Rise of the Beast: A Novel (The Patmos Conspiracy Book 1)

by M. K. Gilroy

  After the faked death, Alexander still saw his son once a year at great risk to the plan. The reason was simple. Johnny loved his mother deeply. That was not the only reason, but it was a substantial reason Alexander spared no expense to keep Helena’s shattered earthly existence as comfortable as possible, with a 24-hour team to tend to her every need. He brought the music and art to the house that he knew she loved. When back at the estate outside of Geneva, he would sip a small glass of brandy and hold her hand each evening. It was the closest he ever felt to her or anyone else, even if she tensed at his touch. It didn’t hurt that his ministrations as doting husband were some of the few ways that scored points for him in the court of public opinion.

  He actually didn’t care what the public thought of him but a reasonably positive impression was good for business.

  Alexander had never been faithful to his wife, but what people in his inner circle knew was he sincerely loved once-beautiful Helena dearly.

  Once a year Klaus would arrange a maze of clandestine travel arrangements to bring Johnny—Jason Anderson—to Switzerland to hold his mother’s hand and engage in stilted conversations with his father. Never in the open air where prying eyes in the sky could witness the return from the dead of the son.

  At all other times his son was Jason, a successful young man who had lost his parents as a child. Jason had done okay as an investment banker. Nothing earthshattering, but nothing to be ashamed of as a father. He earned an MBA from New York University after Lehman Brothers, his employer, died in the crash of 2008. Alexander tried to warn him but Johnny didn’t listen to him.

  Alexander often wondered why Johnny hadn’t gotten married yet.

  “Young men wait these days,” his nephew Nicky would say to him. “What’s the hurry? There’s a lot of options to explore.

  Nicky was married with four kids but kept his options open. That worried Alexander a bit, but realistically, he understood Nicky would always need the challenge of a new conquest.

  Alexander’s own nightly visits with Helena never wavered, even as her mental condition worsened. Helena was and would be the only love of Jonathan’s life. Some days she knew her husband, but more days she didn’t. Those were the best. To move forward in life, some things are better forgotten, including a mother who deserted him as an infant.

  The man on the phone, a most unlikely ally, knew he had pushed his longtime friend too far by calling him by his childhood name of Jonto. He knew that was the least of his worries. He plunged into the awkward silence, saying, “I am working to contain the situation from multiple angles.”

  “A situation you created.”

  “What choice did I have? We have carefully cultivated our mutual animosity and loathing of each other for both public and private consumption. Not participating would have thrown that into question.”

  “But you did not contact me.”

  “You were the one who put a moratorium on communicating with each other as events approach.”

  “I would have made an exception had I known you were hiring mercenaries to infiltrate me.”

  “But look how little was discovered. I had confidence in your defenses and it was well placed confidence.”

  “Words, important words, I committed to paper have been revealed.”

  “But what do they mean? They will confuse our enemies more than provide clarity to what is unfolding. Your secret—our secret—is safe.”

  “I only have your word on that, which doesn’t reassure me at the moment.”

  The man on the other end of the line wanted to say Jonto, but caught himself and answered, “Jonathan, it hurts to hear you question my commitment and loyalty to the cause—and to you, the author of our cause. How long have we been friends? Who can you trust more than me?”

  Alexander looked at Nicky. Nicky scowled and moved his head from side to side, slowly.

  “I’m sure no one,” Alexander said with a wink at his nephew who was listening intently to the conversation. “And I’m sure you will prove yourself. This is a minor setback. All the more reason to be more vigilant than ever.”

  “Is that even possible with you, my friend? I know no one more vigilant than you.”

  “Apparently more vigilance is possible. For someone was placed close to me.”

  “And still got nothing.”

  “Not true. Eleven private handwritten pages is very much something.”

  “But nothing detailed. Nothing incriminating. The simple musings of a man on the state of the world. No intent was expressed to pursue a course of action.”

  That part was not quite true.

  I should have waited to begin my writing. Now it puts Patmos at even greater risk. It makes me look foolish.

  Alexander broke the silence diplomatically: “I am sure you are right, but even so, this is not good. You know the agents placed against me. I want to trust you, but I want you to prove your trust. After all, my friend, you have everything to lose if you have stirred a hornet’s nest that cannot be contained.”

  “Jonathan. Jonathan. Trust me. First of all—and please don’t take this as disrespect—I had no idea that there was anything to find. I would never do anything to harm you and the work you have undertaken. As you said, I have as much to lose as you do. I will nip this in the bud. Even as we speak, the operatives are being hunted and will soon face termination. With the few who might read the words, I will bring insight into the writings that cast them in a different light. Your trust shall be rewarded.”

  “Make it so. With the Middle East so volatile, who knows how America’s only assured ally in the region might be deleteriously impacted.”

  The threat to the country the man loved was palpable.

  Why in the hell did Alexander write down that he was the Beast of the Apocalypse? It’s been years since we’ve met in person. Is he losing his marbles? Are the rumors of a stroke true? “I will be the Beast”?

  Alexander pushed a button to disconnect the secure line. He hated to use telephones, though each of his residences had a separate connection that sent encrypted calls through a series of switches and relays that were impossible to follow. Supposedly impossible. The technological geeks will truly rule the world if I don’t, he thought.

  He looked at Nicky and shook his head. Trust his caller? Never. The man played every angle. No. Alexander didn’t trust him. He trusted no one. There was no benefit in it. Not Klaus who organized his life and knew all his secrets. Not Jules who would put his body in front of a bullet for him. Not Patton who headed up the scientific aspects of Patmos. Not even Nicky, soon to be anointed as his second in command, who was blood. He mostly trusted Nicky—though his disloyalty to his wife and children might indicate a willingness to betray others he loved, namely his uncle. So he would not trust even Nicky totally. Besides, when in history had blood proven to be failsafe? History was littered with patricide, filicide, and fratricide. So no, he would never totally trust anyone, including Nicky, who was heading up the more violent operations of Patmos.

  Always best to keep another set of eyes on those guarding you.

  30

  New York City

  BURKE WAS GROWING MORE WORRIED by the second. None of his street soldiers were at their posts. What was going on?

  He cut over to the Peninsula Hotel and headed to the rooftop bar. Using a pair of military quality Bushnell binoculars, he could spot two of his watch points. No one on duty. He didn’t have an angle to check other Jonathan Alexander chokepoints he was monitoring.

  What next? Burke wanted to attack. But Alexander would be on high alert and had probably set up defenses accordingly, even if his psychopathic bodyguard was not with him. It would be a quixotic suicide.

  It grated at him that with his failure in Northwest Arkansas, he was now running blind. He had no actionable Intel.

  What of his street soldiers? No chance they had a simultaneous call from nature and headed for the comfort of inside plumbing. Watchers didn’t worry about misdemeanor tickets fo
r public urination.

  Were they captured? Most would not be taken without a fight. Dead?

  He had succumbed to the biblical sins of pride and greed, Burke thought ruefully. Others were paying the price for his reckless hubris. He needed to get back to Europe and reconnoiter with Henri. The two of them would come up with a meticulous plan to hit the man hard, possibly with a long-range sniper rifle. No way would he get paid for a blotched assignment, but going after Alexander was no longer a matter of money.

  Time to move. Better to be the hunter than the hunted.

  31

  New York City

  THERE ARE SOME THINGS THAT can’t be said out loud. So Jonathan Alexander wrote them down, slowly and carefully, using classic lettering that wasn’t taught in modern Greek schools. The words were his secrets. He planned for them to be revealed in the light of day sometime in the distant future. But not now. Only at his death so that his name would never be forgotten, thus insuring his immortality.

  Alexander reached in the pocket of his lightweight coat and pulled out one of the few tokens he still possessed going back to his childhood. A switchblade. His father had given it to him. He touched the well-worn lever and the blade popped out. He closed it but kept it in his hand. His fingers traced the groove on the side of his head.

  No, now was probably not the time to have committed words to a journal. He had not written anything that made him criminally liable or anything that would reveal the extent and specifics of his plans. But anyone reading his journal could portray him as a deranged, crazy chauvinist, undoing the forty years he had carefully cultivated a public persona of refinement after climbing from the treacherous docks of Marseilles, Istanbul, Naples, and Gioia Tauro, along with countless Balkan and Turkish overland routes that supplied the drug trade, the source of his swift rise to wealth.

  Alexander flicked open the knife. His fingernails were perfectly manicured but he could not resist the muscle memory of using the blade to clean the dirt, grime, and blood that oozed into the pores and lines of a fisherman’s hands.

  Alexander had always been subject to rumors about his past and present that claimed he was a sociopathic megalomaniac who would do absolutely anything to get what he wanted. The volume of stories had grown exponentially in the Internet age. Many of those rumors were actually fairly accurate, even if the specifics were often wrong. He had a publicist who was quick to point out that the Internet was an unregulated realm where people could make spurious accusations with no accountability—and thus was not taken seriously.

  “Besides, with a man like you, there is no such thing as bad publicity.”

  That’s not what he wanted to hear so she shut up and got back to her job to make sure his charitable acts were well reported by the international press.

  Yes, there is such a thing as bad publicity.

  If people read his words in his own handwriting that would be bad publicity. Hard, much harder to deny. The public relations team would claim that anything displayed in the media was a forgery and hoax. She had well-compensated sources throughout the press who would give her a heads up if something big and negative about Alexander was about to be published or aired. She would immediately contact Klaus. Alexander’s legal team would move quickly to issue cease and desist orders that threatened massive lawsuits that would cause pause for even the most powerful of media conglomerates. But there were too many outlets to ensure everything was stopped. Who knows what would catch fire?

  His journal would.

  Patmos was using this dynamic of the World Wide Web to help accomplish his plans. But he didn’t want the same dynamic used against himself.

  He and Nicky were alone on the balcony outside the private office in his Manhattan townhouse, a bottle of wine between them, only half empty. Nicky smoked a Cuban cigar. Alexander thought it was a nasty habit, but he could think of worse substances for Nicky to indulge in— all of which his nephew eschewed under Alexander’s watchful gaze—so he paid it no heed. Uncle and nephew were comfortable with silence.

  Much had been done in the previous 24 hours. More was undone.

  Alexander’s mind wrestled with a series of problems that had arisen at precisely the wrong moment. Pauline was wounded and at large. A particularly despicable man, Colonel Arnold Grayson, who had been hired to infiltrate him was also at large. Who knew how many others Grayson involved in the subterfuge? Who had actually seen the pages of his journal? Based on that, who would come after Alexander next?

  He had moles in a vast array of governments and corporations worldwide. What did he tell them to look for without revealing too much?

  If there were leaks, could he trust the key co-conspirators in the Patmos machination? One of the brethren called him to let him know of his “innocent” involvement in the heist of pages from his journal. The man didn’t have to say what Alexander knew was on his mind.

  I didn’t think you would be foolish enough to write anything down.

  The man who called him was a religious man yet failed to grasp the need for a connection to the divine in an undertaking that meant life or death for all that was good and honorable in a world of unremitting misery and thralldom.

  What of the other chosen associates he had cultivated and brought into the plan or as much of the plan as he wanted them to know? Did he reach out now to tell them there was a potential problem? If they knew there were new risks, would their commitment and resolve hold? Not every powerful man had the iron will to rule, which was a major reason Patmos was so important. In a world of fantasy and flames, someone had to be the grownup and rule.

  Yes, he would reach out to his brothers. He needed them. When he no longer needed them, he would then judge their commitment and deeds before determining their fate in a new world order. Those who did not measure up would be dispatched. He was certain which man would be the first to die.

  “Jonto, how was I to know?”

  He wondered if any would truly be found worthy. It still chafed that he had to spin such elaborate stories of a new Illuminati, the enlightened few that controlled events from a shroud of invisibility. Why did people need such fanciful notions? Why did lesser men want their names surreptitiously associated with the Grove? The Bilderberg Group? The 32nd Degree Masons? A secret consortium of Central Bankers? Yes, they all held the necessary positions and wealth to exercise power to advance Patmos, but did they possess the true substance to see it to completion? Were they the true descendants of the Illuminati?

  Of course not. Alexander knew too well that whatever power a father bequeathed to his son, not every son was capable of donning a mantle that required iron will.

  The original Illuminati was historical fact. Jacob Frank was a disciple of the 17th Century occultist, Sabbati Zevi, the man who codified a plan to undermine power structures through chaos. When Frank, Adam Weishaupt, and Mayer Amshel Rothschild founded the Order of the Illuminati in 1776, it was the energy that rallied disparate power brokers to topple the French monarchy. The men infiltrated the highest levels of Judaism, Christianity, Islam, the Scottish Masons, and countless governments. Weishaupt’s writings continued to dominate and guide the thinking of many secret societies in the centuries to follow. But there was no contiguous ruling cabal, even if many heirs to the original triumvirate believed themselves to be puppet masters in a shadow government that controlled and profited from both sides of every significant world conflict.

  Even if the name and ideals lived on, Alexander was certain that no extant organization existed that had the means to create the disorder required to build a new world order. If a man attended a meeting of the Bilderbergs or the Grove, it was a sure sign to Alexander that he was a mere poseur.

  Greatness simply wasn’t a byproduct of heredity or wealth.

  Alexander would continue to feed their egos, letting them believe they pulled the strings of world events.

  The problem with the teachings of Weishaupt was that he was a man of his times, which made his vision myopic. He sought to diss
ipate the control of Western powers, never factoring in emerging demographic realities. Those who followed his rules were equally near-sighted. What good was it to control the mechanizations of a dying carcass? The savages of the world were the new world order. It was a simple numbers game. Rockefeller’s Club of Rome brought population control to the forefront, but again, missed the point by assigning nearly equal desired cuts across the board, rather than focusing on the wastelands of human existence. He, Jonathan Alexander, would not make the same mistake in his plans. The West must rise from the ashes of decay to reassert its world hegemony. The only way that was possible was that much of the world must die.

  Alexander thought of his journal again. Would he have done anything differently? How could he? First, there was the question of his own immortality. His name must be spoken through eternity. Second, if there was a God, Alexander must have him on his side or bend him to his will. He knew that God had allowed Lucifer freedom of rebellion throughout history. Alexander was convinced God had a blind spot in regard to the most beautiful being of His creation. Alexander would use that. Had not the Beast prevailed against God countless times throughout history?

  He, Alexander, knew without a doubt he must be the man to cleanse the world of unrighteousness, with or without God.

  No, he would have done nothing differently. The words had to be written for posterity sake.

  He thought back to the second he reached for the journal on the steps of Reverend Garrison’s church and discovered it was missing from his vest pocket. He knew in a flash it was Pauline’s doing. Jules had warned him of her. That he would do differently. He should have listened. But he liked her. And yes, she carried a remarkable semblance to the young Helena he had fallen in love with. Both were difficult to control, which was both alluring and inconvenient.