgmorton raised his thick gray eyebrows. “Meeting adjourned.” With a slight limp, he ambled from the room.

  Arthur Pendleton remained behind after Throgmorton and the rest of his colleagues left. What had become of the nobler purposes that attracted him to the W.F.C. in his youth? Having wealth was supposed to advance the causes of Mankind. Wealth was supposed to put an end to war and raise the standard-of-living worldwide.

  Pendleton popped the top of his pocket watch open and then closed it. What the world needed was enlightened leadership. Democracy seemed unworkable. World peace was impossible as long as religious fanatics and military dictators pushed their agendas. Throgmorton had turned his focus toward personal gain. Maximizing human potential, bringing about a stable world economy, and ensuring world peace, no longer mattered to him.

  Still, the end justified the means. For the advancement of a Global Realm as the ruling power in the world, one must embrace a little greed. He who controlled the military controlled the gold, and the might of the U.S, military would make his agenda a reality.

  There would be time for enlightened leadership. When that time came, Arthur Pendleton would remind the W.F.C. of what they were forgetting. How would he manipulate events to accomplish his purposes? He’d secretly established a brain trust, his inner circle of twelve, all members of either the W.F.C. or sympathetic to his plan for a one-world government. They were already working on plans to convert the world to a one global government structure. He, not Eric Throgmorton, would enlighten and lead the world into a brighter, futuristic age.

  Pendleton rose and his bodyguards followed him out into the hall.

  “When is my flight to Greece?” he asked his assistant.

  “Tomorrow, seventeen hundred hours, Sir.”

  “Plenty of time then.”

  He needed to see Director Jarvis Franks of MI6 at Claymore’s request. He’d meet with Reed in Greece, and then he’d relax. A private beach on the Aegean Sea would be just the thing.

  Chapter 7

  Day 480

  Peacock leaned over the penthouse balcony and took in the beauty of her private beach. Pendleton and his team were arriving late tonight, thank God. A sense of longing confused her. She had muted if not obliterated her need for relationships. Yet, her maternal instincts were well intact.

  Being alone for more than a night, Peacock’s desire to procreate overrode her sense of self-preservation. She jotted down the prerequisites a male had to possess to father her children, if she lived long enough to have any. The man had to be her equal intellectually, even superior in heroism if anyone ever existed. He had to be physically superb, G.Q. plus. He had to hold a powerful position, so their children could look up to him.

  The bright and witty Polaris, the man who used to be Sirius, the ultimate warrior, qualified as an equal in intelligence and heroic characteristics. She’d drawn sketches of Polaris’s face from her imagination. Her baby’s father would be a sandy-haired, blue-eyed wonder. She’d seen pregnant Herculean women, but not in combat roles.

  Peacock smiled. The legendary Amazon women of North Africa desired children but not marriage. They had to kill a man in battle before they were allowed to have random sex to procreate. Her smile turned to a chuckle. She’d killed four men. She could have thrived well in Africa.

  A clicking reminded her she was being monitored. With the time difference between Washington and Athens being seven hours, Rigel, not Polaris, was her guide. Rigel was wearisome. Monotone to the point of irritation.

  Maybe someday she’d conceive.

  No, Peacock had no someday.

  “I suppose this is what is called a Catch 22,” she said aloud.

  “I don’t know about Catch 22’s,” Rigel answered. “But the room Pendleton will occupy has been bugged. His people combed through it and didn’t find our sensors.”

  “Is that the same for his conference rooms?”

  “We don’t know which ones he’ll use. Every conference room in the resort is reserved in the W.F.C.’s name. Our crew didn’t accomplish that task.”

  “Thank you, Rigel.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Peacock slipped into a micro-mini violet bikini. Sh
e pulled on her matching cover and slipped on her flip flops for a walk on the beach. The temperature was forecast to be eighty degrees Fahrenheit today, tomorrow, and for as far in the future as her present stay allowed. Unlike Washington, D.C., the sun shone brightly and the air off the Aegean Sea had a refreshingly sweet scent from the multiple varieties of flowers covering the coastline.

  She hurried down a circular walkway with marble walls and painted concrete flooring to the beach and made her way to the water’s edge. The curve of the shoreline gave her a view of Pendleton’s penthouse suite and grounds. Tomorrow she’d play where he could see her. Maybe he’d notice and introduce himself.

  #

  Pendleton sized up Sir Jarvis Franks in Frank’s office inside MI6, the British Secret Intelligence Service. Sir Jarvis, a tall thin man with a small well-groomed mustache, looked clumsy even sitting down.

  “A gust of wind’s blown up ole’ Gracie’s skirt a time or two, mind you,” the SIS Director said. “But nothing blows harder than this American election.”

  He rocked back precariously in his chair, feet up on his desk. “As we speak, I would venture to say the United States has counter-intelligence people right here in MI6. Spying is all part of the game. The Prime Minister’s request goes beyond the norm for espionage. We do have two operatives with some capabilities for gathering the type of information she wants inside the CIA. But it’s bloody risky to implement her plans.”

  Pendleton fidgeted in his chair. Chitchat and avoiding the point bothered him. Sir Jarvis hadn’t revealed any of Claymore’s plans to him. He didn’t know how to respond. He had to remind himself this man wielded power equal to his mentor, Throgmorton. He perched atop Britain’s prestigious intelligence community. So chitchat it was.

  “I thought the inside of this building would have a green tint looking at it from outside MI6,” Pendleton said. “If I didn’t have a plane to catch, I dare say I’d study the shades this building casts.”

  “Oh, the green hues from the windows as you approached.” Sir Jarvis pulled out a pipe and packed its bowl with hickory-scented tobacco. “The thickness of the glass gives off that tint, but it’s a clear view out. Blast protection you know.”