(R)evolution (Phoenix Horizon Book 1)

by PJ Manney

  “Yeah.”

  “Lucky duck. So . . . biotech . . . as a biologist . . . no, you’re probably one of those interdisciplinary guys, like a biochemist or a biophysicist or something . . .”

  He nodded. “Bioengineer.”

  “And what does a bioengineer like you do?”

  “I can’t discuss any details, but it involves a machine to decode and recode thought patterns. So I know a lot about how the brain works. And why ESP doesn’t exist.”

  “You need multiple, double-blind experiments that confirm the same findings before you’ll believe anything exists. I’m guessing angels are out.”

  He laughed in relief. “Damn straight.”

  “Then you must be missing out on an awful lot of reality because they haven’t proven it exists yet to your satisfaction. Is it really acceptable to discount millions of people’s personal experiences if they haven’t been reproduced in a laboratory?”

  “Yes, because unfortunately, the brain isn’t a recorder to record reality. It tries to make sense of it, even if the input is completely random or, in some cases, doesn’t exist. Déjà vu, synchronicity, telepathy, clairvoyance, are all the brain’s attempt to make sense of chaos after the fact. You only think it happened before the fact because your brain needs to think so.”

  “And you have proof you’re correct?”

  “To be fair, no. It’s impossible to disprove anything. But there’s enough neuroscience research to build an adequate case for my hypothesis, in my opinion.”

  She recrossed her legs toward Peter. Her skirt slipped higher, garters peeking out. “Well, as long as it’s enough proof to make you happy. It’s going to take an awful lot of proof to convince me that I didn’t experience what I think I experienced. Because what else do we have but experience?”

  The way she said “experience” made him think not of the supernatural, but of something sensuous, tactile, naked. And involving a bed. More sweat surged out, and he twisted away in discomfort. A stranger might have a little flirt in a cab on a snowy day, but this woman was aggressively seducing him. His neck hairs stood up from fear, not attraction. The hotel loomed ahead, and he grabbed his wallet. She thanked him for paying.

  Jackrabbiting from the cab, he helped her out of the seat and onto the icy pavement. She took his hand and locked eyes, not letting go when he slammed the door behind her.

  “Would you like to continue our conversation somewhere private?” she asked. Apparently, more than scientific inquiry would be involved.

  “Uh . . . mmmm . . . that’s . . . a really . . . generous offer. I’m flattered . . . but, no, thank you. I’m . . . I’m very happily married, and my wife is upstairs waiting for me.” He tried to shake off her hand, but she wouldn’t let go. “Right now.”

  “By the way, I’m Angie Sternwood.”

  “Peter Bernhardt.” It slipped out before he could stop it.

  His name registered no pariah reaction in her face. Her full red lips made a lopsided grin, her eyes rueful. “Your wife’s a lucky lady.” She let go of his hand. “Good-bye, Peter Bernhardt.”

  Before he could say good-bye, she spun on her high heels and sashayed through the lobby into an open elevator without a backward glance. The doors closed. He caught his breath before taking his own elevator. Angie had gotten an awful lot out of him, while telling him nothing about herself, except her name and that she had a penchant for psychic mumbo jumbo.

  Back in their suite, Amanda was working on the room’s HOME, surfing the news between IMs.

  “Hey, honey, how’d it go? Where’s Carter?”

  “He’ll catch us at dinner.” He flopped on the sofa, winter coat still buttoned. “Mind if I check something out?”

  “Sure.” Amanda handed him the handset.

  He googled “Angie Sternwood.” Nothing. “Angela Sternwood,” “Angelica Sternwood,” and “A Sternwood.” Nothing.

  “Who’s Angie Sternwood?” she asked, as she curled up and laid her head on his shoulder.

  “Some woman I met. Can’t find anything about her.”

  He called the front desk. “Angie Sternwood’s room, please.” Moments later, the hotel operator said there was no one registered in the hotel under that name. He thanked her and hung up, reclining back on the cushions.

  Amanda tousled his short hair. “Should I be jealous?”

  “You? Oh God, no.” There were a number of possibilities. The most benign was a bored DC trophy wife trolling for casual sex under a pseudonym. But she could have been an investigator, either governmental or corporate. Or an industrial spy. Or . . .

  Amanda threw a leg over, straddling him, and grabbed his coat lapels. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to torture it out of you?”

  It took a moment for him to realize she meant the lunch meeting. “Yes . . . I mean, no . . . No torture. I can’t believe it, but it seems most of Carter’s success has been due to this club. We didn’t talk specifics, but if I’m reading them right, they’re offering me the full six hundred million dollars of investment as a private company, immediately, with offers of more money if needed and with Carter as my partner, with no interference. And somehow, miraculously, the government is off my back. Just like that.”

  Eyes wide and watery with relief, her hands covered her mouth, muffling her “Oh my God . . .”

  “But these guys are talking about manipulating the SEC, insider trading, almost a government within the government!”

  “How has that hurt Carter? And what about me? They’ll send you to prison otherwise.”

  Peter sighed, kissed her forehead, then grabbed her GO, dictating a text to Carter as his wife kissed his face over and over. “Tell Brant ‘Yes.’ ”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  At eight o’clock sharp the next evening, Peter stood in his good suit and overcoat on the doorstep of a Federal-style mansion in the middle of Washington and rang the doorbell. The building blended in with the other white-columned, neoclassical buildings in the area that housed libraries, government offices, NGOs, and museums. This one had no sign in front, so Peter hoped he had read Carter’s message right. A gray-haired butler, complete with wingtip-collared shirt, long black tie, gray waistcoat, and long black jacket with pinstriped pants came to the door. Peter introduced himself and was escorted to an early nineteenth-century library, where Carter waited in a wing chair with a glass of scotch. Volume-packed bookshelves rose on all sides, ending a few feet from the sixteen-foot ceilings. Around the room, a hand-painted frieze circling below the ceiling read, “ ‘What’s good for the Phoenix Club is good for America, and vice versa.’ Henry Ford.”

  Carter stood and embraced Peter. “Are you sure you want to do this? It’s . . . not easy.”

  “Yes. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “Want a quick tour before the festivities?”

  “I’d be a fool not to.”

  They strolled the ground floor. Portraits of past members looked down to chastise all who would dare enter the inner sanctum: club founders George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. Teddy Roosevelt and his cousin Franklin. Generals Patton and MacArthur. Jay Gould, Leland Stanford, and Henry Huntington. Booker T. Washington and W. E. B. Du Bois. William Randolph Hearst and Thomas Edison. Judge Learned Hand, Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall, and Colin Powell. Albert Einstein and Henry Kissinger. Cole Porter and Irving Berlin. Every president of the United States. In a nearby hallway, there was a more subdued wall of photographs. Here, he saw women—Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Thatcher, Madeleine Albright, Hillary Clinton.

  “I thought men’s clubs were for men,” said Peter.

  “We award the women honorary memberships—especially a Brit like Thatcher—so they can use this clubhouse and get invited to various functions, but they’re not initiated or invited to the annual campout. With over two thousand male members, it’s such a bad boys’ week, they wouldn’t put up with our shenanigans, and boys do need an occasion to be boys. So don’t worry. You can make as big an ass of
yourself there as you’d like.”

  The diversity of the portraits was impressive. “So this wasn’t a ‘straight white man’s only’ club?”

  “No. That’s the beauty of secret societies—the membership is secret. In the case of the Phoenix Club, it was the only way for people on opposite sides of issues, or from differing backgrounds or lifestyles, to come together and talk and get to know each other without racists, bigots, or zealots using it against them. Political deals brokered, companies brainstormed, ideologies argued or conceived. More real history has happened here than probably any place in the country. Except maybe the Oval Office. Only no one knows about it, except the members.”

  “So what about this initiation no one wants to tell me about?” Peter goaded. “Is there some little rite of passage or a speech for me to memorize?”

  Carter sighed and repeated by rote, “As your nominating member, I’ll lead you through the process and make sure you come out in one piece by the end.”

  “Yeah, you said that yesterday, but I thought it was a joke.” Carter didn’t answer. “Well, there can’t be much to it. Hell, I can take anything that pussy Edison could’ve . . .”

  Peter chortled heartily, but Carter didn’t. They walked past the grand dining room. On its wall was a huge painting, done in the neoclassical style of Jacques-Louis David, of the Founding Fathers in Greco-Roman garb, set in the amphitheater of the Roman senate. Washington stood, in imperial toga, right arm raised, declaiming to the assembly. There was Jefferson, head resting in his left hand, appraising George with a cocked eyebrow. And Madison to Jefferson’s right, dutifully taking notes on a parchment. And that was definitely the diminutive and choleric John Adams stewing in the corner.

  Carter came up behind him. “It’s by Charles Wilson Peale. Again, no one knows it exists. Not even Peale scholars. He was a member, too.” Carter pointed out other faces. “That’s Alexander Hamilton”—he pointed at a young, elegant gent posturing behind Madison, then indicated another diminutive man in the opposite corner from Adams—“before he shot him.”

  “Aaron Burr.”

  “Right.” Carter continued pointing. “That’s John Jay. Dr. Benjamin Rush. Richard Henry Lee. John Hancock. Oh, and there’s Peale’s self-portrait.” Carter led Peter back out to the hall. “Do you know about the Masons?”

  He meant Freemasonry, the international fraternal organization often thought of as a secret society. “Of course,” said Peter. “But I thought they died out. And really, how seriously can you take a bunch of old geezers wearing fezzes, driving around in tiny clown cars in Fourth of July parades while claiming they have the exclusive handle on Universal Truth? That’s right up there with UFO abductees.”

  “Be nice. They’re not dead. They’re still around, and I’ll bet a small but significant percentage of our membership are also Masons. The Phoenix Club has a kinship with the Masons because so many of the Founding Fathers were Freemasons. They created this club with certain structural similarities in ritual and values, but with very different mythologies and purpose. If I had to compare the two, I’d say our traditions are like . . . the Masons on acid. The initiation can be a bit . . . strenuous. But that’s all I can say. I’ve said too much already.” Carter stopped by an old elevator with a hand-operated cage. He opened the cage and gestured for Peter to enter, following behind to close the cage with a big brass handle.

  “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  Carter pressed an old Bakelite “B2” button, and the elevator descended slowly. They passed a basement floor and continued descending. “You’ll find what’s under this building . . . extraordinary. When the builders of Washington DC were digging the foundations of the city, they found out not everything was a festering swamp. Jefferson was shown what you’re about to see and decided the club would rest on this spot. It’s one of the most important archeological finds of all time. And it will never be shared with the public. Our own members have done several archeological studies over the centuries and we’ve self-published them, but only club members can read them here in the library. It’s a shame. Consider yourself fortunate.”

  After a surprisingly long time, the elevator opened into a large wine cellar, floor-to-ceiling bottle cubbies on all sides. Carter walked to a cubby and grabbed a bottle of wine, but instead of lifting it out of its diamond-shaped slot, he yanked and pushed it back like an organ stop. The wall of wine swung open. The B-movie stunt should have been goofy, like Carter leading a tour of Disneyland’s Haunted Mansion, playing on countless movie memories of mysterious walls opening into dungeons. But this felt creepy and real. And if everything was over two hundred years old, this was built before those horror stories were written.

  “Carter, was Edgar Allan Poe a member?”

  “Yeah. But I hear he was a handful.”

  They passed into an anteroom with walls that contained the narrow doors of many closets and one half-sized door opposite the entrance. It reminded him of a hobbit door or Alice in Wonderland. Carter opened a closet, picking out a white bundle from a shelf to hand to Peter, who opened it. The fabric didn’t make any sense to him.

  “It’s a toga,” said Carter. “I’ll show you. Take off everything, including shoes, socks, underwear.” He opened another closet, which had a pole with hangers on it. He handed a couple to Peter, then began removing his own clothes. When Peter was naked, Carter handed him a long white linen tunic to pull over his head. He folded, draped, and wrapped the plain white fabric of the toga around Peter and tucked the end of the fabric in front. Then Carter put on his own costume. His looked like a Roman senator’s toga, more regal and flowing than Peter’s, but instead of the white with purple trim of Imperial Rome, his was black with red trim. Like the Founding Fathers’ portrait in the dining room. His friend looked like an escapee from a production of Julius Caesar.

  “Et tu, Brute?” joked Peter.

  Carter put his finger to his lips and beckoned to follow through the tiny door, which was eighteenth-century woodworking on one side, but opened into rock and dirt on the other. They crouched through the small opening, and as Peter slowly rose, he beheld the most remarkable place he had ever seen.

  The cave was limestone, with a natural domed arch through the ceiling’s center. The sides had a few stalactites and stalagmites, but not many. Whatever water had seeped into the cave in antiquity was long gone. The ground had been leveled for ease of walking, and it formed a space approximately one hundred feet long by seventy feet wide. The center of the cave ceiling disappeared about thirty feet into the air into what looked like a dark hole. He couldn’t tell if it was a geologic or man-made chimney. The natural cathedral was lit dramatically with torches along the perimeter. And it was very cool, around fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. That was a bit chilly to have one’s balls blowing in the breeze of the toga’s updraft.

  Peter moved to view the ceiling and walls. They were covered in ancient cave paintings of sacred rites. The slaying of the bison. The hunting of the bear. A hunter mauled by a giant cat. The death of the warrior. The choosing of the chief. The birth of the tribe. And the megafauna! Creatures that could only be giant sloths, saber-toothed cats, and mastodons shared the walls with bison, bear, and protohorses. These were paintings to rival the caves of Lascaux and Altamira. He moved slowly, his mouth agape in awe. He could barely get out, “It’s all genuine?”

  Carter grinned and whispered, “Right down to the last bit of ground ocher and charcoal.”

  It felt like the navel of creation, as though human existence began right here. Its potency shook Peter to his core. And its importance. This cave alone could completely rewrite the history of archeology, anthropology, and art in North America.

  “This changes everything!” Peter gasped.

  Carter put finger to lips again, pleased to see the cave’s effect. He whispered, “I’ve always wanted you to see this. Jefferson loved his noble savages.”

  Only then did Peter notice ten men, dressed in the same toga Carter wore, excep
t the last turn of fabric hooded their heads to hide their faces in shadow. The figures said nothing, moving as one to form a semicircle in front of Peter and Carter. Another Todd Rundgren song, “Initiation,” flooded his memory, warning him of hidden power and unknown rituals.

  “These are the Decemviri, the ten members who have achieved the highest rank of membership,” whispered Carter. “Stand right here.” Then his friend reached behind him and grabbed a glass goblet from a small wooden table, held it high to the Decemviri, and in a reverberating voice said, “Drink of the Assaratum, blood of brotherhood, and the mysteries of the Phoenix shall be revealed.”

  With ceremonial flourish, he presented it to Peter, who held the goblet close for inspection. The liquid was dark red and slightly viscous, like blood, and he couldn’t help grimacing with revulsion. Carter gave him a “Trust Me” look.

  A voice boomed from the center of the Decemviri. “Do you flout and ignore our rules already? Or do you approach this sacred ceremony with the sincerity and reverence it demands?” The Southern drawl was an awful lot like Josiah Brant’s.

  Carter whispered in Peter’s ear, “That’s the Praetor Maximus. He’s the leader and chief initiator. Do whatever he or I say.”

  Peter knocked back the goblet in as few gulps as possible. Ghastly taste was followed by a burning sensation down his throat and esophagus. It certainly wasn’t a Napa Valley cabernet. He gagged, struggling to keep the concoction down. Carter snatched the glass back before Peter dropped it.

  “Step forward, candidate!” boomed the Praetor Maximus.

  Peering into faceless hoods, he thought he recognized a face or two from the inaugural ball, but couldn’t be sure.

  “Who dares bring such an unworthy candidate before the Decemviri of the Phoenix?” accused the Praetor Maximus.

  Bowing low and gracefully to the ten men, Carter declaimed, “I do. I am Carter Linus Dickinson Potsdam. Praetor of thirteen years and Quaestor of five years standing.”