“And all along the way, the media would never cover any of it,” Larry assured us. “At all. Other than a few stubborn renegades, they’re all under the Circle’s control in one way or another.”
“You two are privileged,” Bernard told us, “to have access to the highest level of power there is. You can be part of leading us all into the New World Order. You have to crack a few eggs to make an omelet, right?”
So long as you don’t end up one of the eggs, like my parents did. “Yes,” I confirmed, looking to Amit. “We understand. We understand, perfectly. We’ll do our part.”
“Excellent!” Bernard seemed pleased that suspicion in the Gomulka affair had been diverted away from him. He looked around him. “It’s a great honor and a great responsibility even to be an assistant to those who are calling the shots. The history that has been made in this room… It’s amazing. And now you’re part of that, too. You need to live up to the trust that has been placed in you. Fail to do so, and…” Bernard paused and took a deep breath. “Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be in Gomulka’s shoes right about now.”
“You’re one of the TAGS interns, right? I’ll tell Travis you’ve been assigned as a Civic Youth candidate, at their request,” Larry assured me. He was doing a great job of pretending he didn’t know me. “The keynote address is in a couple of hours. Be there.”
“My driver will take you back to your hotel,” Bernard offered. “After the keynote at the Convention Center, report back to the Jekyll Island Club Hotel.”
We were silent all the way back, taking in the significance of what we’d seen. I’d been so focused on trying to absorb and understand what I’d been seeing that the enormity of it all was only now sinking in. Amit and I had hoped to nibble our way around the periphery of the Civic Circle from the outermost rings, absorbing insights and clues. Our frame-up of Gomulka, though, had propelled us right to the very center of the Cabal, thanks to Bernard’s desire to use us – and Uncle Larry – as human shields against fallout from the Gomulka incident.
Bernard’s driver dropped us off and returned our phones. Amit and I exchanged glances. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was. If ever we were being monitored, it would be now.
“I’m going to hop in the shower,” I told Amit.
He looked thoughtful. “I’ll join you.”
We went into the bathroom together. I shut the door and started the water running.
“They’re probably watching, you know,” I pointed out.
“So we’re shower buddies,” Amit pointed out, “so what. That makes them all the more likely to trust us if they think we have something to hide.” He looked at the laptop I opened on the counter. “What are you doing?’
“Finding out what they’re doing,” I replied. “I think I can find the video feed for the meeting we were just in.”
I logged in through the wireless tap. So confident was the Civic Circle in their secure, isolated network that they didn’t consider how someone inside the network already could use it against them. It wasn’t hard to find the feed. The meeting was over, but they’d recorded it, apparently.
I advanced the video to just before the hooded figures stood up.
“All rise,” said one of the men in the video.
Amit and I watched seven figures in black robes and wearing masks enter and stand behind various chairs at the table. One of them might have been a woman – it was hard to tell. It must have been some kind of assigned seating, because half the chairs were unattended.
An eighth robed figure entered. He moved with a curious hint of awkwardness and stood at the head of the table. “What,” he asked the assemblage, “is our chief care?”
“To see that the Circle is closed,” the group chanted in unison.
“Pray do your duty, Junior Deacon.”
“Yes, Worshipful Master,” one of the men, the “Junior Deacon,” apparently, replied to him, going to the door. The Junior Deacon knocked three times. A moment later three knocks came in answer from outside the door. “The Circle is closed.”
“I see we are eight of the Thirteen,” the Worshipful Master declared. “There being a quorum, I declare the meeting in session, and the business at hand sealed under the oaths we all have sworn. Any and all Brethren with business to present to the Thirteen come hither, and you will be heard. Be seated.”
He continued after a pause. “Senior Warden, what business is before us this morning?”
The Junior Warden stood. “In the absence of the Senior Warden, the Junior Warden serves, Worshipful Master.”
I saw the Worshipful Master nod.
“Our brother, Gomulka, has failed in the performance of his duties and exposed the Civic Circle to disrepute,” the Junior (acting Senior?) Warden declared. He gave an account of how Gomulka had been arrested last night attempting to take delivery of a cargo container that held a dozen young Chinese – girls mostly, but a couple of boys, also – in squalor. He lowered the lights and showed photos.
“In addition to food, water, bedding, and a rather overtaxed chemical toilet,” the Warden continued, “the container held several crates of…” He paused, obviously discomforted by the news he had to share. “…of paraphernalia of a sexual nature including over two thousand condoms.”
“Heck of a gang bang,” someone muttered only to be silenced by a sharp bang of the Worshipful Master’s gavel.
“What the hell was Gomulka thinking,” one of the seated members asked, “trying to get that container through customs? They’ve tightened their scrutiny. You can’t expect to get away with that kind of thing anymore.”
“He also scrambled the cottage assignments, swapping the Chase Bank and Holy See Bank Corporation assignments at the last minute,” the Warden added. “I’ve had to placate both delegations. I left them where they are since it would only be more hassle to switch them back.
“Gomulka insisted he was set up by this woman, Hungarian supermodel Reka Kozma.” There was an appreciative whistle from someone, prompting another stern bang of the gavel. “Ms. Kozma denies any contact with Gomulka. The Hungarian National Police believe her. The FBI is trying to trace the email address now.”
“Our FBI friends?” the Worshipful Master asked.
“Yes, Worshipful Master. The Director placed… trusted special agents in charge of the investigation, and Gomulka is in their custody. The interrogation is… continuing. We will be updated if Gomulka reveals anything else. The proximity in time and space to our Forum may lead some in the reactionary press to speculate that these events are tied to us. The press has been told a suspect is in custody, but we have not released his identity.”
“Bring in Larry Tolliver and Gomulka’s associates,” the Worshipful Master commanded.
Amit and I watched the images of ourselves being led into the room with Bernard and Uncle Larry. I skipped ahead until I saw the guards escorting us out.
“What do we do about it?” the Worshipful Master opened the discussion.
“This incident merely illustrates how America remains the land of opportunity,” one of the Thirteen spoke up. “We honor and applaud these wretched masses trying to breathe freely who suffered heroic hardships to reach our shores – not unlike the pilgrims of old. Their search for a better life is one of the most basic desires of human beings. These are people willing to do jobs Americans won’t do. We ought to say ‘thank you’ and welcome them.”
“Yes, of course,” another replied, “but what are we going to do about these particular illegal immigrants?”
“A person cannot be illegal,” countered the one I thought might be a female. Hearing the sexually ambiguous voice distorted through my laptop’s speakers didn’t help.
“Of course, of course,” he replied.
“Perhaps,” opined a deep voice, “these ‘undocumented migrants’ could be repatriated overseas? I’m sure gainful employment for them might be found on Pleasure Island. We appease the public voices complaining about our Open Borde
rs Initiative with this token gesture while making sure these unfortunates have an opportunity to serve… higher purposes.”
I saw nods around the table.
“Excellent,” the Worshipful Master confirmed, “but what of our Brother Gomulka?”
“We’re troubled by the incident, deeply troubled,” Deep Voice offered. “There is no connection to the Civic Circle. If Gomulka’s identity is divulged, we’re unsure what his role was in this affair. He was certainly not acting on our behalf. In any event it does not reflect on the Civic Circle.”
“The conservative media will be all over this,” cautioned another. “Sex slaves? Human trafficking?”
“Any insinuations of a sexual nature are crazy right-wing conspiracy theories,” Deep Voice explained. “Those rumors were obviously started by profoundly disturbed and repressed individuals. Such speculations are outside the realm of civilized discourse and merely reflect negatively on the character of those who share them.”
“Nothing frightens conservatives more than the possibility someone somewhere might think they’re not nice,” someone else offered. That drew a chuckle or two.
“Exactly,” another voice confirmed, “and anyone highlighting this incident is clearly a knuckle-dragging racist with deep-seated prejudice against these heroic Asian immigrants and their desperate measures in pursuit of the American dream.” It was hard to keep track of who was speaking from beneath the hoods.
“If we don’t provide a counter-narrative, though,” Deep Voice noted, “we allow some other narrative to fill the void. Our villain of the hour is Saddam Hussein. Blame him. Saddam was offering a sordid bribe. Trying to influence us to save himself from the consequences of his action. Trying to avoid the mandates of International Justice and World Opinion. Trying to distract the world from the important work we’re undertaking here. If they find out about Gomulka’s involvement, why then our Brother Gomulka was clearly operating on Saddam’s behalf.”
There were nods from around the table.
“Very well,” the Worshipful Master agreed. “We lead with the ‘heroic immigrants’ spin, and we let the media know that the ‘real’ story appears to be subversion by Saddam Hussein but they should keep it to themselves for now. We keep investigating Gomulka to see what his real motives were. Are we agreed?”
There were nods of consent.
“Now,” the Worshipful Master changed the topic, “while we are assembled together, what about the Breitbart situation?”
One of the hooded figures appeared to squirm. “He declined our offer, Worshipful Master.”
“Heh,” Deep Voice snorted. “I told you he was no cruise-ship conservative to be bought off by a position with the controlled opposition. We’re going to have to proceed…”
The Worshipful Master held up a hand, silencing Deep Voice, and then turned to face Squirmy. “You know what to do.”
“Yes, Worshipful Master,” Squirmy acknowledged. “He has plans to go out drinking this evening. Our… troubleshooters, the same ones who took care of the Dando problem for us, are on the job.”
“Excellent,” the Worshipful Master acknowledged Squirmy. “The sooner the better. This Breitbart has been a thorn in our sides for too long. I don’t want to see what he can do with our Brother Gomulka’s indiscretion. So, what’s the status with Wellstone?”
My thoughts were racing. Who was this Breitbart character? Were they really plotting… an assassination? And who was Wellstone? That question, at least, was answered by the next speaker.
“The Senator from Minnesota remains opposed to the Iraq War,” one of the hooded figures stated. “Pity… He’s been a valuable asset on many other issues.”
“There’s no room on our team for those who won’t play ball,” said Deep Voice. “If anything should… happen to Wellstone, what happens to his Senate seat?”
“Wellstone only narrowly defeated Coleman in 2002,” someone explained. “Governor Pawlenty will likely appoint Norm Coleman to the seat. Coleman’s firm on war with Iraq.”
“We may have to live with that,” Deep Voice argued. “There are still too many new Senators who don’t appreciate how the game is played. Wellstone has too much seniority, garners too much respect. The Senate is closely divided. He may well inspire others by his example – tilt the balance against war.”
“He’s flying back to Minnesota tomorrow for a political rally,” one of the figures explained, “in a private jet.”
There was a long pause. Were they really plotting what I thought they were plotting?
“That makes it easy,” a voice muttered.
“His family is with him,” someone said. “And the pilots…”
“Some sacrifices must be made,” Deep Voice counselled. “Better a dead martyr than a live opponent.”
“Indeed,” the Worshipful Master cut off the discussion without even making a show of securing everyone’s consent. “We will postpone further discussion until tomorrow night’s regular meeting.”
“Here?” Deep Voice asked. “Or…”
“In the Inner Sanctum,” the Worshipful Master clarified. “8 pm. There being no other business?”
The room was silent with the magnitude of the decisions that had just been made.
“This emergency meeting stands adjourned.”
The Warden stood and commanded “All rise!”
The images of the hooded figures filed off the screen.
“Wow,” even Amit seemed stunned at what we’d just seen. “We have to get word to Rob. The Inner Circle. They were here. Right in the Jekyll Club Hotel. They’re meeting tomorrow night at 8 pm.”
“The Inner Sanctum,” I concurred. “That had to be the complex Petrel had identified.”
“What about the people the Civic Circle is targeting: Breitbart and Wellstone?”
“I’m through with standing by helplessly and watching the Civic Circle kill their opponents.”
Amit nodded grimly. “We need Rob’s help to save them, though.”
I was very grateful the Civic Circle was too cheap to put their smoke detector cameras in the bathrooms in every room of the hotel. Amit had taken a shower last night, so he got his hair damp and changed while I scribbled out a note to Rob summarizing what we’d learned and the opportunity to decapitate the Civic Circle in one blow. We’d have to get the Albertians on board to pull it off. And maybe Rob would have some ideas about how the Reactance could save Breitbart and Wellstone. I carefully embedded the note in a cocktail napkin to hand off to Uncle Rob when I saw him. Mission accomplished, I took a hot shower and tried to wash away the disgust I felt.
Amit and I got down to breakfast early and ate our scrambled eggs in silence, neither of us willing to speak. In the background the morning news was playing.
“Customs and Homeland Security officials foiled an attempt at human trafficking last night.” Amit and I both stopped eating and watched the video showing Gomulka and a group of people being taken into custody. “The victims were taken into custody by immigration officials, along with an unidentified individual who attempted to take delivery of the cargo container in which the people were hiding.”
The segment closed with a cut to a beautiful announcer. “These wretched masses trying to breathe freely who suffered heroic hardships to reach our shores – not unlike the pilgrims of old – prove that America is still the land of opportunity.” Her brilliant white teeth shone through a winning smile as she mouthed the same words we’d heard from the Inner Circle.
Amit and I looked at each other. “They sure move fast,” he muttered.
Chapter 11: An Inconvenient Truth
“Hello, I’m George Dubya Bush, and I used to be the next President of the United States,” the former candidate introduced himself, earning some chuckles from the audience, recalling his narrow defeat at the hands of the late Al Gore.
Amit and I were part of the Civic Youth crowd up on stage providing a backdrop for the Governor’s speech. Governor Bush’s keynote featured a pres
entation of “An Inconvenient Truth,” his documentary on the dangers of Saddam Hussein and the need for military intervention in Iraq. I got a sore neck trying to watch the video on the big screen looming over us. The Governor concluded with a mention of current events.
“Last night, we learned once again how vulnerable we are to the threat of international terror. Our diligent Homeland Security personnel intercepted an attempt to smuggle over a dozen young Chinese immigrants into the country for nefarious purposes.”
The Governor cleared his throat and continued. “On one level, this incident merely illustrates how America remains the land of opportunity. We honor and applaud these wretched masses trying to breathe free who suffered heroic hardships to reach our shores – not unlike the pilgrims of old. Their search for a better life is one of the most basic desires of human beings. These are people willing to do jobs Americans won’t do. We ought to say ‘thank you’ and welcome them.”
Amit and I exchanged glances at the familiar phrases.
“Out of common sense and fairness, our laws should allow willing workers to enter our country and fill jobs that Americans are not filling. We must not listen to the voices that would build walls and barriers between us and the world.
“Preliminary investigations suggest that this human trafficking was deliberately inspired by Saddam Hussein to disrupt our Forum. Our laws need to protect us from Saddam Hussein and other foreign actors who may try to subvert our decision-making process.
“America is a nation of immigrants, and we’re also a nation of laws. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America.”
By the time I forced my way back out through the crowds to the lobby, the scrollbar was already rolling the news on the big screen television: “GOV. BUSH TIES SADDAM TO HUMAN TRAFFICKING.” The screen showed images of the sordid conditions inside the cargo container and additional footage of children in immigration detention centers. I wondered what that had to do with… then I figured it out. They were pushing hard the narrative that these illegal immigrants were children who needed help. All part of the emotional conditioning to get the public to let in more voters to support the Civic Circle’s agenda.
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