The assembled spectators waited in quivering anticipation as El Gallo mounted the stage, clad in an everyman cowboy shirt and sporting a cowboy hat. This was a man of the people, a member of the masses, he assured them, even as his four hundred dollar ostrich-skin boots gleamed in the sunlight. Never mind that his brothers were among the wealthiest landowners in the region, or that his father had been a household name in building low income housing. Forget all that, his demeanor seemed to demand. Here was a humble, simple man, who reluctantly would shoulder the considerable burden of steering the nation back onto the path of righteousness; having somewhat lost its way – though certainly not because of the actions of his political party, which was also the current president’s. No, the country was in mortal peril because of a crisis in morality, exemplified by the surge in popularity and power of the drug cartels.
He cleared his throat and began to speak, a deep baritone long bent to the artifice of holding an audience’s attention, well modulated, passion and intensity obvious in every syllable without any evidence of stridency. This was a man’s man, a leader and a visionary, a man capable of finally, after centuries of oppression, delivering to the Mexican people the promise of their legacy.
“Look at the prosperity Mexico has enjoyed over the last eleven years. Under the party’s leadership, a new, burgeoning middle class has been created, and poverty has been eradicated in many of its most pervasive forms. Our economy is the eleventh largest in the world, strong and resilient, like the Mexican people, who have triumphed in the face of adversity and built a better future for our children!” El Gallo proclaimed, emphasizing points by stabbing at the air with his hat.
The crowd burst into well-choreographed spontaneous applause, led by party agitators who were in attendance to galvanize cheering at the appropriate points. The television cameras tracked over the thronged celebrants – one could hardly watch the outpouring of enthusiasm without being moved.
“I love my children, and I have taught them to love God, and Mexico. I like to think I’ve shown them the difference between right and wrong, between good and evil, between a road with promise and one that leads to purgatory. Children are the country’s future, and so we must do everything in our power to build a safe environment where they can excel. They shouldn’t have to worry about drug cartels shooting up the streets, or pushing their poison in our schools. We cannot give in to their terrorism. Not because it’s the right thing to do. Not because it’s the easy thing to do. But because of the children. We must do what it takes, for the children, for Mexico’s bountiful harvest of talent and hope!”
The hunched figure adjusted the tripod of the high velocity rifle, watching as the oration hit full stride and the gathering of citizens applauded again. The actual words were lost on him because he was behind the speakers, in the tower of the church three hundred yards from the optimistic assembly. He was invisible to the security forces in place around the rally, the rifle recessed in the small rectangular openings of the tower’s pinnacle.
The gunman watched the red balloons that framed the stage for clues as to the amount and direction of any wind. He was in luck. The late spring gusts were nowhere in evidence. It would be an easy shot.
He was startled by a car backfiring on the road below. Several security men ran in the direction of the percussive blast, accompanied by six soldiers. They watched as the ancient farm truck rolled down the street, straining under its load of hay. At the next intersection, the engine backfired again; the group of gunmen exchanged relieved looks, laughing with merriment at their defense of El Gallo from a poorly tuned V8. The sentries returned to their positions as the great man continued to paint his verbose vision of a bright new future.
A crow landed on the balustrade of the tower, and fixed the man with its beady stare. For a reason he couldn’t define, he was momentary chilled; the hair on his arms standing erect. He wasn’t a believer in omens or symbols, but lurking somewhere in his schooldays the crow was deemed a foreteller of bad luck. An impression from his past nagged at him, tried to surface, but he shrugged it off – he didn’t have time to waste on being spooked by a bird. The man grinned at his own imagination – allowing a crow to throw him. It would be a day of bad luck, all right, but not for him.
The crow bobbed its head several times, then pecked at the stone it was standing on before giving up on its project and flying away.
He reached into his pants pocket, extracted a pair of dense foam earplugs and set them in front of him, along with a digital watch displaying the time. He had thirty seconds. Checking to ensure that everything was in place, he compressed the plugs and inserted them into each ear before returning his attention to the florid man pontificating on the stage. He seemed to be reaching a crescendo, and the gunman couldn’t help but smile again. This was going to be a funny one, if there ever had been. He couldn’t wait to see the papers tomorrow.
El Gallo was building his intensity, railing against the cartels as the embodiment of Satan crawling over the planet in human form. The words were powerful, and the emotions high as his voice increased in volume.
“These scum are a cancer on the body of the state; they are toxic purveyors of poison and suffering. They accommodate the demands of the rich Gringos, who buy their products even as their own country collapses from the weight of its own excesses. They have turned Mexico into their whore, and its children into their slaves. We suffer so that pimps and rich socialites can snort the devil’s dandruff during their orgies. I would send a message to these traitors who suckle at the tit of the false God to the north. I would send a telegram. The message is, no longer will we be your burros or your lapdogs. No more will you use our blood to lubricate your war machine. We are Mexican, and we are tired of being the back yard where you dump your problems, where you come to turn our daughters into prostitutes and our sons into groveling peasants. Your time is over, and we will now reclaim the bounty that is our birthright! We are strong and proud. And most of all, we are Mexican. We are family – and we will be free!”
The bells of the church began ringing, announcing the arrival of the noon hour, and El Gallo, in fever pitch, slammed his head forward onto the podium in his now-famous trademark move. The crowd burst into a spirited and hearty applause.
It was only when he slumped to the floor with blood spreading over the back of his hand-stitched white silk cowboy shirt that the screaming began.
The young novitiate moved with easy determination to the doors of the church as the pealing of the bells trumpeted God’s grace and presence in everyday life. An ancient woman crossed herself as he passed, her weathered face momentarily glowing with a devoted smile. He turned when he reached the door and genuflected, his cassock brushing the ground as he crossed himself before the vision of an unfortunate savior crucified so that humanity could be saved, movingly depicted in the statue that dominated the wall above the altar. The sun streaked through the elaborate stained glass windows over the door, bathing the interior in a dazzling multicolored glow; the nearly empty chamber radiating a tranquility that was regrettably absent from the cruel world just outside the doors.
With bible in hand, and fingering his rosary, he exited the house of worship and crossed the street; a pious man on a mission to save the world.
Twenty minutes later, the bodyguards and soldiers crept up the stairs to the tower top, guns at the ready as they strained their ears for any hint of threat. The huge bells had fallen silent, and the only sound besides the scream of the sirens from the square across the street was the cooing of amorous doves taking refuge in the tower rafters.
The leader of the team held up a hand in warning when he spotted the rifle, still on the tripod, a single spent shell casing lying by its side. He softly moved towards it; the blood drained from his face as he saw the item held in place by the votive candle.
The stern countenance of the highly-stylized rendering of the royal presence seemed to sneer at the intruders, the brandished sword proclaiming to one and all the re
gal superiority of the seated man.
He approached the card as if in a trance, then reached down and retrieved the tattered rectangle, holding it up for his men to see.
The King of Swords had struck again.
Buy King of Swords on Amazon
Excerpt from The Delphi Chronicle
A Novel by Russell Blake
(c) 2011
The Delphi Chronicle serial trilogy is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is completely coincidental. Historical events and public figures have been used liberally throughout, however it is not the author’s intention to claim that any of the events portrayed herein are factual.
Copyright © 2011 by Russell Blake
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
Foreword
The goal of any good fiction is to blend fact and fantasy with such dexterity that it’s difficult to tell where the invention ends and the truth begins. The best lies are always based in fact, and writers are liars – they make things up for a living, or sometimes just for fun. They fabricate; they twist events to suit their whims; they tell fish stories, spin yarns, erect tall tales. They’re like politicians in that regard, although I believe that most writers are basically honest.
It’s almost impossible to verify with one hundred percent certainty what is fact and what is fiction when examining the world of covert operations and intelligence agencies. Those interested in learning more about the allegations used as the basis of this fictional story are invited to do an internet search on The Pegasus File, or to explore the allegations of sustained criminality in the market system made by any number of websites, or to read the essays of brilliant social commentators like Noam Chomsky.
The underlying sentiment that the criminalization of drugs in the U.S. has resulted in a centi-billion dollar expense to the nation for a completely failed ‘War On Drugs’ that began in the 1970s under then-president, Richard Nixon, is rooted in fact. As is the observation that the U.S. is the largest consumer of drugs in the world – after over forty-something years of this war – ensuring that those who profit from the continued battle, either financially or through consolidation of their power, will have a continued windfall for as long as the battle wages. The U.S. currently spends $500 dollars a second waging the War On Drugs and has the highest incarceration rate of any nation on the planet.
Some cynics believe that in our modern geo-political world, large-scale wars like those common throughout human history are no longer viable; so the ideal strategy for a military/industrial/financial complex run amok to maximize its earnings is to formulate limited-scope wars without end – conflicts with no defined goal, and thus no definition of what constitutes a win. The War On Drugs certainly falls into that category, and it is without question that the bloated profits associated with the traffic, as well as with battling the traffic, are maintained by the illegality of it. That might be morally uncomfortable for some readers, however, it is also undeniable.
There are no easy solutions to this quandary; and so the status quo result is obvious: more of the same.
Book 1 – The Manuscript
It is said that if you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperilled in a hundred battles; if you do not know your enemies but do know yourself, you will win one and lose one; if you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperilled in every single battle.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Introduction
July, 1995
The warm glow of the two story house’s lights glinted off the water, where a rubber inflatable boat approached, propelled by a nearly-silent electric motor. The small craft was almost invisible against the inky surface at that hour of night, as were the two figures in the bow of the black-hulled skiff.
The pilot pulled up to the rickety floating platform at the water’s edge, where a 38 foot Mediterranean sports fishing yacht rested, rocking gently from the breeze and the barely perceptible surge of the inter-coastal waterway. His two passengers soundlessly pulled themselves onto the dock, scrutinizing their surroundings to verify they were alone. They’d researched the area and studied reconnaissance photos taken during the day; the closest neighboring house was thirty yards away, and dark, the residents evidently on vacation during the low season. A 65 foot Hatteras bobbed gently in the gloom at the empty residence’s dock, beyond which were still more private estates with various sized watercraft dotting the shoreline.
Crickets chirped their nocturnal mating call from the surrounding trees. The area was verdant, lushly landscaped and thick with exotic plants arranged to simulate a tropical botanical garden.
Even at eleven at night, the temperature was oven-like, the humidity rivaling that of a rain forest. It was hurricane season, muggy and still; the climate on the Florida gulf coast mirrored the sub-tropics from June through October.
In spite of the heat, the two men wore black pants and long-sleeved windbreakers. The smaller man made a hand signal to his partner, who crept stealthily up the gangplank and onto the path that led to the back yard. Solar lighting along the boundary of the lot provided scant illumination as the moon lay hidden behind the cloudy night sky.
Barking sounded from a garden a few docks down – the strident yapping of a highly-strung lap dog. Sound carried eerily on the water, distorting volume and direction; an elderly female voice reverberated off the glassy surface and seemed to come from everywhere as the dog was called back inside. Both men instinctively froze and crouched low while the battle of wills played out between owner and animal. ‘Pooka’ yelped out a parting canine soliloquy, followed by the distinctive slamming of a door. The lights in Pooka’s house went out now the dog was safely inside, leaving the coast largely darkened except for the home that was their object of interest.
The men exchanged glances; the one still on the dock made another hand signal – an abrupt gesture the smaller man correctly interpreted as one of impatience.
From inside the house, Billie Holiday’s voice crooned a bluesy ballad in the living room, where a pregnant woman sat on the sofa reading a magazine by the soft amber light of a table lamp. In the office at the far end of the house, a man’s head shook almost imperceptibly through the partially-closed blinds as he pored over a stack of paperwork atop a cherry-wood desk. The walls were decorated with nautical equipment – an ancient sextant, a barometer, several shark jaws, a rusted harpoon tip. The seated figure was absorbed in his task, so he didn’t register the movement a few yards outside the window.
Sarasota, Florida was a peaceful retirement community, largely inhabited by those life had rewarded with reasonable prosperity and a love of the water. Crime was predominately limited to vacant home burglaries and the occasional stolen car. The well-heeled paid a premium to live along the bay; the exclusive waterfront neighborhoods were considered safe and inviting.
The muffled report of a silenced rifle caused a flock of seabirds to alight from the marsh grass at the water’s edge, as two of the small window panes in the office shattered and the man’s head exploded in a spray of bloody emulsion. The pregnant woman looked up from her reading and called the man’s name over the dusky, soulful singing. Outside, the black-clad assassin hastily jogged in a crouch back to the dock and the waiting inflatable.
By the time screaming shattered the night’s tranquility, the darkened shape of the Zodiac was thirty yards from shore, making its way to a sleek cigarette boat a quarter mile away. When the trio was alongside the high speed cruiser, the passengers climbed aboard. The pilot of the dinghy methodically slashed its vinyl hull with a razor-sharp combat knife. The captain nodded to the two new arrivals,
gesturing with his head at a pile of heavy anchor chain. The men quickly passed it over the side, and within moments, five hundred pounds of rusting metal sat in the center portion of the sinking tender while it plunged to the muddy bottom of the channel.
The captain eased the throttles forward, and a deep burble emanated from the custom-designed exhausts of the blacked-out Scarab as the low profile hull slowly glided north towards Tampa. Sirens echoed over the water as the cruiser distanced itself from the rendezvous point; within a few minutes, it tied up at a private residence on the far shore and the engines fell silent. The three men quickly disembarked and the leader gave a curt wave to the captain, who, after checking the dock ties to ensure they were secure, popped a cold beer and cast a fishing line into the coal-black water.
Six men sat in the smoky room, the piles of chips moving back and forth between them as cards were dealt and hands were won and lost. Cigars lay smouldering in glass ashtrays next to half-drunk beers and cloudy shot glasses. The chatter was convivial, punctuated by an occasional exclamation of triumph or dismay, or a hand slapping the table to underscore the fickle nature of Lady Luck’s charms. The men interacted easily, familiarity bred from years of attending the weekly ritual, playing the odds and testing their skill against one another. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, the wicker blades more for token ventilation. The wall mounted air conditioning unit hummed as it battled to keep the heat at bay.
The Voynich Cypher Page 34
