The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs occupied the seventieth through seventy-sixth floors of the Iron Gate building, as well as two apartment suites underneath for visiting dignitaries, and a fine penthouse for the senior partner on the building’s top floor. But the elevators from the main lobby didn’t rise to the firm’s office suites, at least not without the proper security code. The sixty-ninth floor was as high as the general public could go.

  On the surface, it might have seemed odd that they did not make themselves more accessible. But the last thing the firm wanted was to be readily available.

  Though certainly the wealthiest and most successful 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 need 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 two former U.S. 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 presidents who sat on the executive board. The just-retired Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had recently 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 he was worthy), he might be offered partner. If the senior members liked him. Maybe. One day.

  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 basically meaningless. What motivated them now was not money but power—the ability to influence the events of the world. The ability to call virtually 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 said. Power was their heroin. Power was their meth. It was 100 percent addictive, 100 percent pure. And over the years, each of the partners had learned one vital truth: Power could drive a man to do things he would not ordinarily do. It could change him. Distort him. It made him different inside, altered 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 as nothing else could.

  Despite the high profile of their previous jobs, 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 the term turnover meant. Danbert, Lexel, Taylor and Driggs was one 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, an eerie movement underfoot, 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 racked 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 raw 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 now seen frequently. 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 punched in the 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 appointed 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 tum
ble 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, then he looked up at the prince. 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 any more.

  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, back to the Fathers, those who had introduced so many evils into the world.

  The Saudi hesitated, then sipped his hot coffee from an exquisite Spode cup, a single piece of china worth more than most Americans would make in a year. Though the coffee was black and sweetened with eight cubes of sugar, it certainly wasn’t his chai that he loved so much, and he considered it 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, 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 were I you, I would anticipate the market and make adjustments now.”

  Danbert thought quickly. The firm held much of each partner’s wealth in a series of privately managed investment portfolios. These funds contained five, maybe six hundred million in properties along the east coast, and another quarter billion of assets between San Diego and Marin County on the north side of the San Francisco Bay. 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 billion. It was difficult to estimate.

  And he had to dump it. Dump it now. Dump as much as he could.

  “But we can’ t . . . we can’t just . . . ” his voice stuttered and he paused, then started again. “Look, Imad, we can’t dump it all. It is impossible! Not in two weeks. Not in secret. I’d have the SEC camped out in my office! Investigators! The press. We don’t want that kind of attention. We don’t want any attention at all. Think of what you are saying. We dump a billion dollars’ worth 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, 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, 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, Prince Abdullah, is holding . . . what, fifteen or twenty billion 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 and deep and cold as glacier ice. The prince watched the panicked American, 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 dripped the American’s name now. There was no pretense to their relationship anymore. He spoke for Prince Abdullah, 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, then caught a quick breath, his face falling like a mask into a horrible frown. He shuddered. “No,” he mumbled feebly. “You never said over here!”

  “We lied to you, Drexel. What more can we say?”

  “That was never our agreement. That was not a part of the plan!”

  “The plan has changed, Drexel. You will have to adapt. 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? We think not, Drexel, we think not. The U.S. was always our target. And you can plead naivete 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, his face turning as gray as the dark clouds outside. “You

  said . . . ” he was mumbling, barely able to speak. “You said you were going to move against Israel. You would use the weapons in Gaza. You said nothing of this.”

  “Yes, we said all of that. And it was our original plan. But as I said, we realize now that we have to move against your country too. It has grown too bold, too ambitious, long-armed and powerful. Things have changed over the past few years, and we realize the U.S. is too strong. Democracies are rising, sprouting all over the world, 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 cancers before it’s too late.

  In order to do that, we’ve got to take down your country. Once we have forced it to turn inward, to focus on its own problems, we can do what we want.”

  Drexel fell silent, his brow wet with sweat. “You lied to me,” he stammered, repeating it over and over again.

  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 now, leaving him 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 pi
ts along the cheekbones that lined his deep eyes. Drexel stared at his aged hands, forcing himself to settle down, then leaned across his desk and picked up his cigarettes. He was at two packs a day. 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 smoke from the thin package using only his lips, sat back and lit up, and drew in a long drag.

  They were about to unleash a very evil genie indeed. 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 to come, a firestorm of their making, a firestorm they controlled.

  He pulled another drag, feeling the bitter smoke fill his lungs. He got a sudden buzz and leaned forward on his desk.

  The war was upon him.

  But the U.S. was going to fight back. His people wouldn’t just lie there and let the ashes of history be heaped on their graves. He knew that, he knew them, the Arab propaganda decrying their weakness and decadence aside. Yes, they had grown spoiled and immoral, but the entire world had! Who hadn’t turned rotten? Who wasn’t decadent? Was there a single nation on this earth that wasn’t as weak as brown pulp!

  No. They were all weak. There were no heroes anymore.

  Still, the Saudi prince and his brothers were underestimating his countrymen. It didn’t matter how much they paid him, he couldn’t change that. The U.S. was going to fight them. They would fight for their lives.

  And the U.S. could be a junkyard dog when it came time to fight. Dirty. Merciless. A nightmare that chased its enemies through every storm and dark night. Its people could be ruthless and efficient when they made up their minds.