Patriot Act

by James Phelan

  In the Great Hall, the official ballroom of the palace, Fox casually looked about, searching the faces for Cooper’s, which he had memorised on the plane flight from the States. The black and white tuxedos in here were accentuated by splashes of classic and fashionable colours, as the women made their presence felt. Most were very young, tall, exquisitely curvy, dark-haired Eastern-European beauties. Below their flawless exterior and designer clothing was a hard and sad look in their eyes.

  It took Fox under five minutes to find his target.

  John Cooper was talking to the former head of NATO. The woman standing by Cooper was different to the others Fox had seen so far. While equally as elegant and beautiful as any other, she carried herself with a confidence and grace that was her own.

  Five strides away from an introduction to Cooper, a man blocked Fox’s path. His jarhead haircut belied his occupation, despite the rent-a-tux.

  “Marine?” Fox asked, passing him his GSR business card.

  “Delta,” the soldier said, reading over the card. “Lachlan Fox. I was told you’d be coming. Cooper will meet you in the Marble Study after the first dance.”

  Fox watched as the woman standing by Cooper came over. She wore her auburn hair up in a loose bun, and her face and neck were accentuated by a jewelled lattice of a choker necklace that spilled across her shoulders and décolletage. Her black dress was a shimmering slip that clung to her as she walked.

  “I’ll take care of him,” she said.

  “Yes ma’am,” the soldier responded. He peeled off into the crowd, his stance wary and alert.

  “Kate Matthews,” she said to Fox, her hand dwarfed by his as they came together in greeting.

  “Lachlan Fox. Shall we get a drink?” Fox asked, with a hand gesture towards a waiter on the other side of the room.

  “Sure,” she said and they walked off.

  “You work with John Cooper back in DC?” Fox asked.

  “Executive assistant,” Kate replied, in the accent of a true New Yorker. “Sounds better than ‘right-hand woman.’ Been to Russia before, Lachlan?”

  “Once, as a tourist,” he said.

  “Not exactly a tourist hot spot,” she replied. “You’re an Aussie?”

  “Yep, although I live in the States now,” he told her, taking two glasses of champagne from the waiter. “And to explain my backpacking to far reaches of the globe, it was just after high school so I wasn’t exactly cashed up. Eastern Europe was a damn sight cheaper back then, particularly the booze.”

  “To cheap booze,” she said, taking a glass of champagne from him and raising it to accentuate the point. “And the beautiful St Petersburg.”

  Fox raised his champagne glass to her. “Here’s to beauty.”

  “A beautiful city?” she said. She held her glass just short of cheers.

  “From what I’ve seen so far, a city full of beauty,” Fox replied, and they clinked glasses and sipped while looking into each other’s eyes.

  “The Venice of the north. Incredible palaces, canals,” Kate said, still holding Fox’s gaze with hers. “In that respect, it sure beats New York.”

  “I like New York, although it’s taken me the good part of a year to find my own space there,” Fox said. Stood to reason she’d look up on him prior to this meeting, he’d have done the same. “You spent much time there?”

  “Grew up there, parents still live near the boat basin on West 79th,” she said. “How about you, a West Side boy too?”

  “No, but it’s a nice area where your folks are,” Fox said, studying her dark eyes. She would be about his age, maybe a year or two younger, late twenties somewhere. “It’s been bugging me but I just figured it out. You look a lot like Eva Green.”

  “The Bond Girl? I can live with that,” Kate said. She smiled over her glass, her eyes looking Fox up and down. “Let’s see … Jake Gyllenhaal, perhaps?”

  “Yeah, I get that,” he said. “Look a bit like him yet sound like Heath Ledger. I’ve got the whole Brokeback thing going on.”

  “Oh, great film!”

  “Best on-screen love story since Casablanca,” Fox agreed. “But to answer your question, no, I don’t live in Manhattan. I’m over in the DUMBO area of Brooklyn.”

  “Oh, it’s fantastic over there,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “You’re in a loft space?”

  “Houseboat at the moment, one of those little old converted ferries from the Naval Yard,” Fox said, trying to figure her out. “The dream is to find a nice roomy warehouse space and do it up myself.”

  “Ah, well, living on a boat is my dream,” Kate said. “Sailing around the world, going from port to port, following the sun.”

  Fox noticed her eyes change as she said this, her expression lost in the dream. What are you hiding?

  “You have to live in Washington for work?” Fox asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, as Fox took a couple of masquerade masks from a waiter and passed one to her.

  “Don’t tell me you dance,” Kate said. “Tall, dark and handsome Fred Astaire, where were you when I needed you for my prom?”

  “Ha! I move, that’s about it,” Fox said. He glanced over at Cooper who was still wrapped up in conversation. The Delta guy was scanning the crowd, the bulge in his open tux jacket suggesting a submachine gun. Probably the compact MP-7, smaller than its older MP-5 cousin but still gets the nickname ‘room broom’ for its high rate of fire.

  Kate put the mask on and followed Fox out onto the parquetry dance floor. The music changed to a waltz and soon the floor was filled with masked couples slowly moving to the string orchestra. She put a hand on his shoulder and reached the other out to hold his. Fox’s left hand rested above her hip, noticing in their movements that she wasn’t wearing any underwear. He looked into her eyes, and started leading slowly to the music. She smiled, her orange mask setting off her big dark eyes and red lipstick.

  “So, what do you do in your role?” Fox asked. Kate held tightly to him, the crowd on the dance floor brushed by.

  “Well, it’s not all Bond Girl stuff, let me assure you!” she said. “I’m a lawyer at Cooper Patterson, handling corporate affairs for the firm. Basically, I field most of the groundwork tasks for John Cooper with relation to government and corporate relations.”

  “Sounds intriguing…” Fox said, the pair sharing a laugh.

  Kate ran her hand down Fox’s arm as the music sped up a little.

  “Okay, since you’re picking on me,” she said and squeezed his arm. “You’re tall, tanned, and clearly you work out. Most reporters I’ve met are fat and pasty.”

  “Well, most lawyers I’ve met are—well, let’s just say, you stand out in a crowd in a good way,” Fox told her. “To explain away your suspicions that I am not a journo for lack of fat and pastiness, my tan is from a job I just did down in Africa. I guess I’m fit because I’ve been in the job only about a year, having spent a fair bit of time in the navy before that. When in New York I ride to work and swim every other day.”

  “I assume this was in the Australian Navy?” Kate asked.

  “Yep, officer for about five years, then bugged out and had a nice tropical-island life,” Fox said. “A quiet life that a big part of me wishes I still had…”

  “A tropical-island life does sound ideal,” Kate said, holding on tighter as the floor became more crowded. “Why on earth did you leave that behind?”

  The music changed and Fox noticed that Cooper had moved on.

  “Kate, can we continue this chat another time?” he asked. He scanned the crowd and saw the Delta guy leading the way for Cooper at the far side of the room.

  “Sure.”

  “How is old Tas Wallace and GSR?” Cooper said. He looked for all the world like Truman Capote, dressed in a classic one-button tux, it was hard to imagine him not wearing the formal gear. He had the air of one that could go anywhere in life he wanted. If he’d had strong enough ties to a political party someon
e would have made him run for President by now.

  “He’s fine, and we’re busier than ever. I see you got our warning,” Fox said as the Delta guy closed the study door and stood outside it. “Looks like he could stop a few bullets, and make them pay for their trouble.”

  “Hopefully he’d send off some bullets of his own before any come my way,” Cooper said, passing over a Cuban cigar to Fox. “An academic pondering, though, don’t you think?”

  “Better safe—”

  “This study was built for Alexander the First, you know,” Cooper said, cutting Fox off. He took a seat on a small settee, pouring two glasses of red from a bottle.

  Fox sat down opposite, registering that Cooper was not the slightest bit concerned to have a DoD escort from the Moscow embassy shadowing him. Clearly a man used to armed protection, used to being known as someone who had something worth killing for.

  “Mr Cooper, I’ve linked the recent deaths of six Bilderberg members to a conference in Nice early this year,” Fox said. He clipped the cigar and lit it up, passing the cutter/lighter combo back to Cooper. The smoke definitely had the big heavy rolls of flavour that only a Havana number could produce, hardly the type of import you’d expect from a man who was a gate-keeper for a major part of exporting for the US economy. Little wonder the budget deficit was so high. Not that this Cuban would show up on any official lists …

  “I read your Times piece. I went to that conference of LeCercle, and I’ve been to a few Bilderbergs in my time,” Cooper said, staring levelly at Fox over the rim of his wine glass. “But I’m sure you know all that already. So what, you think I’m next to be pushing up daisies, do you?”

  Fox had a mouthful of cigar smoke, and he let it swill around with the taste of the 1970 Château Montrose.

  “You don’t seem concerned at that prospect,” Fox said.

  “I’ve been a corporate lawyer my whole life,” Cooper said, blowing a puff of smoke up to the ceiling. “A master of the universe in a litigious society, if you like. I’ve made more money and more enemies than most.”

  Fox found himself on the receiving end of a smug, question-if-you-dare gaze.

  “What happened in Nice?”

  “A lot happens in Nice,” Cooper said. “Big place.”

  Fox watched as Cooper continued to sip his wine and smoke his cigar.

  “This is all off the record,” Fox offered.

  “Off the fucking record?” Cooper spat the words out. “Who do you think you are talking to? I’m giving you five minutes because of who your boss is. You think I’m chatting with you about a fucking story you wanna write? My backyard ain’t the place to go diggin’ for your first Pulitzer.”

  Fox leaned forward, and waited a couple of seconds for Cooper to look him square in the eye.

  “McCorkell thinks this is serious enough to have you protected outside the US.” As Fox spoke he hammered his points home with a pointed index finger hard onto the tabletop. “These six guys that were killed were better protected than you.”

  Silence for a beat. Fox set his glass on the table, tapping his cigar in a crystal ashtray.

  “What do you think is going on?” Cooper said, watching his wine as he swilled it about, the sticky red legs slowly running down the sides of the glass.

  “Someone is cleaning out Bilderbergers who attended Nice—”

  “You’ve said that. But it doesn’t scan. Why now? Why that conference? It’s not like members have not gone from one club to another before.” Cooper spoke rapid fire. “It’s illogical. These clubs are legitimate, made up of some of the most powerful people in the world. Something illegal on the scale you are suggesting is far too big a risk for any of them to get involved with. Try another angle.”

  “That’s why I need to know what happened there,” Fox said. “For now, all I’ve got is a list of dead attendees. I need to know why.”

  “You’re tenacious, I’ll give you that,” Cooper said, taking another sip of wine and putting the glass down on the table. “Look, you’ll never find out what went down at Nice, and I don’t mean to say I won’t tell you what I know. First rule of a meeting like that, no one talks about what went on afterwards—so don’t go expecting anyone to be as forthcoming as me. No minutes are taken, no press are allowed inside for interviews or to cover the goings-on.”

  “Were you there for the whole duration?” Fox asked, pouring more wine for them both.

  “I was there for the first day only, and that was in the official talks. The real stuff happens outside the structure of the scheduled talks, during the quiet meetings afterwards, over dinner, while they smoke cigars and fuck Eastern-European prostitutes.” Cooper let a swirl of smoke lift into the air. “Well, not while they fuck, but you get my drift. Not unlike what is going on with this trade conference here in St Petersburg. Everyone pushing their own agenda, always the same routine.”

  “And money continues to make the world go round,” Fox said. He could see his cynicism was not lost on Cooper. “Anything you saw or heard that rattled any cages?”

  “Certainly no disagreements that were worth killing allies over, which is why, Mr Fox, I think you are way off the mark,” Cooper said. “Look at these two groups you are talking about. LeCercle is similar in organisation to Bilderberg but very different in ideas and objectives. Bilderberg is about breaking down political barriers, opening up economies, promoting trade, commerce and friendship between the US and Europe. LeCercle is all that but from a totally Euro angle, bent on minimising the influence of the US.”

  “Who was there, anyone unusual?” Fox sat forward again and had a sip of wine.

  “That’s one thing about that group, they’re all unusual.” Cooper tapped the ash from his cigar while he thought. “Very right wing, which is their thing, but there were some nutters there. From those exiled for war crimes, banned from politics, to the more ‘acceptable,’ for want of a better word.”

  “And that’s different to the usual mix?”

  “Hard to say, it was my first time to one of their meetings. I was the only American there that I noticed—you getting the very Eurocentric point? I think they have the odd Yank and Jap there only when they recognise that what we have to offer may be of some use to them and their objectives, hence we usually make brief appearances. But, yeah, it was an unusual mix for any gathering, like a who’s who of the extremist Euro hawks. Hell, if Hitler and Mussolini were still around they would have fitted right in, pardon the pun.”

  “How about the mix of politicians and business leaders?”

  “Mainly politicians, military and intelligence types at this one. Not sure if that’s the norm for them or not, but I know with Bilderberg we normally go for a fifty—fifty government to business split. Nice was more ninety—ten.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “A few things, but basically what my office does. Of course, I gave them the Disneyland tour of what goes on, with an intro of what you’d learn from the Advocacy Center’s website. Presented it from the point of view of having business to government relationships that work, while being transparent and accountable. The importance of being current in a rapid marketplace. Reinventing your business model before it’s outdated. Learning from the recent mistakes of ours, Enron, WorldCom, etc.”

  “How were you received?”

  “Look, Lachlan, I think your twenty questions are warming me up for something.” Cooper took a big toke on his cigar, savouring the smoke.

  Fox stared at him for a beat.

  “Okay,” Fox had a sip of wine, working the angle. Fuck the angle.

  “Your firm handles the Advocacy Center,” Fox began.

  “I’m director of the Center, you know that.” Cooper smiled, parrying the question. “Nearing the end of my five-year tenure actually, so I’ll be back to earning some real cash soon.”

  “Care to give me a version of what your Center does?”

  “You know what we do, Lachlan.”
He took a sip of wine, waiting.

  “Okay,” Fox said. “The Advocacy Center legitimises industrial espionage.”

  “Ha!” Cooper slapped his thigh. “That’s it exactly. How?”

  “The US and allied intelligence agencies, led by the NSA, feed you with economic communications intelligence.” Fox talked quickly, leaning forward in his chair and putting the cigar in the ashtray. “The Center makes sure that where that information helps US companies win contracts over foreign rivals, the information gets its way to that US company at a useful time. Boeing winning contracts over Airbus, that sort of stuff.”

  Cooper had another sip of red. He too leaned forward, eyes narrowing on Fox’s in a level stare.

  “That’s a step or so past my Disneyland version but I’ll pay it.” Cooper looked about the room, and cringed slightly. “Probably not the best place to talk about this,” he said. He drained his glass and put it on the table. “You think somehow my role is tied to the Bilderberg Group? That my role is significant in this investigation of yours, if I’m the last surviving member…”

  “Perhaps,” Fox said. “I think it’s significant that you represent the economic arm of the US intelligence community and some serious shit is going down with these two groups that are economically and politically focused. I don’t like coincidences.”

  “What else do you want to hear from me?” Cooper asked, arms outstretched and palms facing up as if surrendering.

  “Anything you might know about the possible linked motives for the killings of those men.” Fox delivered his punchline, knowing it would not be answered today.

  Cooper took another puff, and scratched his head.

  “Honestly, I hadn’t even remotely thought about it until I read your connections piece in the Times,” Cooper said. “But I’m still having trouble coming to terms with these groups at war. This ain’t the Bloodz versus the Cripps, Lachlan. These are guys with a hell of a lot to lose by going out on murder campaigns. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree.”