by Bobby Akart
“The Trojan and the worm use different parameters,” replied Walthaus. “If some state IT guy gets lucky and discovers our intrusion during the course of the day, we can quickly flip the script—run njRAT in Massachusetts and vice versa.”
“An additional benefit is later discovery,” added Fakhri. “Should the manipulation come to light down the road, these particular hacks are peculiar to foreign nations. The Syrians or Iranians will be blamed for New Jersey while the Chinese will be blamed for Massachusetts. It provides us cover.”
“Well done, everybody!” exclaimed Lau. “Polls are opening soon. Shall we get to work?”
“In we go,” replied Walthaus.
Voting is the cornerstone of democracy and every vote counts—in theory.
Chapter 27
June 7, 2016
Quabbin Reservoir, Prescott Peninsula
Former town of Prescott, Massachusetts
Sarge and Julia leaned against the hood of the Mercedes G-Wagen and watched the festivities. They arrived early in order to avoid the traffic snarl along Highway 202, which runs for two miles from west to east along the entrance to Prescott Peninsula.
The campaign event was confined to the area where Cooleyville Road and Hunt Road intersect—by design. This very public event was orchestrated to insure the privacy of what would be going on farther down on the peninsula.
“It’s beautiful up here,” said Julia. “After we turned off the Mass Turnpike, it was like a different world. I loved the winding drive through the trees after we passed through Belchertown.”
Sarge continued to observe the crowd and marveled at the levels of security. Originally slated as a ribbon-cutting ceremony to boost Abbie’s senatorial campaign, it quickly devolved into a three-ring circus when Clinton’s presidential entourage inserted itself into the festivities.
“Hey, Professor Sargent, are you in there?” asked Julia. She knocked on his head.
“Ouch, yes. It’s a beautiful day,” replied Sarge.
“That’s not what I said,” replied Julia. “What’s on your mind?”
Sarge had a lot of things on his mind lately, including the herculean task of turning this pristine land into a well-fortified bug-out facility for the Boston Brahmin.
“Abbie’s campaign event was supposed to be a lightly attended dog and pony show for the media,” said Sarge. “The idea was to secure the privacy of the surrounding residents and looky-loos.”
“I think the premise is still good, despite the rude interruption of—this,” said Julia, gesturing to dozens of media satellite trucks, police vehicles and military Humvees. “How did Hillary become involved?”
“One of the platforms of her campaign is the whole War on Women thing.”
“That’s such a false premise,” said Julia. “How does anyone buy into that?”
“I don’t know, but it must be working for her. When her campaign found out Abbie was instrumental in creating a protected sanctuary for abused mothers and their children, it became a natural campaign stop for her.”
“How does Abbie feel about the encroachment upon her time to shine?” Julia was fishing. Sarge thought Julia would always wonder about any lingering feelings he had for Abbie. Maybe I’m putting something out there?
“I don’t know, but politically it helps her,” replied Sarge. “She gains the added benefit of sharing the national stage with Hillary while showing her constituents she can swing both ways.”
“Sarge!” Julia punched him—hard.
“What?”
“You can’t say a woman swings both ways. One might get the wrong idea!”
“What? No, you know what I mean. Whatever. I think there is a War on Men around here. This place is full of man haters.”
“Zip it, Sarge,” said Julia.
“Look, there’s someone I want you to meet.” He gestured for one of the security men wearing a dark suit to come over to speak with him. As the man approached, he was smiling.
“How do you like the new uniform?” said Drew Jackson, Steven’s Aegis team member with the code name Slash.
“You look like you’re going to a funeral, Drew.” Sarge laughed. “I want you to meet Julia Hawthorne. Julia, this is one of Steven’s associates, Drew Jackson.” Julia and Drew shook hands as he worked his Southern charm.
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” said Drew.
“It’s nice to meet you as well. Steven’s work is always mysterious, but you don’t look too threatening.” If she only knew what a deadly operative he was.
“Sla—I mean Drew has been assigned to Abbie’s security detail for the remainder of the campaign,” said Sarge. “She’ll be in good hands and well protected.”
“Senator Morgan’s safety is my number one priority,” said Drew. “I am glad, however, that she is not a presidential candidate. This whole operation is FUBAR.”
“That it is, Drew. We were just talking about that,” said Sarge. “Are you travelling with her campaign full time?”
“I am,” said Drew. “I received specific instructions to live on the motor coach that accompanies her campaign stops. It’s not quite as nice as the senator’s, but I’ve slept in worst quarters.”
“I can imagine,” Julia said. “I detect your Southern accent, Drew. Where are you from originally?”
“Yeah, the country boy can’t leave the way of talkin’ behind,” replied Drew. “I was born and raised in a farmin’ community called Muddy Pond. It’s located about halfway between Nashville and Knoxville, Tennessee. My folks and family still live there. I’m the only one who ventured out into the real world.”
“Do you miss it?” asked Julia.
“I do,” he replied. “Listen, I better get back. It was nice to meet you, ma’am. Sarge, I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”
“Definitely, Drew. Be safe!”
Drew headed towards Abbie’s motorhome.
“He seems like a good guy,” said Julia.
“First class. Steven trusts him with his life,” said Sarge. “I would too.”
“Abbie’s in good hands. Was this her dad’s idea?”
“Yes. Mr. Morgan is not paranoid. Let’s call it hyperaware. When you deal on his level, you become privy to things the rest of us don’t know about until later. Prescott Peninsula is a part of the planning he takes so seriously. He is always one step ahead of the curve, it seems.”
As Sarge and Julia continued to take it all in, a clean-cut guy wearing a white shirt and khakis approached. As he got closer, Sarge could see a blue I’m Ready for Hillary T-shirt underneath his shirt.
“What does this guy want?” asked Sarge. “I’m not Ready for Hillary. Not now, not ever.”
“That’s Robby Mook, her campaign manager.”
“Great. I’m not donating to her either.” Clearly, Mook was headed to see them, so Sarge stood a little taller to meet the Clinton interloper.
“Hi, my name is Robby Mook. I believe you are Henry Sargent,” said Mook.
“I am. This is my friend Julia Hawthorne—political editor of the Boston Herald,” replied Sarge. Careful what you say, Mr. Mook, you’re on the record.
“Of course. Hello, Julia,” said Mook. “You may not recall, but we met ten years ago when I worked with Senator Ben Cardin’s campaign in his race against former GOP chair Michael Steele. You interviewed Senator Cardin after a debate that fall.”
“Yes, I remember,” replied Julia. “We were both much younger then.”
“And idealistic,” said Mook. “Listen, I don’t want to take much of your time. Mr. Sargent…”
“Call me Sarge.”
“I was told that, I’m sorry for the formality. Sarge, I will be brief, as the speeches will begin soon and then I’ll need to spend a half hour explaining to the media what my candidate meant to say. You know how that goes, right, Julia?”
“I do.”
“Sarge, may I ask you about your relationship with Senator Morgan?”
“Why?” Sarge got his hackles up. Jul
ia moved closer to him and wrapped her arm in his to give Mook a clear signal—this is my guy.
“I understand you two had a closer relationship ten years ago, is that correct?”
“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Sarge was incredulous. “This is really none of your business, but we did have a relationship many years ago. We are still friends today. That’s it.”
Mook held both hands up in a gesture requesting peace. “I don’t mean to offend you, Sarge. My job is to conduct opposition research. Frankly, out of respect for you and the senator, I chose to ask you in person since I was told of your presence here today. Normally, a team would conduct the inquiry. My apologies to you as well, Julia.”
“We understand,” replied Julia. She was trembling.
“I’ll leave you guys alone. Sorry for the intrusion.” The head of Team Ready for Hillary disappeared into the crowd. Sarge and Julia watched in silence for a moment.
“Politics is dirty business,” said Sarge. Julia was quiet. Sarge could feel the tension. Obviously, a stranger asking about his past relationship with Abbie struck a nerve.
“That was bullshit,” said Julia. “Why is he conducting oppo research on a senatorial candidate?”
“Her name has been bantered about for a VP slot,” replied Sarge. “If she makes the short list, there will be more questions about her past.”
“I get that, but maybe their guy should have scheduled an appointment or something.” She understood the process. She just didn’t want to be included in it. Sarge turned her to face him and he held her face in his hands.
“Agreed. Now listen, don’t doubt me. I love you. My—our relationship with Abbie is one built upon trust, friendship and common interests. Abbie is our friend. Right?” Sarge watched Julia tuck her chin into her chest. He suspected she felt silly.
“Yes, I’m an idiot,” she said.
“No, you’re brilliant. It seems you are properly protecting your investment. Obviously, you think I shoot the moon. I am the cat’s meow. I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread. You do worship me as king, my Lady Hawthorne!”
Julia was smiling now as she reached down and grabbed him firmly by his privates. “Don’t make me hurt you—King!”
Chapter 28
June 8, 2016
The Liberty Tree Hotel
The Bilderberg Conference
Boston, Massachusetts
John Morgan’s Cadillac Escalade, retrofitted by Bentley, made a wide turn as it entered the courtyard of The Liberty Hotel. Completed in 1851, The Liberty is considered to be one of the best examples of the Boston Granite style of architecture prevalent during the mid-nineteenth century. Morgan admired the structure because it exuded strength and dignity and was symbolic of Boston’s importance in the history of America.
By the mid-nineteenth century, The Liberty was transformed into the fabled Charles Street jail. Housing some of Boston’s most notorious criminals for 120 years, the building, as well as its prisoners, was liberated and underwent a one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar transformation to become one of the top luxury hotels in the world.
Today, The Liberty Hotel would house a group of criminals of a different sort—the Bilderbergs. Officially, the Bilderberg Group was a private, annual conference of roughly one hundred fifty political leaders and experts from banking, industry, academia and the media, who were expected to foster dialogue between Europeans and Americans. Unofficially, the attendees of this conference formed a shadow world government with globalist intentions. Their goal was to supplant nation-state sovereignty with an all-powerful global government controlled by power brokers and kept in line through the use of military power.
Their names were synonymous with the world’s power elites—Rockefeller, Soros, Kissinger, Merkel, Bernanke, Murdoch, Clinton and Morgan. The organizations they represented were always well represented, including the Trilateral Commission, the Council on Foreign Relations, the Federal Reserve and the World Bank.
For over fifty years, the attendees, sworn to secrecy, shaped world events via agendas and discussion topics that never escaped the confines of the conference location. No press was allowed, and as a result, conspiracy theories abounded. For once, the conspiracy theorists are right.
The real power brokers within the Bilderbergers held positions on the Steering Committee. The Bilderberg Group was the world’s most exclusive club. Money would not buy you attendance. You must be invited. Only the Steering Committee decided whom to invite and they were carefully screened. Each year, long-standing members had the opportunity to request an invitation for one of their associates or family members.
In 1991, David Rockefeller secured an invitation for a relatively unknown former Arkansas governor named William Jefferson Clinton. Clinton began his primary campaign for President and adopted a Rockefeller affinity for a major trade agreement tying the economies of Mexico, Canada and the United States—NAFTA. Clinton made this a major platform of his presidential campaign, and the next year he became President.
Morgan fostered no interest in being named to the powerful Steering Committee. He didn’t want to get his hands dirty. He was able to shape the agenda of the Steering Committee by determining the composition of its members. The Aegis team assisted in that regard over the last several months.
He was a planner. When Abbie won her senatorial campaign, Morgan arranged for the Bilderberg Conference to be held in Boston in 2016. When objections were raised about The Liberty’s inner-city location, Morgan convinced the Steering Committee to create an illusion of transparency by avoiding the typical conference locations in remote parts of Europe.
The 2016 conference was going to be more important in other respects. Abbie would attend and be introduced to the members. She would become a part of the brain trust that shaped geopolitical affairs. As Morgan’s sole heir, Abbie was being groomed to succeed him and continue the work of the Boston Brahmin.
This year’s conference was fortuitous in one other respect. The wife of Morgan’s close friend Bill Clinton was running for President. She would need a strong running mate—one that would complement her politically and draw voters from the middle of the political spectrum. Morgan was going to assist with that determination. He was meeting with the former President and it was time to call in a marker.
“This way, sir,” said the member of the secret service entourage protecting both Mr. and Mrs. Clinton. Morgan and his assistant, Malcolm Lowe, followed the agent down the hall lined with a contingent of campaign personnel and security. The men entered through the red brick portico into the twenty-two-hundred-square-foot luxurious suite, the finest in the hotel. Designed with floor-to-ceiling windows, the suite’s view over the Charles River and Beacon Hill would impress anyone—except a man who enjoyed this view every day.
Morgan saw Hillary huddled over a desk with her longtime assistant, Huma Mahmood Abedin. Abedin, a pro-sharia sociologist of Muslim faith, was the wife of former New York congressman Anthony Weiner. She was Hillary Clinton’s most trusted confidante. When she noticed him, she interrupted her conversation to greet her guest.
“John! What a pleasure it is to see you. I truly enjoyed spending my day with Abigail yesterday.” The two shared a brief, somewhat tepid hug.
“The ribbon-cutting ceremony was an excellent opportunity for both of you to show your commitment to the protection of women,” replied Morgan. “It appears the campaign is going well, despite yesterday’s surprise results in New Jersey and in our fair state.”
“You know, John, you can’t take anything for granted,” she replied. “Joe is still running a strong campaign although the electoral numbers are against him. His wins in those two states just stiffen my resolve to win this primary race. I just stick to my message that I am the right leader at the right time with the right plan.”
“You certainly are on the home stretch,” said Morgan. She better not squander his support. But the timing couldn’t be more perfect.
Morgan continued. “I am sure yo
u are aware that Abigail will be introduced at the conference this year.”
“I am,” she replied. “It’s been twenty-five years since David invited Bill to attend—at your suggestion, if I recall.” Good memory. Let’s hope your husband has retained some as well.
“It was my honor, and naturally I appreciate the support you have shown Abigail. I know you are busy and I need to spend some time bending the ear of your husband. I look forward to hearing your closing remarks on Friday.”
Hillary leaned into Morgan to whisper, “Thank you, John, and I could use a little more financial support. This extended primary has become very expensive.”
“I understand. I’ll see what I can do.” Yes, money can buy elections.
Morgan made his way to the large open-air terrace where Bill stood alone overlooking the river. Morgan waited until the former President noticed him and waved him outside.
“Sheila honey, I will only be in Boston for a few days. Then I’ll fly back to Chappaqua,” said Bill. Morgan waited patiently while Clinton finished his phone call with his longtime mistress, Sheila McMahon. Clinton’s trysts with McMahon were so frequent, the secret service gave her the code name Energizer. Morgan would call in this marker as well.
Clinton ended his call and embraced his old friend. “John, it has been too long.”
“Very true, my friend. How have you been since your recent bypass surgery?” asked Morgan. Two months prior, Clinton, while in Chappaqua purportedly with the Energizer, began experiencing chest pains. In 2004, he successfully underwent quadruple-bypass surgery together with a follow-up procedure to insert stents. The Clintons feared a relapse.
“Oh, I’m fine. It’s not so much my health as it is the optics. I’m still dedicated and have the energy to help with the campaign, but I find myself wanting to spend more time at home.”
“How is your relationship with Sheila? I hope the grant I provided Energy Pioneer Solutions was adequate.” Morgan intended to remind his old friend of several secrets the two shared.
