Although certainly the wealthiest and most successful business firm in the world, Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was not registered with the city or state government. The firm’s telephone number was unlisted—if you didn’t already have their number, then the answer was no. If you didn’t know whom to approach, then they didn’t want to talk to you. They certainly didn’t advertise, and few people outside of their sphere of influence knew who they were.
Their client list was short, perhaps fewer than five dozen governments and business organizations in all, but taken together their clients controlled a large percentage of the exploitable wealth in the world. The lawyers, former high government officials, and consultants at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs specialized in creating commercial agreements between governments and industries, managing international public relations, influencing legislation, setting trade policy, and helping to determine international currency and exchange rates. The firm, with its eighty-nine partners and associates, was perhaps the most exclusive business organization in the world, and the partners were a veritable Who’s Who of international CEOs and former government leaders. The board of partners included a former U.S. president, two former vice presidents, a former secretary of defense, and three former secretaries of state. A twice-elected British prime minister was the newest member of the firm, and he was only one of sixteen former foreign leaders who sat on the executive board. The recently retired chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had been invited to join the firm as a junior associate. He would spend two or three years working seventy hours a week; then, if he had potential (generating $100 million in revenue was the first step in demonstrating his worth), he might be offered a partnership. If the senior members liked him. Or maybe not.
Junior associates averaged somewhere in the low eight figures in salary; ten to twelve million was expected, though a few made more than that. The senior partners made so much money it didn’t matter anymore. How much was enough? It was hard to put a figure on it exactly, but this much they knew: It was less than they made.
Somewhere along the journey, each of the partners realized it wasn’t the money that they craved anymore. They had made so much already, and it was so easy to make more, that a few hundred million was meaningless. What motivated them now was power—the ability to influence the world’s events. The ability to call any man on earth, be he president or prime minister, CEO or head of an illegal cartel, and have him be willing not only to talk to them but then to do what they wanted. Power was their drug. It was one hundred percent addictive, and over the years, each of the partners had learned one vital truth: Power could drive a man to do things he would not do ordinarily. It could change him in subtle and yet irreversible ways until he was no longer comfortable in his old world.
After tasting such power, they could no more live like common men than a lizard could live in the sea.
As the years passed, the firm demonstrated another remarkable trend. No one had ever left the organization. No one had ever retired. No one had ever taken leave or resigned. They all died in place, most at a very old age, for once they had tasted the power that the firm could provide, the lust continued to drive them until they were dead.
Despite the high profile of the previous positions they held, the list of partners and associates who worked at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was a highly guarded secret. Just as one didn’t take the elevators to their lobby without the security codes, one simply didn’t apply to become a member of the firm. From the busboys in the corporate dining room to the secretaries who answered the phones, from the maintenance crews who cleaned the bathrooms to partners who worked on Partner Row, everyone came with a personal recommendation from someone inside the firm. Every employee, no matter what he or she did, had some kind of personal tie to another member of the firm, which was one of the keys to controlling their enormous influence and wealth.
And when the lowest level secretary made almost $200,000 a year, the firm didn’t even know what turnover meant. Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was a loyal army, faithful and trustworthy to the core.
*******
The meeting took place very late on a Saturday night. A terrible storm had settled over the city, and the wind was fierce and howling, with lightning and hail beating down from the darkest core of the storm clouds. The powerful charges of electricity flashed constantly, illuminating the billowing storms from within. A fierce rain beat the windows, and the seventy-six-story building swayed perceptibly like an anchored ship that bobbed on a huge, swaying sea. And this wasn’t the first violent storm to hit Manhattan in the last little while; New York City had been wracked with severe weather for weeks. Thunderstorms, even tornadoes, had swept through lower New York State, flooding many townships and leaving the Hudson and East Rivers swollen and bloated with debris. The torrential rains were now more than the crowded city could take—too much water and nowhere left for it to go. The upper portions of the city had already been evacuated, with bacteria-spewing sewage and river rats taking up residence in the warehouses and brownstone flats that lined the two rivers on the north side of Manhattan.
In addition to the unbearable rains, the storms had brought unwelcome guests. Floating balls of poisonous spiders had been seen, black widows and brown recluses drifting across the water and infesting the upper parts of the city. Dozens of venomous snakes, no doubt washed down from upstate, had been killed in Central Park. Muskrats and other river vermin were frequently sighted. But more often they were heard, their padded feet scratching at the windows and walls, searching for shelter, searching for food. And the backed-up sewage had begun to spread diseases from cholera to dysentery.
*******
The lightning flashed from the thunderstorms that hovered over the city, illuminating the narrow canyons of Manhattan with great strobes of light, but when the elevator opened and the three men emerged to the lobby, none of them seemed to take note. They had much more on their minds than the weather. They wouldn’t be in the city long enough to feel its effects anyway.
An attractive, middle-aged assistant was waiting to meet the three men. She graciously shook their hands, lightly kissing the senior member of the delegation on both cheeks. The men were dressed immaculately and trimmed to perfection, and it was clear from their faces that the surroundings at Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs were not particularly impressive to them. Their palaces were every bit as beautiful, and they had many more palaces than they would ever admit.
The men followed the assistant to another elevator, and she flashed a card, and then punched in the security code to take them to the top office suite. But the Saudi prince entered the elevator alone. His assistants stood by, keeping watch on the lobby floor. The door closed, and when it opened three floors above the main lobby, the managing partner of Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was waiting for the prince in a broad and dimly lit hall. The usual pleasantries were exchanged as the managing partner led the Saudi prince into his private den, a large room crowded with books and papers but as well supplied as any other room in the suite. The coffee was poured, but the two men held their cups, neither of them taking a sip. The lights of the world’s greatest city glowed dimly through the huge windows that extended from the office ceiling to the floor. The prince moved to the window and watched the rain as it fell, imagining what it would feel like to tumble eight hundred feet and hit the rock-hard pavement below. He stared a long moment, thinking on great deeds in the past, then turned toward the other man, who was standing behind him. “It is time,” he announced in a low voice.
The managing partner, Drexel Danbert, moved around his desk and sat down in his chair. “Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes,” the prince answered, then began to explain.
*******
Twenty minutes later, the American studied the sheet of paper before him, his hands shaking as a tiny film of perspiration began to form on his lip. His eyebrows, neatly trimmed and white, rose as he read, and then he looked up at the prin
ce. The youngest brother of the new Saudi king met his dark eyes.
Drexel struggled to hide the incredulous look on his face. “You’re not serious!” he said in a horrified voice.
The Saudi nodded slowly. “Yes, Mr. Danbert.” He lowered his eyes, gesturing to the paper the American was holding in his trembling hand. “Those are the instructions I was sent to deliver to you.” The prince raised his hand and pulled on his dark goatee, not saying anymore.
Drexel watched him stroke his whiskered face, noting the thin tattoo on the prince’s little finger, a crescent with two black stars, symbol of the royal House of al-Rahman, a powerful family that could trace back its roots almost three thousand years.
The Saudi hesitated, then sipped his hot coffee from an exquisite Spode® cup. Although the coffee was black and sweetened with eight cubes of sugar, it certainly wasn’t the chai that he loved so much, and he considered the coffee so weak as to be barely drinkable.
Drexel stared at his own cup, seeing his image reflected on the smooth surface of the black coffee. He took a painful sip and lifted his eyes to the Arab again. “But what about—” he started questioning.
“I am but a messenger, Mr. Danbert,” the Saudi interrupted, his voice impatient now. “I have told you all that I know.”
The American hesitated, and then huffed in frustration. “It can’t be. It makes no sense. I don’t understand!”
The Saudi swished the black drink around his teeth before answering, “Mr. Danbert, I don’t know what more I could tell you. But if I were you, I would anticipate the market and make adjustments now.”
Danbert thought quickly. The firm held much of their wealth in a series of privately managed investment portfolios. These funds contained five, maybe six billion dollars in properties along the East Coast, and another eight billion dollars of assets between San Diego and Seattle. Twelve or fifteen billion dollars spread across the country. And that was just real estate. How much were the partners holding in U.S. stocks and securities? He didn’t even know. It might be a half a trillion. It was difficult to estimate.
And he had to dump it. Dump it all while he could.
“But we can’t . . . we can’t just . . .” his voice stuttered and he paused, and then started again. “Look, Imad, we can’t dump it all. It is impossible! Not in two weeks. Good Lord, we couldn’t do that in ten years! Not in secret. Good as we are, we can’t hide that kind of thing. Eventually, the money leads back to those who control it. We don’t want that kind of attention. We don’t want any attention at all. Think of what you are saying. Dump half a trillion dollars of U.S. assets in the next fourteen days?! You’ve got to be kidding! Talk about obvious!”
The Saudi swished another mouthful of coffee, and then simply said, “The decision is yours. You can do what you will.”
Drexel hesitated. “But the timing couldn’t be worse. You must know that is true. The market has dropped eight or ten percent in the last month alone . . . .”
The youngest prince almost smiled, his dark eyes beaming with deadly pride. Drexel watched him solemnly, and then leaned back in his chair. “Oh,” he stumbled, frowning. “Ohhh . . . . ” He held his breath, understanding. “You’re doing it, aren’t you, Imad? You’re driving the market down.”
“No, no, of course not.”
“Don’t lie to me, Imad!” Drexel jumped up from his chair. “The Saudis, your government, by which I mean your older brother, King al-Rahman, is holding . . . what, how many billion dollars in U.S. stock and other securities? And if you guys are suddenly in the market, if you are selling what you have . . . .” Drexel glared at the prince. “It’s you,” he sneered in anger. “You’re dumping on the market, aren’t you, my friend?”
The prince sipped his coffee.
Drexel watched him carefully, his thin face turning pale.
The young prince, barely more than thirty, had the same snake eyes of his brother—hard, deep and cold as glacier ice. The prince watched the panicked American, and then pushed himself up from his seat. “Yes, Drexel,” he finally answered in an angry tone. “We are selling our U.S. assets while there is still something to sell. Now, you are a smart man, and I think you understand what we are going to do next. You know what is coming. So make your move while you can. Liquidate your assets and get into something else. Gold. Other markets. Chinese currency is a great deal right now. And since it is likely the Chinese will emerge as the most stable government over the next couple years, I would think it might be a good time to look at the yuan.
“But remember this, Drexel.” He sarcastically dripped the American’s name now, there being no pretense to their relationship anymore. He spoke for King al-Rahman, which made him eminently powerful. “The finances of the situation are not our central concern. You know the plan. The objective. Don’t lose sight of that now. It makes no difference to my brother what you choose to do. Stay in the market or jump. Move or sit tight, it’s completely up to you. He is offering this warning as a professional courtesy and that is all. But know this, my friend, either way, we will move.”
“But what are you thinking? What could you do that would cause a meltdown over here?”
The snake eyes stared at him. The American hesitated, and then caught a quick breath, his face falling like a mask into a horrible frown. He shuddered. “No,” he mumbled feebly. “You never said that!”
“No!? My brother told you! You know what we intend to do. You can sit there and deny it, but if you do then you’re a fool!”
“That was never our agreement. Not a part of the plan!”
“We changed the plan, Drexel, and my brother warned you. If you chose to not believe him, there is nothing we can do. But let me ask you something, and I want you to think about this. Did you really believe your nation could just sit out this war? Did you really think you wouldn’t be involved? We think not, Drexel, we think not. The United States was always our target. We told you! You wouldn’t listen! And you can plead naïveté or ignorance, but deep in your heart you had to know that was true!”
Drexel lifted a trembling hand, then fell back on his chair, recalling his recent meeting with Al-Rahman in Saudi Arabia, his face turning as gray as the dark clouds outside. “Al-Rahman said . . .,” he was mumbling, barely able to speak. “Al-Rahman said you were going to move against Israel. You would use the weapons in Gaza.”
“Yes, we said all of that. And it was our original plan. But your country has grown too bold and ambitious, long-armed and powerful. Democracies are rising, sprouting all over the world. All of them are fed by your people. And if there’s one thing we can’t endure, it’s another democracy in the Arab world. We’ve got to act against these growing tumors before it’s too late. In order to do that, we’ve got to take your country down. Once we have forced it to turn inward, to focus on its own problems, then we can do what we want.”
Drexel fell silent, his brow wet with sweat. The prince watched him a moment, then stood up to leave. He patted Drexel’s bony shoulder as he passed. “You’ll get over it,” he said. “Now it’s time to get back to work.”
*******
Drexel listened carefully. The elevator door down the hall slid open, then closed. The prince was gone, leaving Drexel alone in the huge office suite. The night slipped around him, the dim lights in the den illuminating his face in deep shadows, creating dark pits along the cheekbones underneath his deep eyes. Drexel stared at his aged hands, forcing himself to settle down, then leaned across his desk and picked up his cigarettes—a two-pack-a-day habit. Had been for almost fifty years. They said he’d die of cancer before he was old enough to retire, yet he kept skipping along, feeling healthy and strong.
But this thing . . . this ugly thing . . . he suddenly felt very old.
He pulled a cigarette from the thin pack using only his lips, sat back and lit up, and drew in a long drag.
They were about to unleash a very evil genie. Generations would pass before the final price would be paid. And it was his job to assist
them, to give them advice, to help them anticipate and counter what the United States would do. It was his job to help them deal with the firestorm that was coming, a firestorm of their making, a firestorm they controlled.
He pulled another drag, feeling the bitter smoke fill his lungs, then leaned forward on his desk.
The war was upon him.
But the United States would fight back. The Americans wouldn’t just lie there and let the ashes of history be heaped on their graves. Yes, they had grown spoiled and immoral, but the entire world had, too! Who hadn’t turned rotten and decadent? Was there a single nation on this earth that wasn’t as weak as brown-paper pulp?
No. All of them were weak. There were no heroes anymore.
Still, the Saudi king and his brothers were underestimating his countrymen. It didn’t matter how much they paid him, he couldn’t change that. The United States was going to fight them, and Americans would fight for their lives.
And the United States could be a junkyard dog when it came time to fight. Americans could be ruthless and efficient once they had made up their minds.
Sitting in the semidarkness, Drexel couldn’t help but think of what one of his early partners had told him the first time they had plotted to bring down a foreign government. “If you go after the king, make sure that you have the weapons to kill him. Don’t just take a knife, take an Uzi and a shotgun and an M-60 Patton tank. Take every weapon you can assemble. And be ready to run.”
Drexel shook his head, flicking a piece of brown tobacco from the tip of his tongue.
His clients were going after the king. But were they powerful enough to checkmate the king before the king came after them?
He wondered. Yes, he wondered.
It could go either way.
Washington, D.C.
Neil Brighton woke suddenly, his heart slamming in his chest. He sat up, his face sweating, his hands clenched against the sheets.
(Wrath-03)-Son Of The Morning (2012) Page 5