The Olympus Device: Book Three

by Joe Nobody

  The group of lawmen continued to speculate, the discussion fueling several ideas that needed to be chased down.

  “Have someone check all of Senator Hughes’s major campaign contributors and see if any of them own property in the Hill Country,” Monroe ordered, adding to the dozens of ongoing tasks already under way.

  “Have the Washington office search the senator’s phone records for any calls placed to local area codes,” was another.

  “I hope these Austin boys have plenty of coffee in stock,” Monroe lamented, loosening his necktie. “I have a feeling we’re going to be here all night.”

  The Four Seasons, San Francisco was a favorite meeting place among the world’s leading industrial and high-tech moguls.

  The high-rise’s location, multiple secure entrances, discreet staff, and first-class accommodations met all of the requirements for clandestine gatherings. The fact that the facility was right next door to the Silicon Valley was convenient. Seattle and Los Angeles were less than an hour away by plane.

  Secrecy was as critical to big business as to any military unit or organization involved in espionage. Mergers, acquisitions, stock offerings, and even the recruitment of key personnel had to be conducted behind closed doors.

  Competitors could manipulate product announcements, influence the stock markets, or steal designs. With billions of dollars on the line, countless corporations deployed a security apparatus that would make the counter-espionage units of most countries pale in comparison.

  The global battle taking place in conglomerate boardrooms was often as hard-fought and brutal as any “hot” war on the planet. While high-velocity lead was rarely exchanged, the arsenal of weapons at the executives’ disposal was significant – and damaging.

  Key suppliers could be gobbled up, ruining the just-in-time inventory schedule required to produce a competitor’s new product. Lawsuits, price manipulation, reputation defamation, and negative advertising were all commonly deployed.

  The similarities between military and corporate organizations were many. Both were structured with a multi-layered hierarchy of progressive responsibility. Private companies used terms like executive brain trust and management teams, as opposed to the military’s general staff and strategic planning groups.

  Instead of causality rates, corporations thought in terms of cash burn, and asset depletion. Other than the stark differentiator of the potential to have employees killed on the battlefield, both organizations functioned in much the same manner.

  One area that received a significant level of resources by both the corner office and the command tent was threat assessment. Businesses were continually gathering and analyzing data on potential hazards and dangers to their corporate well-being.

  Most of the time, these threats involved one of their own, another industrial titan or even a smaller firm capable of impacting profits and shareholder expectations. Now and then, it was a government stirring the pot. Proposed tax changes, new environmental regulations, or even healthcare reform could generate significant discomfort in the executive washroom.

  Over the last few weeks, Durham Weathers and his invention had been the primary focus of these threat analysis teams.

  All of this corporate attention was due to the Texan or his hijinks. It was the public’s reaction though to the situation that warranted alarm. The average Joe Consumer was glued to his television set, waiting for breaking news reports instead of spending money. People weren’t driving their cars, buying laptops, or investing in stocks. These carefully monitored spending habits impacted businesses large and small, sending shockwaves as powerful as Dusty’s rail gun throughout the world of enterprise.

  Banks weren’t lending money. Car showrooms were empty. Appliances gathered dust on warehouse shelves.

  After the attack on Fort Knox, a series of behind the scenes conversations had been initiated. When news arrived of Andy’s kidnapping, the discussions became much less reserved. The world’s economy was declining at an unprecedented rate, and government seemed to be at a loss to halt the slide.

  It was against this backdrop that private jets began filing flight plans for San Francisco, and the city’s premier hotels suddenly found themselves with a shortage of luxury suites.

  They came from all corners of the planet, sporting titles that often included “Chief,” “President,” and “Chairman.”

  Virtually every industry was represented, from banking and insurance to the internet and software giants. Fierce competitors sat side by side, Japanese automobile manufacturers elbow to elbow with their Detroit and European counterparts.

  It was unprecedented, but not unexpected. Their livelihoods were shriveling to dust, and something had to be done.

  Not all of the attendees were international billionaires or corporate titans. One such example was a man named Evan Tomkins.

  Younger than many of his peers, Evan’s reputation carried significant weight among the throng of distinguished men and women. At first glance, the middle-aged man’s blonde hair and athletic physique would have appeared more at home on a sandy beach while carrying a surfboard.

  While his always immaculate, custom tailored suit and matching Gucci shoes worked to offset that initial impression, it was the man’s intellect and political acumen that eventually brought even the most skeptical executive to a point of respect and appreciation.

  Always at his side was a young lady, introduced only as Miss Kingsley. With perfect skin, hourglass figure and spindly legs, it was easy for the average person to assume the 40-something woman was Evan’s assistant, or lover, or both. Neither rumor was accurate.

  Despite only appearing with her hair in a neat bun and brandishing the latest Antonio Melani business attire, Miss Kingsley still came across as ornamental at best, arm-candy at worst.

  It wasn’t until she joined in the conversation that her actual value and role was exposed. Miss Kingsley was one of the few people on the planet who possessed a true photographic memory. She was a walking encyclopedia, with an unmatched mental database of very specialized knowledge.

  Evan and Miss Kingsley were Washington lobbyists.

  With a small office just outside the Beltway, the firm of Tomkins and Associates was tiny compared to other such organizations that plied, influenced, and manipulated the hallowed halls of the American federal government.

  With only a handful of employees and always demanding a confidential relationship with their clients, Evan and his team were known to only a select group of the world’s most influential people. But that was enough.

  Evan didn’t bother with mere senators or Congressmen, nor did he represent just any old clientele. No, when Tomkins and Associates took on a job, it was only to hold sway over the most monumental of issues. They charged millions for their services, and by all accounts, they were worth every penny.

  Many Washington insiders had spent considerable time trying to figure out the young “beach bum’s” formula for success. Few knew much if anything about the man’s history or background. Miss Kingsley was even more mysterious.

  Despite his foggy resume, the Speaker of the House knew Evan’s birthday, the date marked on his personal calendar. The Senate Majority Leader was well aware of Mr. Tomkins’ favorite brand of scotch. Those who chaired important committees never denied the lobbyist an appointment… or a lunch. The officials who controlled the federal government knew Evan Tomkins well. Most liked the man; all respected him.

  “There’s no secret sauce,” he once informed a curious friend. “I present the facts and back them up with the stark, often dark reality. I don’t pussyfoot around when it comes to letting elected officials know the consequences of their actions. Sometimes, my words may come across as a threat. Most times, it’s only a promise. The key is in the delivery of both.”

  In reality, Evan’s secret was an uncanny ability to recognize opportunities, and then broker compromise. Able to read the most complex of individual human traits, he would assess strengths and weaknesse
s with a deft skill. Once he’d identified the fears and hopes of the opposing sides, he was a master of exploiting both ends against the middle and arriving at an acceptable solution.

  When combined with Miss Kingsley’s unquestionable grasp of the facts, they were an extremely effective team.

  To many attending the secret conference in San Francisco, seeing Evan’s face amongst the corporate elite was no surprise. Most of the executives believed the U.S. government was to blame for the pending economic apocalypse they all faced. It only made sense that the man with a solid reputation of bridging the gap between business and elected officials would be at the Four Seasons.

  The ad hoc gathering had no agenda or schedule. There weren’t any invitations or speakers of note. The world was collapsing, and word spread quickly that the Four Seasons was the place where the movers and shakers were huddling to see if there was anything that could be done.

  Evan and Miss Kingsley arrived to find most of the jet set gathered in small gaggles and haphazard clusters in the main ballroom. As he made the rounds, the lobbyist mostly listened and digested, trying to get a feel for what the executive elite were thinking. He attempted to gauge their resolve, commitment, and willingness to act.

  “These people are as worthless as the politicians in Washington,” he informed Miss Kingsley after making the rounds. “They are unorganized, suspicious of each other’s motivations, and most likely will accomplish nothing. I think we just flew across the country for nothing.”

  “I agree,” came her response. “Nothing is going to get done here. There’s no direction, leadership, or common agenda. A complete waste of time.”

  The duo was about to leave when a voice called over the din. “Evan! Miss Kingsley! I’m so glad you made it.”

  Evan looked up to see a familiar face approaching. He recognized the man as the chief legal counsel for the world’s wealthiest industrialist, at least according to Forbes.

  “Hello, Rosenberg. How’s business?”

  “Very funny, Evan. The boss was just asking about you. What are you doing down here?”

  Scanning the room, the lobbyist answered, “I thought this is where the meeting was being held?”

  The old lawyer followed Evan’s gaze and then grunted. “This? Down here? No, this is just the minor leagues. The big boys are upstairs in the Presidential Suite. You better get your ass up there.”

  Miss Kingsley took it all in, peering across the room and seeing no fewer than seven CEOs of the Fortune 50. “Did you just call this the minor leagues, sir?”

  “Yes,” grinned Rosenberg, “The honchos have them cooling their heels down here in case they are needed, and so they’ll feel like they were part of the action. The real stroke is upstairs. Now you two get going, before my boss’s mood goes utterly foul.”

  Reaching for a piece of hotel stationary, Rosenberg wrote down a couple of words. “Here, show this to the security people. You won’t get in without it.”

  As they walked through the plush, carpeted hall on their way to the private elevators, Evan showed Miss Kingsley the password. “Goliath down?” she chuckled, exchanging an approving glance with her partner. “Now that’s the first thing that’s made sense out of this whole affair.”

  It was easy to spot the special elevators. Two large men, neither of whom appeared to have any neck, stood on either side of the reserved opening. When the closest mountain of muscle saw Evan approaching, he immediately moved to intercept.

  “Sir, this is a restricted….”

  Evan didn’t respond at first. Instead he held out the paper for the colossus to inspect. “Mr. Rosenberg said to give this to you.”

  Frowning, the security man still wasn’t convinced. “Your name, sir?”

  “Evan Tomkins… and this is Miss Kingsley. I believe we’re expected.”

  A hastily executed phone call later, and the duo from Washington were in the elevator and rising skyward. “I feel like this is such a boy’s club,” Kingsley teased. “Guards, a treehouse, secret passwords… it’s all so… so… like young boys playing spy games or something.”

  “I’ll let you explain that to those two gentlemen we just met on the way down,” Evan grinned back.

  “No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I’ll pass.”

  The door opened into a small foyer, most of the space occupied by an even larger specimen of corporate security. “Good evening, Mr. Tomkins, Miss Kingsley. Right this way, please.”

  They were led into the main salon, the floor-to-ceiling windows providing a breathtaking view of the bay. Scattered around the room were the players, an international representation of the largest corporations and wealthiest individuals.

  They were all there, the Greek shipping magnet, bookended by two Chinese industrialists, holding court with the king of Latin American telecom. At the bar were the British and Swiss bankers, who just two days ago were at each other’s virtual throats, battling over a trillion dollars in bullion futures.

  There were at least 20 people present, including a prince from the Saudi Royal Family. Not a single attendee was worth less than ten billion U.S. dollars.

  “Looks like a pretty exclusive club to me,” Evan whispered to Kingsley.

  Across the expansive room, lounging on a couch, clad in blue jeans, athletic shoes, and a shirt that was one size too big, they spotted the man who seemed to be coordinating the entire effort.

  “Hello, Evan. Welcome to Desperation, Incorporated,” greeted Bill, standing to take the lobbyist’s extended hand.

  “Thank you for inviting us, sir. This is quite the shindig.”

  “And that from a man who sees his share of shindigs,” Bill answered, pushing his black rim glasses back up his nose.

  Bill had made his money in software, later expanding into hardware, and then buying anything and everything he wanted. The multi-billionaire, king of the hill, top dog, didn’t waste any time.

  “The White House and Capitol Hill are operating inside a bubble,” he began. “The enclosure that surrounds them is constructed out of ego, pride, and fear. We all know how impenetrable such a wall can be. Somehow, someone has to breach that fortress of vanity, and provide a dose of reality before it’s too late.”

  “Now I know becoming involved in politics is something we capitalists all try and avoid. It seems like every time the corporate world ventures into that arena, we’re accused of everything from manipulating elections, to illegally influencing public officials. No matter how carefully crafted, any association with Washington alienates one side of the political spectrum or the other, and that reduces our customer base. Most of us end up contributing to both parties, just to remain neutral, and keep everyone happy.”

  Pausing, Bill scanned the new arrivals, making sure they were following his words. A quick nod from Evan and Miss Kingsley signaled he should continue.

  “But it’s only logical… what I’ve been telling all of my guests… if the entire planet crashes into an economic depression, having half of your customers will look pretty good. Half is a lot better than nothing.”

  Again, Bill made eye contact with the listeners, reading their expressions of understanding.

  “So here is what we propose to fix this mess,” Bill said, his voice rising in volume while lowering in pitch. “Washington has a problem by the name of Durham Weathers and his Olympus Device. We, the economic backbone of the planet, have put aside our petty differences and can solve this issue before it’s too late. With our combined resources and neutral political posture, we can fix this.”

  The lobbyist smiled, already knowing why he’d been summoned from Washington.

  “We have a letter that is being signed by practically everyone attending our little powwow. I want you to deliver it to the president, and make sure he accepts it,” the billionaire stated, his tone as serious as any Evan had ever heard.

  “Sir, I can’t make the President of the United Sta.…”

  Bill waved off the protest, stopping Evan short. “Yes, y
ou can. Now I don’t care if you sell, threaten, bribe, or scare the Prez into agreeing with our proposal. That’s why you’re here… that’s your area of expertise.”

  “And if he doesn’t want play along?”

  “Then the people in this room and a host of those downstairs will lay waste to the president’s party. They’ll be lucky to be elected dogcatcher in the next election… if there is a next election. If he denies our offer, then make sure he understands that we are united and will not hesitate to ruin the man.”

  Kingsley actually smiled, one of the few times Evan could recall such a reaction.

  “Okay, Bill, I’ll be the messenger boy. Let’s hope the president isn’t shooting everyone who delivers bad news these days.”

  Chapter 9

  Admiral Armstrong scanned the old warehouse’s expansive interior, a brief moment of pride crossing the senior officer’s face as he took it all in. Long ago, this facility had been used by the Navy to store munitions and other replenishments for outgoing warships. That had been an era of dominance for his country, a time when his nation’s flag had plied the seas, flying atop of battlegroups that guaranteed supremacy and freedom.