The Wallis Jones Series Box Set - Volume Two: Books Four thru Six

by Martha Carr

  “Don’t sugarcoat it for me,” said Helmut, grimacing.

  Ngawang smiled. “I’m sorry my friend, but the time for a gentler message has already passed.” He held his hands behind his back and turned in a circle, looking at the still-beautiful landscape as the sun started to set.

  “Those who can find enough water will face massive flooding and mudslides that will take yet more lives,” he said. “Entire beloved cities like Venice are already facing these problems. The short-term consequence of the receding glaciers is that runoff in some rivers in China has already increased but to no one’s benefit. The deepening arid conditions of western China have caused the water to evaporate before it can be used. It is like an ancient plague.”

  “This seems like one long horrible story,” said Helmut.

  “It does you no good for me to tell you only half the story,” said Ngawang. “You would never gain the true significance of what George Clemente is doing, brilliant really, if you did not understand what he is trying to solve. For his own end, of course.”

  “The idea that he’s trying to solve anything comes as a surprise.”

  “Well, from what I know of the man, and I have had more than one conversation with him,” said Ngawang, nodding at Helmut’s surprise. “Oh yes, we have met directly. He does not want to only save his own skin if it meant he would have too few people left to rule.”

  “That does sound more like him,” said Helmut.

  “So, he is willing to save millions of people, not all perhaps, but in a way that leaves him in control of vast governments and mighty armies. You know, I am aware of this Circle and Management. There are outposts of them here and they influence the Chinese government but not in a significant enough way.”

  “Why do you put it that way? I’d think you’d want those two power groups out of here completely.”

  “No, not so. They are a good check and balance for each other. The problem lies when there is no resistance and what Mr. Clemente proposes will remove all of that. He would have unique control of billions of people.”

  “I get that this has everything to do with water but I don’t see how George Clemente could insert himself into something that so many scientists have been unable to see their way around,” said Helmut, sounding frustrated.

  “Yes, often a problem is seen by one group from one particular angle and they are stymied. But then, along comes another group, or in this case, a man who is looking at things from an entirely different angle and a solution of sorts unfolds. A solution not to everyone’s benefit.”

  “That is a given.”

  “George Clemente has already begun shipping in tankers full of fresh water to prove what he can do. And I might add, with the United States government’s acquiescence.”

  “How is that possible?” asked Helmut.

  “It is a recent agreement and not something I have the answer to.”

  “Where is the water coming from?” asked Helmut, already suspecting the answer.

  “From Africa, or Angola to be more specific. My understanding is he has made quite the deal with the Angolan government and is literally bleeding the country dry. I can only assume there are other deals already being negotiated for the poorer countries to trade away their water to places like China, maybe even to the United States or Europe with George Clemente as the middle man in all of them. It’s only a matter of time, and not that much time, really, before he will control a natural resource that is vital to our very survival, and then he can demand whatever he wants.”

  “No more Circle, no more Management,” said Helmut.

  “No more democracy of any kind, I would imagine,” said Ngawang. “Real or imagined.”

  “Even the people who walk around thinking everything is fine and their vote actually matters would give in to this.”

  “Of course, in order to get a glass of water,” said Ngawang. “I don’t think money is his eventual goal, either, even though he will be able to name his price, higher and higher.”

  “No, that’s not what he’ll be after. It’s just raw power, and you’re right. This is a carefully laid out plan that is brilliant and it sickens me to say this, might work.”

  “Well, that’s where you come in,” said Ngawang. “I’m hoping your reputation as a squeaky wheel that can’t be silenced is correct. Right now, what we need is not just transparency but enough people believing they could actually change the course if they cooperate. Work together. That’s what it is in our DNA, you know. Not competition. Living beings were created with an instinct to work together, openly, for the benefit of everyone.”

  “Tell that to George Clemente. He’s out to change all that,” said Helmut, stomping his frozen foot trying to get back a little feeling. His headache felt like it was only getting worse as he downed the last of the water in his bottle, biting down on the small pieces of ice.

  Chapter 4

  Fred Bowers moved as quickly as he could through Washington Square Park in Philadelphia, pulling down his black wool felt fedora to cover his face against the biting wind. It was late October and the cold was early this year with patches of ice on the wide grey stone pavers that cut through the three-hundred-year-old, six-acre park in the center of the old business district known as Center City.

  He knew the neighborhood well from his childhood, growing up in nearby Fishtown and spending so many quarters at the automat, Horn and Hardart to get his favorite dessert, pie of any kind. He was always trying to escape his house, any chance he could get. It wasn’t just the size, measuring only sixteen feet wide and historically protected. If his family had any money, and they didn’t, they wouldn’t have been able to widen it or change it to any great degree. No one in Philadelphia could change anything about the rows of protected houses.

  He was always trying to escape the quiet misery laced with alcohol that was a constant theme in his family’s background.

  But everything else about the city of Philadelphia, he loved. He had missed it. He liked the view coming out of the city where he could see Thirtieth Street Station where all of the lines for the trains converged against the curvature of the tracks, and were compacted into a small space. Or the Schuylkill River that ran along the western side and in October would be full of row teams from nearby universities.

  Then there was Kelly Drive, windy and dense with trees. Whenever Fred was on it as a kid he forgot he was in the city. On Sundays, alternate sides of the drive were closed for bikes and hikers. Or South Street that had no parking and somewhere after cars were invented someone started parking in the middle of the street at night, and headed into their nearby house for the night. Eventually others took up the habit. No one ever got a ticket.

  He had rarely come back to the city before joining the Order of the White Rose. There was always the risk that someone would somehow recognize the small boy inside of the aging man and call him by his real name. Not by Fred Bowers. He would be forced to call them a liar and it wasn’t something he wanted to do to an old friend or someone who knew his family.

  He had run out of so many choices, though, and came to Philadelphia after the President was assassinated. There were still no complete answers about who killed President Haynes but he had a few very good ideas about who was behind it. Somewhere in there was George Clemente. Fred wasn’t finished with that story even if he had put it down for now. He was a patient man, willing to circle back to it later.

  It helped that most of his background prior to becoming a double agent within the Circle was erased a long time ago. Even his dead wife, Maureen didn’t know much about his childhood. Just like he had never known much about hers either. He regretted that now. It would have been nice to carry more memories of her, even if he wasn’t a part of them.

  No one was left to help Fred remember anything about where he grew up or what it was like and for now, he intended to keep it that way.

  The large, twisted oak trees that towered over the pathway threw shadows from the dim, decorative street lights as he wal
ked quickly toward the park. The new moon kept anything that was outside of the circles of light hidden in deep, formless darkness. It was perfect for Halloween night and several children could be seen laughing and squealing with heavy coats over their costumes as they went door to door at the expensive row houses that circled the square.

  Fred was careful to give a nod or a brief smile as he crossed the street to enter the park so that he wouldn’t be memorable to anyone. An agreeable priest was a common occurrence in the neighborhood with the three-hundred-year-old Christ Church just a few blocks away.

  The wind picked up, letting out a whistle as Fred hurried along the path. The pickup at the dead drop tonight had only a narrow window for success and he had to move past the site at the right moment or miss the chance. The package couldn’t afford to be out in the open for very long.

  Ever since the Circle, the younger of the two groups, had lost the White House, and Wallis Jones, a descendant of Management’s founders, was seen as a traitor, even if she was being used by Clemente, Circle operatives had been going to ground, hiding in corners and taking on new identities.

  If caught in the open as a known operative they were finding themselves suddenly charged with crimes or spirited away, never to be seen again.

  When necessary, it was explained to the public as an isolated terrorist event and was quickly buried by something else in the news cycle. People barely noticed and were comforted by the swift action.

  A general filter of fear had spread out among the entire Circle organization and was becoming mixed with a fair amount of dangerous accusations that traveled from one cell to another about who was to blame for the abrupt fall from grace.

  One moment, the Circle had crushed Management on the battlefield and held onto the White House and the next they were trying to stay alive and connected to the system.

  There was one exception, one plan that was still moving ahead as planned. Originally called the Schmetterling Project, the Butterfly Project was succeeding but only because its existence was still a closely guarded secret, known only to the top cell in the Circle organization.

  The Circle was still safely raising orphaned children on large campuses across the country and had finally started in recent years to place a growing number of them in key places in society. They were warned about what could happen if anyone discovered their true origins.

  Even still, they created their own pacts among themselves to share data when necessary, using the Pastebin site to safely share and store large amounts of data among amidst any of the hackers and thieves who also favored the site, despite all the warnings not to. The Butterfly members apparently had their own reasons to create an internet relay systems that made it easier for groups to chat with each other independent of other systems.

  They had created their own cells within the Circle to help each other move ahead in the world. An old world system with a millennial update. Fred had heard about the system through the Order but had heard nothing about its origins or who had created it.

  The general public never noticed a thing about the Circle or Management. Both groups had worked for centuries behind the scenes, creating and dismantling governments with the same ambition of creating a better lifestyle for everyone. The difference was Management expected loyalty in return and didn’t mind pressing the matter to the point of death.

  The Circle was willing to let people leave the organization and try to fit in with the masses. Very few had actually opted for leaving the Circle, despite the option.

  Most wanted to keep on fighting to establish a real democracy, even if it had been a myth up to now.

  Fred could feel the cold swirl around his ankles but, for once, he was grateful for the long cassock over the heavy black pants that had become his daily costume over the past two years. He was constantly disguised as an Episcopal priest in order to hide in plain sight.

  He took it all in as just one more assignment, this time as a part of the Order of the White Rose Resistance that had rescued him just after his friend and employer, President Haynes was assassinated by a low-level numbers runner named Rodney Parrish. That was as much as he knew about it. Frankly, it was just about all that had been told to the public.

  He patted the pocket in the cassock where he always kept the folded envelope. It was the letter that President Haynes had given him the last time he had seen him. It was meant to be a letter of protection Fred could show someone if he was ever caught out in the open.

  Fred never got the chance to use it and had never even opened it to see what it said. The wax seal was still on the letter. He wasn’t sure the letter would have worked anyway.

  The Circle had already disavowed him before the President’s murder since Fred had ended their civil war with Management for them by taking out enough of Management’s leaders on one long day in Richmond, Virginia. He had to do something to avenge his wife’s death.

  After that there were no other roads left for him to take and he was going to need refuge.

  It was a lucky thing that the Order could still see his usefulness.

  Up until that day in the tunnel under the Washington Cathedral, only ordained clergy had ever been allowed into the Order for hundreds of years but an exception was made for Fred Bowers. It helped that Father Michael vouched for him and insisted he was necessary if they were to ever, finally do away with the scourge, George Clemente. It also helped that there were rumors of a bigger plan that Clemente had underway right under everyone’s noses for the past few years.

  George Clemente was the biggest threat to the delicate balance that gave the average person some semblance of choice. Everything was getting out of kilter.

  Clemente had originally been a key player in the centuries old group, Management but even their ability to control the lives of others wasn’t enough to suit Clemente’s ambitions. Years ago, he had tried to grab more power for himself, unsuccessfully, and it almost cost him his life, twice.

  Eventually he seemed to be settling for starting his own third group made up of dissatisfied members from Management, with even a few Circle operatives. That was apparently a framework for something else or a good smokescreen, thought Fred, moving through the park.

  An investigation into who had helped Parrish was still ongoing and a Congressional panel were still calling witnesses, determined to not let this be another grassy knoll. So far, they were only successful at increasing the number of conspiracy theories.

  Just look at George Clemente, thought Fred, his fists clenched at his sides as he scanned the park for any Watchers who might be tailing him.

  The Vice President, Ellen Reese, was sworn in later the same day, her face ashen and stiff with what appeared to be grief as she held up her right hand and placed the other on a family bible that contained the names of each of her family members for the past one hundred years.

  The newly appointed President waited a few days to let the initial shock of the assassination settle in before she named the Congressman from Illinois’ Eighth Congressional District, Wilmer Bough, as the new Vice President. The media scrambled to find out anything about the new Vice President who had emerged from obscurity after dutifully serving in the House for over thirty years without ever being noticed.

  Fred Bowers suspected that President Reese saw that as one of his better qualities. He suspected Ellen Reese had played a part in his friend and mentor’s death and added her name to the list of people he kept tabs on, right underneath George Clemente who had orchestrated Maureen’s death. It didn’t matter to Fred that his wife was assigned to play the part of his wife and was another operative or that she had died carrying out her mission. After twenty-five years of an arranged marriage by the Circle, he had fallen in love with her anyway.

  Clemente changed all that and took her from Fred.

  He tried to keep the different pieces of the assassination out of his thoughts but he was too well trained. He kept piecing together what must have happened to President Haynes.

  Richard
Bach standing in the background of a photo-op during the signing of a new bill in the Oval Office, confirmed his growing suspicions. Fred knew he was right about Ellen Reese. Her time will come, he thought.

  The trees in the square shook in the wind and Fred pulled his coat closer around him as he counted the benches into the park.

  Normally, this was one of his favorite places to take a walk and get away from the parish office at Christ Church. It was just a few blocks from the park and was where the Order was given the use of a few rooms. No questions asked.

  It was to be expected since the church was the dot on the map where the Episcopal Diocese had started in the New World in the 1700’s and was where the Order of the White Rose had first emigrated. The ministers of the Order immediately saw the need for a way to hold off Management and began building a nationwide system of tunnels. They were all over two hundred years old and crisscrossed the older parts of the country. Most were still in use, helping to pass information and move people unseen by Management or other prying eyes. Prohibition helped them with more recent tunnels throughout the big cities, including the Midwest.

  The Order went even further and opened the church to the Colonial rebels who met there to talk about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness before starting a revolution. Most of them were also some of the earliest members of the American branch of the Circle. The descendants of the European founders wouldn’t emigrate till hundreds of years later after they were almost wiped out.

  Fred was almost halfway into the square, crossing over three acres, searching for the right bench and the chalk mark that should be there.

  Washington Square was one of five squares designed by William Penn before the country was founded and was a favorite dead drop used by the Order. The priests had a particular penchant for history and the smaller details the public never got to know. The park held all kinds of secrets in the way it was laid out that the Order used to its advantage.