by Jake Devlin
“Oh, Frank.”
“Just listen deeply for just a minute and maybe you can hear it.”
“Jesus, Gordy, I think she's falling for it.”
“I know, Ro, I know. I think that's four or five times he's done that schtick close enough for me to hear it; it's about the same every time. He's good at it, top sniffer on the beach since Jeff, the hairdresser.”
“He's despicable.”
“And crude. And cynical about it. He only goes after vulnerable, gullible, moderately unattractive women, married – no commitment problems, he says -- over 50, that look horny, at least to him, and he even keeps score.”
“What?”
“He keeps score, used to compare his numbers with Jeff's. His record – he says – was eleven in one week. Jeff's was nine before he moved up to” --
“Wait. You're not talking about Laurie's Jeff?”
“No, no, of course not. This was the chubby bald guy with all the tattoos; people thought he was gay.”
“Oh, I – yeah, I think I remem- – he was the one they called the Schmoozerator?”
“Right. That Jeff.”
“And this guy is also chubby and bald, bad teeth, but no tattoos, a face only a mother could love – and probably only if she were blind.”
“Yeah; not a leading man type, that's for sure. But he's got the gift of gab, maybe even more than Jeff.”
“He does have tha- – oh, look; they're heading into the water.”
“Yup, and I'll bet he'll be doing her within five minutes.”
“Right there in the water?”
“That's his style.”
“I hope they go out a lot deeper.”
“Yup. And then he'll try to go in a lot deeper.”
“Oh, Gordy.”
“Lucky for all of us that it's high tide.”
- 63 -
June 18, 2013
3:09 p.m. local time
St. Tropez, France
“That many, Jake?”
“Precisely that many. But most of them, well over my usual 92 percent, were dead ends, led nowhere, mostly just wannabe rich guys and gals pretending to be movers and shakers on a global scale. Hell, they were so insignificant they had to manufacture the illusion that they were riding on someone's coattails, that someone was pulling their strings and they were pulling other people's strings, that they had, in big capital letters, INFLUENCE.”
“So who were they fooling with that?”
“Sometimes just themselves. Legends in their own minds.”
“Or a rumor in their own time.”
“Or – wait, what?”
“A rumor in their own time.”
“Oh, good one, Pam. I like that.”
“Feel free to use it. Not sure where I heard it.”
“Cool. Anyhow, a lot of these groups have long histories, some going back centuries, and a lot of them like to tie themselves to the Illuminati.”
“Illuminati? Is that what your Russian guy, Vlad, was trying to say?”
“Probably. But that's what got me started looking at that side of the CT stuff.”
“Digging deeper into the CIA?”
“Not at that point. I found a lot of modern groups who claimed to be descended from the actual Illuminati, but had absolutely zero understanding of what they really were.”
“And what were they really?”
“They were formed in Bavaria in the late 1770s to bring science, wisdom and open thinking to the people, opposing superstition, prejudice and religious influence. They lasted eight or nine years before they were suppressed by the Bavarian government in collusion with the Church and allegedly went underground.”
“How'd you find all that out?”
“Well, today, it's as easy as using a search engine, but back in 1972, it was very tough, and documentary evidence was buried in old archives in museums and libraries around the world. So whenever I got a job, I'd spend some extra time, usually before the hit, searching those sources and copying whatever I could or just making notes.
“But the gist of it all is that lots of modern groups claim to be descended from that bunch, but that all seems to be just puffery designed to get new members, their loyalty and their money and to soften them up for the brainwashing and propaganda, which differs a lot between and among the various groups. But almost all of them claim to have access to some sort of 'secret knowledge,' and they have all kinds of rituals and initiations, and most of them only let new members in by invitation.”
“Sounds like sororities.”
“Yup, or fraternities. But these groups are much older and more complex, and they aren't primarily social groups; similar in process, but in content, they've gotten much, much more sophisticated. A lot of them have some sort of mystical, spiritual or magical legends that they keep hidden and slowly, very slowly reveal to their members as they go through the various levels of initiation.”
“So they keep it exclusive.”
“Yup; and they only let people advance through the levels after they've watched them and tested them to make sure they're loyal and will follow orders and won't reveal any of their 'secrets' to any outsiders.”
“Like the code of silence in the mob?”
“Omerta? Kind of, but giving up secrets isn't always punished by death, usually more a sort of ostracism and maybe leaving the traitor out of future business deals.”
“They've got that 'us versus them' thing going, too, right?”
“Yup. And they use that to build their institutional ego and pride.”
“Wait a minute. 'Institutional ego'?”
“Oh. How about 'team spirit'? Or 'group think'? Or just plain old 'loyalty to the club'?”
“How about just 'clubbiness'?”
“Sure, that'll work. But not all of them have dark paneling on the walls and club chairs and butlers serving drinks on silver trays. A lot of them do, and we've got most of those bugged or infiltrated.”
“Most of 'em? Really?”
“Yup, all around the world. And we gather lots of – uh-oh.”
“What's up?”
“Quick, Pam. Gather everything up and get inside, off the deck.”
“Okay. But what” –
“I'll tell you once we get inside. Quick now!”
- 64 -
May 19, 2014
11:22 a.m. local time
Undisclosed location
“This is Amber. How may I help you? Oh, hey. You do? Good; it's yours. No, no rush; he'll be there for two weeks. Yeah, I can do that. Which is closer for you, Akron or Cleveland? Akron; okay, got it. I'll have a jet there day after tomorrow. You can use whichever cover you want. The consulting accountants? Okay; that's good. I'll set up the paperwork with one of our subs to get you into Hungary. Those passports up to date? Good.
“The pilots will have the assignment sheet with the key code, floor plan and the client's requirements. He wants the job done in a special way, and he wants you to leave the body on display afterward. It's all on the assignment sheet. I don't think you'll have any trouble. You'll be going as the Andorran, so you'll need to use his signature. You'll be paid double, of course; ten million instead of five. Yup, euros, deposited in your Swiss account. I know; it is ironic.
“It's aerial access only, no landing zones nearby or flat spots on the roof. Wes has had his team tweak the turbofans, streamline the fairings and boost the batteries, so you'll have about six hours air time in your rig, maybe nine for Lin, since she's a lot lighter than you. That should give you about nine hundred miles range and a top air speed of about 150, Lin perhaps 1800 and close to 200; plenty of both for the round trip. He's also tuned up the gyros and added outriggers, so you'll be able to land on the pitched roof and leave 'em there while you do the job. Any questions?
“Yeah, he can do that. They'll feel so comfy you'll think you're sitting on a cloud. Anything else?
“Okay. Good hunting, Keith. Bye.”
- 65 -
June 18, 2013
>
3:19 p.m. local time
St. Tropez, France
“Good. Now come over here, away from the sliders.”
“Wanna close the curtains?”
“Not now, Pam; no movement. Ah, good; we're safe.”
“What's going on?”
“Okay; wait'll the PC boots up and I'll show you.”
“Should I get the weapons out?”
“Naw, don't think we'll need those. Ah, there we go. Now bear with me while I search for – ah-ha; just as I thought. It's one of ours.”
“What is?”
“The drone I saw out there.”
“What drone?”
“It was about a block away, going by, not coming toward us. See here?”
“What's that?”
“I've tapped into its video signal, looks like it's maybe doing a grid search.”
“So we're seeing what it's seeing?”
“Yup, and what it's probably recording.”
“But why would one of your drones be here?”
“Oh, sorry; not one of O-P's. One we manufactured at DEI, part of a batch we sold to DCRI, the French internal intelligence agency, last month. They're probably testing it, maybe gridding out the city.”
“But how can you tap into it?”
“Easy. Every piece of hardware or software we sell has a built-in backdoor so we can monitor whatever it's doing.”
“Do the buyers know about that?”
“Of course not. It's another part of our surveillance program, and it's undetectable, totally covert. Same as our ability to tap into and override all those smartphone apps that monitor and control people's houses, regardless of brand name.”
“What? You can” –
“Yup. R&D hopped on that before the first ones hit the market, and we reverse engineered every bit of hardware and software to get to that point. Want somebody to get overheated in the middle of the night? We can raise the temp high enough to boil the blood in their veins, or lower it enough to give their whole body frostbite. Only used that once, but it worked perfectly. NSA, CIA, MI6, GCHQ, DRCI and a lot of other agencies would love to have those capabilities.”
“I heard rumors about that just before I retired. Heard that someone in the Service was trying to get some of that stuff, too.”
“I know. But we convinced them that the technology didn't work, or even exist.”
“You did?”
“Yup; just a few planted emails with spoofed reply addresses.
“But that little guy outside is one of our DH-65/13s, a four-rotor drone, equipped with one-way video and two-way audio. And not only can we tap into it, we can control it remotely, even substitute our own video and audio signals if we want to.”
“Really?”
“Yup. But this one seems to be just doing a routine flight, so no need to mess with it; I'll just monitor and record it until it leaves this area.”
“So what's it looking at?”
“It's about a hundred feet up, wide angle lens, so it's getting all the rooftops on both sides of the street; it'll probably do our street when it gets to the end of that one, come back the other way. Ah, yup, there, see it's turning?”
“Yeah.”
“And now it's coming up our street.”
“Wait, what's that?”
“Looks like – yup, it's one of our neighbors getting some sun on her deck. And whoever is operating it is – geez, I'd fire him for that.”
“That coulda been me if you hadn't gotten us inside.”
“Yup. And see, now he's zooming in on her breasts.”
“Aren't the French supposed to be more sophisticated about nudity than the Americans?”
“Yup. But this guy's probably not only a young guy, but a nerd and a geek.”
“Ah; maybe that explains it. No social life.”
“Yup. A young French nerd slash geek, typical American male, hmm, maybe the same.”
“Obsessed with boobs.”
“Yup. And butts.”
“T and A.”
“Yup. True American immaturity.”
“Oh, look; she's seen it.”
“Oh, good for her.”
“What, giving it the finger? Didn't know that was a French gesture, too.”
“Hey, it's 2013, Pam; of course they know about it. But she's not bothering to cover up.”
“She's French, Jake. And – oh, look; now she's spreading her legs, letting him get a good eyeful.”
“Not through all that hair, he's not.”
“Wait, what's he” –
“Oh, he'd definitely be fired for that.”
“How close do you think he'll get to her?”
“Well, he's dropping fast. What the” –
“Who's that guy?”
“Probably her husband; and he's got – oh, geez. Is that a pistol?”
“Looks like it.”
“Well, at least that kid knows how to levitate. He's skedaddling fast, back up to – oh, yeah, well past a hundred feet. We built those things to be super fast and maneuverable. Oh, careful, kid, not so” –
“Did you hear that, Jake?”
“Yup. Gunshots, right down the road.”
“Oh, hubby's pissed. What was that, four?”
“Five. Hope they don't hit anybody on the way down. At least the kid got out of range before – geez, he's lost control of it. Idiot.”
“Look, Jake, did you see that?”
“What?”
“Out on the deck; looks like one of the bullets just went through the chaise lounge.”
“Right where you were lying. Assholes, both of 'em.”
“Guess I'll have to clean up all that stuffing.”
“No worry; we'll get a new cushion. But look at this clown; he can't get the thing back under control.”
“Could you take it over?”
“Sure. But that's be suspicious, and I want to see how he handles it. Look there; he's – oh, good; he hit autopilot – or maybe his boss jumped in. Good, stabilized. And now he's – oh, shit; he just slammed it into something. Picture's gone.”
“What did he hit?”
“Not sure. Maybe I can figure it out in a replay. But now the DCRI has got a chunk of very expensive scrap metal and electronics. He's sure gonna get fired, and I hope they bill him the whole 22 thousand. Idiot.”
“Maybe he's named Derek.”
“Oh, good one, Pam. Or maybe Ron.”
- 66 -
May 11, 2014
11:41 a.m. local time
Bonita Beach, Florida
“Oh, God, oh, God, OHHHH!”
“Jesus, Gordy, listen to that!”
“Yup, Ro; she's done. Now watch what he does.”
“What? He's hugging her, massaging her neck and shoulders.”
“Look closer.”
“Oh, yeah. He's holding her down … and is he still going at it?”
“Yup. At least the water is up to their shoulders.”
“Small consolations.”
“And look at her face.”
“Is she smiling or grimacing? I can't tell.”
“I think she's gonna go again.”
“So soon? Or just ongoing?”
“Hard to tell. But he must be thinking about baseball.”
“Oh, geez, now she's kissing him. What is wrong with her?”
“She's vulnerable.”
“Is he after her money, too?”
“You mean is he looking for a sugar mama?”
“I don't know; that or just a con man.”
“I don't think so. For him, it's all about the conquests, notches on his belt.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but he never indicated anything like that when we talked.”
“You actually spoke to that clown?”
“Yeah, back when Jeff was still here, and they just talked about the conquests, bragging like high school kids.”
“If either of them had ever come at me, I'd a slapped 'em down fa
ster than – faster than” –
“Faster than Gordon Asshole drives?”
“Oh, Gordy. Sure.”
“Well, they wouldn't come after you at all; you're way too pretty, way outa their class.”
“He's a Neanderthal.”
“Oh, God, oh, God, OHHHH!”
“Well, I think that answers your question.”
“I guess it does. That was quick.”
“Hey, Ro; one thing you gotta give him, he knows how to work it.”
“But look at his face. Totally detached, unless she's looking at him. Despicable Neanderthal.”
“Yup. But she's feeling good.”
“But for how long?”
“At least another few minutes.”
“So GARF is at it again?”
“Wha- – oh, hi, Nor- – oh, sorry; Dallas.”
“Hi, Gordy, hi, Rosemary.”
“Hi, Dallas. GARF?”
“Get-A-Room Frank.”
“He's a Neanderthal con man.”
“That he is, Rosemary. But I made him a leading character – not a heroic one, of course -- in one of my novels, named him Monty, if I remember right, and lots of my female readers tell me they want to meet him. I have to tell them he's fictional.”
“I wish this guy were fictional, not right there in front of us all.”
“Sorry, Ro; he's real.”
“Damn, Gordy. Neanderthal.”
- 67 -
June 18, 2013
3:34 p.m. local time
St. Tropez, France
“Well, Pam, there's the sirens. Bet they're gonna arrest Hubby for firing that gun inside the city limits.”
“Good. I had that cushion almost fully trained. Asshole.”
“Don't worry; we'll have a new one by tomorrow, and you can start training that one.”
“Wait; I want to pout a little more.”
“Okay. Oh, cute. Maybe a little more lower lip?”
“Like this?”
“Yup; got it.”
“Okay. Done.
