“Even then when I was just a kid, that Gabriella would go out there to pray,” the elderly landscaper said.
Henry asked, “So when did she decide to move into the small house?”
“I don’t remember exactly,” answered Carlos, “but at some point after Gabriella’s brother and her husband died and it was just her and her son living in the big stone house and all of us living in the cottage, she said to me, ‘Let’s trade houses.’ Just like that. So we did.”
“Carlos, how many people live there with you?”
“I think it’s over thirty now with my kids and their kids.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gabriella turned and pointed her boney finger up at Henry and Carlos. They froze in place. The shimmering air around Gabriella suddenly arced over the cliff and embraced the men.
“What just happened?” asked Henry.
“Yo no se.”
The old woman jumped from her flat table of rock across the wide crevice and she skipped up the rocks like a mountain goat.
She met the men on the lawn on the highest point of the bluff. Barely out of breath from her climb, she hooked her arms into each man’s arms and walked with them to the cottage, leaving the golf cart parked on the grass. The dogs decided to trot back to the barn.
“My Lord has revealed our enemy’s name to me. They call themselves the ‘Directorate.’”
They took seats in the cottage’s sun porch overlooking the ocean. Sandy joined them. She carried a tray from the kitchen with a coffee service for four.
Gabriella continued. “Tonight, God was showing me what happened at the Umpqua Community College shooting rampage yesterday.”
“Yes,” said Sandy. “I don’t understand, when God has you defend people in a situation like that why He lets people get killed and wounded.”
“I know,” said Gabriella slowly, “it’s a mystery to me too. All I know is what I know. No more.” The old sage poured coffee for the four of them and put her cup to her thin lips and took a deep sip. “Excellent coffee, dear,” she said. “Would you please get your laptop, honey?”
“The boy, the army veteran who charged the shooter, I think his name is Chris,” Gabriella said. “He and one of the teachers there were the only real targets of the Directorate.”
“But I thought the shooter was some kind of Antichrist, asking who believed in God and then shooting them,” Henry said.
“Well,” Gabriella continued as Sandy came back, “this is how the Directorate operates. First, let me show you something on the computer. Sandy, pull up a random sample of US citizens. Adults. About ten thousand.”
Sandy keyboarded and her screen showed a chart covered with black dots.
“Now,” said Gabriella, “tell it to differentiate between thinkers and reactors.”
The screen now color-coded the dots, mostly red, a few green.
“See,” said Gabriella, “the green dots, about eight percent of this sample, are thinkers. The red are people who are just reactors. The Directorate is a network of people more powerful than any government or institution, and their goal is to control the world through telekinetic brainwashing. Thinkers can’t be mentally manipulated like the reactors. Reactors simply accept any influences that come into their brain and sheeplike, well, they just react.”
“That’s why advertising is so effective,” said Henry. “I always wondered why retailers spend so much money telling people what to do. It just didn’t make sense. But I guess if people just fall for a sales pitch without thinking, it must pay off.”
“Yes, Henry, exactly,” said Gabriella. “You see, you are one of the thinkers, the green dots. Advertising makes no sense to you because you come to your buying decisions mindfully, even though I can’t understand why you spend so much on fishing tackle, but that’s your choice.” And she gave him one of her sweet smiles that crinkled her eyes.
“Who was it,” Carlos chimed in, “said, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute”?
“Phineas Taylor Barnum,” said Henry. “And if you look at how he made his fortune—in what, the 1840s—that notion formed the foundation for his business model. He created hoaxes and sold tickets to thousands of suckers who couldn’t constrain their curiosity. Perfect example of what you’re talking about, Gabriella. And according to Sandy’s chart with over ninety-two percent of the population being red dots, reactors, Barnum may have been conservative in his estimate.”
Sandy asked, getting back to the shooting in Oregon, “But why, if God instructed you to protect this Chris Mintz, did he get so badly wounded, and the professor, Larry Levine, was killed?”
“As I said, dear, I only know what I know, and I can only do what I can do,” Gabriella said.
“I have a theory about that,” said Carlos. “What I’m reading today in the papers, this Chris Mintz is being elevated to hero status, maybe justifiably so. His cousin set up a web site asking for donations to help Chris pay for medical expenses and compensate for lost income. They were trying to collect ten thousand dollars. As of today, the fund reached a million.
“Now his son, the one he talked about to the shooter—that it was his sixth birthday—his son is autistic. It could be, I’m not sure, but it could be that God’s plan was to use Chris’ injuries to raise money for the son and others.”
“Okay,” said Gabriella, “Perhaps. But I am not allowed to theorize. You may be correct, Carlos, but we really don’t know.
“But,” Gabriella continued, “getting back to the tactics of the Directorate. They trained a network of seers and operators. The seers can discern who the most threatening thinkers are. Once they identify the targets, they send the names back to an operations center where the operations officer prioritizes the target list.”
“What kind of people make this death list?” asked Sandy.
“The common characteristic of all these targets is that they are thinkers. Many are nontraditional health practitioners like Anna Stone. Some in the military—the type of warriors who respectfully question their commander’s decisions.”
“Hmmm,” Henry said. “You know that’s our boy, Hank Junior. He always followed orders, but he would take the time to chat with his commanders about their senior leadership.”
“Yes,” said Gabriella, “perfect example of the type of person the Directorate would target. Some professors, some ministers, just about any professional who instinctively challenges mainstream thought.
“This Directorate, a powerful league of very wealthy men and women who operate under the delusion that they are the last bastion of true American patriotism, sends out the target list to their six squads of operators. To carry out their murderous plan, they’ll select a poor dissociated weakling and hypnotize him. They’ll manipulate their subjects into thinking they kill in the name of the Jihad, or Satan, and make the shooting look like fanatical violence, but that’s just camouflage. Most of these incidents that the foolish journalists report as Islamic violence are orchestrated by the Directorate. They will kill hundreds in a crowd but they target only a certain few just to conceal their schemes.”
In unison Henry and Sandy uttered, “These people are evil.”
“Yes,” said Gabriella, “and they’re delusional. They’re convinced that they’re patriots, pruning out undesirable obstacles to their righteous master plan to shape America into a herd of mindless sheep.”
“Are you the only one that God has chosen to combat these devils?” asked Carlos.
“I don’t know,” smiled Gabriella. “That’s my favorite answer, because it’s the truth. I only know what I know….”
“And you can only do what you can do,” Carlos finished the sentence for the ancient sage.
Henry spoke, “So, Gabriella, let me get this straight: the Lord has chosen you to fight an organization with unlimited resources that can brainwash people from a distance, manipulate their minds to carry out horrific crimes, and now they target us. Yet you don’t even know if we have any allies in this battle. Ha
ve you any idea how insane this all would sound to any rational person outside of this lunatic ranch of ours?”
Gabriella looked deeply at her grandson-in-law with what seemed to be centuries of angry power all focused on him. She was casting no threat, just an unambiguous reminder that she deserved the respect of a field marshal in a vast corps of divine legions.
“I apologize, Gabriella. You just worry the daylights out of me.”
“So here is what we are going to do,” said Gabriella. And she laid out her plan.
Frances O’Donnelly harbored heavy doubts about the Directorate’s purchase of the exclusive use of the entire Bellefontaine Mansion, the “world’s leader among luxury spas,” for four days at a cost of nearly three hundred thousand dollars.
She frowned at Akebe Cheron’s entrance into the sumptuous ballroom at the Canyon Ranch Resort in the Berkshires of western Massachusetts. He wore a serenely composed look, having just come from a steam bath and deep therapeutic massage.
The rest of the Executive Board huddled around the appetizer bar—Donald Snow sipping a glass of chardonnay, Romano Goldstein picking over the cheese selections. Frances chatted with Olivia Kingston, and Randal Sanford heaped as much food as possible onto a much-too-small plate.
In the past ten years this secret band of billionaires had only met together four times. The chairman inexplicably called a second meeting in a month. Apparently the operational tempo was ramping up.
Frances kept her skepticism under wraps. She noticed Akebe pushing a button on the credenza behind the serving table and two waiters appeared—well-muscled young men, too dangerous-looking for a career in food-service work. She knew they were employees of the Directorate, not the Canyon Ranch. Akebe gave them instructions for serving the afternoon meal, and for security precautions. The men left the room.
“Well, folks,” Akebe said, “I’m ever so grateful that you all could make time in your busy schedules to attend this meeting on such short notice. Thank you very much.” Neither his tone nor his demeanor communicated the slightest hint of distress—curious because on the notification Frances received, Akebe used the heading: Urgent Emergency Meeting.
“What a wonderful place, don’t you think? Who would believe such a treasure would be tucked away back here in the New England woods, far away from the public’s prying eyes? Let’s take some time to enjoy each other’s company before we get down to business. What do you say?”
Frances glanced around at her fellow board members and noted the same suspicious looks on their faces. Randal was compelled to give voice to what they all were wondering, “I want some of what Akebe’s been smoking.”
Akebe joined Frances and the clutch of colleagues near the wine and cheese bar and offered a sketchy agenda for the long weekend, “We won’t sit down for our first session until tomorrow afternoon, folks, so take some time to enjoy the grounds and the spa. We have exclusive use of the Bellefontaine Mansion, but you might run across a few other guests staying in one of the out buildings. I’d like you all to find some time to relax and refresh before we gather, okay?”
The group’s skepticism changed to angry apprehension and no one tried to conceal it.
Romano Goldstein said, “Akebe, I have to say, and I think I speak for the rest of us, the tone you are setting for this conference does not match the urgency of our situation. We did not leave our business concerns to waste time on our personal wellness. The Directorate does not gather to play, we gather to accomplish the serious business of transforming America. You owe us an explanation.”
“You don’t speak for me, Romano,” Randal Sanford mumbled through a mouthful of shrimp popover, washing it down with a cabernet at twenty dollars a gulp. “See, I get where Akebe is coming from for once. He knows the importance of creating a climate conducive to intellectual collaboration.”
Four pairs of stunned eyes stared at Randal Sanford as he flicked flakes of Chinese dumplings off his bulging sweatshirt. It occurred to Frances that Akebe has hypnotized the board members, using the same telekinetic power they use to manipulate their targets.
Frances strode from the room, heels clicking on the polished hardwood floor. She pulled her mobile phone out of the pocket of her pleated slacks and tapped the application she had Andrew design for her. The screen came up green, meaning that no telekinetic energy was influencing her mind. She had become hypervigilant after her meeting with Anna Stone. A puzzling apprehension gnawed at her gut.
Frances took the stairs to her suite of rooms in the mansion and quickly changed into white tennis shorts and a light-green tee shirt. She hurried back down to the boardroom.
“Guys,” Frances said to the group, “I don’t know what Akebe is up to, but you know, I have to agree with our bohemian brother here,” indicating Randal, busy building himself a plate full of bacon wrapped dates stuffed with blue cheese. “We’ve all been through plenty of stressful months keeping up with our day jobs at the heads of international organizations while playing a pivotal role in our heroic efforts to make America great.”
The three remaining dissenters were warming up to Frances’s speech.
“I’m going to take this opportunity to relax in these luxurious surroundings, have some fine wine, gourmet food, and try out the spa. See you all around the table tomorrow afternoon. Ciao.”
With that she sidled up next to Randal and piled Filipino lumpia, stuffed mushrooms, and shrimp with remoulade sauce on her plate. She poured herself a glass of champagne and went out to the patio to soak up some New England sun before it dipped down past the Berkshire Hills.
Frances heard Akebe reassure his team, “Well, folks, I guess there are three of us who agree on the need to relax. I suggest, Romano, Olivia, and Don that you let your concerns wash away in the steam bath and enjoy a relaxing evening. Perhaps we could take a drive to Jacob’s Pillow Dance Theater a few miles away. Their program tonight features a troupe from Cuba. I have tickets.”
The room became a buzz of social conversation.
Frances called Andrew. When he answered she asked, “Have you been invited to this meeting in Massachusetts?”
“Yeah,” Andrew’s sullen voice responded, “why?”
“Okay, Andrew listen to me,” Frances commanded. “Your job is on the line. You know what that means, right? I realize you don’t give a crap, but you might consider your future just for a second. If you’re supposed to be here, that means you are on the agenda, and that’s not a good thing for you. You need to be prepared.”
“Okay,” Andrew responded, suspicious. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” and Frances hung up.
She decided to call her new friend Anna Stone.
“Is it possible for you to get away from your practice for a few days?” Frances asked her.
Anna thought, “Yes, I suppose so, why?”
“I’m at a beautiful exclusive resort in Massachusetts and I would love to spend a few days with you. Just a whim,” Frances said.
“Well, I can afford the time, but I certainly can’t afford the money for such a trip on such short notice, I’m sorry.”
“Anna, I’ll take care of everything. Just say yes, pack a bag, and a driver will pick you up at your house. You don’t have to arrange a thing. I want to say, Anna, I feel that I need to have you here for some very important reasons I can’t explain on the phone.”
“I think I understand, Frances. Okay, my answer is yes. I’ll tell my husband and I will be ready in two hours.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Paul Stone glared at his wife and tried to restrain his rage. But Anna explained her need to get away for a free spa weekend. Paul was amazed when an unexpected peace soaked into his heart and he helped her pack. He stood at the door looking out as a black Lincoln limousine pulled into the driveway and a young lady in a suit came to the door and carried Anna’s suitcase to the car. Anna turned around as she followed the driver down the driveway and gave Paul a shrug and a grin. He just shook his head.
Sandy said, “Can you tell me where you’re going?”
“Fishing,” Henry said. “I have four weeks of leave coming, and in our department if you don’t take them before the fiscal year ends, your boss gets in trouble. So I have been ordered to take my four weeks leave from the Bureau, and I’m going fishing.” Henry thought he was doing pretty well.
“Sure, well I’m glad for you honey,” Sandy said. “Any idea how long this trip will be?” She sounded frightened.
Henry turned to her. “Do you have an angel?”
Sandy managed a smile. “Yes, why?”
“Well,” said Henry, “it seems our Lord and Savior has deemed it necessary to assign me my own personal angel. Apparently there are over thirty of these heavenly creatures swarming around the sky over Cielavista and I simply assumed that if I deserved to have one tailing me around, then you deserved at least one. Mine is kind of a water-boy level angel. Not real high ranking.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tobias,” answered Henry. “And I’m not a big fan of having a divine spy hovering over me all the time, not knowing where he is and what he’s up to. In fact, this whole scenario is so ludicrous I can’t stand it.”
Henry needed to control every detail of his life. He longed for a place where he could set everything up in perfect rows and columns, where he could fix anything that broke, direct anything that went out of line, and put everything within his reach in perfect order. Even now, at middle age, he still operated under the delusion that perfection was attainable.
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