“This is it, boys. This it the night,” Marcus said, exasperated.
“We are ready,” Chang said.
“Jack?”
“Still here,” Jack replied with a heavy note in his voice. Marcus was relieved to hear his friend’s voice, leaning back in the chair and observing all the power that one room was holding in its private, gated property. Daniel Clarkson, as Marcus concluded, had bought that huge property strictly for an occasion such as this one. Neither of them knew where Daniel lived or how he lived, but they knew that he was not the one to make splashy purchases for the sake of impressing other people. For his lack of vanity and the enormity of his intellect, Daniel Clarkson was the most frightening man Marcus had ever encountered.
In his mind’s eye, the images of the future flashed, where he battles Daniel Clarkson, face-to-face with the man that held all the cards in his hands, a whole deck. If his Jacks or his Queens don’t work, then his Aces surely will.
Patrick Don, the Ace of Spades arrived at the party accompanied by Wilson Burns, a close friend of the two Kings. The men were engaged in a deep and entertaining conversation before the sight of Daniel and the Senator interrupted them. They appeared apologetic, most likely because they were late to the party.
“There we have it,” Marcus said into the mic. “All our players are in the room.” Ellen Morris soon joined the group in the middle of the room, completing the circle. Marcus just then found her absence odd. “Whatever is about to happen will begin now.”
The property gates slowly closed, as the lights behind them signaled to any viewer into a world unreachable.
All that was left now was to watch screen one and count on Didier to get close enough to a conversation to pick up on something they otherwise might have missed. Maybe a hint of conspiracy or ill-dealings to complete the mosaic that Daniel had crafted as his Ninth Symphony.
A projector was rolled into the room and two men started connecting the cables. Marcus looked at his watch—midnight was closing in, and the moment of judgment along with it.
A cigar cutter clinked against a champagne bottle, inviting all the faces to follow the noise, gradually silencing the orchestra in the corner of the room and the chatter amongst the guests.
Daniel cleared his throat, Marcus adjusted in his seat. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming tonight in support of our friend and future president—Senator Jim Morris.” A round of applause waved across the room. Daniel raised both his hands and gently shushed the crowd as the Senator reveled in the moment. “Yes, our friend does deserve your love and appreciation for he is truly worthy of the office of our great country.
“And where did it go? Where did America disappear? The working men of our land could proudly walk the streets just decades ago, revel in the greatness of their homeland and enjoy every freedom and every privilege God could bestow on a single people. In the course of twenty years, that country my father loved and the country I had grown up in perished. We have become politically ignored, socially laughed at, and economically devoured from within. Nowadays they say we have to take student loans, borrow for our cars, and mortgage our houses in hope to live the American dream bestowed upon every American on his birth. Our privilege has gone. It has disappeared completely. And why? Negligence.
“It all started back in September of 2001, a day none of us in this room will ever forget. It started on that day because we know who was behind the attack. And what did America do? America pretended it was doing something in a country that was innocent of any wrong-doing. The world laughed at us. That very year, the stock market crashed. We all know why.
“Then, in 2008, the stock market—again!—broke America. What did our leaders do to save that country? What did they do for the people? For the men and women and children of this great nation? They gave us free money. They said no interest on loans. Meanwhile, personal and national debts kept growing, and with it desperation. Why? For what? To whose end? Into whose pocket?
“Nowadays they still force quantitive easing onto us, pushing us deeper and deeper, letting the money machine churn on and on and on, printing money, creating more debt. All on the expense of us—the people.
“But let’s be realistic—no one in this room has felt that pain and suffering of poverty; all of us were more privileged than most. Some of you may not care what happens to other people, but you have to care about what happens to the country that you live in. You have to look at this country and the current administration with disgust. Indifference is not a solution!”
Daniel took a dramatic break. Marcus caught himself mesmerized by every word that man uttered. Everything he had said was true, and the way he said it was stirring. “You guys getting this,” he spoke into the microphone.
“He makes a good point,” Jack said.
“Indeed he does,” Marcus said to himself.
“The EU does not recognize our natural authority. The UN is no longer an institution of the West, but that of America. We are the sole proprietor of their financing, while the rest of the world sits on the sidelines, watching what is going on without getting involved. And why would they get involved? Why would they respect us?
“We expect China to be our friend. And they are not. They never were and never will be because they are replacing America s the world’s greatest superpower. And we are letting it happen. We, Americans, the rich and the poor, suffering now in these times of a great pandemic, are allowing this to happen. And not only does this make America obsolete in the eyes of the rest of the world, but it puts our very existence on the line.
“Staying on the sidelines,” Daniel continued, “and watching what is happening around us, commenting on it and judging from the comfort of our homes is easy! Looking from the outside in can be done by anyone. But we are not anyone. We are men and women of wealth and power, of heritage and meaning. We can change the world! We have to change the world! These fights throughout the history between America and China, America and Russia, have caused more pain and suffering than good. For decades, we have lived in chaos, in anarchy, and then this pandemic comes at us full tilt, spurring the problem. It has to change.
“And the only way to fix the world is to start over!”
Silence occupied the room, no one daring to utter a single word, no one perhaps even able to speak, lost in the words they just heard, trying to make piece with reality. Marcus, too, was taken by the man’s eloquence and his mannerisms, by his charisma and his belief. His mind was stuck on the last thing Daniel had said—start over. For some reason, Marcus was making a connection with all the greatest leaders in the human history—the ones who were able to lead the people into the most horrible wars to commit most depriving of acts. Men like Stalin, Hitler, Mosley, Mussolini all had their own speeches and mannerisms and mesmerizing power over the listeners. And they all seeded evil.
“The question that remains before us,” Daniel said after a while, “is how do we make that change for the better? How do we make the world a better place? Well, gentlemen, ladies, the answer is standing next to me.”
In a well-choreographed move, the men in the background turned on the projector and the wall was washed by the image of CNN news, the polls and the countries listed clearly.
As the screen appeared and the lights dimmed, someone yelled out a vigorous yes and began clapping. One, then ten, then all the invitees were clapping in harmony. It wasn’t a polite clap, but that of believers, of true chasers of the dream set before them.
The Arab gentlemen and the Senator were standing in sullen silence, their eyes turned inwards, toward their inner kingdom where all their hard work was finally paying off.
The news anchor’s voice filled the room as she claimed that only three states remained for their ballots to be counted. Regardless of the pandemic, of the restrictions, and of all late votes that were still to come, the victor was quite clear. Senator Jim McCain was going to be the next president as the sixty percent of counted votes gave him an eighty-three percentile
lead over Donald Trump.
“This is bad,” Marcus said. “The win is too firm, too strong in a country so divided. This is not possible.”
“Did you expect a different outcome,” Jack said. “Daniel was going to make this happen. Now, at least, we know we were right.”
Jack was confident, but Marcus was scared. His body was chilly and his back covered in sweat. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the Armageddon that Daniel Clarkson was planning, a world in ruins, buildings on fire, oceans flooding the world. “This is bad,” he said to himself. “This is very bad.”
The invitees approached the President to shake his hand and congratulate him on his win. What they were really doing was making sure that he knows who had elected him into office. No matter his speeches, his beliefs, or his commitment to the greater good—as Daniel Clarkson had put it—he was in debt to these people, he owed them, and they will decide what happens next.
Screen one was showing all of it to Marcus. He could see them all, the men of power, the pigs of war, the one-percent rulers of the world, the true conspiracy abound high in the clouds, far above our heads.
Suddenly the camera went black. Three seconds later it was back. “Didier, something is wrong with the signal,” he said. Then the camera went black for another three seconds. When the picture returned, the angle had changed; Marcus realized that it was an S.O.S. signal. He focused closely and saw that Jonathan Burr, the Arab gentlemen, and Ellen Morris had left the party.
“Chang, do you copy?”
“Go ahead,” Chang replied.
“Do you see any activity?”
“Nothing on my side.”
“Jack?”
“All clear here.”
Marcus scrambled, looking at all the monitors, worrying that the circuit had been hacked to fiddle with the cameras and stop him from seeing what he needed to know.
“Guys,” he said after a few minutes, “something’s off.” His eyes went to the first screen, noticing that a half-dozen other people had also left.
“Jack do you copy?” No response. “Jack? Pick up, Jack. Do you copy?” Marcus’ throat dried up and his body stiffened. Oh, no.
EIGHT
T he small and hard drops of the rain were crashing against the windshield of the van, creating a cracking sound. Marcus’ foot was pressed hard on the gas pedal, the engine pushed to the fringes in the dark night, the dark oak trees closing in in the Marcus as he pushed on through the narrow road. The chances were that he was already too late, but he had to be there for Jack, for his friend. The road bent sharply but Marcus didn’t slow down, only releasing the gas pedal and praying he doesn’t slide into the woods or turn over on the road. Steering with his left, he picked up the satellite phone and typed Jack’s number.
“Come on, pick up. Pick up!”
Marcus slammed on the brakes suddenly. The car slid fifty yards, swirling as it pulled to a stop, blocking the entire road.
“This is Marcus. Where you at?”
“I am in position, in the woods. Approximately three miles from the mansion.”
“What is going on, why are you there,” Marcus asked.
“I spotted a car on the road, then two more nondescript vehicles, so I decided to follow the fourth one. It got me to this weird place... You guys have to see this.”
“Tell me where you are exactly.”
Jack gave the instructions to Marcus and he notched them all down. “Stay right there,” he said. “Don’t do anything. I am on my way.” He tried the radio. “Chang, do you copy?” No response came. Marcus tried again, but to no avail. Too many things were happening at once for him to process them properly and analyze objectively. He looked up at the first screen and realized that Didier was still at the gala, with almost all the invitees still there. Something is wrong here, he thought. Why is Daniel still at the gala? Realizing that there was no way to answer the question and that there was no point to live in uncertainty, he latched onto the most certain thing he knew and moved to the driver’s seat. He fastened his seatbelt and pressed the pedal to the metal.
As he drove on, he spotted through the drizzle a shadow of a vehicle near the road. He slammed on the breaks again and looked at the car in the rearview mirror. When he realized the car was Chang’s, he ran out into the rain. The wind was lashing his face and blocking his view, but there was no question as to who he was headed toward.
“What happened,” Marcus yelled out. “Why aren’t you responding,” Marcus asked.
Chang raised his walkie-talkie and pressed the speech button several times, receiving only snow in response. “No work, this,” he said.
Marcus looked up at the sky and all around him. “That is the reason this meeting is taking place in a far-away mansion,” he said. “No signal in this part of the world.” Then and there he felt certainty. It was a rare feeling, one that you never forget because there is no thought around it, only knowledge—knowledge he was on the right scent, in the right place, at the right time. “This is it, Chang. This is what we need to see. Come on, we need to follow the main road for another mile until we reach a dirt road. Another hundred yards after that, and we’ll be at the place.”
“I need to throw car,” Chang said.
“Huh,” Marcus snapped out of his head. “Oh, right, yeah. Good point. Follow me and honk twice when you spot a good place.”
Chang ran to his car and Marcus to his van, following their plan to the letter—ditching the car and driving together in the van. “Okay,” Marcus said. “It should be here somewhere.”
“There,” Chang pointed to the left.
“Here we are,” Marcus said, seeing the tracks that led into the forest. Marcus turned off the lights and drove forward for another hundred yards slowly. The rain had stopped altogether and crows were outside. They were all over the trees, croaking at the night. Marcus felt small under those trees, among those birds.
“I not see him,” Chang said.
Marcus shared the same fear. Then the paranoia came. The last time he trusted someone, he ended up in a basement with a pure psychopath, cut and bruised for his pleasure. The same emotions that put him in that situation were back—sentiment and love. Why does he attach to people so easily? Is it because his mother left him so early? Was he so ruthless for all those years in an attempt to hide his true nature, to shy away from the fact that he was emotional, like all humans? Did he do terrible things only to offset his calm and gentle soul? He could not say. The weight of his thoughts was brewing in his belly, the worry for Jack adding to the weight. He was truly attaching himself to people quickly and unwisely, searching for something that he had once lost, or perhaps desired but never had.
His eye caught a sight of two quick light flashes from the distance. A deep sigh of relief left his lungs.
“Go,” Chang said.
Marcus crouched behind Chang, inching toward the source of the light flashes. As he got closer, he could see a strong yellow light farther away, a light that looked a lot like fire.
“Easy,” Jack said.
“Where the hell were you,” Marcus said, unable to contain his frustration.
“I had no time to let you know,” Jack said. “I had no idea if their cars had signal scramblers or listening devices or whatever the hell. You never know with these people. I reacted on instinct and followed the cars right here. And look.”
Marcus followed Jack’s eyes toward the gathering crowd. All around a well walked-in circle were erected tiki torches, the flames swirling proudly and majestically. In the circle, small groups of people were talking to each other, their faces hidden by the shadows the fire was casting over their hooded cloaks. “What the hell...”
“This must be the meeting George was talking about when I questioned him. All those Mason-Illuminati conspiracies were true,” Jack said with a heavy voice.
Marcus looked at his friend in bewilderment. When Jack met his gaze, he appeared insulted. “Come on, man, with all that we’ve seen, been through, you
really think that that is too far fetched?”
Marcus could not argue with that. “It’s just hard to accept that as fact. I mean, we all grew up on those stories of some secret, cloak-and-dagger sub-society that runs it all, but this... This is too much.”
“All political powers create unions,” Jack calmly said. “And they do what they do. It is nothing new.”
“This is something else,” Marcus said after a short silence. “This is a meeting in the deep dark woods, men in cloaks, tiki torches all around.”
“I know,” Jack interrupted. “I know how you feel. I get it. I truly do get it.”
Marcus thought how it was all surreal, to see them in the shadows, in purple cloaks and faces hidden behind the shadows. History had well-documented such meetings, like Di Pazzi and the Church meeting in cellars under candles to plot against the Medici, like persecuted scientists meeting in strange places to hide their genius from the Inquisition, or even like the many unions during world wars—powerful men sitting down to decide the fate of the whole world. The fact that all the world-order-deciding unions happened before the eyes of the world was what made it so much harder for Marcus to accept the fact that there indeed was another layer to the entire affair.
“Anyway,” Jack said, “I have no idea who has arrived and who hasn’t so far. They park their cars someplace else, most likely on the other side of the forest. They arrive here already cloaked. What does the camera show? Where is Didier?”
Marcus had completely forgotten about the gala. He pulled out a phone he had adopted precisely for this opportunity, linked only to the camera feed and nothing more. “The screen is black,” he said. Jack and Chang both whipped their head toward Marcus.
“Maybe they use scrambler for phone. Maybe use scrambler for video,” Chang said.
Jack and Marcus shared a glance before Marcus returned the phone into his pocket, the worry they shared looming over them large and strong.
All the Company Men: Marcus Grimshaw #2 (The Secret State) Page 7