Catch and Kill

by J D Lasica

  No! That’s the cuddle hormone talking!

  “Tell me what you want, Andrew.” He thought he detected a note of sadness in Cynthia’s voice. She leaned forward and reached for the oversize sponge.

  His heart was bursting with passion. He wanted to kiss her, to caress her face with his hand. He’d turn thirty next month—he wanted his youth back.

  But how could he say any of this to the fantasy version of Cynthia Esposito?

  Instead, he raised two fingers into the air. Time for Scene Two.

  22

  Zug, Switzerland

  Volkov arrived in Zurich in the usual manner. His Dassault Falcon 8X jet landed at one of the airport’s four private jet terminals. He descended the jet’s airstairs and entered the black armor-plated bomb-proof Cadillac Escalade SUV limousine with black tinted windows and partition. The outside mirrors were turned downward so there was no chance the driver or bodyguard riding in the front could glimpse the Chairman. So unfortunate if they did.

  He punched in the security code to confirm his identity. They were off to Zug. An LED strip across the ceiling of the SUV illuminated a silver bucket of Champagne and ice. He was not in the mood for a drink or the entertainment console. Instead, he occupied himself during the forty-minute ride by reading a new book about the coming collapse of the American empire. The author would be stunned to learn how quickly that collapse was coming.

  He prided himself as something of a history buff, devouring volumes about the Roman Empire, Sun Tzu's The Art of War, books about geopolitics and the rise and fall of civilizations. As a young man in Belarus, he was reading a tract of ancient apocalyptic literature one day when the realization struck him like a thunderbolt. He recognized himself in the text.

  Or more precisely, he recognized his future self as a destroyer of worlds, a builder of new worlds.

  He recalled the day the family attorney took him aside with the news. His parents and older brother were killed in a car accident. As the only remaining son, he would inherit his parents’ vast fortune. Rumors swirled that he was behind the fatal crash, but there was no official inquest in cash-strapped Belarus. He was coy about it, never speaking of the accident. Instead, he retreated into his chamber for days, weeks, months.

  Incognito was born.

  It was foretold. His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his head are many diadems, and he has a name written that no one knows but himself. Revelation 19:11-21

  He snapped out of his reverie as they pulled up to the mansion and circled to the back. Ah, yes. He’d heard Zaven Kasparian boast about his place with an epic view of Lake Zug. He’d developed a complex relationship with his fellow billionaire. Months ago he’d done Kasparian a favor. An operative in Kasparian’s employ had made the fatal mistake of skimming profits from the boss’s gambling operations. Savić had boarded Kasparian’s submarine and taken care of the problem with a bullet to the back of the head.

  You wash my hand and I’ll wash yours.

  His bodyguard did a quick reconnaissance of the backyard grounds and then disappeared inside. Volkov made his way to the second story via a private marble staircase. He opened the door to his quarters in the west wing, a seldom-used area of the estate reserved for special guests. Staff members were instructed to accommodate his every wish but admonished not to enter the room under any circumstances. Communication would be done verbally and through written notes.

  The legend of Incognito demanded such discretion. It was so ingrained into his identity that he rarely needed to remind himself of his one unalterable law: Never drop the mask of anonymity. Your power flows from it.

  He hung up his jacket. An old habit, he still wore an unremarkable, blend-into-the-woodwork sport coat in a boring shade of gray. As he checked the electronics his advance team had set out for him, his phone rang. Only members of the Compact had this private number. He saw the caller’s name: Randolph Blackburn. The American whose secure digital vault was breached.

  “Yes?” he answered.

  “Incognito, is that you?” A frail voice. Blackburn’s chronic disease seemed to be getting the better of him.

  Volkov decided to lie. “I’ve been meaning to contact you, Blackburn.” Addressing members of the Compact by their last names was not impolite but rather the accepted protocol. These were not your friends. These were men who understood only one thing. Power.

  “Rumor has it our group will be meeting soon. Why wasn’t I informed?”

  Volkov hesitated. Blackburn had informed him his digital vault had been breached by Kaden Baker, his granddaughter. It was an unforgivable misstep, letting a copy of Project Ezekiel fall into the wrong hands. The digital file was an executive summary, not the full unredacted outline of the operational plans. Even so, if the stolen document was decrypted or fell into the hands of law enforcement, the operation could be compromised. It contained a brief mention of each member of the Compact.

  Such a slip-up might have been forgiven, considering Blackburn’s contributions to the Compact. Even now, Blackburn’s broadcast group was requiring its network of local television stations to air video segments spotlighting threats to America from outside forces. Immigrants. Terrorist groups. The European Union. It played beautifully into their long-term campaign of disinformation.

  Combine that with the biological cocktail Bashir’s Lab was introducing into the population, and soon there would be widespread panic in the streets.

  No, Volkov decided, I still need Blackburn for a short time. But I can’t fill him in about the full, nations-altering breadth of Project Ezekiel. Blackburn might be a globalist, but the mass casualties suffered by Americans would be a bridge too far.

  “We’ve heard your physician has ordered you not to fly.” This much was true. “Let’s do this. I’ll send you a transcript of tonight’s Summit. And we’ll let you host the next convening in Bel Air.” This was a lie, too.

  “That would be … acceptable.” Blackburn sounded more tired than angry. “I also have some thoughts about Project Ezekiel.”

  “Send them through the usual channels. I look forward to reviewing them. I must go now.”

  “But—”

  He hung up. One item on tonight’s agenda was Blackburn’s pending expulsion from the Compact. The only question was when to pull the trigger.

  He had once thought Blackburn’s investment in the Birthrights Unlimited biotech firm would pay dividends. But it turned out Bashir and his people could accomplish their genetic engineering work in-house. Blackburn’s usefulness was coming to an end.

  He checked the time. Lucid should touch down in Zurich within the hour. They would need to discuss the last-minute arrangements for tonight.

  A popup reminder appeared on his phone. He decided not to take the medication his doctor prescribed for his manic episodes. Needed to be on his game.

  He stepped to large bay windows and opened them. The smells of fallen leaves and burning fireplaces mingled in the air. Two large yachts glided around the glorious lake down below, resplendent in fall colors.

  He remembered traveling to places like this. As a young man, he vacationed in Ibiza, Saint-Tropez, the Amalfi Coast, and other European hotspots. The beard hid the disfigurement but only partly, and after a time he could no longer bear the stares he would get.

  He looked at the clock and tensed up about tonight’s first in-person meeting of the Compact. He would face six men who would evaluate his appearance and judge his every move.

  He wanted to slip into his casual wear while prepping the last items for tonight. Where was his assistant? He cracked the door open and saw his suitcase sitting outside the next bedroom door. He used the bedroom phone to call the house staff. No answer. He tried calling his assistant or his bodyguard with his regular phone but saw it wasn’t connecting. Should he call with his special Compact hotline phone? No, can’t share that number with staff.

  Damn it all! It’s just a dozen feet away!

  He opened the door wider, looked both ways, and st
epped furtively to retrieve it. He grabbed the handle, got halfway back to his quarters, and froze.

  A figure appeared on the landing at the end of the hallway. A boy, standing motionless and staring straight at him.

  A boy nearly as old as he was on that day. The day his mother threw acid in his face.

  23

  Samana Cay

  Alex stood in a long, empty hallway leading to a single door at the far end. No sign of the Palace of Versailles or the bubble bath or Cynthia. After a minute, the door started to glow blue around the edges. He walked toward it and pushed it open.

  He emerged onto a stone patio overlooking the beach and oceanfront. Fresh ocean air filled his senses. There, at the entrance to a walkway leading down to a grassy knoll, stood Cynthia Esposito. She was wearing khaki shorts, sandals, and a breezy tropical top that showed off her white choker and bare midriff. She was still very much seventeen.

  She held a picnic basket in one hand and extended her free hand toward him. “Come on, we don’t want to miss the sunset.” The late afternoon sunlight and soft sea breeze played with her hair. She was a fairytale sprung to life.

  He approached and took her hand. That impossible longing, that crazy ache in his heart, came rushing back to him. He was thunderstruck the first time he laid eyes on her. Love at first sight. After they went off to separate colleges and in the years afterward, he waited for that kind of feeling to happen again. But lightning never struck again.

  She smiled and took his hand, leading him down the stone walkway. They paused atop a rock outcropping that gave them a grand view of the turquoise waters lapping at the northwest end of Samana Cay.

  Their virtual reality experience was over. He was still wearing his Eyewear, but this was a real place—maybe fifty yards from the Fantasy Theater—and this was the spitting image of Cynthia Esposito holding his hand. He had found the VR part of the Fantasy Live simulation fascinating and jaw-dropping but unnerving. It was like being trapped inside a Hollywood movie with an over-the-top special effects budget.

  Scene Two, an augmented reality experience rather than VR, was more like real life. Except it wasn’t.

  They followed the trail that traced the edge of the tall cliffs and came upon a patch of grass with a picnic blanket festooned with paper plates, plastic cups, and a bottle of chilled Champagne. He’d long imagined taking one of his girlfriends to a romantic, secluded lookout like this.

  They sank onto the blanket. Cynthia opened her basket. Inside was an assortment of cheeses, crackers, cold cuts, and a warm loaf of French bread with that fresh-bread scent.

  “Isn’t this a great view?” Cynthia said, looking out over the bay. To the east, they could see the little waterfall spraying down along the far cliffs.

  “It’s perfect,” he said.

  And it was. He studied the curve of her cheeks, the style of her hair. Again he marveled at the masterful job they’d done with Cynthia’s facial features. But it was her voice that transported him back to another time and place when the whole world stood before them, alive with possibilities.

  “You hungry?” he asked.

  “Actually, yes, I skipped lunch today.”

  He sliced the Manchego cheese for the crackers. “I like hearing your voice. Tell me a story.”

  She scrunched up her face. “I’m not a storyteller.”

  “Just say anything. You have a dog?”

  “I did. Or I mean, I do.”

  “Do you or don’t you?” He opened the Champagne and poured it into two cups.

  “Yeah. I mean, I haven’t seen her in months.”

  “Why not?”

  “Let’s change the subject. Tell me more about you. Your career sounds exciting.”

  He wasn’t about to spend his time talking about his fake background as Andrew Bayless. For his story, he needed to find out more about this girl and what made her tick. Where is the Performer Impersonating Cynthia Esposito actually from? Why did she volunteer for this gig?

  “Well, this is my fantasy, and I’d rather talk about you, Cynthia. What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Misty. She’s a good dog. Always brings the ball to me instead of my dad.”

  “Your dad—tell me more about him.” He’d met Cynthia’s father a few times back in the day. A carpenter. Or woodworker. Works with his hands.

  “He—he’s a businessman. Travels a lot. Haven’t seen him in months, either.”

  “Then who takes care of the dog? Your mom?”

  She turned away, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t—I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I didn’t prep for this.”

  “What do you mean?” He repositioned himself in front of her and looked at her dead on. “Tell me.”

  She looked frightened now. “I can’t. I’m not allowed.”

  “Not allowed by who?”

  He reached out but she brushed his hand away, stood up, and began to walk toward the pathway leading down to the beach. He followed on her heels and saw she was starting to cry.

  He caught up to her at the bottom of the incline where the walkway ended and the beach began. He tried to comfort her. “It’s all right. What’s going on?”

  “It’s not fair!” she cried. “It’s so unfair!”

  “What’s unfair?”

  “This! Everything! What they’re gonna do to my family!” She started to tremble.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “I can’t—they’re watching.”

  “Come on, let’s walk.”

  Cynthia took off her sandals and he removed his loafers and socks. They walked along the edge of the water for a long while, toes digging into the sand as the tide came in and washed away their footprints. This stretch of beach was private and empty. Farther up the sloping beach above the waterline, he spotted a series of small transponders blending artfully into the tropical landscape.

  He stopped, removed his eyepiece and earbuds, and stashed them in his pocket, rules be damned. He stepped in front of her, held her by the shoulders, and explored her face.

  Cynthia was gone. This performer did bear a resemblance to Cynthia. The same wiry build, the same jet-black hair, the same height and eye color. But her face was different now, fuller and rounder. Her hairstyle was more clipped. Her freckles and dimples were gone, her eyebrows darker. She looked like a scared high school kid, not his fantasy dream girl.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Bailey. My name is Bailey Finnerty. And I’ve been kidnapped.”

  24

  Zug, Switzerland

  Volkov watched the boy scamper down the marble staircase and disappear into the maw of the country mansion. He grabbed his suitcase, thrashed into his quarters, and closed the door, breathing heavily.

  He rushed to the workstation his advance team had set up against the far wall. He sat down and fired up his screen. He was relieved to see he was online and that his tracker showed Lucid had touched down and was en route. He chose audio mode and connected.

  “Lucid, we have a problem.”

  “Chairman, I’m on my way. Can this wait until I arrive? I’m still dealing with one of the girls refusing— ”

  “We’ve had a security breach. I was spotted.”

  “Spotted?”

  “Seen. In the flesh.”

  “By who?”

  “A boy.”

  The boy looked about twelve. Who was he? Kasparian’s son? Would he tell anyone? Surely he’ll tell his father. And his father will tell other members of the Compact, undercutting his authority at tonight’s gathering.

  “A boy,” Lucid repeated, as if to make sure he’d heard correctly.

  “Yes. You know how we’ve handled this in the past.”

  This had happened three or four times over the years. He would send his people and the hapless interloper would disappear. A story was spun about the unfortunate country dweller who fell from a great height. A tale was woven about the foolhardy lad who didn’t realize the strength of the river current. Would Kasparian e
ven need to know?

  “Zaven Kasparian has one son, a thirteen-year-old. Chairman, let me talk with them. We can’t do anything rash.”

  Volkov rose, strode to the window with its sweeping views of “Crypto Valley,” and tried to calm himself. The big picture demanded he keep things in perspective. He had assembled a gathering of the world’s leading power brokers. What mattered was that they were buying into his vision.

  He returned to the workstation. “Make it clear he must not speak of this to anyone. Ever. Or the consequences will be dire.”

  “I’ll handle it.”

  He hung up and changed into his casual outfit: a polo cotton knit shirt, twill cotton pants, and slippers. He needed to focus on tonight’s meeting. With Blackburn out of the picture, the world would be divided into seven spheres of influence for the Compact to carve up.

  History buffs might liken it to a modern-day Yalta, just as Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin had redrawn nations’ boundaries after World War II. Only today governments were less important than the billionaires and business interests pulling the levers of power behind the scenes.

  Seven spheres. That was what mattered more than national borders.

  He breathed deeply and calmed himself as he recalled the seven kings from the Book of Revelation. And Ezekiel’s prediction of a plague followed by an era of peace. Although he would never breathe a word of this to his secular friends, with their unending thirst for greater wealth and power, he knew he was a modern-day prophet fulfilling a historic destiny. He could see things other men could not. He was a man of visions.

  Armageddon will not come about through a nuclear holocaust. Armageddon will be biological. The fire and fury will come from the funeral pyres of millions.

  In the chaos that ensued just days from now, an even larger opportunity presented itself. A chance not just to reshape borders but to reboot humanity. Project Ezekiel was not merely a strategy document for the new world. It provided an anthropological roadmap.