“Wow. Now you’re striking a chord pal. The pencil pushing ain’t doing it for you anymore, uh? You can’t tell me shit like that without me being on your ass about follow through. I’m like a pit bull on steroids when you tease me like that.” Blaze was making Gallagher’s task easy. Gallagher didn’t even have to lead him to water.
“I suppose that’s why, other than McCardle, you’re the only one I’ve shared this conflict with.” Blaze looked Chuck straight in the eye, sending a legitimate signal that he was on the short list of men he trusted.
“So you’re practically begging me to break your balls for follow through?” He was gonna break his balls with relentless follow through anyhow, but confirmation would eliminate the chance of any guilt about it.
“Yeah, I suppose that’s exactly what I’m doing.” And indeed it was the reason Blaze had brought it up.
“Well, good. Now you’re gonna be hard-pressed to not break the news to Diem, because I think I got a mission that has your name written all over its bloody path.” Chuck smiled with wide eyes.
“Do tell.”
“Let me finish the groundwork and then I’ll gladly brief you on the skinny.”
“Next week? Same place, same ass-whoopin’?”
“Sure, as long as you’re clear that it’s your ass that’ll be whooped.” Gallagher knew Blaze was beginning to feel like his true self again.
“Don’t count on it Grandpa.” Blaze’s respect for Gallagher was deeper than he would ever let him know.
CHAPTER SIX
CLIENT’S HOME, DETROIT MICHIGAN SUBURBS
“Guys, I know we’ve been discussing these ideas for almost nine months now. I know you’ve done a lot of work and put a lot of time in, and I appreciate that. I’m still just not sure yet.”
Blaze and Bernie sat at Frank Barnes’s kitchen table for what seemed like the tenth time, but was likely the third or fourth. They’d been stuck in neutral in their efforts to make Frank a client and at the onset of this meeting, their hopes had already been dealt a blow.
Frank Barnes was a doom and gloomer talk radio junkie. His voracious appetite for news and information caused him to constantly be absorbing media—particularly talk radio. Although conservatives dominated talk radio ten years prior, the airwaves were filled equally now with the ever-increasingly dominant views of the multi-layered progressives—left and right. Frank gave thanks for all of this to the former FCC associate general council Mark Loyd. As a result of his influence, the rules of the airwaves were now governed by regulations that made the fairness doctrine actually seem more fair than fraudulent in Frank’s opinion. All the progressive voices on the airwaves gladly reiterated the severity of the financial crisis, Frank reckoned, because the fear it caused ultimately helped to advance their globalist agenda. The freedom-loving and libertarian voices on the airwaves spent hours exposing the crisis and, of course, blaming both Democrat and Republican progressives. Yet since freedom proponents had been so defeated in recent years by the machinery of soft tyranny, they had lost hope that anything would change anytime soon. This environment of perpetual financial fear made it very difficult for Blaze and Bernie to gain and retain clients.
Frank had been wildly successful running his textile factory and had amassed quite a fortune. Always the renegade with an independent spirit, Frank managed all his wealth by himself until now. It took the unending tumult of the last nine years to finally get him to the point of consulting with financial advisors and estate planning attorneys. Blaze and Bernie’s firm was just one of many that Frank had been flirting with over the past twelve months. Blaze and Bernie had to continually go the extra persuasive mile to try to close this case.
Frank continued, “I know I’m going to sound completely out of my skull, and this is way outside the realm of the stuff we’re here to discuss, but hear me out. After absorbing everything that has happened in the world over the past ten years, I increasingly get the sense that there’s a high possibility that the United States as we currently know it, define it, and love it could very well be on its way to ceasing to exist.” The doom boomed and the gloom glimmered. Frank was off and running with another theory of death.
“What gives you that sense Frank?” asked Blaze, knowing full well what he was in for. This would not be the first time Frank embarked on a long political rant that was altogether tangential to everything Blaze and Bernie had met with him to discuss. Blaze didn’t mind so much, but it drove Bernie nuts.
Frank began excitedly rubbing his chin and rocking slightly back and forth on the wobbly wooden chair. He was winding up for a verbal onslaught. “First off all, it’s no secret that I was never a fan of Obama—not that I loved Bush or wanted McCain or Romney. You guys know that. Both Bush and Obama and many of the presidents before them have long been laying the incremental groundwork for globalism that has come to supersede our collective sense of nationalism as priority. Our current president, this Fitz guy, is not subtle about it. I personally think he’s wet behind the ears. Obama was slick, but this guy? Buffoon with a capital B. He’s blatantly accelerating my worst fears. The push for a global currency that faded with a whimper in 2009 is now back with full steam and it looks like, at the very least, we’ll see a continental currency sometime this year. The government now runs banks, healthcare, the auto industry and they’re damn near close to taking over housing and the trucking industry. This is increasingly not the country I love, although I undoubtedly still love it. Not to mention, the threat of radical Islam has steadily increased regardless of the ‘new tone’ we’ve been naively promoting. ISIS, Al Qaeda, Boko Haram and Hamas are certainly not on the run. Dovish diplomacy hasn’t made us safer one bit. Our enemies have been playing us the fool with more vigor, intent, and tenacity than ever before. And now we have this Fitz character …”
Frank’s elbows were digging sharply into his kitchen table as he continued to pontificate, with charismatic hand gestures, on all the elements of the global political climate, and the specific trends in the US that clearly aggravated him and gave him pause to trust in any political party, leader or institution, financial or otherwise. His faith in the US currency, in the future sovereignty of the US and in future of his significant wealth was all clearly shaken.
Bernie, who was the poster boy for A.D.D. obnoxiousness, somehow always remained calm, patient, and rational in the midst of a business meeting. Having voted for both Obama and Jack Fitzsimmons, he disagreed with almost of all of Frank’s worldview, but he would never allow Frank to know. Bernie responded, “I understand that all these uncertain global changes are huge. The things our government is putting on the table and taking seriously could be seen as unprecedented and downright scary to one of a conservative mindset. I get it. But what choices do we really have here? If what you fear will lead to an erosion of all that we know and trust, does it matter where your money is? Likely not. Even if you shove it under the mattress, in the culmination of all you fear, the dollar isn’t worth much anyhow. And we’ve already discussed the gold idea which you’ve made clear is only going to remain a portion of your portfolio. So we can’t reasonably plan on any such doomsday notion. That being the case, let’s continue this proposal with trust that the tax laws will be the same as they’ve been for over one hundred and fifty years and that our plan will accomplish the ongoing tax deferral you so desperately need.”
Frank chuckled a bit. His diatribe was largely a way to vent all of his feelings and concerns. He knew that regardless of whether his fears were legitimate or not, it made sense to go forward with Blaze and Bernie’s plan. After an hour and a half of end-of-the-world speculations, and an additional hour and a half of actually reviewing the merits of the financial recommendation, Frank finally inked the deal with Blaze and Bernie. The two said their goodbyes and expressed their gratitude to Frank and headed out to their cars for the usual post-meeting colleague banter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE ROOSEVELT ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON, DC
“I’m beginning to think that Mahoney and Sapp are onto us, Gabriella,” said President Jack Fitzsimmons, the 45th President of the United States.
“Jack, you need to relax. There’s never been any suspicion as to why I’m here. All through the campaign, not once did we sense that we’d been discovered. Besides, you’re the president. Who’s going to speak up against you from your inner circle? It’s not as if I’m in here flashing a thong like Monica. This is quite more serious. I’m only your therapist.” Gabriella Mancini was beginning to feel less like a shrink and more like a babysitter. Managing the emotions and whimsicalities of the President of the United States was beginning to become a larger chore than expected.
Fitz took a deep breath and leaned back in the soft brown leather chair as he shook his head in agreement with his shrink. “I know. I know. I’m just so damn overwhelmed with everything. I’m beginning to wish I called for a recount to see if by some divine chance I really wasn’t meant to do this. Talk about being careful what you wish for. I was told by my predecessor what the pressures would be like once I became aware of all the briefings and intricacies of the office, but six months into it, I’m still feeling like I’m on my first day at the job and there’s a proverbial stain on my collar.” Fitz knew he was veering off into complaint town simply by the look on Gabriella’s face. She took the opportunity to change the subject.
“How’s Emily, Jack? How’s she adjusting?”
“You know her. She lives for change and hustle. She’s always been one step ahead. If she wasn’t such a piercing, nagging interference, I might actually take comfort in her ability to adjust. But she’s been reinforcing my anxieties more than relieving them.” When it came to the dynamic between Jack and his wife Emily, it was clear to Gabriella that Jack not only did not wear the pants, he had no pants. This emperor had no clothes because his wife took them.
The first lady was more than a handful. She was all details and no heart. She was a type A go-getter who lacked any shred of emotional intelligence. As the president continued to vent to Dr. Gabriella Mancini, his shrink since the campaign began, she could not help but replay a multitude of scenes from the old television sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond in her mind. Emily Fitz’s personality was much like Deborah on the show. Emily walked all over Jack when the camera was off and the door was shut. She treated him like a child. Too many times Dr. Mancini had to make valiant efforts to keep a serious countenance while listening to Fitz because inside she was laughing hysterically at the DVR playing inside her mind.
“We spoke last time about the idea of you focusing on your history of strengths, proven skills, and internal locus of control. When you speak like this about the extent to which you’ve allowed others to affect you, it’s clear to me that your focus is off. I know you love Emily, and I know it’s difficult for you to remove emotion from the effect she’s having on you, but you need to.”
Jack interjected, “You’re right Gabriella, I just get beaten down so much by her that it’s hard to brush aside how she makes me feel.”
“The position you’re in doesn’t allow you to be weak in these areas. Ignoring your wife’s behavior and refusing to allow it to effect you negatively doesn’t mean you’re any less devoted to or in love with her. It simply means you’re independently strong and secure. This will obviously apply to many of the relationships you’re beginning to develop with congress, world leaders, and the ever-intensifying relationships with your own staff.” Gabriella was suddenly feeling like she was grossly, and damn near criminally, underpaid.
“When I’m focused on God, and the destiny He’s called me to embrace, I do feel that sense of internal strength that you speak of, but lately those moments are rare. I’ll work to be more cognizant of my tendencies this week. I’ll certainly need such an emotional shield given the pressure cooker I’m in.” Jack Fitzsimmons rarely revealed the fabric of his faith when speaking with Gabriella.
Gabriella was well aware of the brand of Christianity that the President espoused. She knew he was prominently associated with the emerging religious left. She thought of his faith as a combination of Carter-era feel-good Christianity blended with the contemporary sensibility of young Christians who harbored many socially conservative ideals but identified very strongly with the big government, social welfare driven compassion mantra of the “I am my brothers-keeper” doctrine typified by the post Obama age. All of this, she felt, was piggybacked by the uber-positive, gushingly empathetic sentiments of popular mega-preachers like Rick Warren and Joel Olsteen. She knew that Fitz, too, harbored many socially conservative ideals. He was personally not for gay marriage. He personally abhorred abortion. But when it came to policy and action, he clearly sided with his constituents on the left and publicly championed choice and gay rights. Gabriella understood that to Fitz, these issues were matters that largely would be settled beyond his humble judgment and be left to the intimacy between an individual and his or her Creator. At least, she suspected, that is what he rationalized in his own mind to mitigate the conflict that simmered within his heart over these issues.
Moreover, Gabriella observed that Fitz’s core, driving beliefs and agenda aligned primarily with his vision for global equality and global synergy. He viewed borders as nothing but imaginary lines that sinful man had manufactured to create barriers and divisions. He very much was devoted to the “cult of multi-culti” as the right would mock. He intimated to her in sessions that he was actively lobbying and pushing for a global currency. Although he couldn’t say it explicitly, she knew he truly envisioned a world in which all nations co-governed. He confessed to her that the idea of eradicating the sovereignty of the United States would be a tough sell. Because of this, he told her he could never reveal this desire publicly. Instead he detailed his belief that the incremental fusion of international infrastructure and commerce could bring about a virtually borderless and seamless world without any overt relinquishment of sovereignty. He knew that as such a plan progressed, over time, the idea of merging nations into wider continental unions would be naturally and effortlessly achieved. He often explained to her that this was his utmost passion as President.
“I have a meeting with Sapp and Mahoney in five minutes, Gabriella. I hate to cut this short, but duty calls. Time waits for no man.” Bob Sapp was Fitz’s high-strung chief of staff, and Hank Mahoney was Fitz’s vice president, the man who truly kept him from coming apart at the seams. His daily meetings with these two key staff members were the lifeblood of his productivity as a fairly green president.
“Understood. Remember—emotional shield, but not emotional insensitivity. Feed the internal locus of control.”
“Thanks Gabriella. See you next week.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
NATANZ, IRAN
Arash Jafari sat at his desk sipping tea and clearing his head. He needed a break. He needed to gather his thoughts on the day. And on his life. He had been bouncing around troubleshooting all morning and he was exhausted. Typically, he found himself confined to the expanse of the underground structures of the Natanz nuclear facility, but today he was busy putting out a host of IT fires in the above ground area, particularly the centrifuge assembly plant. Every time Arash thought he had the system wired and bulletproof, another unintended consequence arose. Today was especially taxing since his boss was riding him to fix the glitches quickly. There was a lot on the test schedule as a result of a shipment that arrived that morning and contained a fresh batch of centrifuge components to be put to use for assembly and testing. The shipment was, in truth, many shipments that had arrived that day from a multitude of government-owned entities that had been feverishly producing the necessary centrifuge components to keep the Mullahs satisfied.
Arash had been experiencing volcanic heartburn lately. He was taking medicine for it, but he knew that it was a futile effort and really only helped as a psycholo
gical balm. The heartburn was psychosomatic.
Arash Jafari was constantly worried that he would be revealed, or worse yet, that as a result, his lovely wife and two daughters, eight and five, would be slaughtered as punishment to a traitor of the regime. Arash was indeed a traitor. He had been working with the Israelis via his work with the CIA. He had helped to refine a new strain of the Stuxnet computer worm intended to utterly and completely destroy the Iranian nuclear program, at least the tentacles of which they were aware. The first deployment of the worm in 2009 successfully harmed the program enough to retard its progress by wiping out a fifth of the program, but the final blow was still yet to be struck.
Like the computer malware, Arash Jafari himself was also a worm. He was a worm planting a worm. He was snugly nestled inside the personnel infrastructure of the Natanz nuclear facility and so far as he could ascertain, he had been undetected and unsuspected. But his belief that he’d gone undetected didn’t assuage the persistent anxiety that plagued him. Nothing could assuage that. It was part circumstance and part the makeup of his nervous nature.
Arash’s journey into espionage started oddly and dramatically with a vision. A religious vision. And not an Islamic religious vision. Jesus. Clear as could be. Strong, loud, and shock-inducing.
And with His appearance, Arash felt his flesh heat up as if he was locked in a dry sauna with the temperature kicked up to the max. Yet, he felt no pain or discomfort, as if he had been shrouded in a protective fire to which he himself was immune.
He later processed this experience by considering it an immersion in the supernatural fire of truth that manifested itself to him in a physical and real way.
The Nazarene spoke to him in direct terms about his then fanatical obsession with the imminent re-appearance of the Mahdi; the glorious Islamic Messiah—the eagerly anticipated Twelfth Imam—who was to rescue the world from chaos and establish a glorious Caliphate once and for all.
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