The caterer had set up eight rectangular aluminum serving dishes which held hot entrees on two long folding tables. A third table displayed the remains of what had been an assortment of desserts.
Seated around a white linen-covered dining table were a dozen Council members representing the inner circle of the group formerly known as Majestic-12. All were Caucasian and male; the youngest was in his mid-forties, the oldest pushing eighty-five. Half had served in either the Armed Forces or the intelligence community; a few had crossed into politics. Of the six businessmen, two were American, one was English. The Scandinavian owned a private bank; the Australian was an engineer; the Russian an industrialist with ties to the KGB. Though they hailed from different backgrounds and countries, they were all billionaires who preferred to operate their empires from the shadows.
Four of the men were hardliners who were convinced that the only sensible solution to the planet’s diminishing resources was to eliminate the middle class while systematically reducing the world’s population.
The youngest member of the group — an American CEO — looked up at Adam Shariak with a Cheshire-cat smile. “Under Secretary Shariak… so nice of you to join us. You must be hungry; make yourself a plate.”
“I’m good, thank you.”
“You seem a bit uptight. How about a drink… or perhaps a lady of the evening? Our clients downstairs are enjoying the local talent but I’ve got a few Asian delights stashed in one of the upstairs bedrooms for our VIPs.”
“I think I’ll pass, but it’s nice to see you’re in such good spirits, Mr. Laskowski. I look forward to questioning you before Congress.”
“And I look forward to pleading the fifth.”
A few of the men laughed.
The Russian stomped out his cigar. “There is reason we wished to meet you. We have heard you are man of strong character, da?”
“You’d have to define character to me, Comrade.”
“For me this means family-first.”
Adam felt a sweat bead trickle down his armpit. “Whose family?”
“Yours, of course,” said the lanky white-haired Englishman. “There’s your stepbrother, Senator Hall, and of course… your fiancée. She’s lobbied hard for us to bring you in.”
They’re lying…
“Oh, and just to clarify… the $75 million Agent Kishel mentioned on the balcony is merely a fee for ending your witch hunt. The starting salary is $36 million a year, plus perks — one of which is that you would be able to work with Dr. Marulli.”
“So that’s a $75 million signing bonus and $3 million a month for selling my soul. Just one quick question before I exercise my strong character and tell you to go fuck yourselves — what exactly is it that you people do?”
“We provide… balance,” the tan, fit-looking Scandinavian replied. “Think of us as a western-leaning think tank possessing extraordinary influence. When the world slips off-kilter, we have the means to right the ship.”
“Provided the ship runs on diesel fuel… yes?”
The younger American stood and applauded. “Bravo. In one short sentence you’ve managed to demonstrate your complete ignorance of world affairs. Gentlemen, I give you our new Under Secretary of Peace and Love. I’m sure we’ll all sleep better with Mr. Shariak installed as our newest non-voting member of Council.”
“Actually Mr. Laskowski, it’s Captain Shariak. And while you and your rich pals have apparently been manipulating dictators and armies like pieces on a chessboard, grunts like me have witnessed first-hand the death and destruction your narcissistic decisions have wrought upon the masses.”
“Save that lecture for the obstructionists occupying Capitol Hill. And for the record, our interests do serve the masses.”
“If that’s true, gentlemen, then prove it to me right now, and I’ll reconsider your offer.”
“How can we prove it,” the Australian asked.
“Climate change is destroying Mother Earth like a metastatic cancer. Take a vote right now on phasing out fossil fuels over the next three years by introducing zero-point-energy into the public domain. Leave a legacy that saves our planet… do the right thing, and I’ll do whatever I can to support you.”
A heavy silence fell over the chamber. The six men in favor of Adam’s proposal quickly identified themselves by leaning back in their chairs and offering supportive glances while the three individuals who opposed his request — the Russian, the older American businessman, and the Brit seemed clearly perturbed by the Under Secretary’s audacity even to ask.
And yet the other three men appeared unsure. The Aussie was clearly mulling it over, his hazel eyes intensely focused on the table top, while the gray-haired former National Security Advisor seated directly across the table from him was embattled in his own internal struggle.
And then there was Laskowski. The youngest member of the billionaires’ boys club seemed like a deer caught in headlights — the headlights being the hawkish gray eyes of the older American staring down at him from the opposite end of the table.
He was frail and pale and in his eighties, his receding hairline covered in liver spots. Stooped over from scoliosis, the old man’s aura nevertheless weighed heavily in the chamber like a black hole, his presence clearly affecting Laskowski, who circled the dessert table, helping himself to a slice of chocolate cake as he attempted to regain his composure. “Upending the free markets would cause chaos, Mr. Shariak, and chaos is not in the best interests of the masses.”
“Did the personal computer cause chaos? Did the iPhone? Zero-point-energy could be phased in like any other new technology and the free markets would respond in a positive way.”
“One day, perhaps. Not today.”
“Not today?” Adam glanced around the room. “How many todays do you think we have left? Surely some of you have children and grandchildren? Don’t they deserve a planet where the air can actually be breathed? Step up to the plate, gentlemen… do the right thing. Or is it more important to allow your oil oligarch pals downstairs to suck every last drop of oil out of the ground? For God’s sake, how many billions of dollars do you people need?”
The Aussie looked up… he was about to speak—
— when the old man slammed both palms on the table. “How dare you insult the Eternal Father and His Son — our Lord and Savior — by speaking of money! It is only through the atonement of Christ than mankind shall be saved and not by employing an energy device invented by the devil. This man — this heathen — is not a member of Council; nor should he ever be. He has not accepted Jesus Christ into his heart; he does not believe in the restoration of the ten tribes or that Zion, the New Jerusalem shall be erected on American soil. When the minions of Satan are vanquished from the skies, then Christ shall reign. Then and only then shall Mother Earth be renewed and mankind shall bask in all His glory.”
The man stood, his face a mask of hatred as he pointed a calloused index finger at the Under Secretary of Defense. “Leave our sanctuary… now!”
Adam glanced around the table, tallying the averted expressions. Exiting through the double doors, he pushed his way past the two security goons and Agent Kishel as he retrieved his iPhone from his jacket pocket. Gripping the rail of the grand staircase with his right hand, he speed-dialed with his left, the heel of the shoe of his prosthetic leg nearly twisting off as he hurriedly descended the narrow steps.
“Meet me out front in thirty seconds; I’m done here.”
29
Jessica sat up in the hospital bed as the attendant wheeled in her lunch, replacing the cart which still held her breakfast. Lifting the plastic cover, he saw that she hadn’t eaten a thing.
“Ms. Marulli, if you don’t eat then how do you expect Dr. Spencer to discharge you?”
“I’ve been here six days which is five too many. Today starts Day 1 of a hunger strike.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
She looked up as the Canadian-born physician entered her room, accompanied by his wife, a registered nurse.
Like most of the medical staff serving MAJI’s subterranean complexes, Dr. Ken Spencer had begun his career in the military. He had met his wife, Robbin, during the first Gulf War, the couple returning to Alberta where they opened a private medical clinic. But once a year they reported to the complex outside Edwards Air Force Base where they were whisked by Maglev train to one of the secret subterranean complexes — the six week rotation tripling both of their annual salaries.
“Good afternoon, Jessica. And how are we feeling today?”
“My head feels better, my left forearm’s slightly sore from where that asshole tasered me last week. Other than that, I’m fine.”
The physician inspected the quarter-size welt along her biceps where he had been ordered to implant the tracking device. “Give it another day; I’m sure it’ll feel better by then. The good news is that you passed your concussion protocol.”
“Does that mean I’m free to leave?”
“Just give Nurse Robbin a few minutes to remove your I.V.”