The Annihilation Protocol

by Laurence, Michael

  “How did we get from Russian oil to Nazi Germany?” Mason asked.

  “The October Revolution of 1917 was disastrous for the oil industry. Azerbaijan took advantage of the fall of the Russian Empire to declare its independence and establish a democratic republic, which didn’t even last two years. The Bolsheviks dispatched the Soviet Red Army to reclaim the region, seize the oil fields, and nationalize the petroleum industry. The resultant fighting halted exports, stopped drilling, and caused extensive damage to storage facilities. Private companies were caught in the middle and incurred extensive losses. Needless to say, the Soviets won and shipped all output into the USSR. Exports dried up, causing a spike in the price of oil.”

  “They stole his oil wells? That must have pissed off Langbroek something fierce.”

  “I don’t think he ever got over it. He hated the Bolsheviks with a fiery passion and cultivated that hatred throughout the twenties, during which time Nautilus expanded to become the largest oil company in the world, not to mention the near-exclusive provider to post–World War One Germany, where there was increasing anti-Communist sentiment, led by Adolf Hitler and his fledgling National Socialist German Workers’ Party. Hendrick saw in Hitler an ally against the Soviets and a potential means by which to regain his oil fields in Azerbaijan. The problem was that in the early thirties the Nazi Party was in debt to the tune of twelve million marks and on the verge of collapse. Directly paying off the debt would have been perceived as, at best, a bribe of criminal proportions or, at worst, a treasonous attempt to circumvent the sanctions imposed by the Treaty of Versailles.”

  “That’s two decades after the Bolsheviks seized his oil fields.”

  “What can I say? Langbroeks have long memories.”

  Again, Mason found himself looking back in time more than a century to find the origins of a modern plot to kill millions of people. Fields marked by rows of harvested corn and the occasional farmhouse blurred past. They passed a scarecrow with a faded Halloween mask and a raven sitting on its shoulder.

  “So he devised a scheme by which he used ten million of his own money to buy excess food stores in the Netherlands,” Gunnar continued, “which he then donated to a Nazi charity called Winterhilfswerk, or German Winter Relief, under the guise of a humanitarian effort to ease the suffering of Dutch farmers, whose crops rotted in the fields, and poor German families, who couldn’t afford to eat. Donations were then solicited for that food. People gave as generously as they could to curry favor with the Nazis, while those who didn’t found themselves victims of violence. It was in this way that the party paid off its creditors and positioned Hitler for his appointment as chancellor in 1933, setting the stage for what was to come.”

  “Linking the donation of food bought from struggling farmers to the rise of the Nazis and their subsequent atrocities is something of a stretch, don’t you think?” Mason said.

  “Not according to the International Military Tribunal, which presided over the Nuremberg trials. It released a statement saying that were it not for the direct financial contributions of German chemical giant IG Farben, the donations provided by Royal Nautilus, and the funds raised by Winterhilfswerk, Hitler wouldn’t have been able to seize and consolidate power. Langbroek’s support was so transparent that The New York Times suggested that Nautilus should be punished for helping the Nazis skirt the military restrictions mandate.”

  Mason had no trouble following the flow of money and the influence it undoubtedly bought, but he couldn’t see how any of it was relevant.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right and the chairman of Royal Nautilus Petroleum contributed to the rise of Nazism in Germany,” he said. “How does that have any bearing on what’s happening now?”

  “I freely admit that I initially approached this with an element of skepticism, too,” Gunnar said. “The Nazi connection to both sarin and human experimentation is well documented, but I couldn’t find any evidence that Nautilus knew about either, let alone participated in any of the atrocities. What I did find, however, was an opportunist who received a knighthood for profiteering during World War One, propped up a bankrupt foreign political party, and supported a questionable leader he hoped would foment war with the Soviets, just so he could regain the upper hand in Azerbaijan. Langbroek was a man determined to make money at all costs, no matter how much suffering he caused or how many people died in the process.”

  Mason suddenly realized where Gunnar was leading him. He was looking at the exact same MO as the plot to release the flu virus and, presumably, the Novichok, which was in play at that very moment.

  “Let me show you something,” Gunnar said. He swiveled his computer screen on his lap so Mason could see the series of pictures as he flipped through them. “Sir Hendrick died in 1939, before the start of World War Two. At the time, he was one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, a position inherited upon his death by his son, August. This is him right here.” The formal portrait showed a handsome man who was a study in aristocracy, from his expensive suit to his severe profile. “He succeeded his father as chairman of Nautilus, helped establish and later sat on the board of the Bank for War Settlements and Repatriation, and was a charter member of the International Congruity Alliance and Society for Lasting International Peace. His eldest son, Douglas—his spitting image, as you can see—served as nonexecutive director of Nautilus and sat on the board of the investment firm Hart, Bradley, and Company until its merger with Lehman Brothers.”

  “How old is he by now?” Mason asked.

  “He’d be in his eighties, if he were still alive,” Gunnar said. “He died in 2018, leaving his son, Slate, a diverse portfolio worth approximately fifty billion dollars, not to mention the controlling shares of Royal Nautilus Petroleum and its subsidiaries, including Aegis Asset Management, the same company currently in the process of buying the biomedical and chemical intellectual assets of Aebischer Pharma, which, as I’m sure you’ll be surprised to learn, recently patented a drug called Pyridocholinesterase, which combines pyridostigmine—used to treat muscle weakness—and a proprietary carbamate ester—a type of urethane produced exclusively by Nautilus Chemical Company—to create a drug designed to be taken prophylactically by troops at risk of exposure to nerve gasses.”

  And there it was. The trail he’d been following led to an oil and pharmaceuticals magnate descended from a Nazi collaborator. He was already one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world, and yet he was willing to kill millions of innocent people to run up the score.

  Slate Langbroek was one of the Thirteen.

  Mason leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He felt a sense of displacement he couldn’t quite explain. How long had the Langbroeks been formulating this plot? They’d formed an alliance with the U.S. military and the men who worked at the Rocky Mountain and Edgewood arsenals half a century ago. They’d lured his brother-in-law, Victor, into the web of the Thirteen, who’d used him to enact its plan to release a deadly flu virus and make billions from the cure. It was undoubtedly through Nautilus that the Hoyl had been able to acquire the flesh-eating bacterium that so closely resembled the kind oil companies released to consume their spills, the deal for which had gone down in an abandoned building where the Scarecrow had wiped out Mason’s SWAT team. Worst of all, they’d set into motion the series of events culminating in the murder of his wife, Angie.

  And now, generations removed from the plan’s inception, Slate Langbroek was on the brink of acquiring the rights to the medication designed to counteract the effects of the very chemical weapon he prepared to release.

  “This is him,” Gunnar said.

  Mason opened his eyes and stared at the man on the screen, who couldn’t have been much older than he was. Slate Langbroek was dapper and lithe, the kind of man who’d inherited physical beauty from women attracted to money and money from men who lusted for power, the living embodiment of a Greek god. The kind of man toward whom people instinctively gravitated, w
hose aura invited them to bask in its glow.

  The photograph was captioned “Taschenbergpalais, Dresden, Germany, June 2016,” and showed him emerging from the revolving door of an upscale hotel, beside which stood policemen in black uniforms. A concierge wearing a morning coat and top hat led the way, his white-gloved hand extended to deter the photographer from getting a clear shot of Langbroek, flanked by a bodyguard who appeared to be hailing a driver. A second bodyguard trailed his charge. He loomed over Langbroek from behind the glass partition of the revolving door, a hulking presence with a thick neck and tiny ears.

  Mason recognized him immediately.

  “Major Ashley Saddler,” he said. The caption identified him as Marshall Saddler, chief of Langbroek’s security team, who, unsurprisingly, went by his middle name. “The man who was incinerated in the flatbed to prevent us from learning his identity.”

  “And now we know why,” Gunnar said.

  Everything was finally falling into place.

  “So where is Langbroek now?” Mason asked.

  “He could be anywhere in the world,” Gunnar said. “He personally owns properties in a dozen different countries, hundreds more all around the globe under the Nautilus banner, and has access to a private fleet of airplanes, cars, and ships, ranging from jets to bulk tankers and every other form of transportation in between.”

  “Are you telling me you can’t find him?”

  “Please. All I’m saying is that it’s going to take a little time. Once I do, however, he’s going to know we’re looking for him and he’ll be compelled to either go into hiding or make a move against us.”

  Mason nodded. He was rooting for the latter, as it would spare him the legwork and force a confrontation.

  The driver returned them to the terminal where he’d originally picked them up. Gunnar handed him a small stack of hundred-dollar bills and thanked him sincerely for his help.

  Mason climbed out, patted the roof of the car, and nodded his gratitude. He stared across the tarmac toward the western horizon, where a plane with twin propellers ascended diagonally through the bloodred stain of the setting sun. They now knew who was responsible for the Novichok threat, but they weren’t any closer to finding where it was. Despite everything they’d learned, they still didn’t know who the Scarecrow was or what had happened to him at Edgewood to turn him into a murderous psychopath with a penchant for deadly chemicals. And if Langbroek was truly behind the whole thing, why would he hire someone who’d been victimized by the early stages of his family’s long game and wanted revenge against the parties involved? Was it possible he didn’t know? Were the killings not personal to the Scarecrow after all and eliminating the potential witnesses had been his plan from the beginning?

  There were too many contradictions, too many questions he couldn’t answer.

  But he was confident he knew someone who could.

  “Get ahold of Johan for me,” he said. “Tell him we need to have a candid conversation about the great-grandson of a Nazi collaborator. If we’re right about Langbroek being one of the Thirteen and his involvement with the Scarecrow, then he should know exactly who you’re talking about.”

  56

  The flight time from Fallston, Maryland, to Republic Airport on Long Island was just over an hour, which put them touching down shortly after eight. They’d barely taken off when Mason’s laptop had chimed to let him know that Johan had entered the secure virtual chat room.

  “Sir Hendrick was no mere collaborator,” the old man said. His eyes took on a faraway cast as he mentally traveled back in time. “He was a true believer. Perhaps his infatuation started as a means of wresting back his stolen oil fields from the Soviets and exacting a measure of revenge in the process, but it culminated in the implementation of anti-Semitic policies, the dismissal of Jewish directors, and even the swastika flying over Royal Nautilus’s corporate offices in the Netherlands. It does not surprise me in the least to learn that one of his descendants was responsible for the horrific murders of two Israeli scientists after they had outlived their usefulness.”

  “Speaking of whom, what do you know about his great-grandson, Slate?” Mason asked.

  “Apparently, I underestimated him. His father and grandfather were brazen men who flaunted their money and power, while he has masterfully hidden behind his executive boards and playboy lifestyle, deceiving me into believing he was not a threat. I failed to see through his public disavowal of his family’s historical contributions to the rise of Nazism and recognize his personal adherence to the tenets that gave birth to it, beliefs closely held by the rest of his circle.”

  “The Thirteen.”

  “Assuming he is one of them and not merely a satellite in their orbit. Even I, for all of my resources, can only speculate as to their true identities, as I believe they would set the whole world ablaze before allowing themselves to be unmasked.”

  “I can’t stop them if you don’t tell me everything you know.”

  Johan leaned back in his armchair and sighed. The sound echoed from his vast living room, the walls of which were mortared with a veritable puzzle of decorative moss rock.

  “You must understand that these men are not motivated by money or power,” he said. “They are disciples of a cause passed down through their bloodlines, devotees to an ideology to which they have dedicated their entire lives. They do not consider themselves to be a master race as much as a ruling class, a pantheon of men who have risen to the pinnacle of their respective societies, who sit upon thrones above those of their monarchs and elected officials, puppet masters controlling kings and queens and presidents from the shadows. They understand that the key to their dominion rests not merely in placating their unwitting subjects but also in giving them a communal goal in which to invest their energies and a shared enemy against whom to direct their hatred, distractions to prevent them from realizing that they are being manipulated, a system that worked to perfection for the Third Reich.”

  “Until Hitler tried to take over the entire world.”

  “Think of Nazi Germany as a trial run for the ultimate goals of the Thirteen, who learned that power could most easily be maintained over a finite number of subjects willing to accept a common rule. No vanquished society will ever voluntarily pledge its allegiance to its conquerors, and hatred dissipates once your enemy has been exterminated. Thus, for the Thirteen to establish its new world order, it must cull the population to a size that can be effectively ruled, present itself as the savior, rather than the oppressor, of the people, and channel their energies in both positive and negative directions so they never suspect that the means of their salvation is actually the mechanism of their enslavement.”

  The airplane emerged from the same thick layer of clouds through which it had descended mere hours ago.

  “The Hoyl’s virus would have killed billions of people all around the world,” Mason said. “Wiping out nine million people in New York City is a far cry from accomplishing that objective.”

  “Perhaps depopulation is not their sole motivation in this case,” Johan said. “Three thousand people died in the terrorist attacks on nine/eleven, and we sacrificed our Fourth Amendment rights in the hope that giving the NSA permission to eavesdrop on our private conversations would prevent the nightmare from happening again. Which rights would we surrender, which freedoms would we forsake, in the wake of losing our most populous city? How much power would we willingly transfer directly into the hands of the Thirteen to keep us safe?”

  “We can’t afford not to treat the Novichok threat as though killing millions of people isn’t Langbroek’s primary goal.”

  “You are assuming, of course, that Slate Langbroek is in control of this plan. Does it not strike you as odd that he would work directly with someone like the Scarecrow or that so many key players are in the last place in the world they should be? Why would he independently implement his own plot when he is part of such a powerful organization?”

  “Greed?” Mason said. And t
hen it hit him. “Langbroek’s not content with merely being one of the Thirteen. He wants to rule it.”

  Johan nodded and leaned forward in his chair. His eyes narrowed and radiated a light of otherness.

  “And if you and I can figure this out, then surely the other twelve are well aware of what is transpiring. I have heard whispers of strife within the organization, hostilities on the brink of igniting into an internal war, one with potentially catastrophic consequences for the entire world. If this is truly the case, then I fear you might have stumbled right into the middle of it, in which case you must recognize that Langbroek is not your sole adversary. He is the enemy you can see, but he is far from the only one you face. Other players have yet to reveal themselves, and I believe the Scarecrow is the key to drawing them out. He is at the heart of the plot, and unraveling his motivations is essential to understanding his role. As Hitler showed us, hatred is a powerful emotion, one that can be easily weaponized.”

  “You think someone’s using him against Langbroek?”

  “What I think will be of no consequence if you fail to prevent the release of the Novichok,” Johan said, and reached toward the screen. “I will be watching your progress with great interest.”

  He terminated the connection, leaving Mason to contemplate everything he’d said. The old man had offered insight into the nature of the Thirteen and essentially confirmed his suspicions about Langbroek, but their conversation had only served to amplify his growing unease about some of the contradictions he sensed within the plot. If Langbroek was truly on his own in the plan to release the Novichok and at odds with the remainder of the Thirteen, then Mason couldn’t take anything for granted. Any one or all of the players involved, including Marchment and the Scarecrow, could be playing both sides at once and everything transpiring now was just for show, a distraction from the main event.

  There was only one thing he knew for sure …