Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

“Thanks,” I said, getting up and swinging by the galley for more coffee before heading back to my stateroom.

  I entered my home away from home and was surprised to find all my baggage sitting off to the side of the bed in its usual place. Matheson must have had it all shipped from the Burj Al Arab Hotel and delivered to the plane. Ah—the perks of being in a secret society. I grabbed my toiletries and headed into the bathroom and took a moment to look at myself in the mirror. I had some nice color on my face from a day in the sun but otherwise looked no worse for wear. I stripped completely down to my birthday suit and dropped onto the familiar seat, relishing the moment as though it were a reunion with a long lost friend. Properly seated, I thumbed the pages of the magazine and let it unfold naturally to what was probably the last story Farid had been reading. Of course it was a picture of a beautiful young blond girl, and my first horrifying thought was that Farid was probably thinking about using this picture to masturbate. That was unlikely, however, as his seminal reservoir must surely be empty having spent the previous night with not one but two women.

  I took a nice long sip of coffee and then felt release as I brought my eyes down onto the page. I was looking at the girl more closely now, and my gaze fell upon a particular detail that suddenly made my insides feel as though I had just received an ice water enema. I looked below and read the caption just to be sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing. Then, I read the entire story, and suddenly everything made sense. As crazy as it sounded, spending five minutes alone on a toilet with a tabloid magazine allowed me to be pretty damn certain that I had figured out Hamza’s connection to the Topless Agenda. I needed to call Matheson, so I finished up on the pot, took an exceedingly quick shower, then re-donned my suit before taking a minute to think. Upon further reflection, I realized that I actually needed to make several calls, and that would require access to the jet’s communication system. I left my room and passed through the main salon, where I spied Farid sleeping like a baby on one of the couches. I continued past sleeping beauty and found Yvonne in the galley.

  “What’s up, Tag?” she asked.

  “I’m facing a bit of a conundrum and need to make some phone calls. I assume the jet has some kind of phone system?” I asked.

  “Of course!”

  “Thank God,” I said.

  “Here, follow me.”

  She led me to a room I had never seen before, as it was Mr. Vandenberg’s private mobile office. She showed me how to use the phone then left so I could have some privacy. First and foremost, I dialed Matheson, and he answered on the third ring.

  “Hello, Finn, I take it from the number you called me that you’re on the Vandenberg jet?”

  “Yeah, safe and sound.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Yeah, though you might also want to thank a man name Ismail and his son Asaf,” I added.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing, I’ll explain later. Now, I believe that we’re meeting up in southern France?”

  “Yeah, we’ve called an emergency meeting of the Topless Agenda, so we’re all gathering at Margaret Baine’s villa near Aix en Provence.”

  “And everyone is going to be there?”

  “Yeah, of course. Why?”

  “Well, I’m fairly certain I’ve figured out how Hamza infiltrated the Topless Agenda, but it’s a little complicated, so I’ll have to wait until we’re in person to elaborate. It’ll also give me some time to do a little more fact finding and fill in the rest of the blanks.”

  “But wait! How the hell did Hamza breach our security?”

  “You’ll know soon enough. Now, can you give me the exact address of Margaret’s villa?”

  “Sure, but your driver will know where to go.”

  “I’m afraid I need it right now, if you don’t mind.”

  Matheson gave me the address, and, if memory served me correctly, it was in the same general area where the former power couple Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had lived before their split. Of course a billionaire and Hollywood royalty would all choose to live in same general area, and it made me think about the phrase that shit trickles down hill. If true then it explained how the fine smelling aristocracy made it’s way up to places like Aix en Provence.

  “OK, thanks. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  “But, wait, Finn! I still don’t…”

  It was too late, as I had already hung up. I had two more phone calls to make and no more time to talk to Matheson. My next call was to Bill Reigns, my man in Dubai, as he was the only person in the world who might be able to get the information I needed at this exact moment. Thankfully, he picked up on the second ring.

  “Bill, it’s Tag. How are you feeling?”

  “Better, but I’m more interested to know if you made it out OK.”

  “We did, but now we have another problem, and I need your help.”

  “Absolutely. What do you need?”

  “A little information—and, as usual, I need it fast.”

  I explained what I needed and Bill told me he would see what he could find out then call me back. In the meantime, I turned on Vandenberg’s thirty inch iMac, opened a browser, and brought up Google. A moment later, I had a page full of hits with the third one down being the exact one I needed. I clicked on the link, brought up the web page, and five minutes later, had found all the necessary information. I was finally being proactive and feeling like an investigator again—and it felt good. The phone rang and I answered and heard Bill’s voice.

  “Finn here,” I said.

  “I’ve got the information you asked for, though you’re not going to like it.”

  He relayed all the news I desperately needed—but didn’t necessarily want to hear. It made things more complicated, but it explained a lot. I thanked him then hit end before making my final and most important phone call. The person answered, and, after the usual pleasantries, I relayed all the pertinent details then bid a fond farewell. The timing was going to be critical and getting everyone and everything into place would take a veritable miracle, but what was life without a few challenges? I had done all there was to do, so now it was time to sit, wait, and hope the universe was finally on my side.

  I left Vandenberg’s office and returned to my cabin, where I lay on the bed and closed my eyes, desperately hoping to get some rest before all hell broke loose. In spite of the churning excitement in my gut, I eventually drifted off to the welcomed relief of sleep.

  I awoke two hours later when the announcement came over the intercom that we were on final approach to Marseille Provence Airport. I brushed my teeth then walked out and joined Farid, who was talking animatedly with Yvonne in the main salon.

  “Did I miss anything exciting?” I asked.

  “No, we were just talking about California and where Farid should consider living,” Yvonne said.

  “Northern or southern,” I asked.

  “Northern,” Yvonne said.

  “Good choice—although blondes are more abundant in Southern California,” I added.

  “Maybe I’ll try both and see which I like better.”

  At that moment an announcement came over the intercom.

  “Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for landing.”

  I double checked the tension on my seat belt then leaned back and looked out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of the city of Marseille. A light winter fog was stretching inland over the coast, so I could barely see a scant few buildings and roads below. Soon thereafter, I heard the thump of the landing gear deploying, and, only a minute or so later, we dropped with hardly a bump onto the runway. The plane decelerated rapidly then made a sharp turn and taxied towards the private terminal.

  We came to a stop, and Wendy’s voice came over the intercom announcing that we could unbuckle our seat belts and prepare to disembark. I returned to my cabin for my pistol, and, after sliding it into my shoulder holster, I joined Farid at the door. Brett, Tatyana, and Wendy appeared a moment later, and we said goodbye bef
ore exiting the jet to descend the boarding ramp and walk over to the waiting Maybach limousine.

  The driver ushered us into the back of the particularly comfortable vehicle, and we made ourselves at home as he closed the door and took up residence behind the wheel. We left the airport and joined the bustling traffic of Marseille before merging onto the D9, which headed northeast towards Aix en Provence. The city eventually gave way to country, and the lush green landscape was dotted by the occasional farm house or barn. A little over thirty minutes later, we crossed through the center of Aix en Provence and merged onto the D10, which took us east and up into a scenic valley. It was the beginning of winter, so the trees were mostly bare, and any remaining leaves were turning yellow. It was sunny now that we were away from the coast, and I rolled down the window for a breath of fresh air and could smell and feel the dampness of a recent storm that had left a light dusting of snow on the surrounding peaks.

  We continued on past a number of beautiful estates, which meant we were officially in the neighborhood of the rich and famous, and our destination was only a short distance away on the other side of the quaint village of Vauvenargues. It was a small French hamlet that also happened to be the one-time home of Pablo Picasso, and now, not surprisingly, also housed a member of the Topless Agenda. After passing through the town, we made a left and climbed up into the mountains on a winding road before pulling up and stopping before a massive wrought iron gate. An armed man appeared from inside a guard house and approached our vehicle to speak with the driver. They exchanged some words, then he went back inside his tiny dwelling, and the gate swung open, and we headed up the long driveway until at last coming to rest before a massive villa. Around us were parked a bevy of large prestigious automobiles with the only oddball in the bunch being a large passenger van, which was probably used by the house staff. The driver opened the door, and Farid and I exited and were soon met by a man dressed in a smart suit.

  “Welcome to Château Les Mères Saintes, and, as cliché as it sounds, my name is actually Jeeves,” he said, in a very proper British accent.

  “The name’s Finn, and I must say—this is quite a place you’ve got here.”

  “Yes indeed, now, if you’ll please follow me. Everyone is eagerly awaiting your arrival in the conference room,” he said, leading us up the steps and into the grand foyer.

  The Château was old and regal, and its hardwood floors were covered by finely woven rugs, while its walls were adorned with classical artworks. Above us hung a massive chandelier, and the sun coming in through the front windows was refracting off the tiny crystals and sending thousands of tiny rivulets of light throughout the room. Ahead of us, in stark contrast, lay a dark hallway with the only illumination coming from the lights over the various paintings, sculptures, and suits of ancient armor that lined its walls. Farid looked at me nervously, clearly unsure about his current surroundings, which made sense, as he had yet to meet his mysterious new benefactors. I could understand his trepidation, as I too had felt it myself only a week ago when I first ventured into that topless tapas bar in Majorca.

  Jeeves stopped and opened the door at the end of the hall and ushered us into a large stately room complete with a fireplace, bookshelves on all four walls, and a large oak table in the middle occupied by the members of the Topless Agenda. From left to right, we had Douglas Matheson, Harold Fuchs, Vladimir Strobodov, Margaret Baines, Charlene Chou, Anna Karlsson, Adya Chopra, Nicholas Abimbola, Daniel and William Vandenberg, and last, but not least, my favorite Frenchman Adrien Babineux—who, not surprisingly, was wearing yellow pants. Matheson, upon seeing us, immediately stood up and walked over.

  “Good to see you safe and sound, Finn, and it’s nice to finally meet you, Dr. Ardeshir. I’m Douglass Matheson,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “You mean Senator Matheson as in the father of John Matheson, the current Vice President of the United States?” he asked, sounding a tad bit intimidated.

  “The very same, but I think it’s far more impressive to be meeting the father of cold fusion.”

  “Well, thank you, sir,” Farid said, smiling bashfully.

  “And please, call me Douglass. We like to keep things informal around here.”

  “In that case, call me Farid.”

  “Farid it is. Now, gentleman, please come join us.”

  We sat down at the two empty seats at the end of the table, and all eyes fell on me.

  “All right, Finn. Do you want to update everyone?”

  “Yeah, and as I told you on the phone, I’ve finally figured out how, or should I say who, Hamza is using to infiltrate the Topless Agenda,” I said.

  “You’re not going to tell me it’s one of us are you?” he asked.

  “Yes and no. Unfortunately, it’s a little complicated.”

  “Which means?”

  Just then there was a disturbance outside, and a second later, two men decked out in assault gear came hustling through the door. I assumed they were friendlies until they turned their weapons towards the seated people.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Matheson bellowed righteously.

  No sooner had the words left his mouth that Prince Hamza and his ever faithful German henchman Klaus came striding into the room. Unlike the mercenaries they were dressed as though they were going to a party with Klaus wearing black slacks and a black button up shirt and Hamza sporting a grey business suit and a black keffiyah.

  “Good afternoon, everyone, I am Prince Hamza, and I am here to take back my property,” he said, in his usual smug and confident tone.

  Farid leaned in and whispered in my ear.

  “Dude, I know I’ve been going back and forth on this a lot, but now I’m pretty certain that it is seriously not awesome hanging out with you again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Blond Ambition

  THERE WAS NOTHING quite as effective as absolute privilege in childhood to form a complete asshole in adulthood, and Hamza was living proof of the truth of that hypothesis. He was a picture of smugness as he stood there gazing around the room, obviously taking great pleasure in knowing that some of the most important people in the world were all suddenly at his mercy. He finished his visual sweep then exchanged a look with Klaus, and they set off on what appeared to be a slow victory lap around the table. When they reached me, I couldn’t help but throw out a comment to my favorite German tourist.

  “Hello, Klaus, how was your swim the other night?” I asked, referring to sending him and his car into the estuary back in California.

  “A lot more pleasant than the rest of your day is going to be.”

  “And they say Germans don’t have a sense of humor.”

  Klaus moved closer and smiled, then punched me in the stomach. I was expecting the move, but it was still a good hit, and I crumpled over, embellishing a bit in order to make him believe that he had done enough damage and wouldn’t need to repeat himself. I could take one punch for the team, but there was no reason to become a martyr just yet. Once I recovered, Prince Asshole decided to weigh in on our friendly little exchange.

  “How nice to see you again, Mr. Finn, and, this time, I imagine it is you who are surprised to see me.”

  “Not really, nor is it particularly nice.”

  Hamza chuckled, then he and his faithful kraut continued on to the far end of the table, where he paused so that he could properly address the room.

  “Now, Members of the Topless Agenda, it is about time you learned to stop meddling in the affairs of others, and starting today, your new world order is at an end, and mine is just beginning. So, now it is probably a good idea to pray to whatever God you believe in, as your time on this earth will officially be coming to an end very soon.”

  The people around the table may have been in a state of shock, but they were at least putting up a very convincing facade of brave composure. That was no small task, as the men with Hamza were obviously professional mercenaries and more than willing to kill for their employer. Bu
t, I had no intention of letting anyone get hurt today—at least not anyone on the home team, and, to that end, I took stock of our armed friends and found it odd that they had made no effort to search the people in the room for weapons. They were professionals, and professionals didn’t overlook simple details like making sure their captives couldn’t kill them. That simple fact meant that these people knew the rules of the Topless Agenda, with the first and foremost being that no firearms were permitted into their meetings. This, in turn, made it all that much clearer that my theory about the leak was correct. Luckily for us, however, the leak apparently didn’t know that I had a propensity for carrying a pistol on my person. Still, I was up against four men, two of whom were wearing body armor, and that made for a tricky predicament, because it meant head shots, and head shots were a hell of a lot harder than center mass. The head was obviously smaller and bobbed around, so success would come down to timing, skill, and a shitload of luck.

  “You can’t just murder some of the most preeminent people in the world,” Matheson said, looking agitated as he stood up from the table.

  “Why? Are you bullet proof?” Hamza asked with a smile.

  He had a point, and it would have almost been funny had the lives of thirteen people not been on the line.

  “Obviously not, but you just can’t make people this important disappear and expect to get away with it.”

  “There are a lot of bad people out in the world, and this will all be staged to look like a group of extremists conducting yet another attack against the decadent West. In fact, I’ve already got a local ISIS terror cell primed and ready to take the blame, and, by the time the authorities find them, you’ll be dead, and we’ll be long gone. Well now, friends, it’s been nice, but the time for talk is over, and we should probably finish up here and be going.”

  One of the mercenaries stepped forward and spoke to Hamza, who suddenly looked troubled as he responded in an angry though hushed tone. More words were exchanged before the other mercenary spoke into his headset and held up his hands in frustration. It looked like our antagonists were having some kind of communication problem and couldn’t contact the rest of their team. Perfect! I had my opportunity. I pulled out my pistol then leaned over to Margaret and whispered that she should pass on the news to the others to get ready to drop to the floor and cover their ears. She nodded then whispered to her immediate neighbor, and the news continued on until reaching Matheson, who mouthed the words too dangerous. I knew what he was worried about—collateral damage. It would be hard to avoid someone getting caught in the crossfire in such a small space, but the problem, however, was that we were all going to die unless we did something about our situation. Reports of people who survived life and death encounters always shared the same common denominator. Those who acted lived, and those who didn’t—died. It was, therefore, time to act.