I saw Ding Li in the crowd. “I’ll catch up with you,” I let Amit go on ahead. I maneuvered to intercept her. “The guest choked on the fortune cookie, but the fortune certainly surprised the bus boy. What is the waiter up to? We need to talk,” I insisted softly as I walked beside her.
She glanced around. “Not here. You know the Beijing Bistro?”
“Yes.” I’d seen it on the map of Jekyll Island – one of the few restaurants on the north end of the island’s beachfront.
“Lunch at noon,” she proposed.
“See you there,” I confirmed.
I caught up with Amit.
Only that morning did I realize that the Civic Circle’s Social Justice Leadership Forum was really two meetings in one. There were the public sessions being held at the Convention Center in the Beach Village, but the events that really mattered were the private meetings held at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel for the elite and their special guests – who now included Amit, me, and a couple other trusted Civic Youth candidates. I wasn’t sure if we’d been invited because we were trusted, or because they wanted to keep an eye on us, but I was eager to take advantage of the access either way.
We had a half hour before the sessions were supposed to start up again at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel. We decided to walk the mile across the island rather than join the line of people waiting at the shuttle bus stop, so we could have a private discussion. We secured our phones, and the words we’d been holding back all morning for fear of being overheard came pouring out.
“I still can’t believe how pervasive they are,” I acknowledged. “The Civic Circle controls most everything that matters.”
“For now, perhaps,” Amit offered a smug grin. “I assume you wrote a note to pass to Rob?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Here’s mine,” he handed me a slip of paper. “We’re going to attack them tomorrow night, right?”
It was my turn to smile. “Of course. At least, that’s what I suggested to Rob. We’ll need to speak with the Albertians tonight and get their approval. Only way I see it working is if we get in the complex through their cottage, and they can give us the access. It’s safer than trying to distract them away, and hoping the place is empty when we strike.”
“You think you can get them to go along?”
“I can ask. It’ll be much harder if we have to force our way past them. I’ll leave that call to Rob.”
We left the road to follow a narrow walking trail. The Spanish moss hung lazily over the wooded passage as we continued sharing the details of our mutual experiences. The window of freedom was far too short. Soon we were walking past the line of vehicles waiting to get through the check point on Old Plantation Road. The guards checked our ID badges and waved us through. It was interesting how the security perimeter included the Jekyll Island Club Hotel and the Sans Souci, but all the obvious security was around the Jekyll Island Club Hotel. The hotel was merely a decoy, though. The real target, the location of the Inner Circle, was the Sans Souci.
The security at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel was more intense. The guards wanded us and searched our backpacks. Once inside, we made our way to our separate assigned sessions. I covered a session on “Population Control,” while Amit was responsible for keeping the water pitchers full in a parallel session on “Information Control.” Uncle Larry was a panelist in yet another session on “Economic Control,” talking about the Tolliver Corporation’s carrying on the legacy of the late Al Gore: carbon taxes, carbon credits, sequestration, and so on.
The Population Control session was eye-opening. Apparently the Rockefeller Foundation had funded the development of a male anti-fertility vaccine. The Civic Circle had deployed it for use in “select populations,” but the presentation failed to define what populations they regarded as “select.” Instead, they relied mostly on endocrine disrupters, plasticizers, and other chemicals that suppress testosterone and reduce fertility. One chart showed the precipitous decline in average sperm count over the past fifty years of their program. “In combination with the ready availability of abortion on demand,” the speaker claimed, “and our efforts to raise the average age at which women chose to start families, we’ve similarly drastically reduced effective female fertility as well. These techniques allow us to suppress the growth of undesirable portions of our own population, while we create a more diverse and pliant society through large-scale immigration of new citizens less resistant to our enlightened control.”
The ready availability of assisted fertility techniques, he assured the audience, meant that the elite, worthy, successful members of the middle class who could afford the treatments would still be able to perpetuate their successful gene lines at the expense of the rabble. That was my paraphrase, of course. I had to grit my teeth to refrain from commenting on or questioning the well-received talk.
Following the parallel sessions, there was a joint session featuring David Rockefeller, the ninety-something-year-old patriarch of the family. The plenary was held a short distance away in the Morgan Center – formerly an indoor tennis court built for J.P. Morgan in the 1920s, now a huge meeting room.
Ted Turner, the founder of CNN, rose to introduce Mr. Rockefeller. After welcoming the distinguished guests in the audience, Turner lauded Rockefeller.
“We now live in a world where we are related by economics, politics, the environment, technology, and human nature. We can no longer think of the people and problems in other parts of the world as ‘foreign’ to us. David certainly understood this early in the game and has been a tireless and inspirational advocate in this regard. He wears the badge of ‘proud internationalist’ openly, as do I. Without further ado, it is my honor to introduce our keynote speaker, David Rockefeller.”
The audience rose in a standing ovation.
“We are grateful to CNN, the Washington Post, the New York Times, Time magazine, and other great publications and media outlets whose directors have attended our meetings and respected their promises of discretion for almost forty years,” Mr. Rockefeller began. “It would have been impossible for us to develop our plan for the world if we had been subject to the bright lights of publicity during those years. But the world is now much more sophisticated and prepared to march towards a world government. The supranational sovereignty of an intellectual elite and world bankers is surely preferable to the national auto-determination practiced in past centuries.
“For more than a century,” Rockefeller continued, “ideological extremists at either end of the political spectrum have seized upon well-publicized incidents to attack the Rockefeller family for the inordinate influence they claim we wield over American political and economic institutions. Some even believe we are part of a secret cabal working against the best interests of the United States, characterizing my family and me as ‘internationalists’ and of conspiring with others around the world to build a more integrated global political and economic structure — one world, if you will. If that is the charge, I stand guilty, and I am proud of it.” He croaked, reaching for a glass of water.
“The anti-Rockefeller focus of these otherwise incompatible political positions owes much to Populism. ‘Populists’ believe in conspiracies, and one of the most enduring is that a secret group of international bankers and capitalists, and their minions, control the world's economy. Because of my name and prominence as head of the Chase for many years, I have earned the distinction of ‘conspirator in chief’ from some of these people.
“Populists and isolationists ignore the tangible benefits that have resulted from our active international role during the past half-century. Not only was the very real threat posed by Soviet Communism overcome, but there have been fundamental improvements in societies around the world, particularly in the United States, as a result of global trade, improved communications, and the heightened interaction of people from different cultures. Populists rarely mention these positive consequences, nor can they cogently explain how they would have sustained American
economic growth and expansion of our political power without them.”
Rockefeller’s talk continued, followed by a question period during which audience members competed to see who could offer the most effusive praise to the distinguished speaker.
I was glad when it was all over and I could rejoin Amit. I’d parked the TAGS van nearby. As we were leaving, we passed through a throng of reporters just outside the secure perimeter around the hotel. I heard shouts.
“Did the Civic Circle have anything to do with this human trafficking incident?” From our distance, the answer was lost in the noise of the crowd.
“It happened just next door,” another reporter shouted, “just as your meeting starts, and you say there’s no connection?”
“Is this the same Gomulka,” I heard another reporter shout, “who was supposed to be a keynote speaker tomorrow?”
“I see not everyone in the press got their marching orders,” Amit smirked.
“A bunch of those folks are local news,” I pointed out. “They probably aren’t as tightly controlled.”
When we got to the van, I removed the batteries from our cell phones and sealed them in a couple of potato chip bags. We were finally free to talk.
“So what the hell happened?” Amit shook his head incredulously. “I thought the Red Flower Tong was going to smuggle in drugs to incriminate Gomulka, not bring in kids to be sex slaves.”
“I don’t know,” I acknowledged. I thought back over my conversation with the Tong, months ago. “They were supposed to incriminate Gomulka. The details were left up to them. I’d just assumed they’d be smuggling drugs.”
We rode in silence north along Riverside Drive.
“So,” Amit broke the silence, “how was the Population Control session?”
I briefed Amit on the content. “What about the Information Control session?” I asked him.
“Just about as appalling,” Amit summarized. “I got to meet one of the Civic Circle’s ‘Narrative Architects.’” I listened in amazement as Amit described how the Narrative Architect began by stressing the importance of secrecy, using the example of the Report from Iron Mountain to illustrate the negative impact of revealing internal discussions to the outside world. Apparently in the 1960s, the Civic Circle had commissioned a study the conclusion of which was that a continual state of low-level war was essential for the government to maintain power. It leaked to the press, and helped influence public opinion against the war in Vietnam.”
Today, however, the Civic Circle has much better control. Amit explained the Narrative Architect had an email list called “Journolist,” to send real-time talking points out to several hundred key thought leaders, editors, academics, influencers, speech writers, and reporters. “The press,” Amit said with disgust, “they don’t speak truth to power. They’re the power’s palace guards.”
“Ah.” Now it was clear. “That’s how that morning news anchor was using the exact talking points only a couple hours after the Thirteen decided on the narrative.”
“And they were repeated in Governor Bush’s Keynote. Doesn’t seem to be completely effective, though,” Amit pointed out. “I saw Drudge featured some local reporter who fingered Gomulka as being tied to the Civic Circle. He was all over the salacious elements of the story, and the press are having to play catch-up with him. ”
“Hard for anyone to miss that the prime suspect has the exact same unusual name as one of the keynote speakers,” I observed. “I’ll bet that local reporter saw an arrest log, put two and two together, and it was out before they could suppress the connection.”
“Nice to know the Civic Circle’s control has limits,” Amit noted. The Tong sure managed to get Gomulka in hot water. That firewall they tried to build broke through pretty quickly. It was all over the televisions playing in the lobby between the sessions.”
By then, we’d passed the Horton House and continued around the Northern tip of Jekyll Island to arrive at the Beijing Bistro on Beachview Drive.
“You need me to pick you up?” Amit asked.
“No. I figure I can get a ride with Ding Li. Park the van in the lot by the museum and get the keys back to me after lunch, at the plenary on activism at Georgia Tech.”
Amit dropped me off, and I went inside.
The maître d’ saw me surveying the restaurant and asked, “Are you looking for someone?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I’m looking for Miss Ding Li.”
“She’s waiting for you in the Red Flower Pavilion Room, sir. May I take your phone?” I handed him the folded up potato chip bag. “I will return it after your lunch,” he assured me, leading me to the back room. Interesting – that was the same name the Atlanta restaurant gave their private dining room.
“Hello, Peter,” she greeted me.
“Hello, Ding Li.”
“It would appear we were successful. You set up this Gomulka, and we finished him off. Now, the Civic Circle is being held up to ridicule and contempt.”
I was having to get used to her lack of an accent. I was still kicking myself for how badly I’d underestimated her because of her successful act back in Atlanta. A young Chinese man with elf-like features, almost a boy, approached to take our drink orders.
“Green tea,” I requested. “Hot.” This seemed a traditional Chinese establishment, but in the South it’s always wise to specify “hot” tea if you want to avoid receiving sweet iced tea by mistake.
“My pleasure, sir,” our waiter replied with enthusiasm. His intensity creeped me out a bit.
“Bring a pot for the table,” Ding Li ordered.
“Yes ma’am.” He gave me another deeply penetrating look and departed.
Ding Li studied me intently. “You like him?”
I had a feeling I was missing something important. “He seems competent enough.”
“You have been most helpful to us.” She studied me intently. “You will find us grateful. He is… available.”
I suddenly realized what was going on.
“I’m not gay,” I blurted out without thinking.
“Oh?” Ding Li looked surprised, but recovered. “He will be disappointed to learn that. I think he likes you.” She looked deeply at me and smiled. “But you only like me for my tea?”
I returned her gaze. “I’m not sure when is the right time to embroil someone in a honey trap, but while you’re in the middle of collaborating to entrap someone else in one… that’s definitely the wrong time.”
“That is what you think?” She looked disappointed. “You are a valued ally of the Brotherhood. We are your best friend,” she explained smiling, “or we can be your worst enemy.” Her expression became cold. The sudden control she had of her features was unnerving.
Just then, our waiter came with the tea. He set the pot down and carefully arranged four cups on the table.
“We’ll take the hot pot,” Ding Li ordered for us both before I could say anything. “That will be all,” she dismissed him. “Leave us.” He gave me another creepy stare before departing. With smooth and well-practiced motions, Ding Li deftly poured tea in two of the cups, leaving two empty.
“Note which two of the cups I have filled,” she directed me. “You will remember it in the future?”
“Yes,” I confirmed. This was like the tea ceremony I’d witnessed between Professor Chen and the restaurant manager before things went south in my first visit.
“That is your confirmation that Mr. Hung is my uncle, and I am authorized to speak on his behalf in matters pertaining to the Brotherhood. Now you take this cup,” she gestured. “Pour the contents into that cup, and offer it to me.”
I did as she requested.
“That is my confirmation that you are a friend of the Brotherhood, entitled to an audience and such assistance as may be fit to grant. The ritual of the tea ceremony goes back hundreds of years.”
I ran through it one more time with her to make sure I had it down.
“Before you will be offered the tea cere
mony,” Ding Li handed me a beautifully carved jade medallion with an image of a red flower, “you must show this to the gatekeeper: the receptionist, the host, the person at the door of one of our establishments. The medallion signifies that you are a friend, worthy of an audience with Mr. Hung.”
She pulled out another jade disk even more beautiful than the first. Gems sparkled from the eyes of a dragon whose tail encircled the globe. “This medallion shows that you are friend of Honorable Shan Zhu. Show this to Mr. Hung if he requires further persuasion to help you. This signifies that a favor done for you is a favor done for Honorable Shan Zhu.”
This was not quite what I expected. “Thank you. You honor me with your friendship and the trust of the Brotherhood of the Red Flower Tong.”
“So you do understand reciprocity after all?” Ding Li asked with a smile. “Friends do things for their friends.”
“I do,” I acknowledged. “We have exchanged favors to our mutual benefit. Gomulka attacked Chen and would have had him killed. We have now worked together to avenge our mutual friend by incriminating Gomulka.”
“There is more we can do together, though,” she pointed out. “Much more. You were brought before the Thirteen this morning. What did they say?”
I tried not to show I was unsettled by the accuracy of her information. “They questioned me regarding Gomulka. I presume they decided upon the narrative you heard from Governor Bush – it’s a heroic case of illegal immigration that demonstrates why we should open our borders, and an attempt by pro-Iraqi elements to dissuade us from the righteous cause of deposing Saddam Hussein.”
“Yes,” Ding Li nodded. “That could have been foreseen. I know you sought to avoid this war, and you thought that incriminating Gomulka would help toward that end. I regret we are at cross-purposes here. The Brotherhood favors the dominion of the Celestial Kingdom. The Civic Circle aims to weaken your nation to impose their own global dominion using the Celestial Kingdom as their instrument. Either way, China is destined to once again dominate the world.”
The Brave and the Bold Page 23
