by Tom Abrahams
There was nothing to occupy Sir Spencer other than his imagination. He was freed from federal prison, but the cabin in the woods was every bit a cell. He lay on the bed, more plush than he’d felt in months, and stared at the roughhewn ceiling before closing his eyes to think.
His mind drifted from what was to come to what had been. He thought of his attorney, Braxton P. Mayhew, and the conversation they’d had shortly after he was imprisoned.
Mayhew was all business then. “Do not talk to other inmates,” he’d warned as they sat across from each other in a visitation room.
“I’m in solitary.” Sir Spencer laughed.
“Do not talk to family members or anyone who visits you. The conversations in the visitation room are frequently recorded and used as evidence,” advised the attorney.
“I’ve no family nor expected visitors.”
“So let’s talk about your alleged co-conspirators.” Mayhew nodded, his eyes fixed on his client. “Jimmy Ings isn’t talking. He’s too loyal to you, despite whatever happened at Arlington. And much of the physical evidence points to him. The explosives, the meeting place, pretty much everything has his hands on it.”
Sir Spencer ran his tongue across his teeth. “As it was intended to be.”
“Secretary Blackmon has also retained counsel and isn’t speaking,” said Mayhew. “He’s in a federal facility in Miami. I don’t expect him to be an issue.”
“Nor do I,” said Sir Spencer. “He’s the only one who blew up the Capitol.”
“Bill Davidson—”
“Is dead,” Sir Spencer cut in.
“Art Thistlewood is squealing like a pig,” Mayhew continued. “He’s spilling everything he knows. We have people who can neutralize the threat.”
“Ha!” The knight laughed. “I assumed we did. If you’d told me we didn’t, I’d have neutralized you and we’d have found someone else.”
“So that leaves young George Edwards,” said the lawyer, unamused by Sir Spencer’s threat. “He could be tricky.”
“How so?”
“My contacts within the bureau tell me there may be credible surveillance linking you to Edwards—photographs, phone recordings.
“Not an issue.” Sir Spencer shook his head. “It’s circumstantial and, given that Edwards is a United States citizen, the eavesdropping might be illegal. There’s so much NSA backlash, I’m confident you’ll get it tossed.”
“There’s another problem with Edwards.”
“Which is?”
“We don’t know where he is at the moment.” Mayhew shifted in his plastic seat.
“Come again?” Sir Spencer’s eyes narrowed.
“Well—” Mayhew cleared his throat again “—you’re each being held in separate locations.”
“So?”
“Ings is in the Arlington County Jail,” Mayhew answered. “They’ve sent Thistlewood to the Big Sandy facility in Kentucky. You’re here at Lee. They’ll transfer you to another facility shortly. Probably Chesapeake.”
“I’m not concerned with myself. Where is Edwards? Any fool with an iPhone and a wireless connection can find federal prisoners.”
“Sir Spencer”—the lawyer’s tone was sharper and frustrated—“I am aware of that. I know how the system works and how it doesn’t work.”
“Not well enough,” Sir Spencer chided before licking a bleeding crack on his lower lip.
“They’re using a pseudonym,” said Mayhew. “They’ve disguised his identity.”
“Why would they do that with him and not with the others?”
“There could be a host of reasons.” The lawyer shrugged. “Other than Davidson, who’s dead, he was the most well-known among you. His art sells for ridiculous sums of money and is likely to sell for even more now. It could be that. Or…”
“Or what, Mayhew?!” Sir Spencer slammed his fists onto the table. The lawyer jumped back in surprise.
“Or, since he knew everything you knew, they’re protecting him from you.”
“I find that fascinating.”
“Why?”
“Because George Edwards certainly did not know everything I knew. He does not know everything I know. And because you think they can protect him from me. From us?”
“I’m just saying that—”
“We led a self-loathing band of misfits to murder hundreds of people when one assassination would have accomplished the same result. We manipulated cabinet members and the former head of the Department of Justice to betray their instincts and destroy a powerful symbol of democracy. We put a bullet into a perfectly beautiful courtesan. Do you really think anyone can protect George Edwards from us?”
“Us?” the attorney asked, his eyes dancing with confusion. “Who’s us?”
“Oh, Mayhew.” Sir Spencer laughed. “Really now. I thought you knew. I really did. Open your eyes. Just open your eyes.”
Now Sir Spencer opened his eyes. Studying the wooden beam stretching across the vaulted ceiling, he decided what needed to happen next. He would tell his host upon arrival. It was urgent. If they were to continue with their plan, with the next steps in the grand scheme so many decades in the making, Art Thistlewood and George Edwards needed to die.
*
WASHINGTON, DC
Matti checked her watch. She had a couple of hours before Marine One was wheels up from the South Lawn. She pulled a laptop from her messenger bag and plugged in the air card that allowed her Internet access without going through the White House router. She didn’t need anyone knowing what she was doing.
She was a YouTube addict, having spent countless hours with a mouse in one hand and an ice-cream-laden spoon in the other. From the ridiculously mind-numbing to the educational and thought-provoking, she couldn’t get enough of the endless offerings.
One video would lead to another and to another. Eventually, she’d find herself watching uploads on the most random subjects. Getting lost in YouTube was like a stream of video consciousness. She wondered how the site calculated its algorithms to offer its related recommendations.
Matti went to the site and typed “Bohemian Grove” into the search bar. A list of eighty-two thousand videos populated the list underneath the video box. She scrolled down until she found a video she’d previously seen. It was highlighted in purple.
She clicked on the link. The video described the twenty-seven-hundred-acre retreat north of San Francisco. It was a summer camp of sorts for rich and powerful men. It was invitation only and carried with it rumors of Gnosticism and simulated human sacrifice.
The Grove was the summer getaway of the Bohemian Club’s estimated twenty-five hundred members. For two weeks each July, they would descend upon the private encampment hidden in the redwood forest.
There were countless references to the Bohemian Grove and the club that ran it as Satanic or anti-Christian. There was a secretly recorded video shot in 2000 that purportedly showed what was called a “Cremation of Care” ritual, in which a “sacrifice” was offered at the base of a forty-five-foot-tall stone owl. Some contended that much of what occurred in the Grove was sexual in nature.
Matti even came across a broadcast network news report produced in 1981, in which the correspondent talked about the exclusivity of the retreat, the rituals and stage performances, the inaccessibility to the press. There were anecdotal accounts of nuclear development taking shape during meetings at the Grove, of other global policies gaining international support during alcohol-fueled campfire chats. It seemed to her that Bohemian Grove was about the worst-kept secret in the world of secrets. But there was something there.
Matti discounted most of the bizarre, salacious aspects of the Bohemian Grove legend and focused on one key element: its elitist, global membership. She clicked on a second video and started taking notes.
The second video detailed the list of members past and present. It spoke of the rumored twenty-five-thousand-dollar initiation and the requirements for invitation. Occasionally, she learned, artists or movie s
tars were included as members or guests, but most were powerful cabinet members, industrial tycoons, and foreign heads of state. There was a mention of former President Richard Nixon, who said in 1972, “Anybody can be president of the United States, but few can ever have any hope of becoming president of the Bohemian Club.”
Former President Dexter Foreman was a member, as was Secretary John Blackmon. So was Bill Davidson. It was his journal that tipped her off. There was a scribbled mention of “Bohemia” next to a set of dates in July along with the word Zaca. Matti missed the reference so many times before. But somehow, that night, she made the connection between the obscure reference and a video she’d seen years earlier. Zaca was one of the Grove’s one hundred plus “camps”. Each member belonged to a camp.
Seeing his name among the members only confirmed her suspicion. She opened a new page on her browser and started looking for a more comprehensive list. Matti was searching for a couple of names in particular. It only took her a few minutes to find it.
Buried in a list of attendees from 2003 was a program of the nightly activities and the featured entertainment. On one night, Saturday, July 19, the topic was “One World, One People: The New Order of Meritocracy”, and the speaker was Sir Spencer Thomas.
Matti pounded her fist against the desk. She knew it.
There was something bigger. Sir Spencer, Bill Davidson, Blackmon, and the others couldn’t have acted alone. They had to have help and there was a bigger play at hand.
Seeing Sir Spencer’s name on the screen of her laptop wasn’t proof. She couldn’t do anything with a couple of YouTube videos, some scribble in a stolen journal, and the list of members of some Skull & Bones-esque secret society.
Matti started processing what she thought she knew and what others would say if she shared it. She kept circling back to the same conclusion.
If she went to anyone with her burgeoning, unsubstantiated theory, she’d be lumped in with the birthers and the fringe thinkers who still espoused that 9/11 was an inside job. Matti had seen the videos about WTC building seven, and she found their evidence compelling; she didn’t want to be associated with them.
Her mind was spinning. She didn’t know if it was the drugs or the adrenaline.
Her bosses at NSA hadn’t acted on her suspicions the first time, before the Capitol attack. They certainly wouldn’t listen to her now without real proof. And even then, she considered, if they were a part of the conspiracy and allowed the Capitol to explode, she had nowhere to turn regardless. Though there was one man, still at NSA, she could trust. Maybe she’d reach out to him. Maybe he could poke around.
Matti disconnected the air card and closed her laptop. She needed more evidence. She needed to know the endgame.
Maybe then she’d redeem herself. She’d be the hero and not the goat. She was deep in thought when a knock at her office door snapped her from a trance.
“Yes?” she called, slipping her laptop back into the messenger bag.
“It’s Brandon,” said the chief of staff. “We need to go. Marine One is on the lawn and waiting.”
“Okay, sir,” she said. “I’m coming. I know we’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER 14
THE GALLERIA
HOUSTON, TEXAS
The phone rang for the third time and Holt was about to hang up.
“This is Boxell,” a hoarse voice answered.
“Detective Boxell?” Holt sat up straight in his chair.
“Sergeant Boxell. Who is this?”
“Sergeant”—Holt cradled the phone in his neck, his fingers poised above his keyboard—“my name is Dillinger Holt. I’m a reporter with Plausible Deniability dot info. I was—”
“I don’t talk to reporters about pending cases.”
“This isn’t about a pending case,” explained Holt. “This is about Erik Majors. He’s the former F—”
“I know who he was,” Boxell said. He sounded like he needed to suck on a lozenge for a month. “What about him?”
“You didn’t think he killed himself, right?”
“Right.”
“Why not?”
“A bunch of reasons. Where is this going? What’s your point?”
“I don’t think he killed himself either,” answered Holt. “And I think whoever killed him had a role in the death of Horus.”
“Who?”
“Horus. The hip-hop rapper who died recently.”
“Yeah,” Boxell conceded, “I’ve heard of him. I heard he died in Texas.”
“Yes.” Holt looked back at the hotel bed behind him. It was empty; Karen had left a couple of hours earlier. He missed her. It was an alien feeling.
“So where is the connection?”
“DNA.”
“What?”
“DNA,” Holt repeated. “There’s a match from both scenes.”
“Whose is it?”
“I don’t know that,” said Holt. “What I do know is that both men died from heroin overdoses made to look like intentional or accidental suicides. And in both cases DNA from the same person was recovered.”
“You get this from the FBI?” asked Boxell. “It’s their system. So they found the match? They should have alerted us.”
“This is, as we’d say in the news business, breaking information,” answered Holt. “I’m not giving you my source, but I can tell you this is a new development.”
“So why are you telling me?” Boxell asked. “What do you want?”
“I just need confirmation that there are those within your department who still believe Erik Majors didn’t kill himself.” Holt readied his fingers for the response.
“On background?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah,” Boxell hedged, “I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. Once we get confirmation from the—”
“It will be too late then,” pleaded Holt. “I need something now. I’m not using your name. If I betrayed you now, you wouldn’t help me down the road as this develops. I’m not in the business of burning people. Google me. I spent three days behind bars for contempt after refusing to identify a source in a story about a congressman’s death.”
“Hang on…” Boxell put down the phone, and Holt could hear him typing away on his computer.
While he waited, Holt Googled the sergeant and looked for images. He wanted to put a face with the voice. An album populated quickly. Boxell was tall and thin. He had a full head of hair and looked to be in his mid-forties. Several of the photographs showed him at crime scenes, talking to the DC media. A couple of them featured the police sergeant behind a set of drums, playing music with a band. Another, from Facebook, was on a tropical beach with who Holt assumed was his family.
“Okay.” Boxell was back. “I looked you up. You seem legit. I can go on background. But no names, no details about what I do.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll say this, on background,” Boxell said. “There are several people within the department who’ve long thought former FBI special agent Erik Majors did not kill himself. We’re certainly interested in evaluating any evidence that pushes forward that theory.”
“I can quote that?”
“Yes,” Boxell said. “I want you to keep me updated as you learn things. We’ve started a quid pro quo here.”
“You sound like Hannibal Lecter.”
“I’m worse.” Boxell laughed. “I have a badge and a gun.”
“That’s not endearing,” said Holt.
“It wasn’t meant to be. Don’t burn me.”
“Got it.”
Holt hung up the phone and opened a new page in his browser. He went to Amazon and found a decent pair of drumsticks. He looked up the address for the Alexandria Police Department and sent the sticks to Boxell, including a gift message:
To a cop on the beat.
Quid Pro Quo.
*
Horus wasn’t his real name. He was born Harold Richard Singleton to a bartending mother and a so
ftware-selling dad and spent his early days in a two-bedroom apartment in Shreveport, Louisiana.
Harry, as his parents called him, showed an early aptitude for music. His parents indulged him, buying an acoustic six-string guitar at a pawnshop for thirty-five dollars. They paid for piano lessons at an after-school program and exposed him to Stevie Wonder, The Commodores, Ray Charles, and Run DMC.
He could read music before he could read English and would rather have spent time penning a new song than writing a book report for school. Harry was destined for a life filled with music.
By the time he was in middle school, his parents had split up. Both of them were drinkers. His dad quit. His mom didn’t, but she got to keep him. She moved to Vegas. Harry’s soundtrack turned sour.
He found solace in his music. He would stay locked in his desert bedroom, headphones wrapped around his sweaty ears, pumping ideas and thumping therapy. He could escape with the help of Carl Carlton or Kool Moe Dee, Al B. Sure and Eminem. They spoke to him about work ethic and real passion. They taught him about relentless pursuit and blind ambition. He would sneak into the dank, off-the-Strip clubs at which his mother poured shots and mixed watered-down screwdrivers and listen to the deejays spin. Sitting in a corner booth, he’d take notes on the back of a cocktail napkin and measure beats. He’d memorize the transitional rhythms and lyrical irony of mixing particular songs together.
By the time they moved to Atlantic City when he was seventeen, he’d found a voice and developed a sound. His mother was dying of cirrhosis and she was even less of a caretaker than she’d been in Vegas.
His father moved to nearby Strathmere, New Jersey, so he could reconnect with his teenage son. However, the damage was done. Harry was a child of hip-hop and rap and rhythm and blues.
When he gained the confidence and saved enough money from shining shoes to pay for a cheap camera and a nice laptop, he uploaded his first effort to YouTube. He used Garage Band to mix the music and record his voice. He then lip-synced it into the camera and edited it using iMovie.