Room 1515

by Bill Wetterman

  “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Reed squeezed in his stomach muscles to give himself a calm but serious look. Inside acid churned in his stomach.

  “Let’s hope we’re not wasting the Crown’s money,” Throgmorton grumbled, scrunching up his nose.

  Pendleton rose and addressed the Prime Minister. “I asked Mr. Reed here to lay out our options regarding Monroe. The logistics involved are rather tricky. May I remind everyone what we say here stays in this room.”

  Claymore nodded.

  Reed dialed the combination on his briefcase and opened it. He cocked his head a bit and said, “You want Monroe to lose this election. If he’s reelected, you want him assassinated along with his wife. Correct?”

  Claymore seemed reluctant to answer.

  “Is this correct?” Reed repeated.

  “Yes. I presume there are no objections.” Claymore eyed those in attendance as Pendleton sat back down.

  “My team has run several election models with the help of Philip Martin.” Reed stood and opened the folder in his hand. “There are fifty-four days to the election. Seven states in the center of the country are firm for this new third party, The Independent Conservative Party.”

  “So?” Throgmorton asked.

  “If the election were held today, no one candidate would win in the Electoral College vote. Martin is lobbying to push the Stromiehre bid through Congress and help the Democrat, Russell, win the presidency. We’ll wait on the assassination attempt.”

  “Then why are we talking about this now?” Throgmorton asked.

  “It has to do with timing.” Pendleton sneered at Throgmorton whose eyesight was too poor to notice. “The quicker Monroe is out of the way; the sooner America’s troops join United Nations forces under our leadership.”

  “The quickest assassination plan to implement has the greatest chance of failure,” Reed said. An overhead projector displayed maps of areas surrounding Washington, D.C.

  “That plan being?” Claymore asked.

  “Shoot down Marine One somewhere between the White House and Andrews Air force Base.” Reed walked to the screen with a light wand and pointed at the area. “The three locations identified are potential vantage points from which to fire Stingers.”

  “Yet, you don’t seem to back this plan,” she said.

  “There is room for error. If the hope is to rid ourselves of Monroe quickly, this plan is easy to implement. But it could fail. That’s why there must always be a Plan B.”

  Throgmorton smiled. “Yes. Backup plans are invaluable. But, Mr. Reed, let’s hope that the first plan doesn’t miss.” He swiveled slowly in his chair looking at the ceiling. “Tell us about Plan B and see if we approve.”

  “If the time and place is left up to my discretion, I’ll assemble a team to put an agent on Monroe’s personal security team.”

  “That could take two years to put in place,” Claymore said. “The quicker scenario can be accomplished much sooner.”

  “And we’ll try that plan first, Madam. But the long range plan is the most efficient.” Reed inhaled to restore his confident look. “I’ve always believed in a professional hit. Murder at the hand of a trusted associate comes closest to the perfect art.”

  “Mr. Reed,” Claymore said. “Work with Sir Jarvis and our MI6 operatives to have a certain agent, whose name I’ll provide you, transferred onto Monroe’s security team. Start Plan B now to save time.”

  “I’ve already instructed Sir Jarvis to help that process along,” Pendleton interjected. “We’ll create an opening on Monroe’s team to get our man in place.”

  “Create an opening?” Claymore put her hand to her chin. “Oh, kill an agent and slide the assassin onboard. Jolly good idea.”

  “Imagine our man at 2:00 a.m. guarding the Presidential Suite.” Reed saw Claymore’s face brighten. Her eyes focused on him.

  “Now that would be delightful,” she said. “Gut him while he sleeps.”

  “What do you need from us?” Throgmorton asked.

  “Your approval.” The time was right. Gain approval and leave. “I propose a three man team to shoot down Marine One with a surface-to-air missile. We bring the team into the States, procure the material, select the site, assemble the missiles stateside, and execute the plan.”

  “To be clear, how long before Plan A is executed?” Claymore asked.

  “Two months after the election appears amply sufficient. Failing that, we go to Plan B. If Plan A succeeds, we all celebrate earlier.”

  Claymore grumped. “Dead is dead and the sooner the better.”

  #

  Reed and the rest of the dignitaries left. Pendleton motioned to Throgmorton to stay behind. He strolled to the windows and pulled the gold sheers closed to reduce the outside glare.

  “Monroe is a brilliant political strategist. He’ll find a way to win. We’ll have to kill him.”

  “He looks at the big picture like we do,” Throgmorton said. “The only difference between how I see the world five years from now, and how he sees it, concerns the American military. He sees himself as the restorer of the American economy. I see the W.F.C. as its savior.”

  “Yes,” Pendleton said, reflecting Throgmorton’s view back to him. “Britain will rule the European Union. The European Union will rule the United Nations. The W.F.C. will rule them all by controlling the purse strings.”

  “With America’s military under United Nations’ command, only China will oppose us,” Throgmorton said.

  “But what if China won’t submit?”

  “We have a short World War III.”

  “Dangerous and impractical, diplomacy and financial pressure are far better solutions.”

  Pendleton believed in the old ideals. Power used for the greater good, religious feuding eliminated, and enlightened leadership changing the landscape of the world, not crumbling it into dust. “I don’t want to have to assassinate Monroe. I hope we can influence the election and beat him at the polls.”

  Throgmorton looked at him thoughtfully. “You’re developing a conscience. You’ll go farther without one.”

  You’ve lost your conscience and my respect.

  “I want to live long enough to establish a one-world government.”

  “Don’t get sick,” Throgmorton said.

  “What?”

  “If you want to live long enough to see a one-world government established. Don’t get sick.”

  Don’t get sick?

  Now there was an interesting statement coming from someone thirty years his senior.

  I wonder who will die first.

  #

  Arthur Pendleton headed down the steps of Lancaster House and into a torrential downpour. He’d been checking on the prime minister’s staffers. They worked at boardroom tables in the Gold and Green rooms, updating the latest projections on the U.S. elections from all major networks and pollsters. They prepared them for Claymore daily.

  He opened the door of the prime minister’s limousine, slid in and closed his umbrella, and then shook the collar of his coat ever so gently.

  “May I ask a question, Madam Prime Minister?” he asked, without saying the appropriate hello. “How can you be so sure Edmunds will actually help us put U.S. troops under U.N. command in the Middle East, if either he or Russell becomes president?”

  Claymore motioned to her driver to pull away from the curb. “Because we know his dirty little secrets.”

  “Indeed? How so?”

  “His party has been shielding him for several years.” She let out a snicker. “In the late 1990’s, Edmunds had an affair with a woman on his staff. Both were married. Both were discreet. But if that affair were to be made public, his marriage would be destroyed.”

  She nudged Pendleton’s arm. “Plus, Edmunds never disassociated himself from his former company, Amalgamated Metals. He shares in the benefits of their government contracts. A wonderful conflict of interest, don’t you think. He doesn’t know we know. But I’ll use the informat
ion if I have to.”

  Of course she would, and he approved of the Prime Minister’s favorable attitude towards an Edmunds’ presidency. How fun to obtain information from Claymore and give little to her.

  “I cannot stress enough the importance of the American military staying in the Middle East,” she continued. “This is why a second term for Monroe would be a disaster.”

  The fear in her voice surprised him. “I understand your concern over Iran, Madam Prime Minister. But your sense of urgency seems a bit unusual. You’re not one to panic.”

  Claymore’s face darkened. “Haven’t you studied your history?”

  She looked away for a moment.

  “The average American thinks the attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon happened on 9/11 because it’s the number they dial in an emergency. They’re deluded.”

  “I know the date itself has some significance,” Pendleton said. “But I haven’t the foggiest what it is.”

  “On September 11, 1683, a two-day battle began at the gates of Vienna.” Her clear concise voice rang with certainty. “The combined forces of the Central European kingdoms defeated the Ottoman Empire and marked the turning point of a 300 year struggle between the Muslim and Christian worlds.”

  She positioned herself so she could look directly at him. “On September 11, 2001, the Muslim world sent us a signal. They’re back!”

  Her concern smacked him. He despised their fanaticism. But was the Muslim world capable of uniting? “They struggle amongst themselves. Are you sure they’re a threat?”

  “It’s only a matter of time,” she said. “If the United States withdraws from the Middle East, Europe becomes the Muslim world’s primary target. Iran grows stronger and draws followers to its ideologies. If they reach the military strength to make a go of it, Europe will be embroiled in a fight for our very existence.”

  His cell phone vibrated.

  “Excuse me, Madam. It’s an important call.”

  He found himself combing his hair though the caller couldn’t see him.

  “Hello Lovey, I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too. I wanted to wish you a wonderful day. My day is well on its way here. I love you.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I love you too.” He blew a kiss into the phone and hung up. They spoke three times daily. Even days, she called him. Odd days, he called her. He looked up to see Claymore, lips puckered, holding back from laughing.

  “You’re absobloodylootly in need of the funny farm, Arthur. The woman’s cast a spell over you.”

  “Ah, and a pleasant one.”

  Claymore patted his knee. “I envy you. My Charles and I are a marriage of convenience.”

  Her face took on a more serious look, furrowing at the bridge of her nose. “MI6 has identified our mole, a Professor Thaddeus Cline.”

  “Good show.”

  “A meeting has already been set up with Cline to clarify his list of demands. Pay him whatever is reasonable.” The Prime Minister motioned to her driver to pull over near W.F.C. headquarters. “We need those American space-based missiles ready when the Russians are prepared to attack Iran.”

  Pendleton nodded, opened the limo door, and left.

  So Russia would be the goat Europe would butt against Iran.

  As he trotted into his building, he assessed her words. His plans for power and world domination could be ruined if the Muslim world united before all the pieces settled into place. Claymore’s sense of urgency now fell on him. The old girl deceived herself into thinking he’d purchase Cline’s services for her. In fact, he’d purchase those skills for himself.

  Now was the time for Professor Cline to pay Pendleton a visit.

  Chapter 16

  Day 550

  Peacock fidgeted. Waiting bored her. Ursa had invited both Felicia and her to a key Stromiehre Project meeting. But one important person had still not arrived. She was disturbed that she’d been kept in the dark as to who that person was.

  “Your leg’s bouncing. Are you nervous?” Felicia asked, as they sat in Ursa’s now familiar office waiting room.

  “No, I’m impatient. There’s a difference.”

  According to Polaris, things weren’t going well regarding Philip Martin. So when Felicia left for a moment to go to the ladies room, Peacock spoke her mind.

  “It’s not my fault if Monroe’s bid for reelection has been slowed down.”

  “I never said it was,” Polaris said, trying to soothe her. “Your husband handpicked Martin. He’s very, very, sharp.”

  Peacock swallowed her next comment. She’d taken good care of Independent Congressman, Hal Holman, the target of Martin’s attention in Room 1515. She’d gleaned all the information she could from him. Her infidelity hadn’t bothered her as she thought it might. Considering her job, this was encouraging. Besides, Holman was a toad compared to her husband. She enjoyed playing with Holman’s ego.

  Felicia had just returned when Ursa burst through the entry door. He stomped past both women and waved them into his office with a grumpy, “Come on. We haven’t time to waste chatting.”

  “Don’t say anything,” Polaris advised. “He’s pissed, but not at you.”

  “Who is Ursa pissed at,” she asked.

  Polaris remained silent. She didn’t push the point. She figured she’d know soon enough.

  Through his office Ursa went and opened the far door. He continued down the hallway until he came to a brightly lit room. Peacock and Felicia followed him inside. Several technicians raced about bringing data up on their computers. They were preparing for some kind of presentation. She pulled a chair up to the space assigned her and sat down. Felicia did the same.

  Three men entered the room. The man in the middle was cuffed and wore leg chains. Peacock recognized him. Steve Nash, her first male target, seated uncomfortably between two Herculeans.

  “Run the surveillance tapes and sync in the audio,” Ursa commanded.

  Felicia nudged Peacock. “The tape is from yesterday, Philip Martin and Holman.”

  Holman was talking non-stop about the tenuous position he was being placed in. “By your projections, Phil, my vote will elect the president. Congressman Keith and I are the only independent congressmen in the House. Everyone else is party affiliated. I’m under a lot of pressure to protect my state.”

  “Consider this,” Martin glanced around, then under the table probably looking for a wire.

  Carna, the head technical advisor, whispered under her breath. “No one can spot the listening devices. I’ve embedded them under the ceramic tile at the corners of each table and activated them remotely. Ingenious, don’t you think?”

  “Your vote on the committee overseeing the Stromiehre bid will decide whether the contract is or isn’t awarded.” Martin wiped his hands on a cloth napkin and then picked up his drink. “You’re a double threat to Monroe.”

  “I’m a problem for both Russell and Monroe.”

  “Would three million dollars convince you to vote against Monroe if the election goes to the House. And vote for Stromiehre in committee tomorrow?”

  Peacock watched herself walk up. Martin grasped her hand. “Thank you for allowing Hal to admit me, Lovey. I’m in your debt.”

  Holman smiled at her. “Laverna is a gracious host.”

  “Gracious indeed,” Polaris whispered.

  “The bastard better be pleased,” she mumbled as she watched herself saunter away. “He doesn’t deserve me.”

  “The Stromiehre deal works fine for me,” Holman said. “Going against Monroe in the House vote? I don’t know. So let’s try this. I get half of the three million for pushing the contract involving Stromiehre through. I get the other half if my vote sinks Monroe.”

  “Agreed.”

  #

  “Pause the tape,” Ursa said. “We have a problem. Holman told Peacock he planned to block Stromiehre’s bid in committee. Our people in Congress were given my word after I convinced Snell to talk to him. Snell confirmed Peacock
’s information with a call to Holman before Holman’s conversation with Martin. Today, Holman betrayed us and pushed the Stromiehre bid through.”

  “Shit,” Peacock blurted out. She could feel her ego shrivel. People didn’t betray her. She’d castrate Holman. She thought her performance was worth at least a million and a half.

  Magnus raised his hand. “Just to set things straight. Peacock did her job. But Martin’s bribe was too substantial.”

  “So do we pay Holman more than Martin to secure his House vote?” Ursa glanced around the table. “Give me a plan, people.”

  He leaned back. “If Monroe’s reelected, he’ll use the reelection as a mandate. By the time the Foreign Contractor Bill gets to his desk, the election will be over and he’ll veto it.”

  “Maybe,” Magnus said. “Or maybe the new Congress will be able to override him.”

  “Stromiehre’s contract has already been approved. We’re too late to stop that one.” Ursa said, then turned to Nash who was cowering in his chair surrounded by his guards. “Enlighten us, Mr. Nash. What would a lobbyist like you do given this situation? How would you even the odds?”

  “You mean. How would I overcome Holman’s defection?” Nash rubbed his hands together, his wrists still in cuffs. “A vote isn’t a vote until it’s given. Counteroffer, or threaten his state with more dire consequences. I never had three million dollars to bribe anybody.”

  “So we should try to outbid Arthur Pendleton?”

  Nash sighed. “No. I suppose that’s a waste of time. You can’t trap him either. He’ll make sure everything works out according to the law, even the bribes.”

  Peacock disliked the direction of this conversation. She didn’t like her husband talked about in a negative light. Ursa approved her allowing Martin into Room 1515, so he could eavesdrop. She wanted to crawl into a hole.

  Ursa pushed a button. Two trays slid out from beneath the desk where Felicia and Peacock sat.

  “You talked to Pendleton every day, sometimes several times a day,” Ursa said. “We’ve examined your cell phone records for up to thirty days prior to the attack on our agent, Peacock.”