by Howard Upton
Trowton wandered to one of the posh chairs and took a seat. His mind spun with the possibilities as his heart began to race at the thought of his plan taking shape. Naturally, he knew the most difficult segment was about to begin; convincing twelve of the most powerful men in the world to help him bring about their “Earth solution” would require extreme leverage on his part. He was prepared, however, to use whatever means he had at his disposal to push his blueprint for the future of mankind to fruition.
He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and touched a one-word name on the screen, “Abaddon.” The ring on the other end had with it a distinct buzz, as it always did whenever he made this call. Often, he wondered what caused the annoying sound, but eventually chalked it up to a poor connection, although the poor connection only happened when he called this particular number.
Three rings…a fourth…a fifth…and on the sixth ring he heard a click and the distinct voice of his handler, who he preferred to think of as his boss, only because being “handled” seemed to demeaning.
“It is done?” a voice asked in a tone that was more of a demand than a question.
“The invitations will be delivered tonight, after the meeting and presentations have concluded, sir,” he replied as his pulse quickened and the familiar queasy feeling returned, the same queasiness he got each time he heard that dark voice on the other end.
“Invitations. How trite, my young apprentice. A more accurate description would be ‘life contracts,’ I believe. Whatever you call them, Mr. Trowton, you best not fail me, lest you be prepared for pain beyond imagination. That is, tremendous pain before your final breath.”
Trowton swallowed hard and his heart rate kicked up several notches, as did his respiration. He felt a trickle of sweat fall from the back of his neck and follow his spine until his undershirt pulled it away from his skin. With a bony finger and thumb, he pinched the bridge of his nose in a feeble attempt to reduce the pressure now hammering away just behind his eyes. For a brief second he considered the peacefulness death would bring him, but just as quickly pushed the thought from his mind.
“I can hear your thoughts, Mr. Trowton. Believe me, death would not afford you even a momentary respite from the pain and anguish I would inflict upon you and your family.”
Trowton gawked at his phone, amazed that the slithering voice on the other end could possibly “know” what he was thinking, even if the thought was merely passing. He considered the possibility that his boss had someone watching him, but that didn’t explain how the man could know what was running through his mind.
He sat there for a few seconds with the phone pressed against his ear, his breathing growing to the point of hyperventilating. Words were lost on him, his mind raced, yet his motor skills were essentially shut down. At few times in his life had he been so scared that he found himself without the ability to speak.
An audible chuckle came from the other end. “Be sure to see this through, my son.”
Trowton was relieved when he heard the click on the other end. The silence surrounding him was as warming as a blanket on a cold winter’s night. He allowed himself a prolonged sigh of relief; a minor expanse of tension momentarily leaving his body that afforded him a respite from the stress of the call.
His thoughts drifted back in time, six months earlier to be precise. A random call on his cell phone, one that he assumed was a wrong number, but one he felt compelled to take, started the ball rolling. Trowton heard a voice on the other end, one that appeared slippery and dark to him; vaguely his mind processed the emotions the voice perpetuated on him. He felt sickly, marked, and somehow damaged.
“Do not hang up. You and I have never met, but I understand you have a strong desire to save mankind from itself, yes?”
“Who the hell is this,” Trowton demanded?
“Who I am is irrelevant at this point and time. What is important is our mutual desire to change the human impact man has on an unwitting world. As I’ve come to understand it, you and I share some ideas about this subject better left off an open line. I suggest a meeting at a time and place of your choosing. However, in my opinion, the sooner we meet the better.”
Trowton felt himself quickly confused and equally paranoid. Who could have possibly known his thoughts about containing the virus known as “mankind?” He had not shared his plans with anyone and his mind suddenly dashed to memories of reading Orwell’s 1984. Has technology pushed us over the edge so that we’re finally forced to succumb to the thought police?
“Look, I don’t know who this is, and I have no idea what you’re talking about, but this conversation is finished,” he responded, but for some reason could not bring himself to hang up the phone.
“Yes, Mr. Trowton, I do understand your hesitation and concern, but I assure you that I am a man of principle and have a strong belief in an orderly civilization.”
“How do you know my name and how did you get my personal cell number,” he demanded!
“I will answer everything for you in time, Mr. Trowton, but only if you agree to meet with me first.”
And so it was that he had agreed to meet the man who would forever change his life. They met at the very upscale Mari Vanna Restaurant in Knightsbridge, London just before sunset, Trowton having showed up after his newly-made phone acquaintance. The food was the finest Russian cuisine and a décor that screamed love to Mother Russia. Russian made dolls and literature adorned shelves throughout the seating area. Beautifully handmade wooden tables sat at intimate intervals to other diners. Chairs and lushly comfortable couches sat adjacent to the tables, creating a feeling of home and grandeur.
He ordered a gloriously delicious serving of Siberian Pelmini, Russian dumplings filled with onions, lamb, and mushrooms, and a succulently sweet glass of Moscato d’Asti. His dinning partner, who introduced himself as Abaddon, preferred not to eat, but sipped on a glass of Tormaresca, a nice Italian chardonnay instead.
“So, Mr…Abaddon, I fail to understand why you insisted that we meet.”
A greasy smile spread over the man’s face. His blonde hair was slicked back and his ice-blue eyes pierced Trowton’s from behind squared spectacles. Abaddon sported a navy blue herring-bone suit that he wore without a tie and top button left open. The suit did little to hide a slender but obviously muscular frame, the frame of someone who paid special attention to his body, what went into it, as well as the amount of exercise he was to endure. Trowton noticed something odd about the man’s facial features, but couldn’t quite figure out what the oddity was.
Abaddon spun the stem of his wine glass in his hand, his fingernails carefully manicured. “Mr. Trowton, you will come to know me as a man who is brutally honest, to the point of discomfort with the individual with whom I converse. With that, I want to be completely honest with you—together we are going to change the human landscape, but you must understand, your participation will be worth much to you, both financially and…physically.”
“Pardon me for being so forward, Mr. Abaddon, but what the fuck are you saying?”
“Everything will be revealed to you soon enough, Mr. Trowton. In the meantime, there are a number of people you associate with that you must persuade to join you. How you devise the plan to ascertain our goal is up to you,” Abaddon hissed.
“And what is our “goal,” Mr. Abaddon? Your cryptic speech is wearing thin on me, and I’m afraid I have other appointments to keep.”
Abaddon’s forehead creased slightly and his ice-blue eyes seemed to redden. “Let me assure you, Mr. Trowton, I’ll not tolerate any insolence in our relationship. You’ll be rewarded handsomely for your participation, but should you choose the alternative to our relationship, I fear your time spent among the living shall be sufficiently condensed. Are we clear?” He leaned forward on his elbows and stared directly into Trowton’s eyes.
Something in Abbadon’s stare told him the man was dangerous, or perhaps evil was the word he was looking for. No, he thought, this individual is beyond evil. He
took a sip of his Moscato d’Asti and swallowed hard. Something electric emanated from the man, something that wouldn’t allow him to break the eye-lock on him. He felt as though his soul was being raped and there was nothing he could do to stop it, so succumbing to him was inevitable.
Trowton was first invited to a Bilderberg meeting twelve years earlier. He was enamored at the discussion, all of it kept private and unreleased to an uneducated and unknowing public. But what began as intriguing debate and ideas to help better mankind and take care of a planet in peril soon devolved into empty rhetoric, cocktail parties, and mindless hobnobbing among the world's wealthiest.
He became disillusioned after engaging former French President Lionel Jospin. The man was obviously an idealist, but he laughed when Trowton asked how the organization could make a more powerful statement to the world to curtail the drain on natural resources and curb the growing warming of the planet.
“Ah, Simon, how I long to be young once again, and be filled with fire and passion as you so obviously are. You must understand that the majority of wars waged in our world are orchestrated by our group. We attempt to distract a global populace while we quietly work to further our agenda through the media that many of our members own and support financially. You see? We have a plan and a course of action, but we cannot make evident moves less the people turn on us. Would you prefer to make a flamboyant declaration, only to be drawn and quartered by those you are attempting to protect? This is why we work covertly, my friend. Manipulation of the global markets, wars, and media are just a few of the things we do in an attempt stave off a certain man-made annihilation.”
He measured Jospin’s words carefully before responding. “So, in essence, you believe we should push our agenda from the quiet halls of luxury hotels and chateaus, all the while keeping ourselves from the line of fire? Don’t you find that thought process a little self-aggrandizing and cowardly?”
The French President’s expression changed, his face reddened and eyes narrowed. “Do not mock me, young man. I’ve lived on this Earth long enough to understand the mindset of mankind. I have a firm grasp on the faulty idea of “American exceptionalism,” European arrogance, and global Chinese domination. Change cannot be affected in loud explosions only, but by more subtle nuances that bring about universal mindset changes. Do you understand me?” His French accent grew deeper and thicker as the ire in his voice rose.
Trowton dropped his eyes and awkwardly shuffled his feet. How he wanted to engage this powerful man in further debate, but he had quickly realized his mistake in challenging him without concrete evidence supporting his position. This was a mistake he would never make again, and one he marked up to youthful inexperience and his own ideological faith.
“My apologies, Mr. President, I should have chosen my words more carefully. I did not mean to insinuate that you were cowardly or in any way incapable. My zeal for aiding and assisting our fine organization to further our global agenda sometimes clouds my judgment,” he responded with as much sincerity as he could muster.
The Frenchman composed himself, while unconsciously straightening his suit. He stuck his chin out and summarily dismissed the insolent young man with whom he had been speaking by turning and walking away.
His eyes darted around the atrium and locked on a man who was eying him curiously from across the grand room. The sight of the man simultaneously confused and angered him. Trowton had been concentrating on his phone call so much that he had forgotten to check his surroundings to insure no one was listening to his conversation. He assessed the situation quickly and knew there was no way the stranger could have overheard his discussion because of the distance between them, and because he had kept his voice low. Still, he glowered at the interloper who immediately recognized his situation, turned, and exited the room.
Trowton took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. The wheels were in motion and the plan in place, the plan that would change the world forever…
Look for the Bill Evers’ next adventure, Occam’s Razor, in 2015!
Author Biography
Howard Upton spent his professional years in the corporate world, but has always considered himself a writer and storyteller first and foremost. An avid outdoorsman, traditional martial artist, back packer, motorcyclist and global traveler, Howard has been blessed to observe, firsthand, areas of the world about which he writes.
He currently lives in Augusta, Georgia, but he and his wife travel back and forth to his beloved Alabama with regularity. When he isn’t writing, Howard enjoys planning his next adventure with his beautiful wife, Cathy.
Howard’s eclectic knowledge in martial arts, military science, international geography, history, and conspiracy theories combine to give him the perfect background for writing Bill Evers’ adventures.
Howard Upton can be reached at: www.howardupton.com or through Kaizen Quest Publishing at: [email protected]. Inquiries and feedback are welcome.
Dedication
To Mom and Dad–you instilled a passion and drive to always do my best even when I’m at my worst. Mom you continue to be that beautiful, loving spirit that we all adore. Dad, I miss your love, laughter and guidance.
To Courtney and Cassidy–you girls will always be my babies. I never realized how capable of love I would be until you two came along.
To Amanda and Abby, who prove that blood doesn't necessarily make a family.
To Cathy–without your love and support I don’t know where I’d be, and have no desire to find out. Your honesty, creativity and life skills have enabled us to live a perfect life. I love you.
Acknowledgments
I must offer a heartfelt thank you to Dr. Bohdi Sanders and Kaizen Quest Publishing for affording me this incredible opportunity. Bohdi, your knowledge and experience are incredible and the copious notes I’ve taken during our long conversations will serve me well in all of my future writing endeavors.
Tracey Sanders you took so much of your personal time to edit, re-edit, and offer wonderful suggestions to a work that was in dire need of much personal attention. Your ink and insight were wonderful and well placed.
Thanks to the real Kevin Roper who spent numerous hours describing his time in service to our country, his personal struggles with PTSD, and speaking about his own personal experiences in re-acclimating himself in the civilian world.
Thomas O’Brien, thank you for your insights into Afghanistan and covert activities. Our conversations are always educational.
Sensei Dan Dugan your light-hearted sense of humor always makes me smile. Thanks for allowing Bill Evers to search for such a mean bastard. Naturally, anyone who knows you understands that imaginary Dan Dugan has nothing in common with the real Dan Dugan.
A colossal thank you to everyone who took the time to read this manuscript and offer feedback; without you, this work would have remained shelved.
I would be remiss to not thank each and every United States Armed Forces member, both past and present. Your sacrifices have made this country great and this book possible.
