Omega Series Box Set 1

by Blake Banner

  I frowned, wondering what was going to happen the next day. It was the first I had heard about any debate. She turned to look at him with no real expression, then shook her head. “I hope you’re right, Philip. I worry that you’re overconfident. I think you’re underestimating Omega, and Lacklan. I think this whole thing could blow up in our faces.”

  “Trust me. I’ve been working towards this my whole career. I know Omega. They are blinded by their own arrogance and greed. Tomorrow we will drop our first bombshell. They won’t be expecting it and the battle will shift in our favor. You’ll see.”

  He reached over and patted her hand. After a while, he stood and went indoors. She sat for a while, alone, looking into the floodlit garden. For a moment, I was tempted to go to her and tell her that all her doubts were right; to come with me and I would protect her and look after her. Maybe I should have done that. But before I could make up my mind, she stood and followed Philip Gibbons inside, and closed the French windows.

  I have wondered many times since then what would have happened if I had just walked in and confronted them, forced a showdown, even taken her by force if necessary. But something stayed my hand and I didn’t do it.

  The temperature had dropped and a cold breeze was coming off the river. I realized I had started to shiver and decided to head for home. I crouch-ran back to the shore, waded into the dark, icy water and swam, against the current this time, back toward where I had left my shoes and socks. I pulled them on with numb, trembling fingers, ran back to the car, clambered inside, and switched on the hot air. Then I fired up the powerful twin engines and started back toward Manhattan, taking a more direct route this time than we had followed to get here.

  I followed Boston Road as far as Morissania, where I turned onto 3rd Avenue. At the lights on 3rd and East 158th, I watched in my rear-view mirror as a cop patrol car pulled up behind me. There was nothing special about that and I had no reason to be worried, but for some reason, some sixth sense made me aware of him. After a moment, he put on his indicator, pulled out, and drew up alongside me. I didn’t look. I kept my eyes on the lights. But in my peripheral vision, I was aware that the driver and his partner were both looking at me.

  My mind ran through the possible reasons. There was nothing special about the car except it was a ’68 classic. If that was it, they’d be looking at the car, not me. So what made them interested in me? The lights changed to green and I pulled away. They stayed with me till East 149th and then turned west. I carried on south toward the 3rd Avenue Bridge and Manhattan.

  I picked up the unmarked Dodge Charger on the other side of the bridge, just past Harlem River Park. It stayed four or five cars behind me all the way to my apartment block, and as I decelerated to pull into my parking garage, I saw it slow behind me, like it was looking for a space to stop.

  On my way up in the elevator I wondered if it was Ben, but that didn’t seem to make much sense. Why would he be following me? Besides, it wasn’t his style. It was too crude. Say what you like about Ben, but he wasn’t crude.

  If not Ben, who then? Maybe I’d have to go and ask them, but that could wait. First I had more pressing jobs. I let myself in to my apartment, closed and locked the door, checked the rooms for visitors, and had a long, hot shower.

  After that, I put a pizza in the oven and opened my laptop. I found the audio file for the bugs. There was a total of four hours of it. I switched it on and poured myself a generous glass of Bushmills. I listened for a minute or two to familiarize myself with the voices. The common language was English. The British guy’s Arabic was basic and the Pakistani guy’s English was better than his Arabic. But as I had expected, mostly it was just grunts and sporadic comments. What little conversation there was was the kind of garbage that most people talk about when they share a house. “Has anyone seen my cell phone?” “The girl in the grocery store is hot. I think she likes me.” “Man, I need to buy some new pants.” And so on.

  Occasionally the Afghan guy would call them to order and bark at them in Arabic. I had learnt enough in my time with the Regiment to know that he was reminding them to stay focused. They were jihadists, warriors of God, they would get all the women they wanted when they joined Allah. But as long as they were fighting the holy war, it didn’t help anyone if they started thinking about girls.

  Girls meant sex, sex could lead to love, love meant marriage, kids, and home. That was not the warrior’s way. There was no room for women and love in the warrior’s life. I smiled, but it wasn’t a happy smile.

  “Tell me about it, Aatifa.”

  Once I had familiarized myself with their voices I was able to have the file playing in the background. One part of my brain registered the steady flow of domestic noises and comments, alert for buzzwords or extended conversations, while the rest of my mind was able to focus on other things, like pizza, and wondering what Gibbons had meant about the next day being a game changer.

  I switched on the news and stood staring out at the terrace, sipping my whiskey and listening to the drone of familiar half-lies and half-truths. America needed a wall to protect her from illegal Mexican immigrants. America did not need a wall to protect her from illegal Mexican immigrants. Islam was a religion of peace, those who feared it were jingoistic reactionaries and fascists. Islam was nothing but a call to arms, a call to jihad against the whole world. Islam was the greatest threat civilization had faced since Hitler. Climate change was a hoax, a conspiracy of the Left. Climate change was the biggest threat to life on Earth since the comet that wiped out the dinosaurs, sixty-five million years ago.

  And then suddenly a woman was talking and I was listening.

  “…in a surprise development that has had conference organizers scrambling to adjust their schedules, Professor Philip Gibbons, of Green College in Oxford, issued this morning a challenge to former president Dick Hennessy, to debate with him, tomorrow evening, in a public forum at the conference, his role and the role of the Hennessy Foundation, in preparing the world for the inevitable changes that global warming will bring…”

  I moved to look at the TV. Zain Asher was on the screen with a picture of the UN building behind her.

  “We tried to talk to Professor Gibbons earlier today but he was not available for comment. However, he did issue this brief statement through his secretary…” She read from a slip of paper. “While Democrats and Republicans present the world with an ever more grotesque circus of the absurd, and rally an ever more gullible public behind their banners, hurling abuse and accusations at each other, the world slides towards catastrophic near-annihilation. The Hennessys, through their cynical foundation, present themselves as champions of the poor, the weak and the marginalized, yet they are among the richest and most powerful people on Earth. Well, I have challenged Dick Hennessy to stand before the American people, before the people of the world, and defend his indefensible lack of action in the face of a threat that will, if left unchecked, wipe out the most vulnerable and the weakest people on the planet. This is a man who, during his tenure in office, spent two point four billion dollars bombing a single Arab nation, but consistently failed, despite his Democrat rhetoric, to put a single initiative in place to address the threat of climate change. Well I challenge him, and his foundation, to answer these charges tomorrow in open debate before the world.”

  So this was it, this was his game changer. I sat on the arm of the sofa and continued to listen.

  “We asked former President Dick Hennessy what he had to say to Professor Gibbons’ allegations, and, to many people’s astonishment, and the open distress of the conference organizers, Dick Hennessy good humouredly accepted Professor Gibbons’ challenge. Here is what he had to say.”

  The screen cut from Zain Asher to a shot of Hennessy at the offices of the Hennessy Foundation. He looked relaxed and amused. He was talking into a microphone that was being held in front of him. “I have always been a great admirer of Professor Gibbons and I am sorry that he takes that view of the efforts of the Hen
nessy Foundation. I think he needs to have a word with his researchers because they clearly haven’t been doing their homework. The Hennessy Foundation has invested many, many millions of dollars in helping developing communities to grow and prepare for the world’s changing environment.”

  Asher’s voice was heard asking, “What do you say to the allegation that you were able to find two and a half billion dollars to bomb a foreign nation because it was a threat to American economic interests, but you never started a single initiative to counter climate change?”

  He laughed. “Obviously I haven’t got the figures at my fingertips. I will have tomorrow evening when I meet with Professor Gibbons. But I will say this, when we bombed Irastan, the U.S. and her allies were facing a direct threat and Congress was virtually united in a bipartisan condemnation of Irastan’s development of weapons of mass destruction. However, climate change is a threat that affects the entire planet, and the U.S. cannot act alone. For all sorts of reasons…”

  He smiled, excused himself and walked away.

  It cut back to Zain Asher in the studio.

  “Dick Hennessy’s response there to Professor Gibbons’ challenge. And we have been informed by Mr. David Staines, the chief UN organizer of the Conference, that last minute alterations have been made to the conference schedule to accommodate this impromptu debate, called by the professor. It will be attended by the world press and media and it will be free to the general public on a first come, first served basis. It is worth stressing that this is probably a first in UN conference history, and certainly I have never come across anything like it in my experience…”

  I muted the TV and sat thinking, smoking, sipping my whiskey and listening to the small, inarticulate sounds issuing from my laptop. The implications of what I had just seen and heard were almost too huge to comprehend. Gibbons was taking on a former President of the U.S.; taking him on as a first step in exposing the government within a government.

  Taking him on as though he was a member of Omega.

  I picked up the phone and called Ben. He answered straight away with a question.

  “Are you watching it?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, what does it mean?”

  “Join us and I’ll tell you.”

  “I need a ticket.”

  “I have one for you. I’ll courier it over.”

  Seven

  In slightly more than twenty-four hours, the unprecedented debate had generated so much publicity that by the time I got there at fifteen minutes after five, First Avenue was crammed with people, there were cops trying to clear a path for the traffic, and the UN had taken the unusual step of letting people into the plaza and setting up a giant screen to broadcast the event to the onlookers.

  I forced my way through the crowd, showed my ticket, and was admitted to the main building. There were signs saying that the conference had been moved from Conference Room 12 to the much larger Conference Room 4. Arrows pointed the way to the first basement, where all the conference rooms were.

  When I got down, the place was milling with people. There was tension in the air and the mood was taut with expectation. People were clustered in small groups and the conversations were animated and loud. I looked around for Ben, but he wasn’t there, so I made my way into the conference room and found my seat.

  The room was more of a traditional lecture theater than the amphitheater design of the smaller conference rooms. Two lecterns had been set up, facing each other across a stage, as though it were a presidential debate. Gradually, the seats began to fill as the crowds drifted in from the lobby outside. As the hands of the clock moved toward six, the lights dimmed and a man I recognized as David Staines walked onto the stage. The room hushed.

  “I can think of few occasions in the history of our organization when a conference has caused so much expectation, and such a stir beyond the confines of the group having an immediate interest in the subject of the conference. But from the start, this event has proved, if proof were needed, that the general public is deeply concerned with climate change and the issues of overpopulation. This is not, by any means, a subject exclusively for climatologists. It is a subject that affects every man, every woman, and every child on the planet.

  “However, the dramatic, unexpected developments of the last twenty-four hours have placed this conference firmly in the public eye, as has been demonstrated by the fact that we are today packed to capacity, both inside and out! I am informed by the New York Police Department that traffic has had to be diverted away from First Avenue, to allow for the overspill from the United Nations Plaza.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have before us a week of fascinating events, talks, and debates. The highlight will be next Friday, as you know, when Professor Gibbons and Dr. Marni Gilbert will present to us research which, in their words, will transform the world’s view of climate change, and galvanize governments worldwide into positive action. But tonight, to open the conference, will you please welcome Professor Philip Gibbons and former President Dick Hennessy!”

  There was animated applause as Hennessy, tall and urbane with his thick, silver hair, strolled onto the stage in his understated Saville Row suit. Opposite him, on the left, Gibbons strutted out in his tweed jacket, with his short legs and his pugnacious expression. After the applause had died down, Staines said, “Professor Gibbons, will you please open the debate.”

  Gibbons nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman.”

  As the Oxford Don that he was, rooted in the modern world’s oldest and finest tradition of debating, he orated with power and confidence. He seemed to grow in stature as he spoke, and his conviction seemed to inform every statement he made with weight and credibility.

  “It must surely,” he started, “have crossed everybody’s mind at some point, to ask the question, how is it possible that the governments of the U.K. and the U.S. can mobilize a million troops, billions of dollars worth of weaponry and hardware, and incalculable sums of money in food, medication, and ammunition—all in order to wage war on a third world regime that threatens to take control of crude oil reserves…” He paused, looking around the room, then went on, “How is it possible that these two governments can mount a huge international diplomatic offensive, putting pressure on every nation on Earth to support that military offensive, all within the space of a few months… then go ahead with that military offensive in spite of the lack of international support—and yet, after thirty years they are incapable of coming up with one single initiative that works to confront climate change? How is it possible?”

  He thrust his hands in his pockets, stared down at his feet, and took three slow steps toward the center of the stage then. Then he turned and walked back again. He was like a stand up comic and some people in the audience had started to laugh. He came back to the lectern and leaned on it. He was laughing himself.

  “In three months, they lobbied the United Nation, the Security Council, and every major government on Earth. From the President,” he gestured over at Hennessy, “and the Vice President, down to the lowliest White House aide, they were all engaged in a frenzied, single-minded campaign to make that war work. In the U.K. it was a similar, unedifying spectacle at Number Ten, with the Prime Minister and his cabinet falling over themselves, each other, and their various illicit affairs, to find money and influence to wage that war. The cost of that war to the U.S. is close to seven trillion dollars. Just to the U.S. alone.” He held up his hand and laughed. “But wait! I haven’t come to the punch line yet! Seven trillion dollars of borrowed money! Because that war was fought with borrowed money!” He paused, staring at the audience. “Now here’s a question for you. Don’t worry, it’s a simple one. You’ll know the answer.” He laughed again. “I guarantee it. Who benefits when you borrow money?” He looked around, like he was waiting for an answer in a classroom. “Anyone? Who benefits when you borrow money?” He stopped, nodding. “Yes, that’s right, the banks. Specifically, the banks that lent you the money.” He grinned. “Duh! So, I wonder, I
wonder, I wonder, who were the banks that supplied the money for the war in question? Well, you’ll have to wait till Friday for the names, though I do invite you to go and do some research for yourselves in the meantime. You might start by perusing the Federal Reserve. You might find that very enlightening.

  “Meanwhile, getting back to the subject of tonight’s debate, my point is that here is a government, here is a president, who is not just willing, but able, to spend some seven trillion dollars for the purpose of waging war in order to protect oil interests. And yet, in thirty years, has been unable and unwilling to start a single, serious initiative, either as president of the U.S. or president of his foundation, to deal with climate change and overpopulation. Why?

  “Is it because climate change is not real? You have heard all the lobbyists crying out that climate change is a left wing conspiracy. But where were all these sleuths when the CIA and MI5 found all those weapons of mass destruction, that weren’t there? No, climate change is real. The reason for their inaction is a different one.

  “Let me tell you, the only possible explanation for the lack of motivation in tackling climate change and overpopulation, is that these people have a vested interest in allowing it to run its course. What kind of vested interest? A very simple one, a financial one. And the reason I have challenged former President Dick Hennessy to this debate today is because he, his wife, and his foundation are central to the conspiracy by which they and others will profit from this catastrophic change.”

  There was a collective gasp. Gibbons grinned. “You don’t believe me? I shall give you facts and figures and name names on Friday—I promise you we will deliver documentary proof. But for now, let me just return to the interesting question of the government’s borrowing for the war. Exactly whom they borrowed the money from is very hard to establish, because it is hidden under a paper trail that would drive most accountants to suicide. But we are diligent and we worked our way through it, so let me sum it up for you. The government borrowed one point five billion dollars to fund the war, indirectly, through pension funds and similar, from a number of banks, both national and foreign…” He paused, stared at the audience, and then glared at Hennessy. Then he bellowed in a huge voice, “Every single one of whom is either owned by Hennessy Investments or have directors sitting on the board of the Hennessy Foundation!”