Enemies Within

by J. S. Chapman

  He was all arms and legs and girth. His ruddy face, sturdy nose, and shock of silver hair gave him a distinctive air of wisdom alongside unflappability. As if he needed extra breathing room, his suitcoat and trousers were overlarge. “Your invitation intrigued me.”

  “I knew that it would.” Vikki extracted a compact from her purse and peered into the mirror, fluffing her hair and turning a wide circle as if to catch the right light. Satisfied no one was looking their way, she put the compact away. “Tell me more about the Fellowship.” It was a conversation opener. She wanted to gauge his reaction.

  He responded as expected, momentarily taken aback, his amiable attitude becoming quite serious. “The Fraternal Order of Clairvaux?”

  “Named after St. Bernard of Clairvaux,” she said, nodding.

  “The Cistercian monk who sanctified the Second Crusade,” he said.

  “And put out a call to arms to save the one true religion against the Infidel, peace-loving priest that he was.”

  “Don’t forget your history. Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine and her husband King Philippe of France joined Bernard, putting aside any reservations they might have had about the Sixth Commandment. Good versus evil was a philosophical paradigm they could easily justify when they were on the side of their God and the other side worshipped a false one. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Separately they took interest in the aircraft on display. The Martin B-26B Marauder, used in the Pacific theater. The Messerschmitt, a German fighter plane. And the Enola Gay, which dropped the first ever atomic bomb on a large population, killing over fifty thousand men, women, and children in Hiroshima, Japan.

  “Nothing much has changed, has it?” Vikki commented.

  “War in the name of peace. Ten centuries later, we’re still at war, the same war repeated, lessons unlearned.” He possessed a deep resonating voice that commanded attention, probably one of the reasons he had risen to prominence and survived every shift of the political winds. It gave him an authority not every man could claim. “No more royal kings and queens anointed by God. Instead, a select group of elites anointed by money and joined in an unholy alliance with strongmen. For narcissists and sociopaths like them, the world is a board game that turns nations to the dark side, dictator by dictator.”

  “And their object?” She already knew the answer.

  “Setting up a central government. Propaganda will be the lynchpin. Instigating fear of the other. Controlling the media. Suppressing dissent. Devaluing the Dollar, Pound, Euro, and Yuan. Ushering in a new era of utter and complete subservience. Neighbor turning on neighbor for a loaf of bread. Damned are the meek, for the powerful shall inherit the earth.”

  “The New World Order,” Vikki said.

  The din of voices swirled around them while footsteps shuffled and security guards grimly looked on.

  “It’s not, I repeat, not a conspiracy theory. It’s real, and it’s happening right now. It’s been building to this for decades. World domination backed by the military-industrial complex. As we speak, certain parties are funding a Middle East terrorist organization, cozying up to Russia, and flirting with China.” He shrugged. “The same old same old. Nothing ever changes. Except alliances. Friends today. Enemies tomorrow.”

  “Which brings us back to HID.”

  “Is that what we’ve been talking about?” His question was asked with glibness, except she detected a note of scorn. “And also brings us to Spinnaker. I see the program rather differently than you do.”

  “How so?”

  “Everybody and their cousin is urging President Lowell to wage a unilateral war against the forces of evil. You heard me right. That’s what they’re calling it. Forces of evil. As if they’re in a sci-fi movie or members of a utopian society.” He hesitated going on, this lion of man who had seen and heard everything but could still get mad as hell. “The little guys are the one’s who’ll suffer. The poor slobs just getting by. The dropouts who can’t get make it in the real work and sign up to kick ass, break necks, shoot first, and ask questions later. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t really give a crap about the little guy. I just hate the big guy who thinks he can get away with it, and usually does. Imagine the protests if government required everybody to wear tracking chips under their skin like cats and dogs, when they already carry wireless communications in their hip pockets. That’s what Spinnaker is about. That’s why they can get away with it. War isn’t about sacrificing your life for your country. It’s about making the other guy sacrifice his life for yours. That’s what I know. And for them, the ones making the life and death decisions for the rest of us, it comes down to the notion of plausible deniability.” It was a long tirade for an angry man, a tired man, a man who understood the problems but had no solutions.

  “I’ve heard the phrase kicked around.”

  “Haven’t we all. The classic CIA ploy. The term was coined by them in the 1960s. They take on dangerous and often unsanctioned missions so the current President—or sometimes a promising presidential contender—can safely disavow any knowledge should anything become known. Thereafter, they call it a conspiracy theory. And get away with it. Consider the Iran-Contra affair under Reagan. Or the Gulf of Tonkin ruse under Johnson. And the blatant yellowcake lies under Bush-Cheney. There are others, some public, others not.”

  “And the upshot?” she asked.

  “The Vice President is worried about several rumors. Well,” he said, pausing, “not so much rumors as unintended consequences.”

  “More like intended?”

  “Possibly. In any event, he hesitates confiding in the Secretary of State or the Attorney General, both members in good standing of the Fellowship. As is he, by the way. And since the President disavows the rumors, calling them nonsense, well, you get the idea ....”

  “Because she’s also a member?”

  “I don’t think so. But I do think she wants to keep her job.” He remained quiet, letting his eyes speak for him.

  “You don’t mean impeachment? Or assassination?”

  “Or an inside coup with military involvement? I tremble to think of the possibilities.”

  “And the Vice President?”

  “Would make a convenient stooge. If Lowell were to become a target, Daugherty doesn’t want to be next in line. That’s why he turned to me for help.”

  “Can you? Help him?”

  “Probably not. In an ill-considered moment during high-level briefings with the President, I voiced my opinions without hedging. Probably a mistake on my part, but there it is. The Vice President considers me to be a man of principle and took a chance in confiding in me. Me, a man of principle ... imagine that.” He chuckled. “That being said, he knows of other malcontents inside the Fellowship. They’re afraid. Nothing they say or do is supposed to be shared outside the Fellowship. Or even that the Fellowship exists. For now, the possible toppling of our government from the head down is thought to be a conspiracy theory. The ones in charge want it kept that way.”

  “Are you a member of the Fellowship?”

  “I haven’t been invited to join.”

  “That says something, I guess.”

  “I’m not sure of what.” He ran his eyes around the milling tourists, none having any interest in the cozy tête-à-tête happening between a State Department bureaucrat and an investigative journalist. “Except in this case, the aforementioned second-in-command learned of the fomenting coup and enemies within. The Fellowship has been bragging about it. If they can undermine the most powerful nation in the world, Europe and Asia could fall in quick succession.”

  “And the last pieces standing?”

  “Who do you think? Oceania, Eurasia, and East Asia. America, Russia, and China. But only as totems. Or rather, factotums without power. With Big Brother ruling from an electronic command center. George Orwell was a prophet. Still is.”

  “And HID fits in how?”

  “It came into prominence a couple decades ago, but you already know that. Before then, it
was just filled with pencil pushers and GSA employees. Derek Salazar weaponized the Firm. He was a senator before taking over the agency as Executive Director. Soon he’ll be the former Executive Director. Word is, he’s going to be appointed the new senator from the Commonwealth of Virginia since the current senator is suffering from terminal brain cancer.”

  “Heard it could be any day.”

  “You heard correctly. Salazar wants to get back into the political, where he can better protect his pet projects. And he wants to get out of the Firm before the shit hits the fan. Since the prospect of scandal nearly always turns an expedient man into man of conscience, he’s already put out a statement warning the country of a conspiracy to take over the government. Plans had been underway to drum him out of office with charges of corruption. He’s already outfoxed them. The current senator’s illness proved to be fortuitous in an ironic sort of way. Like a sick joke.”

  “All men wind up confessing on their deathbeds.”

  “Not Salazar.”

  “And our mutual friend? How does he fit in?”

  “I wanted him to find out what was going on.”

  She considered this for a moment. “You planted him inside the Firm?”

  “I whispered in certain ears. Sorry to say, it backfired. Someone must have gotten wind.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I only know he intercepted a communiqué. It was supposed to be encrypted. Something failed in transmission. He knew what he had. It was a time bomb ready to go off. We discussed its significance. The ramifications. The dangers. In my naiveté, I suggested he collect as much data as possible. Wholesale. Without regard to classification. He said it wouldn’t be a problem. He said no one would detect his intrusion. He claimed he had it all in hand. He didn’t know he was already on their radar. Like all young people, he thought he was invincible, and didn’t know what he was up against. To be honest, neither did I.” He glanced around the gallery, thicker with humanity than when they first entered. “It’s a little stuffy in here.”

  They left the museum behind with its noisy din of restless feet, echoing walls, and muffled voices, and strolled on the Mall, where humanity was nearly as thick but the voices chimed like bells in a church tower, clean and invigorating, and heralding faith for the faithless. A gray pall had settled over the landscape, a forecast of stormy weather on the horizon, literally and figuratively.

  “It’s my fault he’s in the fix he’s in,” Soderberg said. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Is there someone inside the Firm you can trust?”

  He gave her two names. “The second individual has some interesting information.”

  “About what?”

  “Cooperation with an enemy of the state. A very old enemy. From the Cold War.”

  “Russia,” she said succinctly.

  He nodded toward the humanity milling around them. “They don’t understand. Everyone lives in an idyllic world of their own fanciful beliefs. News is just noise. Facts are a nuisance. Men in government tell them only what they want to hear because even if we told them what they ought to know, they would cover their ears. Their newspapers are filled with nonsensical words, their televisions and radios with puerile nonsense, their politicians with wind, and their internet with opinions, everything appealing to the gut instead of the brain or the heart. Millions are seeking their own special drugs to take them away from miseries, disappointments, and fears. Anything that distracts them is better than truth. Their schools are indoctrination centers. Their legislatures filled with dogmatic militants. Their police departments transfixed on quelling rebellion instead of serving and protecting. Their churches filled with vengeful gods instead of benevolent saviors. Their shops stocked with colorful doodads that will break in less than a year, matching the impermanence of their lives. Their dying a matter of public policy instead of mercy. The ground beneath them is shaking, cracking, sinking right out from under them. Their oceans and rivers and water taps are polluted. Their food no longer serves to nourish but to appease large appetites. Those who read do so to descend into fantasies more real than the world around them. Their news is fiction, and their fiction, romantic dystopias. They’re walking in their sleep. They just don’t know it. The closest they will ever come to wakefulness is when they come face to face with a hungry bear. At that moment, they will react instinctively, their amygdalae taking over to show them the escape route. It is the only hope for them. Otherwise, they will attend their churches and adhere to their organized religions, whether it be to an invisible God or His substitute on earth, and march in formation to the edge of the cliff, there jump to their deaths as the only way out.”

  To anyone else, his words would have sounded like the ravings of a lunatic. To Vikki, they rang like truth.

  Before parting, they established a pattern of communication going forward. A method of contact. A place that wasn’t public. And always in the dark of night.

  29

  Grand Cayman, Cayman Islands

  Wednesday, August 13

  AS THE MORNING advanced and his shadow foreshortened, Jack finished the dregs of his coffee beneath the low-hanging palm tree, his eyes focused on the far horizon. Hotel guests pouring onto the beach officially marked the end of his solitary sojourn.

  He patted his pockets, pulled out his cell phone, and made reservations for the next available flight to the States. He lingered a while longer, letting the balmy breezes wash over him in the same way the sea was washing over the shore, laying down a fresh sprinkling of sand before receding and taking away the layer beneath. He could die right here and right now, and not have any regrets. Except for one. Milly’s death.

  He ended his sojourn and strolled back into the hotel. Before packing his meager belongings, he had one more thing to do. Two to be precise.

  At the concierge desk, he asked after Cecile, the maid of the wan eyes and pleasing disposition. The concierge seemed worried, perhaps even suspicious, as if she knew something she wasn’t telling. “Is there a problem with anything, sir?”

  “Just the opposite. I want to thank her for her hospitality. And give her a gratuity.”

  With an air of authority, she flipped her fair hair over a shoulder. “I can do that for you, sir.”

  “I want to thank her personally.”

  “Oh, I see.” His comment had put her off the official script. She savaged her lower lip, pondering what to say next. “I believe she’s off today. Allow me to doublecheck for you.” She held up a momentary finger and clicked a few keystrokes into her console. “As I thought. It’s her day off.” She offered an upturned hand and a suggestion. “Perhaps, I can―”

  He told her never mind, it could wait, there was no rush. He walked the length of the lobby, sensing her eyes upon him. He paused. Vaguely glanced around. Patted his pockets as if searching for a mislaid item. Changed direction and entered the hallway leading back to his room. He didn’t go to his room. Instead he scoured the corridors in search of housekeepers. Any housekeeper would do. The first one looked him over with a guarded expression and told him she had no idea where to find the girl.

  He thanked her kindly and went on his way until he ran across another housekeeper, this one with a bubbly face. “Cece isn’t working today.”

  He gestured in the general direction of the lobby. “They told me she was.”

  She applied a different kind of smile, this one conspiratorial. “She lives over by Meagre Bay Pond. With her folks. Don’t let that put you off. They ought to be at work right about now. And Cece ought to be at home all by her lonesome.”

  “Meagre Bay Pond?”

  “Here’s what you do,” she said with a calculating expression. “Take the highway and follow it south. When you get to Bodden Town, keep on going until you see the bay on the left. A few yards on, you’ll see a private road. Go inland for about a mile or so until you reach an unmarked road on the right, really a narrow gravel lane. Follow it until it peters out. That’s where Ce
ce lives. If you get lost, just ask after her. Everybody knows Cece, she’s that friendly. Her grandmother will probably be home. She doesn’t talk much and minds her own business.” She winked. Jack understood the wink. Evidently, he hadn’t been the first gentleman to receive Cece’s favors.

  He rented a car. After tooling past cruise liners anchored in the harbor and snaking around the shopping area and its gaiety and laughter, he slipped past a fishing camp before turning onto the highway. The road snaked southward toward the shoreline before taking a subtle turn eastward. Along the coast, he pushed on for several miles, then veered inland. The car tooled along a winding road that sliced through a tunnel of mature coconut trees, swaying palms, sea grape, and ferns. Even though towering branches obscured the worst of the sun, the tropical heat was punishing inland, and the humidity cloying. He closed the windows and dialed up the air conditioning. Several minutes later, he turned onto a rutted track and approached a cottage in need of a fresh whitewash. A serviceable jeep was parked out front. A rangy mutt was taking a nap on the shaded porch, paws outstretched and eyes locked warily on the unexpected visitor. When Jack climbed out of the car and stepped onto packed earth, the dog scrabbled to his feet and growled, nails scraping weather-worn wooden planks. A mature woman of considerable girth emerged from the house. The screen door clacked behind her. She wore a faded housedress and a scowl. Rolls of tan-roughened flesh undergirded her chin. She hadn’t smiled in decades. Unlike the mutt, she expected him, or someone like him, a young man of means with a healthy appetite. She braced a proud fist on her hip and used her other hand to wordlessly point to the rear.

  Jack found Cecile squatting in a vegetable garden, pruning and weeding and humming a tune to herself, content to be among growing things with just her dreams for company. Behind her, the jungle rose skyward. Birds raised a racket of squawks, whistles, and wing flutters while bees and butterflies drifted from blooming flower to blooming flower. It was a picture made for tourist brochures. The hot sun. The colorful scenery. The native girl, sweaty and dirty yet fetching. She was bent over her task, using a trowel to dig out weeds, the sun beating down on her face. A thin layer of perspiration shone on her cheeks, bringing out the perfection of youth, a youth that would fade away day by grueling day, probably much sooner than she expected. So concentrated was she in her toils—just her and the pungent earth—she still hadn’t become aware of him. Wearing a sleeveless blouse, she moved to music pouring out of a portable radio. Her shorts revealed well-formed legs. She had an adorable body, plump in all the right places and narrow in between.