The Phoenix

by Jillian Dodd

  “I mean, higher than that.”

  He scrunches up his face. “I am a trustee.”

  “How many trustees are there?” I ask, not caring anymore if it sounds like I’m interrogating him.

  “In the world?” he says, scratching his neck. “Gosh, I think there are, like, five hundred maybe.”

  “And who is above the trustees?”

  “No one,” he says.

  I try to impartially judge his expression, but my heart ignores his nervous scratch and believes that he’s telling the truth.

  “Lorenzo the Magnificent, the first king of Montrovia, survived an assassination attempt, which caused him to form The Society, a group of like-minded men who, whether they knew it or not, were his network of spies. The original group didn’t have trustees. I would assume those came later as The Society grew.”

  “That makes sense,” Aleksandr agrees.

  “But there was a group of ten men who sat at a round table where their thoughts were equal to Lorenzo’s.”

  “Like the Knights of the Round Table?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

  I keep going. “Do you sit at a round table? Are all your thoughts equal? Is there no clear leader?”

  He moves his head from one side to the other, seemingly trying to figure out an answer. “Uh, no, we don’t sit at a round table. In spirit, we are equal, although there is a hierarchy of roles in order to facilitate what needs to be done.”

  “And who decides what needs to be done?”

  “Well, right now, the elected head of the trustees is Zayn Kipling.”

  “And who was before him?”

  “McClellan.”

  “And before him?”

  “Hillford Senior.”

  “Have you ever been head of the trustees?” I ask.

  “No, but your father was for five years.”

  “Do you remember who all have been trustees since you’ve been in the group?”

  “I probably could if I thought about it. After your father, it was Alessandro Vallenta. We have an election coming up. Although, technically, it’s not really an election like you would think.”

  “In what way?” I ask.

  “There is only one candidate to vote for. The election is more of a yay or nay situation.”

  “And who decides who that person will be? The trustees?”

  “No, the current trustee chooses his successor, and then we vote to approve.”

  “Has anyone ever not been approved?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he says.

  “Who will you be approving next?” I ask.

  “Sergey Olander. You’re as intrigued by the group as your father was, aren’t you?”

  I smile. “Yeah, I like history. And the fact that it relates to Montrovia, a country I’ve come to love, makes it all the more interesting.”

  “I should have Malcolm give you your father’s book,” he says.

  “How did he come to possess it? Like, under what circumstances?”

  “It arrived in the mail not long after Ares became a recluse, about six years ago.”

  “That was right after Alessandro Vallenta died, right?”

  “Uh, yeah. I guess it would have been,” he confirms.

  “Were you there, on the yacht, when it happened?” I dare to ask.

  “Yes, but I didn’t witness the event. I wasn’t a fan of Alessandro.” He picks up his glass from the coffee table in front of him and takes a long drink.

  “Why not?”

  “I know he was Gio’s brother, but he was always such a pain in the ass. I was honestly shocked when he was chosen to be head trustee over Giovanni.”

  “Did Gio care? Was he upset?”

  “No, he saw it as a win for his brother. Something he didn’t come in second place for. A way his brother could shine. Maybe even do some good in this world.”

  I take the drink from his hand and take a slug, needing some serious fortification before I can risk this all by trusting him.

  “Did Gio ever tell you the truth about Alessandro’s death?”

  “Are you implying he didn’t get drunk and fall over the edge?” he asks incredulously.

  I nod. “He tried to kill Giovanni, so he could be king.”

  Aleksandr’s eyes get huge, and I know for sure that he is shocked by this, but then he says, “That doesn’t surprise me now that I think about it. How do you know this?”

  “With the attempts on Lorenzo’s life, an Israeli spy came to Montrovia. He told Lorenzo that, six years ago, their government caught wind of a plot to kill the king. Of course, with the strait being important to their country along with many others, he was sent to check things out. When Alessandro tried to kill Gio, the spy got involved and fought Alessandro, and during the struggle, Alessandro fell over the rail and died.”

  “I can’t believe Giovanni never told us.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t want anyone in his country to know. Lorenzo didn’t know. But it sort of feels like maybe it is happening again,” I add.

  “What is happening? Lorenzo has no siblings.”

  “Can you keep a secret?” I ask him.

  “Of course.”

  “You won’t even tell Malcolm?”

  He lets out a resigned sigh. “I promise.”

  “Ophelia was behind the kidnapping of me, Lorenzo, and my brother. She wanted to become queen. And we learned that she and Alessandro had equal hatred for their country. It’s possible that the idea of taking over Montrovia didn’t come from either directly, that maybe there was some unknown factor behind the scenes who whispered into both their ears, offering them power.”

  “In exchange for the strait,” he fires back without thought. “Gio was always worried about his country being able to protect it. But he has alliances with both the US and UK.”

  “I believe Lorenzo is still in danger,” I say softly.

  He takes my hand. “You should have told Malcolm and me this earlier. We have known Lorenzo since birth and would protect him like he is our own.”

  “Do you have an emerald ring?” I ask, hoping to catch him off guard.

  He holds up his right hand. “Only diamonds for me, no gemstones, but I did give my wife a spectacular emerald choker for our twentieth anniversary. It is one of her favorite pieces of jewelry and beautifully matches her eyes.”

  “Lorenzo the Magnificent started a secret society within The Society. A group of ten to whom he gave emerald rings to show their inclusion. Those rings have been passed down for generations, always including a male descendant tied to the Montrovian crown. Gio should have been given the ring when his father died, but instead, it sat in the vault before Alessandro wore it.”

  “Are you suggesting this group still exists?” he asks.

  “Yes. And I think they want control of Montrovia.”

  He suddenly leans back, looking gravely concerned. “They would have to be very powerful men.”

  “I would think so.”

  He studies me. “You’ve been researching all of this because you still love Lorenzo?”

  I nod, admitting it, and thankful that’s all he thinks this is about. “And I’m really worried about the Olympics. It’s a big world stage.”

  “I wish I could go to Montrovia,” he says, looking troubled.

  “Why can’t you?” I ask, still wondering if I can trust him.

  “It’s my yearly corporate retreat with my executive team and their spouses. Just happened to fall over the same two weeks. I’ve been so busy; I didn’t realize it was the same time as the Olympics. We know Daniel through Peter, but we’ve never had an interest in the Olympics—although my wife does like watching the ice skating during the Winter Games.”

  “That’s my favorite, too.”

  “And, now, the swimming?” he asks.

  “Yes, I will definitely be at the swimming events,” I say, flashing my red-white-and-blue engagement ring.

  “Any chance you have any extra rooms at your villa?”
he asks.

  “That depends,” I say tentatively.

  “On what?”

  “Where did you and Malcolm suddenly fly to when Peter, Viktor, and me were in Iraq?”

  “Didn’t my wife tell you?” he asks.

  “She said it was work-related, but she didn’t say where you went.”

  “Do you think I have something to do with this group of ten because I’m a trustee?” he asks, finally putting the pieces together.

  “We were attacked by a private military group. They weren’t kidnappers. They were there for us. We used my father’s code to tour all the secret research facilities. Did we see something we shouldn’t have?”

  His eyes search mine. “And you think Malcolm and I could have had something to do with the attack on our own sons?”

  “The timing of your trip seemed suspect. I tried to track your flight, but you’ve hidden the tail number online.”

  He leans back in his chair, takes his phone out of his breast pocket, and opens an app. “This shows the tracking for both of our planes.” He puts in Malcolm’s tail number and then a passcode. It pulls up a list of flights. “What day was it?”

  “July 6th.”

  He hands me the phone. “London to Dubai and back.”

  “What about yours?”

  He cocks his head. “Tricky, just like your father.” He shows me his tail number, which flew from Paris to London and sat idle until his return a few minutes after the other bird touched down.

  “So, that means, someone with a research facility—many of whom are board members on my father’s company—were worried we saw something we shouldn’t have.”

  “And you’re in danger?”

  “I don’t know honestly. All I know is life was a whole lot less complicated before I found out I was Huntley Von Allister. And I have no idea who to trust.”

  Aleksandr taps his chin with his finger and thinks for a long moment before pointing at me. “Corporate espionage is a real threat in any business that creates new ideas, which would be the case of all of the companies with research and development located in the Sphere. Its remote location is one of the benefits. Maybe a researcher panicked and assumed a corporate threat.”

  “We introduced ourselves and told them why we were there.”

  “Still, you got in without going through the proper protocol. They all should have reported it.”

  “You have research and development there. Did your team?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but then again, my son was there on a planned trip. They knew you were coming. I told them to show you the innovative propulsion system for the vessels they were working on.”

  “And they did. They were excited to meet Viktor.”

  “I know.” He smiles proudly. “They told me so.”

  “Did you tell him so?” I ask.

  “No.” He grins at me. “I will though.”

  “Good. But imagine for a moment that we had come in completely unannounced. Would you have sent a team to kill us?”

  “Uh, no.” He nervously taps his foot on the floor as he looks across the room, straight at Harrison McClellan.

  And, before I know it, he’s on his feet, moving in McClellan’s direction, who just stepped outside.

  Halfway there, Malcolm steps in front of him, realizing his friend is upset. They talk and then both calmly follow McClellan out the door.

  I attempt to follow them but am stopped by Allie’s brother-in-law, who wants to dance with me.

  When I finally get outside, Intrepid is standing next to Aleksandr and Malcolm on the rocky cliff where Ari and Allie said their vows earlier.

  “Where’s McClellan?” I ask.

  They all nod toward the sea.

  “There were harsh words spoken between Mr. McClellan and these two gentlemen,” Intrepid says, pointing at Malcolm and Aleksandr.

  “What were you doing out here?” I ask him.

  “Smoking a cigar,” he replies.

  I walk to the edge of the cliff, but it’s too dark to see anything.

  “What happened?”

  “He was drunk and fell,” Intrepid says.

  “What really happened?”

  “I told him I knew he was responsible for the attack on my son in Iraq,” Aleksandr says.

  “And then what?”

  “He said they’d never forgive him and launched himself off the edge.”

  “Merde,” I curse.

  Interesting that he said the same thing as Dupree before he died. I desperately need to find out who they are.

  I sneak back into the reception before anyone notices I was outside. I’m sure the authorities will be arriving soon.

  Once inside, I check every single man in the room, including Sergey Olander and Zayn Kipling, who I believe are the other two Echelon members.

  But none of them are wearing their rings.

  MISSION:DAY SEVEN

  A group of four men are gathered in a salon on Zayn Kipling’s yacht, which is anchored just off the coast of France. It’s not a place they would normally have a meeting of The Echelon, but the vessel has a high-tech countersurveillance system that will suit their purposes for today.

  “Our group has dwindled down to practically nothing,” Sergey Olander states. “Especially with the death of Harrison.”

  “Is that something we should be concerned with?” Zayn Kipling asks. “What if it wasn’t an accident?”

  “There were three witnesses who saw him fall off the cliff,” the leader, Maximillian Olivier, says. “And you saw Harrison earlier. He had been fighting with his wife, who went to her hotel room alone because he was being drunk and obnoxious.”

  “The police didn’t suspect foul play. Besides, neither Malcolm nor Aleksandr would lie about something like that,” Olander says. “Malcolm seemed very upset. He’s a good man.”

  “I’m glad you think so, Sergey,” Maximillian Olivier says. “After the event, I’d like to present him with McClellan’s ring since he did not have a male heir.”

  “What about the other rings?” Zayn Kipling inquires.

  “If the king of Montrovia survives, he will receive Lorenzo the Magnificent’s original ring. Ares Von Allister’s will naturally pass to his son, Aristotle. Once we obtain Dupree’s ring, I’d like it to go to Aleksandr Nikolaevich. Since both he and Malcolm were close friends of Ares, I believe they would strive to honor his vision in the future. When we reacquire the tenth ring from the museum, we will take nominations for that spot, and you all know that Hillford’s ring has been bestowed upon Royston Bessemer.”

  “Who was an idiot and wore it to the wedding. Didn’t McClellan tell him it was only to be worn during meetings?” Sergey asks.

  “I told him such at the reception,” Maximillian says. “He apologized profusely. Said McClellan never told him and that he was trying to honor the memory of Ares at his son’s wedding.”

  “Makes sense, I guess,” Sergey says. “Really, we probably all should have worn them.”

  “Why didn’t Royston join us today?” Zayn asks.

  “While we are confident in our choice,” Maximillian says, “we felt it best not to read him in completely on our plan just yet. We only painted broad strokes.”

  “He’s on a jet with Huntley Von Allister, headed to Montrovia, as we speak,” Rutherford Elingston adds.

  “At least he will be easy to find should the current president not meet our needs,” Maximillian jokes.

  “Is an assassination plan for the president and the vice president of the United States in place?” Zayn wonders.

  “Of course,” Rutherford states. “Our military man in Montrovia will take care of President Spear personally, and we have an asset on the vice president’s staff in Washington.”

  “The military man’s original plan also included the death of Lorenzo Vallenta,” Zayn says. “That doesn’t really seem fair to me since this whole thing was started by his ancestor.”

  “Although Ares Von Allister wanted the Val
lenta bloodline to become the world’s royal family, it’s not a priority as far as I’m concerned. Besides, we have more pressing issues to discuss,” Maximillian says, trying to keep the men on track.

  They are all leaders who are brilliant in their fields and worth a whole lot of money, but it’s not their money that matters anymore. It’s the treasure Hillford hid in the desert that does. It is the treasury upon which Arcadia will be founded.

  “Let’s get back to the reason for our meeting. I’m pleased to announce that all the pieces are in place and our goal for the perfect world lies in the palm of our hands. People at the Olympics will become ill over the next twenty-four hours. Over the next forty-eight hours, as spectators of the opening ceremonies return home, the virus will spread to the rest of the world.”

  “Explain how the virus works again,” Sergey says.

  Maximillian smiles. He finds it remarkable how their plan has evolved.

  Just seven years ago, they were going to use a less reliable supply of poisoned grain from McClellan’s company combined with a coup of Montrovia, featuring Alessandro Vallenta. That was, until the brilliant discovery of a new deadly disease by a scientist who worked for one of Dupree’s companies, a research firm known as PureGen that does nothing but attempt to create diseases that could be used in warfare.

  “Since Dupree isn’t here to explain the science behind it all, I’ll give you the layman’s version as I understand it. The opening ceremonies to kick off the Olympics are being held during the day so as to allow the queen to throw a ball immediately following it. Embedded in the smoke of the daytime fireworks are two airborne viruses that will present as one. The first has flu-like symptoms—a scratchy throat, swollen lymph nodes, low-grade fever, and a unique lacy rash. This virus will spread like wildfire, as there is no incubation period. People will get sick within a few hours of exposure. The people who will die are those who actually attended the opening ceremonies and were directly exposed to the scientist’s disease.”

  “Won’t doctors figure that out?” Zayn wonders.

  “They won’t have time. This is what they will know,” Maximillian explains. “The sick are coming in masses and presenting flu-like symptoms, and shortly after, they develop the telltale rash. Those who have the rash, including extremely healthy athletes, are dying. They will assume that everyone who gets the rash will then also die. That’s why the timing of all this is crucial.”