CHAPTER 51
Baltasar’s Rolls Royce Phantom eased to a stop by the Hudson River pier at the World Financial Center in downtown Manhattan. Little Lucia’s innocent smile, her tender curls, teased his mind. Perhaps he should have kept her. A child that age would quickly get over missing her mother and father. It wouldn’t be long before she accepted Baltasar as her real Dad. In the next few minutes, he would be well on his way to becoming the most powerful man on the planet. He would need a successor, one whom he could mold from a young age. And it was about time that a woman ruled the world. “Have you ever thought about having children, Rambo?”
“Yeah, that’s why I don’t have any,” Rambo answered, without a hint of mirth. The man was inscrutable.
Baltasar’s driver opened his door. The biting, howling wind sprang at him like a hungry beast from the water’s edge. He stepped out of the car, shrugged into his tuxedo jacket and straightened his bow tie. He scrutinized the mega-yacht at the far pier. It dwarfed the other yachts and pitiful sailboats in front of it. One hundred and eighty feet long and three, tapering stories high, its sleek lines looked more ominous than pretentious, something Captain Nemo might design if he wanted to terrorize the seas from the surface rather than below it. Mohammad El-qazar owned it, the shadow who controlled the finances of Saudi Arabia. He had named his ship The Flying Carpet.
“There they are, Rambo,” Baltasar said, “twenty of the most powerful people on Earth, in control of the most profitable corporations and, by rote, the twenty largest national economies around the globe. They call themselves the Alliance, but not since the gods of Mount Olympus has such a league of self-styled deities held so much hatred for their peers.” They moved like shadows in the backlight of the windows that encircled the massive lounge on the yacht’s main deck, and so they were. “They are the shadow G-20, the masters who pull the strings of the public G-20 finance ministers at the banquet tonight. They work to control the world through their huge conglomerates, from media monopolies to oil cartels, causing booms and busts, poverty and prosperity, war and peace.”
Rambo skirted around the rear of the Phantom and came to his side. “If I were them,” he said, nodding to The Flying Carpet, “I’d shoot you the minute you walked in.”
“That is why you, my dear Rambo, are not them,” he said. “They could have killed me with a single phone call, but their greed stopped them. They are trained not to leave money on the table, as they put it, at any deal. They thought I might still be useful to them.”
“They kicked you out,” said Rambo.
“They were afraid of my power,” he said. “I love power. But it is as an artist that I love it. I love it as a musician loves his violin, to draw out its sounds and chords and harmonies.”
“Nero?”
At least the man had recognized that what he just said was a quote. “Napoleon Bonaparte,” Baltasar corrected.
“Before or after he was exiled to Elba?”
“Rambo, they are not gods,” he said. “They only think they are. Indeed, they are quite vulnerable, as I shall show them.”
“So are you. One bullet to your brain, then dump your body right over the side wrapped in a spare anchor chain,” said Rambo. “No witnesses. Even the rats have gone into hiding.”
“Eerie, isn’t it?” He breathed in deeply. Despite the chill, a warmth tingled through his extremities. The streets were under a virtual martial law, emptied of all but the crazies and the cops. “It feels apocalyptic. I like it.”
Rambo dug his phone from his pocket, read the text. “Homeland Security,” Rambo said. “Christa Devlin is booked on the overnight flight to Phoenix. An FBI special agent is escorting her, badge said Neidemeyer. It’s got to be Fox.”
“For once my outrageous tax bill has gone to something useful,” he said. “Homeland Security should be granted extraordinary powers. It comes in very handy.”
“I got your private jet fueled and ready at Newark. I’ll catch Fox and Devlin, after I make sure you live through this.”
“Why, Rambo, I’m touched that you are concerned about my welfare.”
“I’m concerned about my wealth,” he said. “They kill you and our scheme is dead in the water.”
Baltasar grinned at the play of words. Perhaps his friend had a sense of humor after all. “They will not kill their savior,” he said. “No, my dear Rambo, you need to go after the gemstones. I’m counting on you for that.”
“I’d feel better if I rode shotgun on this one. Nobody the wiser. Anyone with a uniform and a gun is tamping down the riots and fights. They’re conveniently overwhelmed, with all the NYPD, FBI and Homeland Security guys we got manning the perimeter around the United Nations and Trump World Tower in response to the threat against the G-20 banquet.”
“Pity the Lux et Veritas sword won’t be presented. It was a masterful piece.”
“It made its point,” said Rambo, straight-faced, but pausing for effect. “You wanted quiet down here tonight. You got it.”
“If only they knew the true threat was gathering aboard that yacht just there.” The silhouettes moved in a kind of shadow play across the yacht’s windows.
“There’s more wealth in that yacht than in the Federal Reserve down the street.”
“And so much more ready for a substantial withdrawal,” said Baltasar.
“I still don’t see the need to get those damn stones.”
“Trust me, Rambo. Victory depends on it. You get the stones for me, you’ll get your riches, enough to start three of your mercenary armies, wage your own war against terror,” he snugged the cuff of his glove, “and win it. So do refrain from killing Devlin and Fox until you’ve acquired the stones in their possession.”
Baltasar started down the pier, alone, carrying only his laptop under his arm. He sensed the reptilian eyes of snipers who had trained their sights on him. The armed guards lurking in the glow of the instruments of the control room crowning the topmost deck had no doubt alerted the shadow G-20 below to his presence. They could very well be scanning him for bombs and weapons with prototype gadgetry. But something else was targeting him, even more sinister.
He adjusted his bow tie. He had been preparing for this moment for years, but he hadn’t anticipated the specter of dread that hissed at him from above. It was though a dark menace had swooped down from the storm and attached its claws to his shoulders, its cold, stinking breath blowing away glory and replacing it with fear. He had to use that fear to strengthen his resolve. He had to be ready to cross the threshold to his new empire. No more would these industry barons toss him away like an easily discarded knight. Tonight, he would teach them that he was the chess master.
CHAPTER 52
Baltasar stepped aboard the The Flying Carpet yacht, at the stern, the luxurious expanse of the rear deck in front of him, leading to the aft doors of the main lounge. The 20-person Jacuzzi had been covered, the teak chairs cleared away. The gusts whipped around the half-moon mahogany wet bar with its gold-plated rail, a nod to the sheik’s guests who imbibed alcohol.
As Baltasar neared the lounge, he could more clearly hear the argument from within. One of the sheik’s infamous Black Guard manned the lounge door. An ignorant visitor might think of the Black Guard as a piece of theater, his dark skin clothed in flowing black headdress and robe, a scimitar sheathed at his hip. Baltasar knew the men could kill him instantly with a mere two fingers if commanded to do so. The sheik, like his Moroccan predecessors, flaunted his power over these descendants of slaves from sub-Sahara Africa, relying on their fierce loyalty and lack of tribal bonds.
The guard uncrossed his massive arms from his chest. He checked Baltasar’s laptop, turned it on to make sure it wasn’t a bomb. For a moment, he narrowed his eyes, as if sizing up Baltasar’s head to be sliced off by his scimitar. Instead, he returned the computer and opened the door, his hand huge on the gold-plated handle.
Baltasar smiled. The shadow G-20 had received his email and believed it. He crossed the thres
hold into a masterwork of Moorish design. Traditional teak paneling had been redesigned into intricately carved arches. On the far wall, a fountain, tiled with geometric patterns of blue and white, spouted water from the mouth of a bronze lion’s head. The ceiling was festooned with golden and red striped silk draperies, that billowed to the corners, then fell voluminously to the floor. They lent the air of a sheik’s palatial tent. A man in a white kaftan sat cross-legged in the corner playing the tear-dropped shaped guitar known as an oud. Baltasar thought the evocative music beautiful, strumming into the room the history of a powerful people, a power and beauty that would soon be his to wield.
Baltasar met head-on the glares of the usual suspects, nineteen men and one woman, gathered around in conspiratorial groups of three or four, standing with Scotches in hand or sitting stiffly on the overstuffed divans. Every detail in their clothing, from silk shirt to diamond cufflink, was custom-made with intimidation, not fashion, in mind.
The Arab stepped forward, his white robes flowing around his sandaled feet. “Welcome to my humble accommodations,” said the sheik, as always bowing to his tradition of hospitality. He gestured to the young man balancing four flutes of effervescing Veuve Clicquot on a silver tray. Baltasar watched the servant, eyes downcast, approach. Admiring the man’s bronze complexion through the golden champagne, he lifted a flute. The Arab shooed the servant away. Without a sound, the bartender, waiters and musician left the lounge. “Now, Baltasar Contreras, you have one minute to convince me not to have your head sliced off.” He slashed his finger dramatically across his throat. Really, the man should have been a movie actor. Baltasar almost laughed at the irony of the situation.
Baltasar raised his flute in a toast. “All we need is the right major crisis and the nations will accept the New World Order.” He paused for effect. “These are not my words. They are the words that David Rockefeller spoke here in New York before the United Nations business council in 2004. The world is on the threshold of that major crisis. My international network is poised to deploy a new weapon of mass destruction, a poison that can easily contaminate a water system. It has a kill rate of ninety percent.” He sipped the champagne, savoring the liquid crafted to be dry.
“You lying son of a bitch,” drawled the Texan, his nemesis, who had led the charge to exile him from their mighty Alliance. “Kill Contreras now. He’s all hat, bluffing, that is. If he uses this bio-weapon, he’s as dead financially as we are.”
“Unless I had the only antidote,” said Baltasar. Implied pretext was so much more effective than outright lies. “You rallied the group to kick me out and take my place. You made them fear that my ambitions would usurp their goals. Congratulations, you were right, Tex.” He savored saying the nickname. Everyone in the room knew that it enraged the Texan. “Two years ago, when you so foolishly forced me out, I convinced the United States government, under the auspices of the Homeland Security Department, to contract with NewWorld Pharmaceuticals to develop a doomsday scenario incorporating a drug or poison that could infect a water supply.” He sipped the champagne. “Paranoia, I discovered, is immensely profitable. The irony is that it was the Treasury department head whom you, Tex, allegedly control, who arranged funding for the contract.”
The other men were eyeing the Texan with ill-concealed rage. “Your threat about this poison cannot be true, Baltasar,” said the Frenchman, the one titan who had argued against expelling him from the group. “It will ruin all of us.”
“You know it is true, mon ami” said Baltasar. “You all have read the information that I emailed to you earlier today. You have seen the streets of New York this afternoon. My man released the poison into the water system here in the New York City and in Princeton, New Jersey, as an example, so you would believe. Within hours, the poison incites extreme paranoia, in its early stages, followed by aggression and a violent madness. The fights, riots and murders will escalate. Those who are not killed by others will fall into comas and die within seven days.”
He paused for effect, let that sink in. By the blanching of their faces and downing of their drinks, it had.
“It is late,” Baltasar pressed on. “The markets are closed for the weekend. What would happen if this crisis hit New York on a weekday? What if hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers suddenly fell ill, with an incurable ailment with a high fatality rate? What if traders and financial industries in Manhattan had to close their doors?”
“Financial catastrophe,” muttered the German.
“Markets around the world would collapse,” added the Dutchman.
“Even the threat of such a disaster would send the developed world into a financial decline that would spiral out of control,” said the woman from Moscow.
The German downed his Scotch. “How much,” he snarled, “to stop this insanity before the markets open?”
Baltasar watched in satisfaction as they all turned to him. That’s what he loved about this group. They made decisions quickly and conclusively. “I have another obligation to attend to,” he said. “The instructions and amounts are in this computer. You will see the sums are quite reasonable, no more than the budget of a developing nation. I’ll expect the money wired into my Swiss bank accounts by midnight tonight.”
“I, for one, will not pay into this protection racket,” the Texan drawled. He made a move to leave, but didn’t.
“But you are getting far more than protection,” said Baltasar, to the group.
“We want the antidote,” said the Arab, “as part of the deal.”
Baltasar smiled. He was expecting this. “I will sell to you not only the antidote, but the poison, a weapon of mass destruction for which you will own the only defense. Fear not, my friends, you will continue to be a master of the new world order, but only if you play your next move wisely. If not, then I will rebuild my empire the Biblical way, from what little is left of the world in ruins.”
CHAPTER 53
When Christa rang the doorbell of the Donohue home, she expected the Colonel, decked out in black ops uniform and armed with some macho machine gun, to thrust open the door. Instead, Daniel, all eyeglasses and corduroy blazer, greeted her. The world had been truly turned on its end. So what the hell, she hugged him, tight. He kissed her. She let him. “Percival told me what you did for Lucia,” she said, without releasing her embrace.
“I made sure Lucia is safe,” he said, “with Helen. Donohue has got a man guarding them and one at the clinic with Liam.”
Braydon advanced over the threshold. “Brilliant move of yours, Dubler,” he said. “Tripping that booby trap beneath Saint Patrick’s, getting yourself kidnapped so you could save Lucia.”
Daniel tensed and pursed his lips, searching for a response and coming up empty.
“Thank you, Daniel,” Christa said. She wasn’t sure why, but she kissed him, again, even though her thoughts were on Braydon. She released him and followed the sound of voices to Donohue’s library. Braydon, following behind her, shoulder bumped Daniel out of his way, on purpose.
Donohue’s library was about the same size as Percival’s, with the same dark paneling, but that’s where the similarity ended. A big screen television commanded the far wall, next to a wet bar braced with a platoon of liquor bottles. A billiards table took up most of the floor space, fronted by a phalanx of manly sized recliners and couches. The air smelled of stale cigar smoke and whiskey.
She crossed the room, embraced Percival and, much to his chagrin, Donohue. He was wearing a soft flannel shirt, not a flak jacket. The colonel patted her back awkwardly. “Grab a sandwich,” he said. “Percival and I are just reviewing the last details on Colombia. The veggie one is on whole wheat.”
A plate of Dagwood sandwiches, a second dish of home-baked cookies and a carafe of coffee showed that the elusive Eleanor Donohue’s instincts as a military wife had kicked in, but the thought of providing for her vegetarianism went beyond the call of duty. She picked it up, gratefully. Grilled eggplant had never tasted so good. It felt great
to be alive, still.
She half listened to the men’s plans of Blackhawk helicopters and strike forces, Braydon asking questions while refueling with roast beef, Daniel pretending to understand. From the laptop they’d confiscated from Contreras’s orangery, they knew that Contreras’s men had kidnapped Gabriella. Percival was determined to leave as soon as possible to rescue her, which, Donohue insisted, they could only accomplish using brute force. Braydon argued against it, too many potential civilian casualties. Their voices raised, she hoped the two men wouldn’t resort to using brute force against each other. The thought kept knocking in her brain. Daniel could be right, to work with Contreras, not try to battle a man with generations of planning and a worldwide network.
She had nothing to add to the talk of P-90 machine guns and C-4 explosives. Instead she honed in on the bookcase by the fireplace. It was filled with photos of a boy, as a cub scout, dressed as a pilgrim for a Thanksgiving play, receiving his high school diploma, in full dress uniform in front of the chapel at West Point. It was Clive, Donohue’s only son, who had been killed in Iraq. Trophies, from the Pinewood Derby, MVP football player, the Chess Club, filled another shelf. On an upper shelf, an American flag, folded into a perfect triangle, was encased in its own glass case. The shelf above that was empty, as if saved for a future that never came, no wedding photo, no grandson in his arms.
She blinked, her cheeks suddenly hot. The sandwich turned pasty in her mouth. Tears filled her eyes. What an idiot. She didn’t even know the boy.
“My wife heard us talking about the Breastplate.” It was Donohue. She jumped, nearly dropped her sandwich plate. He had come up so silently behind her. “She’s got it in her head that if we can restore it, we can make sure Clive is okay, maybe even talk to him again.” He sighed heavily. “Only one thing on this Earth doesn’t die, and that’s a mother’s love.”
The Seventh Stone Page 33