by Jeff S.
"But," said Fuerza, "won't the demolition look like a demolition? Won't the public recognize it for what it is?"
"Some will," said Rockwell. "but most will believe whatever we tell them to believe. Our polls have found the public-at-large to be quite non-critical in their thinking. Besides, the towers will have explosions pushing large chunks outward from the buildings, damaging other buildings nearby. Demolition rarely does that and is never planned to do that."
"Crime of the century," said Fuerza. "We're almost there."
"Yes, my friend."
Fuerza smiled at the word "friend." He was no longer an apprentice, but a friend of one of the most powerful men in the world.
Chapter 9: Military Compliance
As the elevator maintenance started in the Twin Towers in New York, Fuerza met with Defense Secretary Rumsfeld and Rockwell met with Vice President Cheney, each to discuss their roles on the big day.
In Rumsfeld's office in the Pentagon, the two men were alone together discussing the details.
"Let me see if I got this straight," said Rumsfeld. "You want me to change the rules of engagement in a couple of months so that all requests for response to hijacked planes go through me. Why?"
Fuerza chuckled then smiled, looking directly into the Defense Secretary's eyes. "So that you can ignore them."
"Huh!" Rumsfeld looked upward, toward the corner of his office, eyes unfocused. "But won't that look suspicious? Don't get me wrong. I'm happy to play my part, but I'll be damned if I'm going to play some patsy left hanging out to dry."
Fuerza shook his head. "Do you seriously think we would let a senior member of the administration take the fall? That would unravel the entire plan."
Rumsfeld blinked several times and squinted as he looked back at Fuerza.
"For instance," said the young man, "after the Pentagon collision and explosion, you will be seen helping move some of the injured by stretcher. A photo opportunity that shows how much you care."
"No, no, no, no. Leaving my post at a critical point in an attack will make me look worse, not better."
"Trust us, Mr. Secretary. Our surveys of public response show them to be too thick to understand the nuances of all this. They're simply not intelligent enough. They have the IQ, yes, but not the clarity of thought to make the connections. Your photo op will trigger all the right emotions which will cloud their critical thinking skills. We've tested this again and again."
Rumsfeld nodded cautiously. "Good. Anything else?"
We need you to have several dozen military exercises going on for that day, each with the express purpose of taking military response capabilities offline and out of the northeast corridor. Vice President Cheney will be overseeing these in the bunker underneath the White House."
Again, Rumsfeld nodded, this time more at ease.
"And here," Fuerza half stood to offer a thin folder of papers. "this is a list of all the boy scouts in the military command structure. We need to have these promoted, transferred, put on special assignment, forced into vacation on that day or retired over the next few months. Each one of them could cause problems in their current positions. The most important problem is the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs."
"Shelton?"
Fuerza nodded. "Perhaps you could set up some conference in Europe with NATO. We need him out of the country on 9/11. Shelton is a good man—too good. He won't play along. If any of the other officers who will be helping us have reservations or concerns, simply let them know that they will be receiving appropriate promotions for their complicity."
Rumsfeld started to laugh, reduced it to a worried smile, then cocked his head to the side, shaking it slightly in confusion. "Promotion for what some will certainly view as deadly incompetence in the performance of their duties? That's incredible. That's like jumping up and down on thin ice—asking for failure."
"My dear Secretary Rumsfeld," replied Fuerza, "when you grew up, critical thinking was still strong. People were able to see past labels like 'conspiracy,' but now people-at-large are docile sheep. Our media will pummel their minds with 'terrorists,' 'terrorism,' and similar terms to hypnotize them. And anyone who questions the official narrative will be labeled 'conspiracy nut.' Trust me. It will work. We've been at this for decades. People are inherently selfish. They won't want to rock the boat and jeopardize their jobs or their pensions."
Rumsfeld took a deep breath and nodded slowly. "I hope you're right."
Chapter 10: Taking Out the Trash
The phone rang. Mario Fuerza opened his eyes, blinking several times to shake loose the detritus of sleep. He glanced at his alarm clock as he reached for the phone. The large digits showed "1:04."
"Fuerza, here."
"Hello, Mr. Fuerza. I'm sorry to bother you this late, but I have a problem and wanted to make you aware of it before it became a bigger problem."
"Okay," replied Fuerza. "And this is?"
"Oh, yes. This is Jim Pierce. I'm—"
"Yes, managing director of Aon Corporation and President Bush's cousin. How can I help?" Fuerza sat up in bed, stretching his neck and shoulders.
Pierce hesitated, then answered, "We have several employees who are getting suspicious of some of our activities. If they go to the authorities, it could jeopardize more than our one operation."
"That's no problem," replied Fuerza. "If I remember correctly, your offices in the South Tower are on the hundred and fifth floor, right? Schedule a meeting. At the last minute, move the meeting to a different venue, but don't notify the troublesome employees. When the airplane hits, they will be dead."
"Okay," replied Pierce cautiously. "But what kind of justification—"
"Too many people were invited. The room in the tower is too small."
"Oh." Pierce hesitated again and said, "Right. Sorry to bother you."
"Look," said Fuerza, then chuckled. "Not many people know of this operation. All of them are sufficiently motivated and psychologically inclined to see this to its successful completion. Any problem you find, please let me know. We have to solve these problems before the big day. So, don't be sorry. I'm grateful you called."
"Good. Thanks."
Pierce hung up. Mario Fuerza smiled in the darkness of his room and listened to the silence.
He remembered a similar call several days earlier, though he had taken that call in the afternoon. Some employees at Marsh and McLennan, insurance brokers, were becoming suspicious of fraud and kickbacks. He had recommended a meeting for those troublesome employees, as well.
The big event would take on two more tasks—to take out the human trash.
"Too quiet," he whispered, listening to the room. Here he was thirty-one years old and alone. Perhaps he should find the right woman. "No," he said to himself. "That can wait until this is all over."
Chapter 11: Shell Game
"Our funding is in jeopardy, damn it," said Defense Secretary Rumsfeld.
Everyone in the room had their eyes locked on the secretary, including Mario Fuerza. This was another of the many meetings of carefully selected personnel who would know only a small part of the coming operation. Each group had their own reason for buying into the big event. For these people, the reason was the health of the American economy and the country's assured dominance in the coming century.
Dov Zakheim, the Pentagon's comptroller, spoke next. "Several government accountants are not buying our accounting practices. They're trying to track down missing funds. In one case, several billion."
"So," said Rumsfeld, "how do we nip this in the bud. How do we force this genie back into the bottle and force a stopper in that'll solve this?"
"Perhaps," said Fuerza, "we can cop to the problem, but cop to the largest possible crime. "If we can play along with the whistleblowers for a while longer, then announce on September 10 the big sin, then we defuse the entire problem. The big event buries the topic. Everyone will be looking at terrorists and forgiving the less glamorous financial problem."
"Okay," sa
id Rumsfeld, "what's the true figures? How much can we cop to?"
Zakheim fidgeted for a moment, opened his binder and scanned a few numbers, then said, "Well, for 2000, we have $2.3 trillion that we don't want to discuss. We want this amount to remain unaccounted for."
"Wow," said Rumsfeld. "Two-point-three trillion?" He shook his head and dropped it toward Zakheim. "Dollars?"
Zakheim nodded uneasily.
"Good God," replied Rumsfeld. "The American people are going to hear that and freak out."
"Not really," said Fuerza. "We've already surveyed this. People freak out when you mention missing millions. Their eyes glaze over when you talk about missing billions. And when you say missing trillions, their minds remain numb for several days. By that time, they've forgotten all about it. Saying 'trillions' is far easier to sell than any smaller amount. It's too big a number. People cannot wrap their minds around it."
"Really?" asked Rumsfeld.
"Not only that," said Fuerza, pointing directly at the Defense Secretary, "you mention it, yourself, at a news conference, it's carried by some outlets, but before it blows up the following day, our big event makes it obsolete."
"And what about any lingering evidence?" asked Rumsfeld.
"That's been taken care of, too," said Fuerza. "You've already approved the transfer of several groups of undesirables into the newly refurbished wedge of the Pentagon. That's where the drone will hit. All the evidence and just about everyone who knows anything about it will go up in smoke. So, there is not any problem, here. Evidence, whistleblowers—gone, or made insignificant."
"This sounds too good to be true," said Rumsfeld. "Too neat. Let's make sure there are no loose ends. I'll be damned if I'm going to have this blow up in our faces."
"I agree," said Fuerza. "Always a good strategy."
Chapter 12: Prepare for Clean-up
Fuerza did not meet with Mayor Rudy Giuliani of New York on September 4, the day after Labor Day, because he knew the mayor would be busy catching up from the long weekend. On September 5, he caught up with the mayor to discuss his upcoming role in the big event.
"Mr. Fuerza," said Giuliani. "Good to see you, again. And how is Mr. Rockwell?"
"He's doing well, Mr. Mayor." Fuerza took a seat in front of the mayor's desk. "About your upcoming role in the big event..."
"Yes, I was wondering when we were going to talk about that."
"We need you to start the clean-up operation on the evening of that day."
"What?" The mayor pushed back from his desk, frowning, squinting in disagreement. "That's a felony. Destruction of crime scene evidence. I can't do that."
"Mayor. Listen. Has there ever been a crime scene this big before?"
Giuliani thought for a moment and shook his head cautiously. "No."
"Everyone is going to be in shock. You will be helping to restore America. You will be the nation's hero for returning the city to some level of normalcy."
The mayor nodded thoughtfully, holding his hands together in front of his mouth. "Okay. I'll buy that. What about earlier in the day? Anything special?"
"Of course, you won't be able to use the emergency headquarters in building seven. We need to have everyone cleared out of there before mid-afternoon in order to bring it down."
"And why again are we bringing that building down?"
"A number of reasons. Some of our friends remain in hot water over the Securities and Exchange Commission investigations. All of that evidence will be destroyed in the building collapse. Also, we have several hundred billion in securities which need to be cleared. The backup evidence for those securities is in building seven. Destroying that will remove any possible questions investigators could ask."
"But how many people are going to die?"
"Don't get squeamish, mayor," said Fuerza. "You have to crack eggs to make an omelet."
Chapter 13: Talking Points
On the evening of September 10, Mario Fuerza met with L. Paul Bremer, Chairman of the National Commission on Terrorism.
"I understand, Mario," said Bremer, "but what I want to be clear about is how far do I go? How much do I reveal at only three hours after the attacks?"
"Okay, Jerry," Fuerza nodded firmly. "I understand your concerns, now. Certainly, we want to be tentative about Al Qaeda being the only suspects. But we need to portray certainty that they are in our list of top suspects. We need you to mention Bin Laden and the word 'Muslims.' We need you to include the words 'terrorists' and 'terrorism'."
"Good."
"These will help plant the seeds in the public mind that the Muslims did this and that we need to retaliate swiftly against the forces of evil in the Middle East."
"Fair enough. I can do that."
Chapter 14: Celebration
It was now the evening of September 11, 2001. The dinner at David Rockwell's apartment had been planned months in advance. Only a select group of eight people attended. Mario Fuerza felt privileged to be amongst such elite figures.
In ages to come, there would be some who might call their actions those of psychopaths—murder by those who knew the difference between right and wrong, but did not care. Such an assessment would be only half true. Of course these men care. They care about themselves, certainly. Who wouldn't? But they also care about the world-at-large. They have grown weary of perpetual wars. Some of them have become fabulously wealthy from wars, but still they would prefer to have a world of peace and tranquility.
The quiet dinner began with a toast from David Rockefeller, himself, now age 86. He tapped his fork lightly against his champagne glass and waited for his guests' conversations to subside.
"We've come so far, my friends," he said. "It is gratifying to be sharing this celebration dinner with you all. Before we are done, we will have much more blood on our hands, but then our grandchildren will know peace. Our dream is coming true. Soon, we will be rid of the useless eaters of the world. Humanity will celebrate a new era of prosperity and efficient productivity."
Everyone clapped and someone added, "Here, here."
"When I was born, not quite a century ago, the Great World War had started—later called World War I. Our great families made good use of that war, forcing the regime change in Russia, establishing the great socialist experiment, creating the future motivations for World War II, and making the world hungry for a centralized body of control. First, we had the League of Nations. Now, we have the United Nations. We also have the European Union and the beginnings of a North American Union.
"When we're done, the entire world will be one voice—one motivation. This crime of the century has made it all possible. Thank you all, and my sincerest thanks especially to my dear friend, Mario." He raised his champagne glass toward Mr. Fuerza.
COLLECTION IV
Chapter. 1
The body was still warm, melting a ring of snow around it, ice forming where it once was liquid. She moved the arm, picking it up to drop it on the ground, the joints creaking in response; rigor just about to set in. Giant snowflakes fell in a swarm, melting as it made contact with the skin. There were no leaves on the trees, leaving the forest dead and empty. The only footprints that were left behind were those that belonged to herself. She moved the snow around to cover her tracks as she backed away from the body, fresh snow covering her trail almost immediately, leaving no trace of her presence.
Her red gloves stuck to her skin, standing out against the black body suit that she wore. It was what they had given her to wear; save for the gloves, they were her own personal touch. She had her hair pulled away from her face and tucked tightly into her jacket. She could feel it against her back; the thick blonde hair hidden away so none could fall. She was an expert at concealing her presence; she had been doing it since she was in her teens.
The sun was just starting to rise above the horizon, marking the new day ahead. She had to leave before someone found her there. It was more work having to hide more than one body.
She pulled the picture from h
er pocket, the girls ashen face staring at her as though she was a fish ready to fry. She took the lighter from her pocket, burning the picture, the ashes standing out against the stark white of the snow. She didn’t need to check in to anyone; the burnt picture being all the proof she needed. Besides, if she didn’t report back at the end of the year they would hunt her down like the animal that she was.
She had gotten far enough away that she could no longer see the body, almost nearing the road. The dull sound of wheels on pavement bounced amongst the trees, signaling an oncoming car. She dove quickly behind a tree before the car could see her.
Once on the road again, she followed the tire treads of the car that had passed, listening intently for more cars coming around the bend. It took her only an hour to get back to her car; which sat at the park. She got in, changing into clothes suitable for running and then setting off on her daily routine to run five miles before her day started.
Eloise left her car at the park frequently to walk or take a bike home. She had learned that creating an unstable routine was best; no one questioned the strange things you did routinely. The other people in her apartment complex would have seen her return home without her car and then see her leaving early this morning to go for a run and retrieve her car. There were no cameras near the old park; something she relied on heavily. It was the perfect place to do her work.
Her charge was supposed to be dead weeks ago, yet something kept Eloise from killing the poor girl. She seemed genuine and harmless. Yet she knew better. That was the thinking that got a girl caught or, worse, killed by Them. The girl left to rot in the woods was part of the very same Organization that employed Eloise. She thought she could just leave; Of that, she was certainly wrong.