On the other hand, considering the two-dozen Coalition Assurance Special Ops enforcers he himself had strategically located in the kitchen and also on the street in front of Le Select, Turner felt reasonably safe.
“You should try the vodka,” the deep rumble of the Barbarian’s accent-heavy voice echoed through the near empty café, breaking the silence.
Turner looked behind him to find the big Russian standing.
“I came in through the kitchen,” the Barbarian continued, before Turner could enquire. “Past one of your agents. Not to worry, he took the time to pat me down. Just like old times, eh? Welcome to Paris,” he continued, as he stuck out a meaty hand.
Turner got to his feet and shook hands with the Barbarian, before both men sat down across from each other.
A waiter brought a bottle of vodka, along with two shot glasses.
“It’s barely eleven a.m.,” Turner stated, looking at the vodka bottle.
“It is tradition when business agreements are reached,” the Barbarian replied as he poured two shots then held up his own. “Salute,” he said, before he quickly drank the shot.
Turner followed suit. The alcohol burned the back of his throat, but Turner forced himself to show no reaction.
The Barbarian smiled before pouring himself another shot of vodka. “How is your predecessor?” the big Russian asked.
“James Howe? He’s in jail.”
“A risky option.”
“We’re not like you.”
“Ah. American Exceptionalism. Where one greatly exaggerates the differences between their people and others, no?”
“It’s no exaggeration.”
“It was one of yours who killed my partner. A deed not so exceptional. And that particular American is still free.”
“He isn’t one of ours. And your partner went off the reservation.”
The Barbarian looked over the Coalition leader’s face. He did not like Turner, but he understood that their interests were aligned, at least for now. He also understood that getting on the wrong side of Turner, the newly crowned CEO of the world’s largest defense contractor, the world’s largest corporate entity of any kind, would end in his quick demise.
He also knew that he had faced down formidable foes disguised as allies in the past, and he had been the one who had survived. There were still variables left unaccounted for that the Barbarian could use to his advantage. And until those advantages presented themselves, he would play along as the jovial cooperative Russian businessman.
“James Howe is more valuable to us alive than dead if that’s what you’re alluding to,” Turner continued. “He’s on a time out for now. He’s not a concern. This meeting can’t be about him. Why did you insist that I come to Paris?”
“You do not enjoy one of Europe’s most storied cities?”
“Get to the point, Ivan.”
“Those of us who deal in unregulated economics prefer our dealings in the old way,” the Barbarian explained.
“Do you mean face to face? To look me in the eye? Why? Are you afraid of your phone being tapped? Of getting caught? You’re showing your age, my friend, this isn’t the Cold War. In case you didn’t notice, corporatism won, and America is still at the head of the only table that matters—the one of wealth and profit. We own the seas, the airways, the Internet, the cell towers, trade policy, all branches of government, and the law. We monitor and control the narrative from every angle.
“If I wanted you to be dead, you’d be dead right now, and I’d make it look like the patriotic thing to do, which in a lot of minds it would be. This arrangement between our interests is already off the books, and that, my friend, is nothing new—United Fruit Company in Central America, the Gulf of Tonkin in Vietnam, Iran-Contra, the Iraq-Afghan wars, all of those off-the-books business arrangements were hidden in plain sight. This will be no different.
“There’s no need for concern. The Coalition is going to run guns, drugs, contraband, labor, and regional influence on your continent through your organization. We’ll use the U.S. Navy and intelligence apparatuses to protect both of our interests. We’ll run it all through our banks and real estate to turn your dark money into light.
“In turn, you just make sure that there are forever wars for us to engage, cheap labor, no regulations to adhere to, and no lack of product of any kind to be sold. We take seventy percent of your revenue, and in return for that, we make sure no one ever bothers you. You walk off with more billions than you could possibly acquire on your own, tax-free I might add, which is more than enough to rebuild your country in any manner you see fit, so long as it doesn’t threaten the order of things. It’s not that complicated, Ivan.”
“And the prisons. Don’t forget the prisons you own. The slave factories that your immigration lobby created, not just in the U.S., but all over the world now.”
“We prefer the term labor integration, and with our arrangement, you won’t end up integrated. That’s also part of the deal. You’ll be another protected king, in a long line of protected kings, living in a billion dollar castle. You can even officially run your country if you want.”
“I do not seek the Russian presidency. A powerful office, but one too easily compromised. Even in America. Just look at your last election. Your people already suspect our involvement.”
Turner signaled the waitress for some water. “You’re smarter than I thought. But it would be yours, if you so chose.”
“So Coalition Properties reaches its goal and becomes the world’s first corporate superpower,” the Barbarian said, before he downed another shot of Vodka.
“We already were that. We have been for a long time. This is about eliminating competing narratives that lead to bloodshed whose profits are not on our balance sheets. The underground economy is the only thing that we didn’t own outright. And now, with this agreement, we do.”
“And your board? It is comfortable with this arrangement?”
“Once the collective governments of the region gave the green light through the United Global Trade Act, there was little reason to say no.”
“Your predecessor wanted these things, and yet he is in jail.”
“My predecessor was impatient, and neither understood nor cared about the optics regarding his actions. He didn’t understand the commoners and did not care how social media connects them. In short, he couldn’t coordinate the proper elements, which caused him to eliminate the wrong people at the wrong time, in front of the wrong people.
“Optics are more important than ever in a post-truth environment. He ignored this fact and that was his mistake. But the benefit is that the people can be much more easily controlled these days via their cell phones and short attention spans. And you must always present the illusion of what’s best for the people.”
“As you rob them blind.” The Barbarian poured Turner another shot.
“As Russia did to their own the minute the wall fell. You were one of the primary beneficiaries, Ivan. And all the superpower bluster in the 80s was propaganda. It was all that you ever had. A gas station with nukes was all you ever were. So you people became masters at the psychological arts.
“But we’re different. When you literally own all the money, natural resources, and weaponry, it’s not arrogance to believe you are exceptional. You already have proven yourself superior. You are by definition exceptional.” Turner picked up the glass and finished the shot of vodka in one gulp. This time, he grimaced from the burn.
“The concern I have is not with the mutually beneficial elements of our arrangement. That is not why I wished to see you in person. The concern I have is with the unfinished business of your predecessor and my late partner.”
“Alex Luthecker? Is that what this is about? Don’t tell me you’ve become one of the obsessed, Ivan. It doesn’t suit you.” Turner felt beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead. The last thing he wanted to discuss was the refugee soothsayer. He resisted the urge to wipe his brow. It’s the alcohol, he though
t to himself.
Turner watched as the Barbarian momentarily searched inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a bright-white handkerchief.
The Russian offered the silk cloth to Turner. “In Vino Veritas,” the Barbarian thought. A phrase his late partner used to say in times like these.
Turner waved off the offer.
The Barbarian shrugged and put away the handkerchief. “His actions do not concern you?”
“The fear of his alleged abilities has caused far greater harm than whatever his alleged abilities actually are.”
“Is that not the root of power for all revolutionaries?”
“He’s not a revolutionary. He’s a minor annoyance. And I don’t plan on making the same mistake as my predecessors.”
“You plan to let him go?”
“I don’t plan to hang my fate or that of Coalition Properties on one man who lives outside the system.”
“You are not looking for him then? You have not yet labeled him a terrorist?”
“I didn’t say that. I have a man on it. One who claims to have a different approach. But let me be clear, I don’t regard Luthecker as a threat. Labeling him as a terrorist, recognizing him in any way at all, only serves to validate him as a problem. I don’t need him as an asset.”
“So your plan is to ignore him?”
“There’s nothing he can allegedly do that Coalition technology will soon be able to do better.”
“It is not so much his…how do I say in English? His…pattern reading abilities…that concern me. It is his direct effect on labor costs.”
“You mean the recent lost labor shipments in the Port of Long Beach.”
“There have been more.”
“Statistically the impact is zero. There’s no need for concern. We’re monitoring what his people are doing in Los Angeles. If anything, the morale boost our lenience on their freeing the occasional group of refugees or slave workers gives helps keep things under control.
“People need a pressure valve for their hopes. They need to believe they haven’t lost and that someone is fighting for them. I consider it an insurance policy. A remainder of a very old equation that’s never going to change, and I’m smart enough not to stomp it out.”
“It is beyond just a few lost laborers. Have you heard what has happened in India?”
Turner hesitated for just a second. He had allowed one of his scientists to explore rumors regarding sightings of Alex Luthecker in the region, but the report he got back from the scientist over a month ago made no mention of anything out of the ordinary and certainly no mention of any contact with Alex Luthecker.
The Barbarian did not miss the hesitation.
“My man in the field reported no problems,” Turner answered.
“You need to look closer, my friend. The pattern reader has been there. He has been to many places. And wherever he goes, things are being disrupted. Profitable conflicts taken for granted are now being questioned.” The Barbarian leaned in close. “His legend is growing. The slaves we need, that all empires need, are beginning to grow restless. He is making them restless. And he must be stopped.”
Turner’s face grew red with anger. If Kirby had held back any intelligence regarding Luthecker’s whereabouts, the scientist would pay dearly.
“Don’t worry. We’re working on it,” Turner responded. “We’ll shut down his little group of freedom fighters in Los Angeles to send a message. And we’ll catch up to Mr. Luthecker and his enabler, Nikki Ellis, soon enough and eliminate them.”
Turner reached over to the bottle of vodka and poured both the Barbarian and himself a fresh shot. It was time to finish with Ivan, confront Mark Kirby, and take care of the Luthecker problem before it got out of hand.
He held up his shot glass in toast. “To our mutual interests.”
The Barbarian smiled and held up his shot glass. He had Turner where he wanted him. “To our mutual interests.”
2
La Bestia
Enrique Martinez pulled his little sister close, wrapping the only blanket he owned around them both, trying to keep warm. The blanket, a well-worn cotton fabric that his grandmother gave to Enrique when he was only six years old, was the only possession he had kept for this journey. His sister Maria kept one possession from home as well; a small stuffed tiger she called “Nala,” which she cradled in her arms.
As the swirl of the cold desert wind whipped his long hair in every direction, Enrique used his body to shield his sister from the brunt of its force as they huddled together on top of the fast moving train car.
Maria, only ten years old, peacefully slept in her big brother’s arms as the rattle of “La Bestia” or “The Beast”—as the train was known in English—continued its journey in the black of night from the city of Lechera in Southern Mexico all the way to Nogales, close to the California border.
The nighttime sky provided just enough illumination for Enrique to see the outline of hundreds of other migrants packed on the back of the Beast, sitting or asleep on top of the long line of cars that made up the infamous cargo train.
The moonlight also allowed Enrique to see his sister’s face and the calm and undisturbed look on her dozing visage, along with the sight of her tightly grasping Nala. It made him smile. That peaceful visage also gave the exhausted Enrique strength, strength he knew he would need, because although the sixteen year old was beyond tired, he was keenly aware that there could be no sleep for him tonight. Not with the potential threats ahead.
As he fought the sleep-inducing rhythm that the motion of the train provided, he kept his eyes alert for signs of danger in the form of bandits from drug cartels and human traffickers that could jump the train at any moment to rob, kidnap, rape, or kill any or all who rode north in search of a better life.
For Enrique, born and raised in San Salvador, El Salvador, gang violence had been a part of everyday life for as long as he remembered. But in recent years, life in the city had gotten particularly grave, as Mexican drug cartels, the Calderon Cartel in particular, had aligned with local El Salvadorian gangs to more efficiently move both drugs and people throughout the Americas, and eventually throughout the world.
The cartel enforcers, foot soldiers arrested in America and trained in U.S. prisons before being deported back to their homelands, had gotten more aggressive in their recruitment efforts of local boys Enrique’s age and some much younger, to join their cause. More often than not, the recruitment efforts were done at gunpoint.
Enrique had been remarkably lucky so far, having managed to evade the gang’s recruitment efforts. He was careful to mind his own business, choosing to stay close to his family, with a keen interest in protecting his little sister Maria. It was because of this that Enrique believed he never found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time in regards to the cartel. His mother thought of Enrique’s luck in avoiding gang recruitment as a direct blessing from God.
Two of Enrique’s closest friends had not been so lucky. They had refused to join and had been killed for their responses, and the young El Salvadorian knew that despite his luck and best efforts to avoid the cartel-controlled gangs, it was only a matter of time before he would be approached with the same offer and suffer the same result if he refused to join.
Yet to Enrique, San Salvador was his home, the only one he’d ever known, and at first he had chosen to stay in order to protect his family. But when his father was gunned down in the streets of San Salvador in broad daylight, for no discernible reason and with no arrests made, Enrique changed his mind and decided he had no choice but to leave his homeland for good.
Enrique knew that the journey north through Guatemala, Chiapas, and Mexico, leading to America, the land of opportunity, would be weeks long and dangerous. But to stay in El Salvador and face the Calderon Cartel would be far worse.
When Enrique told his mother of his plans to move the family, she refused to go, believing that she was too old, but she insisted that he leave to start a new life. She did insi
st on one more thing—that Enrique take Maria with him. Enrique assured his mother that there was no way he was leaving his little sister behind to be subject to the abuses of the cartel soldiers.
So Enrique took what little money he had, hired a coyote, what migrant smugglers were known as, to get both he and Maria all the way to Arriaga in Chiapas. It was in Arriaga where he would board the first leg of the Beast, making the final switch of trains in Lechera, the last train that would take them to Nogales, as close to the U.S. border as La Bestia went. From there, he would take his chances to cross into America via the state of California.
But he had to survive and protect his little sister during the three-week journey to the border first. So far, he, Maria, and the other migrants had been lucky. At each transition, where the migrants were most vulnerable to attack, it had been relatively quiet.
Migrants, who were at risk from falling off the top of the train cars and potentially losing limbs or their lives as well, had, thus far, suffered no incidents. But the true test would be when the Beast passed through Veracruz, a stop notorious for migrants disappearing at the hands of traffickers.
Enrique’s immediate goal was to make it to a Catholic mission rumored to be just before Veracruz, where a missionary by the name of Father Alejandro Gracilas was known to take migrants in and feed them, allow them to bathe, and provide them with supplies for the rest of their respective journeys.
Father Gracilas was also rumored to know where the cartel soldiers and traffickers lay in wait to hijack the Beast, and the priest would allegedly do his best to steer the refugees clear from harm. It was at the mission that Enrique hoped that the priest would help him make contact with a trustworthy coyote, one who did not work for the cartels, to provide passage for he and his sister across the U.S. - Mexican border.
Enrique’s stomach growled from hunger as he sat in the darkness. He had not eaten in over a day, giving the last of his rations of simple bread and water to Maria. He tried not to think about his hunger or the great risks he faced on this journey. It was the only way to keep his panic in check. Most of all he tried to forget that beyond today, he had no plan to get himself and Maria across the border, other than faith and hope.
Revolution: Luthecker, #3 Page 2
