by Jeff S.
He nodded, turned and left, angling into the woods on the far side of the property, away from the access road. He had left his car parked on a different road a few miles away.
Chapter 6: Mistake
Years of training and experience had not prepared Joseph Nketia for what came next. Logically, his plan had everything going for it. But the assassin was playing chess on a flat board with someone not restricted to two dimensions.
Nketia had found a suggestible and psychotic inmate with a penchant for hurting pretty, professional females. One call to Bill CIA had initiated the patient's discharge from the mental hospital. This had been against the hospital administrator's wishes.
For nearly two weeks, the assassin had attempted to become pals with the former patient—Vasile Antonescu. That proved more difficult than Nketia had anticipated, because Antonescu had become suspicious of everything and everyone. But finally, the crazy Romanian was interested in killing Dr. Lisa Holt of Riverside, California.
Antonescu looked the part of crazy mental patient. Not only were his eyes bugged out like some alien creature, his thinning black hair was never combed. In fact, his hair seemed to be going every which way. Across his upper lip, a broad scar hid missing front teeth.
Both Antonescu and Nketia were the ones from Holt's dream the morning the assassin had his meeting in Washington. The images had haunted her so much that the next day she had tracked down and hired a sketch artist to draw the two faces. Then, she had hired a bodyguard and private investigator. Both men had copies of the sketches.
Holt had asked her investigator and bodyguard to remain as invisible as possible so her threat would be emboldened to strike. After nearly two months, she got her wish.
Following a late dinner, she needed something to soothe her upset stomach. She drove to the neighborhood convenience store and made her purchase. As she was leaving, she noticed the familiar face of a man walking toward her from the far edge of the parking lot. He grinned, revealing a hole in his smile.
"Oh, no," she said and angled away from him. He changed direction to match her new trajectory. "Help!" she yelled, and ran.
From the back seat of her vehicle emerged her bodyguard. For all his 235 pounds, he was remarkably quick on his feet—fast enough to catch up with Antonescu before he could catch Lisa Holt. One quick shove had Antonescu hurtling toward the ground out of control. When the bodyguard rolled the former mental patient over, he discovered the man's knife sticking out of Antonescu's own chest. The crazy Romanian had fallen onto his own weapon.
The following day, the bodyguard went to see one of his old friends who had gone to work in the local police department. Both of the men had been former military, having served together in Iraq. The Antonescu attack had everyone in the police station talking. When the bodyguard was done, every officer had a copy of the other sketch. The entire police department was now looking for Joseph Nketia, though they did not yet know his name.
After the Romanian's failure, Nketia attempted to lie low and to come up with an alternate plan. At a diner, not far from Dr. Holt's office and home, Nketia had been eating and plotting his next moves. Two plain clothes officers entered the same diner and immediately spotted Nketia. As they approached the assassin's table, a loud plink shattered the air and Nketia slumped to the floor.
The window next to the assassin now had a large, circular hole. Nketia had been retired early through no fault of his own. The anonymity of an assassin's life was not enough to protect him against people who could see with more than their ordinary, human eyes. And once Lisa Holt had seen past the assassin's mask, those who feared Nketia's knowledge had tried to plug a hole by creating another one in the assassin's brain. But Lisa Holt was about to have another dream to spoil their illusion of anonymity, too.
COLLECTION III
Chapter 1: The Young Apprentice
The date? April 19, 1990. The location? A friend's penthouse overlooking Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. The event? David Rockwell's seventy-fifth birthday.
The elder Rockwell had only recently retired as president and CEO of Manhattan Excelsior Bank. He liked to stay busy. Even in his retirement, he spent time on dozens of philanthropic efforts.
His birthday party was an opportunity to mingle with old friends and new people. He particularly liked meeting new people, because they kept his mind alert with challenges—new thoughts, differing viewpoints.
During one particularly bland conversation with an old friend, Rockwell discovered something most rare and wonderful. He had a talent for tuning out a conversation which provided nothing new or important. More than anyone he knew, he possessed a talent for listening with half an ear, responding with appropriate statements or questions, but leaving most of his faculties open for other things. This evening, at approximately 7:23, he overheard a young man saying exciting things which had his heart pounding with interest and excitement.
As Rockwell nodded to his old friend, the young man said some things which paralleled his own personal philosophy.
"Civilization is chaotic," said the young man. "That's human nature. Individual people and individual groups are selfish. They always and only look out for themselves. We really shouldn't expect anything differently."
"But population," said one of the four other people in that conversation. "I agree it's out of control, but cutting out ninety percent of the population to achieve a manageable level seems a bit extreme."
"Tell me," said the young man. "How would you manage one billion or seven billion? Today, at five and a quarter billion, we're not far off—say 2010 or 2012."
"Okay," said a young woman in the group. "Let's say you're right about your figures. How do you propose disposing of the excess population? Most people don't want to be killed. They're going to insist on living."
"Wars," said another in the group, "disease, famine. Politicians have used these throughout history. They're messy, I know, but sometimes they are a necessary evil."
"Yes," said the young man who had caught Rockwell's interest. "Those would help, but the climate is a far more powerful tool."
"What?" asked the young woman, "control the weather?"
"Of course not," replied the young man. "Besides, I'm talking about climate, not weather. Climate is what you expect, but weather is what you get."
"Mark Twain?" asked one of the others.
"No," said the young man and chuckled dryly. "Misattributed to Samuel Clemens, or Twain, but the notion was actually stated by Andrew John Herbertson in a book called Outlines on Physiography.
"But let's look at this from a different perspective. If you knew something bad was going to happen and you started to see signs of it occurring, you would take action, right? Now, consider what would happen to five billion people who have grown tired of warnings and who have started to ignore those warnings with a passion. When the signs of disaster start, most everyone will ignore them."
"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"
The young man raised his right hand. "Patience. I'm getting to that. In the mid-70s, the media made a big deal out of global cooling. Now, things have started to warm up again. If we make a really big deal out of global warming, many people will begin to lose interest in climate altogether. Like the fable of the boy who cried wolf, most will turn a deaf ear to climate warnings."
"I still don't see how this is going to help with the population problem," said the young woman.
"Did you know that we're living in an Ice Age?" asked the young man.
"What? You're crazy. That ended—what—twenty thousand years ago?"
"What do we have at both poles of the Earth? Those little white things? Permanent glaciation. Even in summer, there is ice at both poles. Thus, this is an Ice Age. Our current Ice Age is divided into glacials and interglacials. Glacial periods typically last about 90,000 years. And most people typically think of the last glacial period as the Ice Age, but that's only the colder part. Interglacials, like the current Holocene, tend to last 11,00
0 years. Well, the Holocene is already somewhere between 11,500 and 17,000 years old. In other words, it's overdue to end. If we could tip the balance in the direction of global cooling, we might be able to speed up the end of the Holocene. That would bury all of Canada, half of the United States and half of Europe under a permanent blanket of snow. Over the years, that blanket would become thicker and thicker. It would also cool down the oceans sufficiently to make rain far more scarce. Crops would fail. The bottom line? Billions could die, either from the cold, the starvation or from the wars over food."
At this point, Mr. Rockwell was overcome with excitement. He excused himself from the current conversation and turned to interrupt the nearby discussion.
"Hello," said Rockwell, holding out his hand and shaking it as if attempting to distract their attention. "I couldn't help but overhear your delightful chat. Which one of you brought up the idea of climate?"
The young man was suddenly tongue-tied. He raised his own hand again, but this time far more slowly. "I did, sir."
"And you are?"
"Mario, sir. Mario Fuerza. I'm a university student from the Dominican Republic."
Rockwell turned to the other four and asked, "Would you mind terribly if I borrowed Mr. Fuerza for a little while?"
Each of them shook their head, indicating assent.
Rockwell turned toward his host. "Charles, I need your study for a few minutes."
"Of course, David."
A few moments later, David Rockwell stood in the penthouse study, looking out over the star-laden canyons of the city.
"How old are you, Mr. Fuerza?"
"Twenty, sir."
"I'm not easily impressed. What you said to your friends intrigued me. Most astute."
Mario Fuerza had regained some of his composure. Though he had not imagined a private meeting with the great David Rockwell, he had hoped to meet him. An invitation from a friend to attend the man's birthday party had seemed ripe with opportunities. Now, he stood behind Mr. Rockwell, holding his own hands behind his back, feet shoulder width apart, shoulders back and chin up.
"I need your help, Mr. Fuerza," said the elder Rockwell. "I need your help on a special project some will call the crime of the century."
"Crime, sir?" asked Fuerza.
"You have to crack eggs to make an omelet, my young apprentice."
Chapter 2: Sprinkling Breadcrumbs
Rockwell turned from the penthouse window to size up the young student. "At least, I hope you don't mind me calling you 'my apprentice.' I hope you will come to work for me. I can teach you things you'll never learn in the university."
"I'd like that very much, sir."
"Did you know," asked Rockwell, "that September 11, 1941, ground was broken for the Pentagon. I chose that date. In 1609, Henry Hudson discovered Manhattan Island on that date, 332 years earlier. In 1789, September 11 was also the date Alexander Hamilton was appointed as the first Treasury Secretary of America, helping to establish important philosophies and procedures in American economics. He laid the foundation for our work, today. This was 180 years after the discovery of Manhattan."
"So, the date has special significance?"
"You might say that. In America, there is a special telephone number called for emergencies."
"Nine-one-one."
"I chose that, too."
If anyone else had made such a claim, young Mr. Fuerza might have thought him suffering from delusions of grandeur. But this was the man of influence, Mr. David Rockwell, himself.
"I saw some hesitation in your eyes," said Rockwell. "I don't blame you. But you're now standing on Olympus. This is where things get done that shape the direction of history. While it's true, that there are several who are more powerful than I, each of us plays our part."
"Yes, sir." Fuerza attempted to swallow, but found it impossible at the moment.
"Okay, my apprentice. First assignment." Rockwell smiled, the expression approaching a grin, boyishly uninhibited. "Next week, I have a meeting scheduled with the president of the United States. I'd like for you to go there in my stead."
"What?" Fuerza locked eyes with Rockwell. "Me, sir?"
"You held your own with your friends here at the party. Treat him as if he were an old friend. I know your family has servants. I investigate everyone who attends my parties. Treat the president as you would a servant. He is, after all, a servant of the people—in name, at least."
"But what do I talk about? What's the agenda? What did you have in mind?"
"And I did have something in mind," said Rockwell. "Later this summer, Iraq will invade Kuwait. We've been planting the seeds of this for several years. All Saddam Hussein needs is a perception of American permission. He will be getting this within the next few months."
The older man motioned for Fuerza to take a seat in one of the chairs in the center of the room. Rockwell then took one facing the young man.
"President Bush already knows about the coming conflict. We've given him enough information about Kuwaiti aggression and the economic warfare against Iraq. We've even helped Kuwait drill on a slant into Iraq's Rumaila oil field, boosting their income while depleting Iraq's. And we've leaked information about this to the Iraqis. I've even met with the Kuwaiti ambassador's daughter. She's quite a young lady. She can sell the idea to Congress of America, helping the Kuwaiti victims of Iraqi aggression. I suggested incubator babies being left on the cold floor to evoke sufficient outrage."
"But that doesn't make sense. Why would Iraqi invaders do such a thing?"
"It doesn't have to make sense," replied Rockwell. "We're dealing with emotion—not logic. How many truly logical people do you know? Dozens?"
Fuerza shook his head. "Not even that." Then he nodded. "I see what you mean. Most people will react to the imagery, even if it is a lie."
"We're not exactly sure when we can expect Hussein to pull the trigger, but it will be sometime in mid-summer. I want Bush to give a speech to a joint session of Congress on September 11, 1990. This will be exactly 49 years—7 squared years—after the Pentagon groundbreaking ceremony. It's important that the president talk about a 'new world order' which will set the rule of law above the rule of the jungle. That's the key, here."
Fuerza nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir. And I've always been curious—Why a pentagon-shaped building?"
Rockwell chuckled comfortably. "Some think it's because the original site was shape somewhat like a pentagon, but that site was picked because we wanted it shaped that way. The aim had always been to get a pentagon. The reason is quite simple. There is real power in symbols. The five-pointed star, the pentagon, the obelisk called the Washington Monument, 9-1-1 the emergency number and more. But we'll talk more about that at a later time. For now, tell me about your own dreams and desires."
Chapter 3: Canon Fodder
After Fuerza got back from the White House, he moved into an upscale apartment not far from David Rockwell's residence. His parents were concerned that he had dropped out of college, but gratified that he already had such a high-paying job.
Over the next several weeks, Fuerza did not have much to do except to attend meetings, take notes, report back to Rockwell and to have many breakfasts, lunches and dinners with the banker turned philanthropist. During those meetings, Fuerza learned more and more about how the world really works. He learned, for instance, that President Bush, during his short stay as head of the CIA had helped to lay the groundwork for Russia to invade Afghanistan and for America to build a new group of freedom fighters known as Al Qaeda.
At one of those lunches, Fuerza received his next assignment.
The lunch happened to be at Rockwell's apartment.
They were more than half finished with their meal when Mr. Rockwell changed the tone of the conversation from one of casual chit chat to a form of instruction.
"Have you ever heard the term, 'cannon fodder'?" asked Rockwell.
Fuerza finished chewing, nodding. "Isn't that the padding used between the gunpowder
and the projectile?"
Rockwell smiled and shook his head. "No. You're thinking of wadding. Fodder is food for livestock. But in this instance, the men in battle are food for the cannon fire of the enemy. They are consumed by the cannons as if their lives had been tossed on some hopeless fire in order to achieve some strategic objective."
The young man nodded slowly. Though English was his second language, he was becoming an expert on its idioms. He was nearly as good as any native speaker.
"War," said Fuerza, "is a meat grinder."
"Very well put," replied Rockwell. The old man pushed his plate an inch away from him, daubed his mouth with his handkerchief and placed the cloth on the edge of the table. "We need cannon fodder for our crime of the century—" he waved his hand in an indistinct flutter, "and for other purposes."
"How can I help?" asked Fuerza.
"We've had a little bit of a snafu at the consulate in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia. We've been using that as a pipeline for Muslim trainees. Some boy scout named Springmann called attention to our efforts and attempted to stop the flow, but his contract was not renewed with the State Department. What I need from you is to go to Jeddah, find a way to talk to the current visa staff there to ensure the pipeline doesn't become clogged again. Don't reveal too much, but ensure they understand the importance of this effort."
Fuerza squirmed in his chair, looking at his plate as he spoke. "I take it, I need to use terms which are already common knowledge so they ultimately know nothing of our long-range plans."
"Very good, my young apprentice."
Chapter 4: Laying the Foundation
All the following year, Mario Fuerza did countless minor projects and errands for David Rockwell. The young Dominican already knew so much of the world that by December, he was not at all surprised when the Soviet Union dissolved itself. He knew that the American Military Industrial Complex would soon be hurting from the sudden end to the Cold War. Their poverty would motivate those corporations into more vigorous support of a new war build-up to come. But those corporations would have to wait nearly a decade before they could see the huge profits after which they lusted.