Conspiracy of Fire

by Tony Bulmer

  As she pulled in, under the porte-­‐cochère, an army of valet parkers and white-­‐coated facilitators fussed and scurried, amongst a logjam of high-­‐end automobiles. The Island’s glitterati it seemed were out in force. Mixing in with this fevered scene, a posse of photojournalists and TV news people were jostling for position as the famous, the fabulous, and the supremely rich, made a red-­‐carpet entrance to the swankiest social occasion the island had seen in years.

  Karyn pulled up short of the press pack. She skirted the monkey suited security crew and made a side door entrance, past a sign marked staff only. She moved fast, with an assurance that said she belonged. In the bustling back corridor, her passage drew looks, but no comment and seconds later she

  was mixing anonymously with hundreds of guests. As the guests moved through the lobby, waiters moved amongst the crowd, offering champagne and canapés. Karen eschewed all offers of food and drink, moving instead to familiarize herself with the floor plan of the building. She began by checking off every pinch-­‐point and exit, every window and backroom door—logging every mundane detail for future reference. There was a security team in attendance, but they were amateur hour sloppy, reject night guards and overweight former cops in the main, the team had a few ringers too, buzz cut bozos straining out of their monkey suit costumes, but these guys had no cause to be worried, they were working an up market home game crowd, what could go wrong at an event like this?

  Walking through the lobby, Karyn saw the grand ballroom for the first time. The place was swanky in an old fashioned way, lit by a glittering starscape of chandeliers. Karyn scoped the room. She recognized many of the faces—politicians, celebrities, wealthy industrialists, and financial people. There were others too, aged and vampiric, their faces sucked dry of expression by cruelty of years and the deftness of the surgeon’s hand. Karyn skirted the room, soaking in every nuanced detail— a forest of banqueting tables set for a sumptuous feast, glittering with china and glass. Guests were already thronging to their seats, but Karyn hung back and watched. The scene reminded her of a gala awards night, where glittering trophies are handed to stars of the stage and screen, for their contribution to the world of celebrity

  consciousness. But this was no awards evening.

  The atmosphere was more in line with that of an east coast political fundraiser, with the hard, raw taste of ambition and money cutting the air like electricity. As the guests took their places, Karyn patrolled the periphery, moving to the left of a curved stage, that was hung with heavy golden drapery and adorned by a mysterious Chinese symbol that was underscored with the words, Tao-Power & Freedom. Casting her mind back, Karyn remembered seeing the symbol on the side of the giant golden office building on Highway One, the place the environmental demonstrators had been picketing. This logo was the sign of the Tao Corporation, erstwhile employer of Brad Verner the geostatistical pain in the ass who thought that the world was about to end. It was all too crazy to contemplate. Why would a billionaire moneyman, who could produce limitless free energy want to destroy the planet? It just didn’t make sense.

  As Karyn pondered the implications of Brad Verner’s words of warning, and their connections to this grand event, the lights turned lower, and a pulsing beat began, getting louder and louder until it reached a crescendo that filled the room. Suddenly, the stage came alive with golden light, and a slickly attired figure moved centre stage. The figure paused, adjusted his bow tie and raised a hand to acknowledge the wave of spontaneous applause now sweeping through the room. The man beamed and bowed and brushed off the wave of applause, with the practiced air of a career politician. He looked vaguely familiar to Karyn— oiled hair, Florida tan and a phony grin spread a foot wide across his face. This guy was DC major-­‐ league, no doubt about it, playing warm up man for

  the bottom of the bill intro act. Karyn sniffed, there was some kind of scenario going down on this sunny little Island, but just who exactly was making the plays?

  Looking around the room, as the warm up man ran through his routine, Karyn soaked in row upon row of ghastly golden faces, shining towards the stage—how many of these very same faces had known Senator Tex Johnston? How many had known Governor Geryon? The applause was building again, rising on a wave of throaty approval. The pulsing music began to build once again—only this time the frail figure walking out onto the stage was very familiar.

  Calista Johnston.

  Karyn drew breath, her brow furrowing, as the tumbling puzzle-­‐pieces locked into place. Calista Johnston had a connection to the Deng Tao Corporation. With all her talk about business and politics, the crazy old broad probably had a seat on the board of directors—Karyn turned implications over in her mind. All at once, the applause died back and Calista Johnston began speaking.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for your kind approval, and thank you for attending tonight’s most auspicious gathering. Calista Johnston paused, took a sweeping look around the packed room and raised a frail hand in benediction. Her head dipped low, as though she were about to sob with emotion—finally, after she gathered her thoughts with a series of deep gasping breaths, she said quietly, “Difficult though it has been for me to appear before you this evening, in this time of great personal grief, I would like to thank you for your loyal and dedicated support.”

  A ripple of applause ran through the room.

  Calista Johnston nodded graciously. “Thank you

  friends. As you know, my noble and loving husband

  cannot be with us this evening—cut down in his

  prime by the dark forces of enslavement and

  oppression. The very same powers of darkness,

  who struck down our proud governor, in one cruel

  and outrageous stroke.” Calista Johnston bowed her

  head, and held a courageous arm to her breast, as

  though her heart was about to break.

  Again the applause, more rousing this time,

  mixed with spontaneous calls of support. Karyn

  couldn’t believe what she was hearing—just who

  exactly was this woman trying to pin her husband’s

  death on?

  Calista Johnston sucked up the applause

  with fragile dignity. “We have struggled too long

  under the yolk of Government, with tyranny

  masquerading as freedom.” The applause came in

  rolling waves now.

  “The time has now come, to free ourselves

  from the old and oppressive order, to stand tall and

  proud, and move to a future of unlimited power

  and freedom.”

  A standing ovation now, all over the room,

  everywhere clapping hands raised up, in an

  outpouring of spontaneous emotion.

  Karyn sank back into the shadows, at the

  edge of the room, as whoops and whistles rose up.

  It was as though the audience were preparing to

  storm
the stage and raise this brave, martyred

  heroine up on their shoulders and carry her

  through the streets, so she might carry her sacred

  message to all of mankind.

  As the building euphoria filled the room

  Karyn realized that she was dealing with more than

  Calista Johnston and her disingenuous

  interpretation of her husbands death. The woman

  was holding cards for sure, but her fan base of big

  money politico’s told of a whole different game,

  whose players held position and influence at the

  very highest level. Could it be that this frail, chain-­‐

  smoking socialite had organized the death of her

  own husband, so that she could turn him into a

  political martyr and inherit his billion-­‐dollar

  business empire, to use for her own twisted ends?

  If that was the case, where did Ted Congo and his

  cadre of corrupt Federales fit in to the picture?

  Could it be that Johnston had them on the payroll?

  If so, where did the dead governor fit into this deck

  of dirty cards?

  The only thing Karyn could figure for sure

  was the nature of the evenings headline act. Calista

  Johnston wasn’t pulling her best Magda Goebbels

  act for no good reason. She was playing warm up

  for the main event, the big money man of the

  hour… Karyn edged closer to the stage, so she

  might get a better view, as she did so, she had a

  sudden sensation of unease, as though the icy hand

  of fate had thrown down a fist-­‐full of face cards. She

  took a glance to the left, keeping her movements as

  casual as possible, and there, amongst the

  enraptured golden faces, stood Ted Congo of the

  FBI, looking like a 300lb gorilla poured into a $200

  dinner jacket. Congo was scowling, his sweat-­‐

  covered face glistening cold silver, as once again

  the pounding beat filled the ballroom. He had seen

  her, recognized her, and now, as the stage lights

  flashed in time to the thrumming beat, he came

  lumbering her way. As he came, Congo raged into his headset mic’ and signaled furiously with a giant paw, to other members of the sumo-­‐sized security crew. The local muscle locked in and headed her way. Karyn cracked her knuckles. Bench press boys were always blunt instrument bad when it came to bar fights. But Congo was a real piece of work— roid-­‐rage stupid, with a vengeful streak painted wide across his ugly looking face. Chances were she would have to hurt him bad, see how a spell in the emergency room affected his manners.

  Karyn melted back into the crown, moving ever closer to the stage, as the capacity crowd pressed forward to see the man they had all paid so much to see, billionaire business leader, innovator and Humanistian leader, Deng Tao, head of the sprawling and omnipotent organization known as the Tao Corporation.

  19

  The Pacific Buchanan sat in the very back of the engineering room storage locker. It was more cramped than a bunkhouse in a Nimitz class aircraft carrier, but Buchanan liked the oppressive and claustrophobic air. The storage locker was womb-­‐like, comforting, a tight little world that provided an antidote to the endless Pacific Ocean. No one could touch him here, no one. Everyone knew this was this private domain, from Captain Álvares on down to the lowliest rating.

  Wiping off his hands now on an oily rag, Buchanan felt real good. He had fixed the winch motor to a place it would be good for another thousand hours or more. He snorked phlegm, adjusted his cigar to the other side of his mouth, and turned over the cool amber bottle in his filthy machine shop fingers. The bourbon sure looked good, swimming around the bottle like that, with those spirit level air bubbles popping through the booze. Hell, it probably tasted good too, hotter than a Habanero chile dinner, sweeter than a honey skinned lap dancer from South Beach Miami, by way of San José de las Lajas, Cuba. No man could avoid that kind of temptation, not even those twelve-­‐stepping proselytizers Bill Wilson and Dr. Bob, and their holy-­‐rolling church friends included. Looking down at that shimmering golden liquid, it was almost like it could talk—not talk for real of course, more a whisper, insistent and endlessly persuasive. It almost didn’t matter what you said to

  counter the arguments, the booze had an answer for everything.

  Buchanan lifted his booted feet and jammed them into one of the storage racks. He had to be going crazy or something, hiding out with his sour-­‐ mashed stow away friend, rather than scarfing down a galley dinner and fleecing the ratings at Texas hold ’em. But Kellerman would be up there, giving her unsolicited opinions on just about anything you could name. He turned the bottle of bourbon over in his hands, feeling the cool reassuring glass, like silk beneath his fingers. He put the bottle to his ear and tilted his head listening for the gurgle as the hot whiskey displaced the scented air inside. Buchanan breathed deep, imagining the perfumed aroma floating over him. It wasn’t right that he was down here, forced to live a troll like existence and for why—because some smart-­‐mouthed woman had laid claim to his former domain? Buchanan caressed the cap of the bottle, imagining the satisfying crunch of metal as the seal broke and the black metal cap screwed slowly off. He licked his broken lips, imagining the first pass of whiskey, as it rolled over his tongue, full of glorious napalm energy. He sniffed, examining the label for the thousandth time as he imagined the whiskey burning inside him, filling his mind with a glorious and overwhelming sense of comfort. He screwed his eyes tight, as an inner voice taunted him, hiding, hiding, hiding from the whole goddamn world. Was he going to puss out on the promise he had made to himself? His resolution to stay clean and sober for the whole voyage? Was he going to let some Ivy League skirt have him running scared on his own ship? Buchanan sniffed, trying in vain to rationalize

  the overwhelming internal conflict. Resentment that is what it was. He resented the Kellerman woman, because her very presence had forced him to come to terms with the fact he could no longer hide in a floating cubbyhole. He had to take big steps, move out into the world, face the painful necessity of relationships and the tortuous consequences of the horrible booze-­‐addled choices he had been making in these long years of solitude.

  Buchanan wrapped the bottle of bourbon up in the oily rag he had used to clean off his hands. He tucked the bottle up, lovingly as though it were a child he was preparing for bed. He opened one of the lower draws at the very back of the locker, the one where he kept all the myriad pieces of machine junk that no one aboard would ever want or need. He rifled through a bed of sprockets and cogs and bolts and washers and laid the boozy stow away inside. As he did so, he caught sight of the gun, his old Colt 1911 service piece. You never knew when you would need a gun. You had yourself
a .45 caliber friend like that, you had the answers to just about any questions a man was willing to ask and a few he wasn’t besides. Buchanan smiled to himself and headed upstairs to the chow hall.

  20

  Oahu, Hawaii Inside the Fountainhead Club the hypnotic beat grew louder, building in volume until it seemed that the whole room was pulsing in time to the power of the Deng Tao mind set. The capacity crowd inside the Deco ballroom waited

  expectantly, a thousand faces all turned with glowing expectation towards the shimmering golden stage where Deng Tao would soon appear to dispense word of his grand philosophy.

  Karyn stood transfixed, at the side of the stage, absorbing every carefully stage-­‐managed second of the messianic build-­‐up. Special Agent Ted Congo of the FBI, was only yards away now, suddenly aware that he was up front of a captive audience, he pulled up slowly, reluctantly, and made as though he too was looking towards the stage, anticipating the appearance of the great god of new money. Karyn turned her head—shot Congo a smile and a gentle nod. He didn’t look happy about that, far from it. In fact, his face was bulging with latent rage. It was clear that he wanted to assuage his hatred the only way he knew how— through bone crunching conflict. And yet, he was prevented from meeting this urge, by the presence of every crooked officials most hated enemy— witnesses, and lots of them. It didn’t stop him from marshalling his troops however, and as Karyn stood before the stage, she peripheralized the stomp-­‐squad lumbering into position, presumably