by Roger Weston
Shadow Court
A CHUCK BRANDT THRILLER
ROGER WESTON
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Weston Publishing Enterprises
All rights reserved.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
Books by Roger Weston
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Charles Rascher, attorney at law (Ret.), who helped with legal details. Any mistakes are my own.
CHAPTER 1
Ignantola Island, Caribbean
Judge Andrew Maroz was a tall, narrow-faced man with coal black eyes and angled eyebrows. He walked along the boardwalk as waves crashed on the beach to his left. The waters of the Caribbean stretched as far at the eye could see, yet he threw the waters no more than a sharp, fast glance. He had more important concerns on his mind than nature. He himself was a dominant part of the natural world. Nature was as cold as death. The approaching hurricane was proof of that, and the warm wind was already starting to rise.
Maroz had seen the wrath of nature before. He had seen lions of the Serengeti prey on gazelles. The viciousness of it had impressed him. Lions did not admire wildebeests; they preyed on them. Nature preys on nature, Maroz had thought as he watched a lion rip flesh away from the fallen, thrashing animal. Maroz had been in India during an earthquake that killed hundreds of people. He had seen the arm of a woman sticking out of the ruins of a building. The sight had educated him the ways of the world. Nature preys on nature, he had thought. After Hurricane Katrina, his pilot had flown his helicopter over the ruins of New Orleans. Once again, Maroz had learned from the earth the ways of the world.
He stopped walking. Standing in the blustery weather, he surveyed the exclusive views, but didn’t see them through common eyes.
When Maroz looked at the Caribbean, he saw an age-old saga of the weak and the strong with world domination hanging in the balance. The Caribbean had been the sea route of the Spaniards when they looted South America to become a geopolitical and military powerhouse. The Caribbean was the stage for the Cuban Missile Crisis when the Russians made a power play which threatened international consequences had it succeeded. As the highway for the drug trade, the Caribbean was an engine for the global economy.
The two-story mirrored building was set back from the beach of Sapphire Cove. It was the home of the Lancastria Court, a secret international center of law, power, and authority—law above law, power above power, and authority over authority. National law applied to 99% of the world’s population. Lancastria law also applied to them even though they didn’t know it existed.
Riding on a wave of good news, Judge Maroz had just called an emergency meeting of the shadow court due to the approaching storm and the need to expeditiously wrap up their biggest case ever. The planning had stretched on for months. Now was the time to drop the hammer. It was time to make history, and given that he was at the center of history’s tidal change, he was eager to take action now.
Filled with a powerful sense of destiny and importance, he entered the mirrored building and rode the judge’s elevator up to his chambers on the second floor. Through a mahogany door, he entered a room of crown molding and Italian ceiling décor. It was a room that reflected his tastes. The walls were decorated with three paintings taken from a Greek villa on the island of Rhodes that was once owned by Italian leader Benito Mussolini. A fifty-foot Isfahan rug was spread out on the pink marble floor. Several stacks of law books rested on two marble tables: one table bore the Medici insignia; markings on the other indicated that it came from the palace of Napoleon III. Other appointments included Florentine tapestries, hand-carved French Renaissance bookshelves with glass cabinet doors, and Venetian lanterns. Pink marble columns spaced at ten-foot intervals around the perimeter broke the continuity of the scarlet walls.
Judge Maroz entered the changing room. Without speaking, he handed his clothes to the butler, who took them away for cleaning and pressing.
Then with the help of two attendants, the silent judge was dressed in a black robe. He admired himself in a ten-foot high mirror and then walked from the chambers into the courtroom.
In contrast to his opulent office, the Lancastria Court was unadorned. From the looks of the Spartan courtroom, Maroz might have been issuing traffic tickets in Cincinnati, Ohio. An exception to that was the fact that each of the members of the jury sat at a well-oiled walnut desk rather than the benches typical of the low-level courtrooms for the general public. Behind the tables for the prosecution and the defense, forty such desks were neatly arranged on royal-red carpet.
“All rise,” said the clerk, a gray-haired, gray-eyed woman with a bead necklace over her gray blouse.
Fourteen well-dressed attendees rose. All of them had been listed among the hundred richest people in the world. Among them were tech icons, captains of industry, and even two dictators who’d raped their countries for their own benefit. However, most of them were relatively unknown to the general public because they sought anonymity. They avoided publicity as much as possible.
While the clerk called the names listed on her calendar, Judge Maroz sat in silence. He had always believed in the divine rule of the elite, that he and his peers were above common people, and the commoners existed to be controlled by elite power brokers. Years ago, he had sought the advice of old men with professional backgrounds who had wisely counseled his father. They urged the billionaire to be moderate in action, to “be kind and considerate to the common people and step down from the shadow court.” The men said that they too were once young and ambitious, but had learned that ill-gotten wealth brought a curse—a rising darkness that destroyed happiness because it buried true peace under a thick veil of guilt and spiritual darkness.
But recently Maroz had consulted his young, rash companions on the shadow court—legal movers and shakers—and billionaires at the heights of their power who had always fed his vanity. He followed their advice, and continuing on with a haughty attitude, he announced that he would not only blame Chuck Brandt for the revolution in Venezuela, but he would unleash the hounds of hell against him. He would continue to use the hammer of the CERBERUS secret police to taunt Brandt, carrying on the spectacle and fueling the media circus. Maroz’s multinational corporation, Lancastria Media, was raking in millions even as he engineered a false narrative of history for public consumption. CERBERUS secret police were able to enforce their will with impunity in Venezuela and create sensational headlines while Brandt was taking the blame for triggering the human catastrophe.
CERBERUS, an underworld organization serving the orders of the Lancastria Court, was named after a mythical beast, the guard dog of hell. The three-headed creature was said to be ferocious. According to the poet Hesiod, the blood-thirsty canine had as many as fifty heads. Similarly, CERBERUS enforcers under authority of the Lancastria Court would soon have eyes and teeth in many places.
Maroz smiled to himself. It was time to crack some bones.
After the clerk finished reading from the calendar, she closed her leather-bound guest book and sat down.
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br /> Judge Maroz looked out at the members of the court. He saw one of the largest merchant bankers in New York, an international industrialist, a US secretary of state from a previous administration, a little-known California tech mogul, the chairman of a Hong Kong holding company, an owner of a multinational conglomerate, and an heir to a banking fortune. He also saw the owner of one of the largest private prison networks in the world, a man who supplied endless mercenaries to governments, and a UN ambassador who was attending in the place of a regular member.
Then Maroz glared at the defendant, Percy Hackworth.
Maroz scowled at Hackworth and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, let me start off by reminding you of court rules. The Lancastria Court is not subject to any appellate jurisdiction because it has legislative power to issue edicts and enact laws as well as prosecute laws on her books. Today the court will issue a declarative judgment, which is a binding decision on the status of all parties, those including the people and government of Venezuela. Due to the approaching storm, we will move our proceeding up to the Higer Institute after the first recess.
“For now, make sure that all of your electronic devices are turned off. If you must take a call, remove yourself to the hallway. As you know, in our last session, I decreed that we would send in CERBERUS operatives to stir up agitation in order to intimidate the Venezuelan government and cause them to cave in to various demands and help us gain a media monopoly so that we could influence every aspect of society, including forcing the people to accept what we consider to be universal values.
“Agitators were sent in, but we all know what actually happened. Percy Hackworth defied the order of the court, hijacked the operation, and forced a much more aggressive hand. He paid over a thousand radical students to destroy property, incite violence, and distract the police. The result was a revolution, the assassination of the president of Venezuela, a coup, and hundreds of deaths.
“As a result, I was forced to take further actions. To protect the sanctity of the court and the appearances of lower authority, further operations were carried out to deflect blame for the assassination to an American operative named Chuck Brandt. Brandt was formerly known as the world’s most notorious professional assassin, so he was an easy decoy. From time to time, such actions are necessary to not only protect the court but remind our world leaders of the court’s behind-the-scenes authority and the grave seriousness of her CERBERUS secret police force.”
The court reporter, dressed in a black cotton dress, tapped away on her machine.
“The court has since chosen a successor to the presidency of Venezuela,” Maroz said. “A show election will be held. Today we will hold an ex parte judicial and legislative proceeding. Opposing parties will not therefore be granted the privilege of an invitation of the court or even be notified of the court’s existence. As always, we exert executive privilege requiring the proceedings and all matters handled herein to remain confidential. You may be seated.”
The illustrious members of the court sank into their cushioned seats.
Feeling anxious over the weather and time pressure, the judge said, “Gentlemen, the jury of esteemed witnesses has been sworn. The jurors are all present. As per the charter of the Lancastria Court, you are present to serve as an advisory jury in these proceedings and make recommendations to the court. Ultimately, the responsibility of the court is to exercise judgment and carry out the law. The defendant is present. The prosecution may now call witnesses.”
CHAPTER 2
Offshore of Iguantola Island
Immense curtains of rain blew down on the turbulent sea. The shiny, black, low-lying forty-eight foot ZR48 Corvette Carbon Fiber power boat lunged over the waves, plunging and crashing, the seatbelt secured Chuck to the leather bucket seat. Sitting shotgun, Erica Rivera looked scared and said little. The sleek closed cab kept them dry.
As Chuck drove through the deluge, he glanced out the spray-streaked window at the massive, dark, evil-looking wall of clouds on the horizon because a tropical cyclone was aiming for the highly-exclusive Iguantola Island. He had just beaten the storm here, but this was not a welcoming refuge. Bad people roamed these shores. The resort and village were for private guests only, including those who had offered a million dollars bounty for his death, including those responsible for murdering Sal Cochino, a Seattle-based antiquarian. There was no public access—no airport, no harbor for cruise ships, no ferry dock, and no public resorts. Chuck was sure there would be a welcoming committee for him, but it would probably be a badass crew.
The island was the shape of a battered arrowhead with a high ridge and tail fins. Thanks to the approaching weather system, the island was about to get battered once again. Chuck drove the Corvette power boat past Headless Point into the turbulent waters of Bone Bay, which was a chip near the top of the arrowhead-shaped island. As he rode over waves, he saw a crescent of white sand up ahead. The normally clear waters were murky now but below the trough between waves he caught a glimpse of an old shipwreck on the seafloor beneath him. But that was not all he could see. For just a moment, he caught a glimpse of bones on the ocean floor. He knew this bay well because he always thoroughly researched his landings. He knew from his research on Iguantola Island that these were horse and other animal bones… the old ship had carried a cargo of bones which were to be processed into phosphates, but the ship had long ago been wrecked in another storm.
As he approached the shore, Chuck hit the gas. The Corvette power boat attacked the island and slid up the sandy beach. He took off his seat belt and put on his knapsack containing hiking boots, a rope, tactical flashlight, first aid kit, and other essentials.
He held the door for Erica to exit the cabin. Outside, in a torrential downpour, his eyes scanned the tree-line. Then he leapt bare-footed down onto the sand.
He wiped sea spray from his forehead and took in the beach scene. Huge granite boulders rested on the shoreline, many of them larger than houses. The massive rocks had rounded edges and were as smooth as marble. When he stepped out into the warm water, he felt powder-fine sand between his toes. Just walking in it massaged his bare feet. He couldn’t help wondering if what he was feeling was really sand or powder-ground bone dust.
Standing in twenty-knot winds and rain, he glanced back out at the water. A flock of pelicans caught his eye because of the commotion they were making. With great flapping of wings, the ungainly birds plunged off the big rocks, attacking the shallows. Wings flapped and beat the water with frenzied intensity, splashing the rolling ocean into churning froth. Other pelicans flew wildly overhead in the wind and then dive-bombed the water like Kamikaze pilots. Water was splashing all over as dozens of the big birds braved the howling rain, making brief, desperate flights. The waves boiled with panicked fish. And the waves were getting bigger, swelling up into rolling bulges of life and death. As the pelicans attacked the water, they seemed unaware of the danger from the rising storm and the surf. Their behavior was unnatural. Chuck saw one bird gulp down a fish just as a wave crashed over it, pummeling the pelican. Several dead pelicans lined the beach. Then Chuck saw a pelican attack another pelican from the air, smashing down upon it unawares, evidently breaking its own neck.
“Let’s go,” Chuck said, taking Erica’s hand.
They left footprints on pristine beach, but the showering rain quickly erased them. They scrambled along the shore among the palm trees and entered the rainforest. Overhead, Chuck heard constant clacking of the palm fronds in the trade winds which had now been strengthened with extra power. Rain showered down upon them, soaking their clothes.
He and Erica sat under a palm tree and towel dried their feet. Then they strapped on their boots and struck into the virgin forest.
They hiked through lush forests of verdant growth where the smell of damp soil filled the air. He climbed the rising terrain of the shore until he found himself atop a sea cliff. Erica stepped up beside him.
The storm was rising. It ripped through the forest now like titanic
machetes hacking the trees all around. Chuck watched overhead for falling danger.
In the distance, over a mile away, he saw a bay and a harbor that was providing shelter to over a dozen super yachts. Waves were rolling incessantly against the coast, but the yachts in the harbor floated in calm water and appeared safe—at least for the time being.
With Erica right behind him, Chuck hurried along a hillside and came upon a paved trail, flanked by undergrowth, palms, mangos, and calabash trees. The branches of big gumbo limbos and the kapok trees slashed at the sky overhead. Wind hissed and rumbled through the forest. Branches and foliage rained down all around them.
At all times Chuck stayed vigilant. He knew that the CERBERUS killers were nearby, and this island was their training ground and headquarters.
He and Erica broke out into a clearing where logging had recently been underway. From this vantage point, they had a view down the side of the mountain. However, because of the weather, there wasn’t much to see right now other than a forest of shaking trees and a wicked-looking storm system obscuring the horizon.
Continuing onward, melting back into the rainforest, they followed the path through the undergrowth for another half mile.
They passed the ruins of an abandoned plantation that had been reclaimed by the forest. They also passed three trails that led up a slope toward Nicobar Plateau, so-named on the old map he’d memorized, and eventually they came to a big clearing. There Chuck saw something that he could not believe.
CHAPTER 3
With wind howling around the Lancastria Court, prosecutor Ragnar Fairfield stood by his table and frowned at his legal pad. His copper and brass cufflinks disappeared as he reached into the pocket of his double-breasted wool suit. He glanced at a gold-filled Elgin pocket watch from the 1950’s then put it back in his pocket. He stepped in front of his table and said, “The prosecution calls Percy Hackworth.”
