Journey Into the Flame: Book One of the Rising World Trilogy

by T. R. Williams

  “I’m not sure I believe that whole thing about the books choosing where they go,” Valerie continued when Piera had gone. “But if the Hitchlords family has been associated with these groups throughout history, it would be a fair bet that they’re associated with another one now. I think we have to assume that whatever is going on, Simon and Andrea are not acting alone.”

  It didn’t take long for Valerie’s detective instincts to kick into full gear again. She pushed her plate aside and reconnected her PCD to the Akasha Vault’s computer system. Information concerning the Hitchlords family was once again being displayed along with flashing indicators.

  After a moment, Valerie raised her eyebrows. “Check this out. It looks as though the old WCF—or FBI, as it was called then—was investigating the Hitchlords family before the Great Disruption hit. Something about gold and precious metal trading just before the financial reset of 2025. The FBI even seized communications data from servers at one of the Hitchlords companies accused of price fixing in the diamond markets. It says here that the e-mail data were encrypted. Before the FBI was able to process the information, the U.S. and South African governments put a halt to the investigation.”

  “Well, judging by the family’s connections, I’m not surprised,” Logan said. “What’s e-mail?”

  Valerie rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know anything about how people lived before the Great Disruption?”

  He shrugged.

  She thought for a moment, tapping her fingers on the table. “The FBI never decrypted the data,” she said.

  “Can we do it?” Logan asked.

  She didn’t answer; with a few quick motions of her hand, she already had the quantum computer deciphering the messages.

  After a moment, appearing on the projection were the last few e-mails that Fendral sent in 2024, some forty-five years ago. One in particular caught Valerie’s eye. It was dated January 23, 2024.

  My friend Dario,

  Most everything is in place. We are just about ready to execute the removal of the United States dollar as the world’s reserve currency and replace it with four others. You will have until late October of this year to divest yourself of your U.S. $ holdings. After the change, our global investments should increase in value three times over.

  Catherine’s family will handle all of the money exchanges for the members. She has spoken to the chairman of the Federal Reserve. All is set.

  Give my love to Maria and the children.

  FH

  P.S. We are also monitoring the activities of this newly formed Crowd Twelve. We will handle if required.

  “I wonder who Dario and Catherine are,” Logan said.

  “And whether they’re still around,” Valerie added. She skimmed through more of the e-mails, finding nothing significant. “I have a feeling they are.”

  “Ready for dessert?” Piera suddenly arrived with a cart full of fruit and pastries. It was almost as if nothing was wrong.

  28

  Pass your values on to your children, but do not be afraid to let your traditions go.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA. 7:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

  3 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

  Black SUVs lined the circular driveway of an old Federal-style home on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., in the city of Alexandria, Virginia. After the Great Disruption, the National Trust had sold the historic Woodlawn Plantation to a holding company owned by Fendral Hitchlords in order to help finance regional rebuilding efforts. While Fendral, Andrea, and Fendral’s son, Simon, had maintained official residences in the center of Washington during their time on the Council of Satraya, the plantation always remained their secret retreat. After the splintering of the Council and the trio’s departure from the North American Federation, the Hitchlords family retained ownership of the plantation; but over the years, the property itself had fallen into disrepair.

  No one in the area had taken much notice when restoration work began on the plantation’s house and grounds eight years ago. The lawns and shrubbery were remanicured, the house was repainted, and the roof was replaced. The 126 acres of woodlands, streams, and meadows that surrounded the house provided a certain amount of privacy. Now the plantation served as Simon and Andrea’s base of operations whenever their work necessitated a visit to the NAF’s east coast.

  Inside the early-nineteenth-century plantation house, which was guarded by armed men wearing black pants and fitted white shirts, Andrea sat in a parlor behind a rosewood desk and spoke to Simon via her PCD. “How are your travels going?” she asked.

  “I find India to be hot, overcrowded, and most uninviting,” Simon said. “Deya’s son was of modest help. I will be commencing my search for the books tomorrow.”

  “Why the urgency to collect the books now?” Andrea asked, annoyed. “Can’t that wait until our plans with Era have been executed?”

  “The books must be located now, I assure you,” Simon said matter-of-factly. “But speaking of our plans, shouldn’t you be out of the NAF by now? I am certain the authorities will want to speak to anyone related to the tragedy that befell the Council.”

  “Yes,” Andrea said, “but we have learned that the son of Camden and Cassandra Ford has come forward. After all these years, Camden still haunts us.” Andrea saw a flicker of surprise on the image of Simon’s face. “Did you not see the press conference?”

  “I’ve been occupied with more important matters. Send me the video,” he ordered.

  “I shall. Logan Ford has taken his father’s place on the Council. They are talking about a renewed vigor and commitment to their work.” Andrea paused, not exactly sure how to phrase her next question. “Did you know that Camden and Cassandra were murdered two years ago? At their home in New Chicago, where they had lived since they disappeared from Washington thirty-two years ago?”

  Simon was silent for a moment, then said with obvious exasperation, “Why concern yourself with them, let alone their son? What matters is that the Council will be going into retirement soon, whether they like it or not. Freedom Day is almost upon us.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” Andrea said pointedly.

  Simon waved his hand dismissively. “I am not inclined to walk down memory lane.”

  Andrea knew it wasn’t wise to press Simon further, so, merely taking note, she moved on to more practical matters. “At the urging of Camden’s son, the Council is considering delaying—or even canceling—the Freedom Day celebration this year in support of their fallen comrades.”

  “Of what consequence is that?” Simon snapped impatiently. “If they decide to cancel the celebration, we will still execute our plan as scheduled.”

  “The doctor does not think that is advisable. He told me rather emphatically that Freedom Day celebrations must take place in order for the Purging to be most effective. When people are focused on their freedom, their brain chemistry is heightened and more receptive to our solution,” Andrea explained. “We would achieve an extermination rate of only fifty percent if the celebrations are canceled. Ninety-five percent if they go on as planned.”

  “You mean, we’d be leaving the job half done,” Simon observed. Andrea nodded. “Well, that is most disappointing. But we have too much invested to delay our plans now.”

  “It seems that Camden’s son has more information than we would like,” Andrea continued. “He reportedly helped the authorities discover the secret tunnel. And they have somehow connected our operative to the murders. The WCF is looking for her as we speak.” Simon did not respond. Andrea knew what he was considering. “We can trust her,” she said.

  “Can we?” Simon asked doubtfully.

  “Yes. And if she gives me reason to change my mind, we will deal with it at that time,” Andrea said. “Remember we have quite a bit of leverage with her.”

  “Hmm,” Simon murmured. “It may be time to call in a few political favors. And perhaps making a few large donations to the Council of Satraya during thes
e tough times might persuade them to continue their scheduled celebrations. My understanding is that their coffers could use a bit of a boost.”

  “There is one more item, Simon,” Andrea said. “In his interview, Camden’s son spoke of the Creation of Adam painting.”

  “He did what?” Simon shouted. “In what way did he speak of it?”

  “It seems that he is an artist of sorts,” Andrea explained. “While he did not provide any direct insight into the painting, the mere mention of it concerned me. I fear Camden told him too much about the past.”

  Simon stayed silent for a moment. “That would be most unfortunate,” he said. “We must find out what the Ford boy knows. It seems that Hitchlords and Ford are destined to meet again.”

  “Agreed,” Andrea said before Simon disconnected the call.

  Just then, there was a knock on the parlor door. “Ah, come in, my dear,” Andrea said, as the door slowly opened. Monique Sato, Cynthia Brown’s former assistant, entered. “Come, sit. I am told the authorities are looking for you.”

  “They have nothing concrete that ties me to the Council murders,” Monique said quickly. Gone was the bubbly demeanor she had displayed when she worked for Cynthia. Now Monique spoke in a cold, hard manner. “They’re grasping at straws. I’m going to be leaving the NAF anyway.”

  “I see. And how are you planning to travel unnoticed?”

  “I have a friend in the state of Quebec who has arranged for safe transportation to Japan.”

  “That’s good to hear, dear.” Andrea wrote something on a piece of notepaper. “But before you leave the Federation, make your way to this address. Lucius is waiting for you with some instructions.”

  “Lucius? Why?” Monique looked alarmed.

  “Please, dear, he needs your assistance with one more task.”

  Monique took the piece of paper from Andrea and quickly left the parlor.

  29

  Everyone has a story. The greatest libraries in your lands could never compare to the library that holds the individual epics of everyone who has ever lived.

  —THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

  WASHINGTON, D.C., 9:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

  3 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

  “This certainly looks like the bench my father described in his journal entries,” Logan said, as he and Valerie walked around Compass Park after dinner. “In fact, I know it is.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Valerie asked.

  “Because of this.” Logan slid his fingers across an etching that someone had carved into the back of the bench.

  “This is the same symbol that my father doodled in the upper corner of his journal pages.”

  Valerie’s attention was drawn to the large stone monument in the middle of a fountain pool across from the bench. It had been erected in honor of the twelve original Council members, whose names were chiseled into the large rectangular block of black granite. Logan joined Valerie at the monument.

  Camden Ford

  Cassandra Ford

  Robert Tilbo

  Fendral Hitchlords

  Andrea Montavon

  Simon Hitchlords

  Deya Sarin

  Babu Sarin

  Joyti Dehuri

  Madu Shata

  Shai Shata

  Nadine Shata

  “I’ve walked past that thing a hundred times,” Valerie remarked, “but now, seeing our parents’ names . . . What do you do when everything you’ve believed about your life is suddenly flipped on its head?”

  “I don’t think it takes anything away from us,” Logan answered. “In fact, it adds more dimension to our existence. It’s like waking up into the life of a stranger. More than a few times in the past, I wished I could have done just that.”

  “Spoken like a true artist.” She dipped her hand into the fountain that surrounded the monument. “It still makes me wonder, though.”

  “Wonder about what?” he asked.

  She hesitated to answer, running her hand back and forth through the water. “Just about my mother,” she finally confided. “She died when I was born. I wonder if she was a part of all this.”

  He nodded, not knowing what to say. But it occurred to him that he couldn’t recall his parents ever talking about Valerie’s mother.

  They strolled back to the bench and sat down. It was a warm night, and, aside from an occasional blast of loud music from cars passing along 17th Street or the sound of slamming doors as taxis picked up or dropped off passengers, all was quiet. A few people were strolling through the park and walking dogs. A young couple with their arms around each other were tossing coins into the fountain.

  “It’s pleasant here,” Valerie said. “I can see why your father chose this place.”

  An arched brick entranceway and a neatly trimmed three-foot-high hedge separated the park from the four streets bordering it. Wide brick pathways connected the eight distinct sections of the park grounds. Each section was named after a distinguished person or group who had contributed to the rebuilding effort after the Great Disruption. The granite monument and the infinity pool were the centerpieces of this particular section, which was dedicated to the Council of Satraya.

  Logan sat silently and looked around, trying to take in the moment, trying to see the park through his father’s eyes. “Do you ever wonder what life was like back then?” he asked. “You know, the days right after the Great Disruption?”

  “Those were scary, interesting times,” Valerie said. “But I think we also live in interesting times. Maybe one day, our kids will wonder what life was like in 2069.”

  Logan laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked.

  “You don’t really come across as someone who wants to have kids,” he said. “Your job and all, round ’em up and bang ’em up.”

  She laughed, too. “Yes, my job. I suppose that’s true.”

  “But life has a way of presenting itself,” he said, attempting to soften his statement. “Change happens quickly, usually when you need it the most. You would make a great parent.”

  The two of them sat still, enjoying the cool evening breeze. He looked again at the couple by the fountain, who were throwing more coins, and at the names on the granite block at its center.

  “Wait a minute!” he exclaimed, and he reached into his backpack and sorted through the pages of his father’s journal until he found what he was looking for. “Read this section right here,” he said, handing the page to Valerie.

  Sit where you may mind your enemy,

  Remember forever their names as if etched into stone.

  That which supports you in your vigilance

  Will ultimately be your savior.

  There was a quizzical expression on her face as she handed the note back to him.

  “Look in front of you,” he said. He pointed to the monument. “Sitting here, we can see, or mind, the name of my father’s enemy, his name etched into stone.”

  Valerie nodded, taking the note back from him. “So what does the last part mean? Our savior?” They were silent a moment, trying to piece the puzzle together.

  “The bench!” Logan cried out. “ ‘That which supports you’—my father is talking about this bench. Somehow this bench is our savior.” He stood and walked around it, inspecting it for any additional markings or anything out of the ordinary.

  “Maybe it’s the symbol he carved into it?” Valerie proposed.

  “There has to be something more,” he answered, as he walked around the bench, looking for something that might support his claim.

  “Leave it for now,” she said. Then she grabbed him by the arm. There was an intense look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “That black vehicle over there, right around the corner from the park entrance, drove up about four minutes ago and has been idling there. What’s it waiting for? And you see that couple over there, near the fountain? They’ve been tossing coins for ten minutes now. No one makes that many wishes. We need
to get out of here.”

  “You think we’re being followed?”

  She ignored his question. “When I tell you, we are going to walk casually out of the park and back across the street.” She pulled her PCD out of a jacket pocket.

  “What are you doing?” Logan asked. “Let’s just go.”

  “Standard procedure,” she calmly replied. “Calling for backup. They will be able to track my PCD and send help.” She finished issuing the distress call and put her PCD into her pocket. Then she took her gun from its holster and placed it in the other pocket of her jacket.

  Logan realized his heart was racing.

  “Ready?” she whispered as she stood. “Just act as if we’re enjoying the evening.”

  As they walked away from the bench, they heard the sound of a police siren in the distance, and Logan felt a bit of relief.

  Valerie looked back over her shoulder at the fountain. “Where’d they go?” she asked.

  Logan turned. The couple who had been tossing coins was gone.

  Valerie and Logan walked down the brick path and made their way to the street. The arched entrance to the park was about thirty meters ahead of them. Logan noticed two men entering the park, walking toward them. Valerie grabbed his elbow with her left hand and slipped her right hand into her pocket, where her gun was concealed. “Stay calm,” she whispered, gripping her gun. “If they try anything, drop to the ground.”

  Logan’s heart raced faster. As the men passed without incident, he could hear them talking about the local baseball team. The exit was only a meter away, and the sirens were getting louder.

  “Almost there,” Valerie said, continuing to hold Logan’s arm.

  They passed under the arched entrance. A sports car sped down the street, blasting music. Then the barrels of two guns were suddenly pressed to the backs of their heads, and a large hand clamped down on Valerie’s as she withdrew her gun. Instinctively, she struggled for control of her weapon.

  “Let go! It would be real easy to shoot your friend,” a male voice warned.

  Logan shoved the man’s arm, trying to help her.