“Yes, it’s been worrying me, too,” the admiral said. “At first I believed that we could expect each of our recruits to produce the tools we needed out of their own resources. It appears I was mistaken. Before we can begin, we’ll need money—a lot of it! Besides the lorries you mentioned, Anne, I envision the rental or purchase of a small aircraft. And of course we’ll need our logistics men or team—the Operations Branch, if you will. Even if they’re volunteers, as we are, they’ll be required to travel, buy stuff and all kinds of other things that cost money. My initial estimate is in the millions—whether pounds, euros or dollars. Where do we find that kind of money?”
Sir Cedric added: “And we’ll need a place to manufacture the various fittings and other accessories that will probably be required for optimal functioning of our tools. We’ll need to prepare dummy targets and test environments, packaging, techniques for concealing or camouflaging our tools so that they may be carried around or across borders. I have no doubt we’ll need a well-equipped workshop and, possibly, a laboratory for all that. That, too, will cost a lot of money.”
“We need to recruit a financier,” muttered Anne. Out loud, she said, “Does anyone have a millionaire as a close friend? Preferably a billionaire?”
“Well, I could try approaching Neil Bennett,” the admiral said hesitantly. “I once knew him, a long time ago. He must be around ninety now, and he’s supposed to be worth billions. He began his way in the business world by buying up derelict pieces of military equipment left on the battlegrounds after the Second World War. He paid peanuts for them—sometimes even nothing, they were so glad to have him cart the stuff away—under the heading of scrap iron. There were others who took similar initiatives, but I don’t know what became of them. Anyway, Bennett invested in oil and the like and became one of the wealthiest men on earth. If he’s still alive—I haven’t heard about him for years—I’ll try to contact him and hope for the best.”
“Good,” Anne said. “However, we cannot rely on just one possible candidate. I trust you’ll give this some thought and come up with a couple of filthy-rich prospects. And please, find a solution for our ‘Operations Manager.’”
Actually, Anne’s thoughts were already churning on the prospect of the Operations Manager. She could already imagine an Op Team able to arrive at any location, plant devices, disrupt the tyrants’ intentions, and so forth. Very special qualifications were necessary. They could not be like the current board, two elderly men and a woman—they would need to belong to another breed of humanity. And what about integrity and loyalty? And they’ll cost money as well—young men need to be paid.
She didn’t notice the others watching her. So when the admiral suddenly cleared his throat, she started and returned to reality.
“My apologies, gentlemen,” she said. “I was thinking about our operations problem. I think we’ll need to pay our operatives. And that brings us back to the financing issue. Oh! …” She let out a little gasp.
They continued to watch her silently.
“… It just occurred to me … I mean, perhaps … oh, hell—I just met a relative of mine. He’s my second cousin, Martin Cooper. I was Anne Cooper, too, before I was married. He’s a retired major who fought in Iraq in 1991 during the First Gulf War. He led a commando unit and was decorated for bravery. He runs a fitness gym here in London. His staff is made up of the soldiers who fought in his unit, and he claims they are as loyal to him today as they were then. I just remembered he commented quite accusingly about the helplessness of the United Nations during a news broadcast at our café. What do you think? Shall I try to recruit him?”
Sir Cedric raised his eyebrows.
“What do you think, Patrick?”
“Couldn’t do any harm. Check him out, Anne.”
TWELVE
Lucien must be keeping Tanya quite busy nowadays, thought Anne. A young man in the prime of sexuality could go on and on the entire night, every night! And Tanya, at twice his age, is probably stumbling around in a blissful daze. She’s quite compulsive about sex. Could I be missing something? I doubt it….
Tanya had not called for over a week, since her last visit. Anne thanked her lucky stars for this—she was far too busy for socializing at the moment. She tried to imagine herself in bed with a young stud whose only aim was to satisfy her carnal needs. The fantasy vanished as she told herself she had no carnal needs.
The top item on her non-official agenda was to sound out Martin Cooper as the association’s Operations Manager. She called him from her flat in Paris.
“Annie!” Martin was genuinely pleased to hear her. “I tried to call you a couple of times. When and where can we meet again? Paris? London? Dinner?”
Anne felt a thrill rush through her. Perhaps I should have called him earlier, she thought.
“I’ll be visiting my children and my parents in Reading over the next weekend, Martin. I see them so infrequently that I’ve got to dedicate all that time to them. But I could extend my visit by a day. If you’re free on Monday, I’d like to accept your invitation. But let’s make it lunch, shall we? I’ve got to be back in Paris that evening.”
“Fantastic!” Martin said. “How about I drop by your parent’s place a bit before noon and drive you back to London to show you around my gym? Then we’ll enjoy a right royal luncheon. Okay? It’ll also give me the opportunity to see your parents again after such a long period and, of course, to make the acquaintance of your children.”
Anne managed to blurt out “It’s a date,” and slammed down the telephone before her voice gave her away. Her heart was pounding and her breath came in gasps. Am I going mad? she asked herself. It’s just another lunch appointment in which I’ll see if he’s a suitable candidate for Operations Manager. I’ve had countless dates with men before, so why this sudden excitement? Just because I like Martin more than the others doesn’t mean I need an oxygen tank now! I’m probably still fantasizing myself in Tanya’s role….
The weekend in Reading was as if taken from a storybook. Guy and Julie, now sixteen and fourteen respectively, pranced around her like puppies. Her parents showered attention on her and made sure she had every comfort she needed. They all went on a picnic on Sunday, and in the evenings they discussed school and played board games. When the children went to bed, she and her parents caught up with all the little details that parents always want to know. When she told them about Martin they were eager to renew their acquaintance with him.
Anne had difficulty sleeping during her last night in Reading. Her thoughts kept returning to her date with Martin the next day. She found herself impatient, like a child trying to prophesy her birthday presents. But most disturbing of all was the fact that it wasn’t her recruiting mission she was thinking of.
This is really silly. It was a spontaneous kiss on the cheek between two distant relatives meeting after a long interim. Perfectly natural. And tomorrow, when he comes here? Should we kiss again? Oh, heck, it’s of no importance. Let things happen any way they will. She turned on her side, but sleep still eluded her. That future virtual kiss continued to bother her.
Next morning Anne felt alive and vibrant. She had eventually fallen asleep and no dreams tormented her. She took particular care to look her best, paying special attention to her dress, her makeup, and her hair. And she knew too well that this was not for the benefit of her family, but because she was going to meet a man.
Martin arrived and parked his sports car in the driveway. When Anne saw him stride toward her, tall and handsome, she decided she’d give him a kiss—and the hell with spontaneity. She had kissed very few people since Raoul died—her parents and children, of course, and Tanya sometimes—but these didn’t really count. Gilbert and the two or three other “little flings” of hers were never really meaningful—just a mechanical act that went with a futile attempt at sex. Now she felt differently. For the first time since she was widowed she wanted that kiss.
He walked briskly up to Anne and they shared a hug and kisse
d each other on the cheek. Then Martin embraced Anne’s mother and shook hands warmly with her father.
“It’s so good to see you both again, Professor Cooper, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “You’re both looking so well. I regret that we won’t be able to stay for long—Annie and I have a full agenda in London.”
They discussed old times, and Martin conveyed his parents’ regards and invited the Reading Coopers to visit them. Both the Cooper families really had no idea why they had drifted apart for so long—it had just happened—but they promised they would do all they could to rectify the matter. Martin assisted Anne in loading her luggage into his car, they waved goodbye and departed for the capital.
The conversation during most of the ride to London mainly concerned the family. Martin wanted to know everything about them, and how Anne had spent her weekend. Anne told him about the children’s school achievements, how Guy wanted a military career, as his father had done, how he was still deliberating between joining the British or the French Army. And Julie wanted to follow in her mother’s footsteps and become an expert in some academic subject. Not history, however—perhaps psychology.
Then Martin told her that after being decommissioned from the army, his five subordinates stated as one: “We’ll follow you anywhere you go!”
“I felt an obligation to take care of them. I got the idea of opening a civilian shooting range—something I thought was suitable for ex-soldiers. Our customers would learn how to handle firearms and practice shooting at stationary and moving targets. We found a building that was once owned by a now-defunct company and leased it. It didn’t take long to discover that the building was far too large for its purpose, and one of the lads, George, who used to work out in a gym, suggested we add workout facilities as well. We did, and we now have a thriving business.”
The car turned the last corner and braked. “Here we are—‘trim and fit’ at your service.”
As they walked in, Anne saw a few people working at bodybuilding machines, and others resting on benches near the walls. The trainers gathered round Anne and Martin, who led them into his office.
“Boys, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Professor Anne Dupré,” he announced. One by one they grinned and shook Anne’s hand while Martin called out their names: George Graham, Philip Brown, Spencer Partridge, Bernard Webb and John Carmichael.
The “boys” took turns—in accordance with their availability—in introducing Anne to the tricks of the trade, explaining how each device functioned and the health benefits to be achieved. Anne enjoyed trying her hand at operating some of the machines. Then she was led to the more “prestigious” part of the enterprise—the firing range. She found that things were not that simple: before arriving at the range itself she had to pass through the classrooms and practice the correct procedures. She saw how a customer would have to learn to handle his weapon, take it apart, clean and reassemble it, and then load and unload ammunition into it. As if that was not enough, he also had to practice various shooting positions—only then could he enter the firing range.
Anne was taken there and earmuffs were put on her head. A pistol was put in her hand, a target pointed out, and Anne emptied an entire magazine into it. The results were surprisingly good, much to everyone’s delight, considering the fact that Anne had never before held a firearm.
Anne found Martin’s lads, as she now called them, to be quite charming—both in appearance and in their manner toward her.
It was close to lunchtime, so she bid the team farewell and allowed Martin to steer her out of the gym. He drove her to a fashionable restaurant and ordered lunch for both. Anne was enjoying herself so much that she almost forgot that she was on a recruiting mission.
Delicately, as if by the way, she began probing Martin’s opinions on world affairs. She knew the man facing her at the table was a hardened Special Forces major, but even so she had not expected so vehement a reaction.
“From what I see around me,” he said seriously, “the world is committing suicide! I see no hope at all for its salvation. Humankind is composed of pathetic half-wits! Their leaders are cowards and idiots. They have padded themselves with these so-called ‘humane’ laws that tie their own hands, and they’ll pretty damn soon bring about the destruction of civilization as we know it. They provide ‘humanitarian’ aid to the megalomaniac dictator of North Korea in order to make him stop developing nuclear weapons. Now he can feed his starving people and still continue with his nuclear development. And take Iran … oh, what’s the use! It’s hopeless.”
“Those are pretty strong words, Martin,” Anne said softly, glancing at him over her wine glass.
“I’m sorry, Annie.” Martin composed himself. “I don’t usually have these outbursts. It seems you’ve touched a raw nerve. I’ve seen dreadful things in battle, and I can easily declare that most could have been avoided by the leadership taking the proper steps long beforehand. Which they could have done, but didn’t! And, I’m afraid, they won’t in the future either.”
“It couldn’t be that bad, Martin.” Anne appeared to try to soothe him, but she really wanted to be absolutely convinced he was the right man for the association.
He looked into her eyes and took her hands in his.
“Annie, I’m not at all sure that any of our generation will die a normal death, in our beds.” He paused, then let go of her hands. “Did I shock you?”
“Not really,” Anne said. “Apparently there are quite a lot of people who think the way you do.” She grinned at him. “I, for one. I’ve often asked myself if there was any way in which these dictators could be stopped. Without, of course, shedding blood.”
“Can’t think of any such way. You’re the historian—has anything like that ever happened?”
“Oh, definitely. Kings and emperors were often intimidated into reversing their opinions or decrees—even to abdication or suicide in the face of failure. But these were all low-scale compared to what we’re up against now. I was thinking of embarrassing today’s dictators—make them lose face, lose their confidence, become the laughing stock of their nation. If you were approached to help in such a cause, would you lend a hand?”
“That goes without saying. But no government would even consider going into such enormous research and expenses. And no government could ever keep it a secret, and without absolute secrecy this kind of venture is doomed to failure.”
“Ah, yes—a very valid point, Martin. But if there were a private organization undertaking this ‘venture,’ as you call it—would you still consider joining it?”
Anne continued the conversation, adhering to the recruiting rules the admiral had lain out. It didn’t take long to get Martin’s commitment.
“And I am authorized,” she concluded, “to offer you the role of Operations Manager. I sincerely hope you will accept.”
“What operations?” he asked.
Anne summarized their current need for testing newly invented chemical substances. Later, reconnaissance of the target countries would also be called for. And who knows what more besides.
Martin gazed silently into his wine glass for a few moments.
“Are you intending to commit sabotage within those countries?”
“We’re not an army,” Anne replied. “Neither are we a militant underground movement. The furthest thing on our minds is to handle explosives or weaponry, or to conduct guerilla activities inside dictatorships. We don’t even intend to make use of the spoken or written word—I mean, we won’t be doing any propaganda. Larger and more powerful instances than ourselves have tried those methods and failed. We want to make the dictators themselves appear ridiculous, to make them a mockery, to shame them in public. We want to divest them of their proud self-image and have their own people see them in their ignominy. We strive to make them fail in their ambitious projects in ways that will leave the people doubting their military powers and their authority. And, we hope, all this will result in minimizing their belligerent activities, thereby reducing the
danger to the world. They would have to change their foreign policies and give up their megalomaniac aspirations.”
“And just how will you accomplish this?”
She smiled at him.
“You’re not the only recruit, you know. We’ve managed to hook a couple of very clever scientists, who are developing, umm … let’s call them ‘tools’ or ‘devices’ or ‘technological means’ by which speeches, military parades, and weaponry testing may be disrupted.”
“For instance?”
“Well, let me try to give you an illustration. Imagine a despot about to address hundreds of thousands of his followers assembled in the capital’s central square and along the route of a grand military parade. Imagine that suddenly the public address system emits an ear-splitting screech causing the public to cover their heads and disperse. Imagine the soldiers stumbling about as if intoxicated, and that the vehicles and tanks are suddenly non-functional and grind to a halt. Now what do you suppose will follow? Would the tyrant take his own life? And if not, after lopping off the heads of ‘those responsible,’ would he change course? I’m no prophet, but I think I can safely say that our embarrassed dictator will probably arrive at some far-reaching conclusions. His arrogance will be greatly compromised.” Anne searched Martin’s face for a reaction.
He thought for a minute.
“And your people are developing these options?”
“That’s right. Some of the stuff needs testing—others are still being developed and will need handling later.”
Global Conspiracy Page 8