Brink of Chaos Page 9
“By the way, an update for you. A few years ago we started delivering our news, free of charge at first, to the Allfones of every American who uses that device — about fifty percent of the population. Fifteen percent cancelled when it came time to pay for the service, leaving thirty percent on our news service. But we’ve added another twenty eight percent who use the cheaper Youfone device. So as of now, we’ve got fifty-eight percent of America reading some part of our news every day. We expect even more growth next quarter.”
From his quadrant on the video screen, Rocky Bridger, a former Pentagon army general, brought the discussion back to the main point. “Phil, what’s the problem? Just transmit the article.”
“I’m not just a former TV exec,” Phil replied, “I also consider myself a journalist. I have no way to corroborate the information in Belltether’s article without going back to his sources to fact-check it.”
From another quadrant on the screen, Joshua posed a question. “How long will it take to authenticate the information?”
“Weeks, likely. With Belltether dead, running down all his sources is going to take some time. This is pretty explosive stuff. Belltether makes Coliquin look like a sophisticated, brutal mobster back in his homeland before he gained international celebrity status. And let’s not forget his close affiliation with President Tulrude. The shrapnel from our information bomb against Coliquin is going to hit the White House — and you know Tulrude’s administration will pounce on any factual weaknesses in the article to tar and feather us.”
Judge Fortis Rice, from his chair in the conference room, asked, “Is there a rush on getting this article out that I’m not seeing?”
“Here’s the urgency, Fort,” Joshua replied. “I think Coliquin is dangerous, and the U.N. he heads is no longer an international lame duck, a world-wide debating society with no teeth. We’ve all seen what he’s turned it into: a coalition of nations that pass treaties and enforces them with large international armies in blue helmets. His global regulations against climate change have industries around the world being monitored by his environmental police. He’s united major religions around this initiative, but I find it incredibly suspect. His international regulations on hate speech, for example, have sent ministers and pastors to jail right here in the United States. He’s a man to be watched — and exposed. Until we can expose him, he will continue to hurt people … good people.”
Alvin Leander fidgeted in his chair. “Josh, no disrespect, but could this be about your religious beliefs? Ever since you became a born-again Christian you’ve been looking for bogeymen under the bed.”
Beverly Rose Cortez, sitting across from Leander, cast him a teasing grin. “I don’t know, Alvin. I’ve seen Congress in action and visited the White House. Let me tell you, those folks in power, including our President, really are bogeymen …”
After the chuckles died down, John Gallagher raised his hand but didn’t wait to be called on. “No disrespect to any of you folks, but there’s only two guys in this room who’ve ever gotten close to a real bogeyman. One is me, when I worked in counterterrorism. The other is my buddy Cal here, who had his own face-to-face with terror. So Alvin, let’s watch the trash-talking about Joshua and his family. As for the issue on the table, if Josh thinks this is a time-critical deal, then that’s that. Phil, whatever you’ve got to do, you got to do it quickly.”
Abigail put the motion on the floor for a vote. The ayes had it. Phil would use his editorial judgment in making sure that the Belltether story checked out before disseminating it over millions of Allfones and Youfones, but with the caveat that he needed to get the fact-checking done “with blinding speed.”
“Speaking of Washington and the White House,” Phil Rankowitz added, “at some point we need to consider whether we issue a formal endorsement in the current presidential campaign.”
“No brainer,” Rocky Bridger shouted from the screen. “Just think back to before President Corland’s medical problems arose, when he was starting to come around. An amazing reversal. Just plain courageous, if you ask me. Then that stroke — or whatever that was — and what do we get? Vice President Jessica Tulrude … Lady Macbeth in the flesh gets put into the Oval Office, sells out America to the European markets, dumps the dollar, practically gives away American sovereignty to the U.N., strips our national defense —”
“Been down this road before, Rocky,” Leander said. “We all know that AmeriNews, if it endorses anybody, is going to support Senator Hewbright. So Phil, I hear you saying that the question is whether we should even make endorsements. Right?”
“That’s it,” Phil replied. “AmeriNews is a fledgling news organization, but growing fast. There’s something to be said for not endorsing anyone this time around.”
Ultimately, after much discussion, the issue was tabled. It was agreed the topic would be brought up again at the next meeting.
While Abigail wrapped up the meeting, Cal felt his Allfone buzz. There was an email, with a basic encryption system. He didn’t recognize the sender’s address, so he tapped the code into the permissions key. Then the message appeared.
Dear Cal — we have never met. I am writing for my husband, who, as you know, is in poor health. He needs to speak to you. Although he has never met you, he knows something about your story and, of course, has met your father. He has good days and bad days, so I am not sure how much he will be able to verbalize when you get here. But please come if you can. The address and telephone number of the convalescent center is at the bottom of this email. Please keep this in strictest confidence.
When Cal read who had sent it, he felt as if someone had sucked the air out of his lungs. But just as quickly he recalled the day his father received the Medal of Freedom in a Rose Garden ceremony, all because of an incident involving him. Cal hadn’t attended that White House event. So he wondered why he was being swept into this strange rendezvous.
The email was signed,
Yours truly,
Winnie Corland — on behalf of President Virgil Corland.
TWELVE
Chicago, Illinois
Men with a strange-looking legal warrant were still downstairs in the lobby of D&H Smelting Co. They had just served process papers on Bob Dempsky, the sixty-six-year-old president and CEO of the industrial plant, who was now back in his office with no intentions of cooperating — and was telling his lawyer as much on the telephone.
“Look,” his attorney advised him, “this international agency has the authority to seize your company, the plant, and all your assets. You have a right to appeal, of course —”
“But I’ve done everything the EPA ordered me to do, and we haven’t had a single stain on our pollution record for five years —”
“Naw, Bob,” the attorney said, “you don’t get it. U.S. law is irrelevant here, except when it’s time for enforcement; then the World Climate Enforcement Council — WCEC — rounds up federal marshals to make sure you obey the international orders. The United States is part of all of these world climate-change treaties and global-warming protocols. I’ve told you this before. If your company fails to convert to what they call ‘green practices’ —”
But Dempsky was in no mood to listen. He was now crumpling the papers that the foreign official with a French accent, flanked by U.S. marshals, had just delivered to him downstairs.
He shook the ball of documents in the air as he yelled into the phone, “These papers say we put smoke and carbon into the air. Of course we do! We’re a smelting factory! But we’ve complied with every one of the American regulations. But you’re telling me that doesn’t matter. Okay, so get this … on this form, under ‘miscellaneous violations,’ they’re telling me we don’t use the right kind of light bulbs, we don’t use recycled paper towels in our bathrooms — paper towels, for crying out loud!”
“I told you, Bob,” the lawyer said, trying to smooth things over, “to contact that firm specializing in international law on LaSalle Street. Did you do that?”
“To the Hague.”
“Where?”
“The World Court, in the Hague, the Netherlands.”
“This company was founded by my grandfather. This is America. I’m not going all the way to Holland to protect my family’s company —”
“You’re going to have to —”
“Oh yeah?” Dempsky shouted as he slammed his Allfone down on his desk. Then he buzzed his secretary on the intercom. “Peggy, call security …”
“Mr. Dempsky, the marshals and that French gentleman are walking outside to chain the gate to the factory shut —”
“Tell my security team to go out there and stop them!”
“I will sir, but what if the marshals and that French gentleman —”
“Tell my security guys they have my authority to start shooting …” Then he added with some bitter sarcasm, “But only at the Frenchman …”
“Mr. Dempsky, I know you’re not serious —”
“Okay, fine. At least tell them to order them off my property … tell them they’re trespassing. Do something.” Then Dempsky strode over to the big picture window on the third floor that overlooked the factory entrance. His security people in the parking lot were approaching the team of federal marshals and a man in a suit with a briefcase down by the main gatehouse. His guards were gesturing to them. Up in his office Bob Dempsky was alone and began shouting to no one in particular.
“What kind of a country is this anyway?”
Brussels, Belgium, Headquarters of the World Climate Enforcement Council
Faris D’Hoestra, a billionaire industrialist in his midfifties with a shiny bald head and steel-grey euro-glasses, sat in front of five small web-streaming screens. The monitors were keyed to markets around the world.
All but one. At the top of the menu, that one read: “WCEC Seizures — Service of Process Pending.”
D’Hoestra had noticed a blue flag that had just appeared on that screen. He tapped on the site. His eyes followed the status list until he came to the most recent one. It read: “D&H Smelting — Chicago, IL — Seizure Complete.”
He closed that site on his screen. He pushed his Allfone’s video button and a small screen eased up from the surface of the desk. The face of Brian Forship, his executive director of international acquisitions, appeared.
The face spoke. “Good evening, Mr. D’Hoestra. Working late again, I see …”
“When do I not?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve noticed the Chicago seizure.”
“I did too.”
“How soon can we put this on the block for sale?”
“I have my American Midwest connections on this. They are making sure that that Mr. Dempsky will miss the deadline for appeal.”
“Fine. Then we can put it up for auction. Which of our ghost-companies will you use to buy it?”
“Probably Union Consolidation, Ltd.”
“How many other seizure buy-ups do we have in the works?”
“One hundred and seventy-two internationally. Those are the biggest companies — not including this Chicago company, which isn’t big enough to make our list of prime acquisitions.”
“Get me the timetable and net asset value of those companies on our prime list, will you?”
“Certainly. Two other things. First, we’re still hearing some rumblings about your position as head of the WCEC, which, of course, is in the business of confiscating companies in violation of green standards, while you’ve also maintained control of your Global Industrial Acquisitions, Ltd. A small article appeared in a news service complaining of a conflict of interest.”
“Who did the article?”
“An American news service — AmeriNews. It’s available on Allfone and Youfone by subscription. It’s only a few years old. They even have a picture showing how your United Nations WCEC headquarters is in the building right next to your private company. The photo in the web article is angled to display the WCEC building, and then off in the distance is the sign for GIA, Ltd.”
“Don’t we own enough stock in all the Internet news platforms to shut them down?”
“Not that easy. Somehow they managed to slip through some kind of grandfather clause in the Federal Communications Commission regulations. They apparently can’t be blocked.”
“There’s no such thing,” D’Hoestra shot back. He leaned back in his ostrich-skin executive chair and reflected. “On the other hand, I don’t think this will be a problem. I can show that I kept my ownership in GIA in a blind trust during my U.N. tenure. And with my formal resignation from the WCEC this month, I think it will all blow over.”
“I would hope so,” his director said. “The second thing — did you see the article on you in World Money magazine?”
D’Hoestra swiveled in his chair slightly and grabbed the magazine with his face on the cover. “Haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”
“Excellent coverage, Mr. D’Hoestra.”
After his assistant signed off, the financier took a closer look at the cover. Under his headshot it read: “Faris D’Hoestra — Ready to Rule the World?”
Under that, the subtitle read, “Acquisitions King Expands his Empire.”
The Next Day, Babylon City, Iraq
On the platform, the speakers’ table was draped with the blue and white logo of the United Nations — arched olive branches surrounding a globe. In the background was a banner that read: “The One Movement — One Planet, One Cause, One God.” At the podium, Secretary of State Danburg, the American representative from President Tulrude’s administration, was wrapping up his introduction.
Behind him on the dais were a few Muslim muftis, the twenty-three-year-old newly installed Dalai Lama from Tibet, several representatives from the Global Conference of Churches, and a Hindu priest. There were also several heads of state, including the crown prince of Saudi Arabia. Looming in the background was a monolithic office complex, the size of a small city, which was being commemorated that day. Palatial in its intricate stone-carved detail over the windows, doors, and facades, and with blooming gardens and flowering desert plants cascading down from the roof lines, the edifice magnificently captured both the architectural features of ancient Mesopotamia and the modern look of a headquarters of international power.
“We have many people to thank for this moment,” Secretary Danburg addressed the audience from the microphone, “including, of course, our own President Tulrude, who has been a tireless advocate for global peace. But today we are here to recognize the vision of our celebrated guest of honor, Alexander Coliquin — not only the recently installed secretary-general of the United Nations, but a man of incredible vision and talents. Whether we’re talking about his genius in successfully orchestrating the world’s currency, the CReDO, to steady the money markets, or his work in bringing peace and stability right here in war-torn Iraq, so that this project would be possible, or his labors in fighting global warming, Alexander Coliquin — who I consider a friend as well as a colleague — is truly a treasure for our planet. Without further ado — I give you Secretary-General Alexander Coliquin.”
Coliquin shook hands with Danburg and received the huge ceremonial scissors that he would use shortly to cut the blue ribbon stretched across the arched marble gate that lead to the front portico of the main building. The secretary-general held the scissors in one hand and paused to wave with his other to the crowd that was already on its feet.
“Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes momentarily and nodding to their ovation. Then he began Speaking. “These scissors will soon cut the tape to inaugurate the opening of the new Global Center for Peace and Prosperity — a personal dream of mine and, I know, of you good people as well. But there is something I would rather cut with these giant scissors — the chains of ignorance, oppression, poverty, and injustice that still plague our world. With the help of the international community and with the bless
ings of sacred and holy God, we will do exactly that.”
As the audience thundered their response, Brian Forship, seated toward the back of the audience, texted a quick message on his Allfone back to Faris D’Hoestra, his boss in Belgium.
Coliquin has just started. Will livestream his comments to you via my Allfone.
A minute later the response came back from Belgium.
I know this man well. Keep your eyes open. Watch for vulnerabilities. Coliquin has them, I assure you. Advise ASAP.
THIRTEEN
Wichita, Kansas
Special Agent Ben Boling stood in the field, staring at the decomposed body in a shallow ditch. There, on the outskirts of Wichita, the FBI agent took one more look at the grisly scene, then made a puffing noise as he exhaled and stepped back. Not a fun day.
When Agent Boling had received the call from the local police, he drove straight through central Kansas, down I-135 to his destination. It was a dismal drive. With the multiple-year drought, the state had dissipated into drifting dust and sweeping winds. Miles of agriculture had been destroyed. The nation’s “breadbasket” had become a near desert of wheat fields, turned a brittle brown by the sun and the unending drought. Their watering systems simply couldn’t keep up.
Many farmers had simply walked away from their foreclosed farms. Several of them, in different parts of the state, had swung a rope over the rafters of their barns, tightened a noose, and hanged themselves. Since the banks couldn’t sell the land, it lay in ruins. Agent Boling had noticed a lot of drifters on the road with backpacks. These were not college-aged hikers getting close to nature or going on a quest to find themselves. Several of them were middle-aged, with worn, sad faces. Some had their worldly possessions piled high on bicycles as they trudged down the highway.