Jack thought about it for a second. “The gala?”
“After the gala, there is a meeting. The real reason for all the invitees. You need to be in that meeting if you want to know more.” George finished his drink and toyed with the glass. “May I have another one before we do this?”
“You can come with me,” Jack said.
“No. You need a body. And there is not much I can do to help.”
“You can talk to Daniel, explain the situation,” he tried. With every second it looked more and more likely that he would have to finish his mission, and it hurt him.
George laughed. “You think a man like that allows his plans to be stopped for any reason whatsoever? No. Even if I tell him, he won’t react now. He is the epitome of patience. With that said, he will let things play out until the right moment to exact his vengeance. Which means that I am a dead man. Which also means that if you don’t kill me, then you will join me, and soon.”
Jack hated himself at that moment. Being in such a position was not something he was accustomed to, a check position from which he has no real way out. “Have another drink,” he said with a burdened voice. “And tell me more about the meeting after the gala.”
“Well, after throwing official support for the new administration, there will be an unofficial one with the most powerful men of these United States, as well as some European and Chinese gentlemen. This game is much bigger than the US. The plan Daniel has forged, the plan that is slowly coming to fruition, is not about ruling the US, but about ruling the whole god damn world. Once they have control, they intend to—“
Both men turned toward the window, toward the whistling outside. Not that of man, but that of something more sinister. Jack realized what it was and he turned towards the door then leapt out of the room. In that moment, a rocket flew into the room and blew it up sky high, breaking the construction into tens of thousands of pieces, washing the island in cement, bricks, and dust.
SIX
M arcus was sitting on the chair turned toward the door. In his hand was a pistol, in his head the plans for the future. There is something—he felt deep in his core—that he simply must do to change the current state of affairs in the world. Many dream of changing the world for the better; unlike the many, Marcus possessed the power to do something.
Yet he could not truly break toward the final decision to become involved in the good fight against the Company. Something inside of him was screaming that he should stay in his lane, know his place, and be, as they often say, a good boy.
The rustling of the leaves and the howling of the wind outside bore strange omens. More than likely, he was reading his own dark state of mind in that, lost in melancholy, in pain, looking toward the supernatural to guide him in his life. Was there anything out there to look forward to or should he just end it?
Suddenly, the door was kicked wide open breaking the darkness apart. Marcus leapt to his feet and aimed for the door, grabbing Jack’s lapel.
“J.J.,” Marcus said. He let go of Jack and stepped back, reading the face of his friend. “What’s wrong?” Before he could get a reply, he saw the whole story. Jack’s clothes was ripped, his skin was scratched, and hi face was charred. He looked like he had come out of a coal mine after an accident.
“Evelyn set me up,” he said. “She wanted me to be there, kill Morrow, and then blow me up, remove all the evidence!”
“George Morrow?” Marcus asked.
“I can’t believe she had the audacity to do this to me. To me! How dare she? This bitch was supposed to be my friend, my buddy, and then she turned on me the moment an opportunity presented itself for her to climb the ladder,” Jack raved. He grabbed the slightly torn sleeve of his shirt and tore it off completely, grabbing the next piece of his clothing, and then the next, shredding his shirt into little pieces. All the while, his anger grew. As he ranted and cursed, the table got flipped over, the chair broken against the floor, and all the papers scattered around the floor. Defeated, Jack leaned against the wall, breathing with a touch of raspiness in his voice. “God help us all, Marcus,” he said. “It is too much. This game, man... This game is hard. No one is your friend and everyone is your enemy. Every word you say, every step you take—all observed with great attention and analyzed. All the corporations are like this. All of them. Most people bet their livelihood on them, we bet our lives.” His gaze was lost in an unknown place. “Why is the world built like this? Can it truly be our nature to dominate in such a horrible manner? Or is it really just them? Maybe they did build the world in their own image like they always wanted to, just to pit us against each other in this world and let the same people keep making their profits and their dividends.”
As Jack spoke, Marcus moved closer to him. He grabbed one of the remaining chairs and put it behind Jack. Then he stood by his side, silent and steady, listening intently to what Jack was saying, offering an ear to an ailing friend.
“All the way back in the eighteenth century, Adam Smith—the “father” of our economy—said himself that the only way to true liberty and financial freedom is by eliminating corporate privilege. Why didn’t we listen to him? Why did I allow myself to be blindsided by this whole ordeal? It’s a damned corporation. This is how they operate. They pretend you’re all together in something, and they turn around and stab you in the back. The higher the people climb the corporate ladder, more people they hurt, within and without that organization.” Jack sighed, defeated. He crashed in the chair Marcus had put behind him and said nothing for a while. Only then did Marcus pull a chair for himself closer.
“Can you give me a cigarette,” Jack asked.
“I don’t have any,” Marcus replied.
“It’s right there, on that shelf,” Jack pointed. “Yeah, you got it.”
Marcus handed Jack the cigarette and resisted the temptation to take one for himself; he was still in recovery.
“You asked me why I upped and decided one day to rebel against the Company,” Jack started. “It’s rather hard for me to talk about it as a black man. Most people see us as complainers, a people that ‘don’t want to fight for the American dream’. Most black people are afraid to say anything because that very notion American society has about us.” Jack took a long drag on his cigarette. “When I was in the file room, I was looking for something related to Venezuela. As I went through all the many, many files, I stumbled upon a very intense one.” Jack fell into a silence as the smoke swiveled from his hand into the light, like an exotic dance around a pole of sorrow. He was like a statue, an artwork born of melancholy. Marcus was burning with the desire to know why, but he wasn’t going to push for the answer.
“That file... it dates back to the sixties, when Dr. King was still alive. In that file was outlined the importance of controlling the Negro as they were causing too much upheaval in society, threatening the livelihood of good American folk—which means white.” Jack paused for another drag. Marcus was unsure where the conversation was going, but he wasn’t going to interrupt Jack. “See, the suppression of black people,” Jack continued, “was meticulously planned—which we all know, of course. Then they outlined the plan to stop the Civil Rights Movement, which culminated in the death of Dr. King. But the file went on to the latest redaction, which was written in 2014, by none other than the man who is to be our new Attorney General. In that meeting it was said that it’s important to keep black people in proverbial shackles because it’s important for America to have an enemy. They realized that if black people take the news so often, all the world will be watching. That way they can do pretty much anything they want in the background.
“Of course, this is America, and something is always going on. Gay rights, binary genders—or rather non-binary—or whatever. What does binary even mean?” Jack dropped the cigarette and took another one out. “The main conclusion in this meeting was that it’s good to have black people fight each other and fight the system and fight the white supremacy. Mix that in with gay people and with polit
ical correctness and poor people—you get constant chaos. It’s systematic, man, is what I mean. Constant threat of something makes people fear all the time, makes them distracted. That creates an opening for them to do whatever they want, to hatch their plans and do whatever they want to do.”
Marcus was observing Jack’s slumped body, his weakness, and his sadness. He felt that Jack hadn’t yet arrived at his point.
“I realized that they were just using me. Me and my people were nothing but tools to them, a means to an end. I know that I am not the first corporate stooge to wake up. I think that most people one day wake up and realize that their employers are evil, making money at the expense of everyone else. You know, the common people, the working men, retirees. How many lives were ruined or destroyed because of what—money? Power? Both probably.
“When I saw that, I could not stand for the Company anymore. I could not let that happen while I make the money and climb the ranks. That is why I gave you that file on Covid. That is why I called you that day and took your shot. I decided to destroy them. Or die trying.”
Marcus let the last words linger in the air for a while. “What happened to you?”
“Tonight I survived, but they don’t know that. They probably think I am dead and gone, disappeared from this world forever,” he shook his head in disbelief.
“Tell me what all of this has to do with George Morrow,” Marcus said. “Because I went through the paperwork and discovered his name. I realized that he was laundering money for almost all the one-percenters.”
Jack looked Marcus straight in the eye. “We’re going to crush them,” he said. “They blew me up, Markie. Blew me up!”
“Jack, come on, focus. You can’t beat these people with emotion—you need your head in the game. Now tell me what you found out.”
“George Morrow was Thoros’ lover,” Jack said. “That’s how they knew each other. He was the man with Thoros before Daniel showed up that day. He was in charge of their money—hundreds of billions of dollars. Auctions, paintings, cars, real estate... whatever. He was an artist. He told me that he realized that Evelyn is to blame for his lover’s death, so he wanted to take revenge. He started asking around, wondering what Evelyn was up to. The word eventually got to her.”
“And she doesn’t do loose ends,” Marcus said, leaning back in the chair, burdened by the realization.
“Exactly.”
“What else?”
“He told me that the gala in a few days is not important. Apparently it’s just a cover for a meeting that is supposed to take place after that gala, where all the game-deciders, the true rulers of the world, will convene. American, German, Chinese, among many others. What passes in these meetings, I am sure I don’t know.” Jack’s mind wondered and his eyes focused on some dot on the wall. “This bitch tried to blow me up, man. With a rocket. What the hell is up with that? You know what I mean? Just put a bullet in my head.”
“Look, Jack,” Marcus said in a soft voice. “You wanted me in. In order for me to throw myself into this, I need to know that you’re with me because I can’t do this on my own. I want to help you. I, too, want to see these bastards pay, but I want to do this for you, my friend. We have been through too much not to help each other. So focus.”
“Tried to blow me up, man,” Jack said.
Partly because he was becoming frustrated and partly because it was a good strategy, Marcus slapped Jack with full force, feeling that in his wounds but refusing to show it. Jack glared at him in shock.
“We need to be at this gala, J.J. We need to see who is in that meeting to understand what the master plan is. Wake up. Take a shower, get some sleep, and tomorrow we have to start with this.”
Jack’s expression was unchanged.
“You know what they’re doing. You know where this is going. I mean, it is something bad for the whole world. I know you’re in pain—physical and emotional both. But we don’t have the time for this. We need to act. Now.”
Marcus could see that he had finally found a way to Jack.
“Your anger needs to be aimed at the real problem, not this superficial shit. It’s not Evelyn. It’s not anyone who set you up. It’s the Company. It’s them. Take action for yourself, for your people, for the whole world.”
Jack sighed, unable to meet Marcus’ gaze, knowing he was right. “I know. This goes higher than even Daniel. They want the world, not only America. Before George could tell me what exactly they were planning, the rocket flew in and blew us both up. A rocket, Markie. A rocket,” he paused. “The point is that they are doing something awful, and you’re absolutely right—we have to know what they’re playing at.”
Marcus nodded, feeling himself grow more at ease and comfortable. “That’s what I need from you. The best way to take revenge is to destroy everything they’re building. Stop them.”
Jack nodded back and extended his arm. Marcus took it firmly and held it. The two men were millimeters away from each others, their foreheads almost touching.
“Together,” Marcus said, reminiscent of what they would say to one another before every drill in the days before they got separated.
“Always together,” Jack replied. “We’ll make this happen.”
The steely determination in Jack’s voice gave strength to Marcus. There was a chance. Because together, side by side, as brothers, they can take the fight to them.
SEVEN
T he reflectors shone purple, green, and white lights, dancing on the mansion, a kaleidoscope of extravaganza, privilege, and prestige. Women in silver and diamond-crusted dresses were holding their men in perfectly tailored tuxedos under their arms, their heads held high, their power palpable. Sheiks, politicians, billionaires, and public figures of all the global superpowers crowded the parking lot with their limos, Rolls Royces, Ferraris, and Lotuses, their engines revving to lounge jazz in the background.
“Okay, here we go, boys,” Marcus said into the microphone. “Chang reported that the target is on his way.”
Marcus moved his eyes to another screen that was showing the party from the inside. “Didier, you all good?”
The screen went dark for a moment before the footage returned. That was the signal—when Didier covers the camera in response to a question for a few seconds means yes. Marcus returned his focus on the front entrance of the house.
“J.J., you copy?”
“Copy,” Jack replied. “Nothing here for now.”
“Copy that. Stay in position and stay alert.”
Marcus leaned back in the chair and watched the screens. He thought that the biggest threat to their mission was Jack and the current emotional turmoil he was going through, the anger and the desire for vengeance that were his main drivers. That is why Marcus was checking up on him.
His eyes were running from one screen to another, his brain was digesting everything, making plans and working on possible outcomes of the whole affair. To be a manager was to be responsible for everything and everyone, and, in this case, the stakes were their lives.
“Target approaching,” Chang said.
The screen to the left showed a coach approaching with full entourage of one front and two follow Range Rovers, most likely filled with professionals in the game, with the eyes of an eagle and the quickness of a jungle cat.
“Target arrived,” Marcus said. “Didier, you copy?”
The middle screen went black for a moment before the footage resumed. Didier was standing in the kitchen, waiting for a reason to get onto the main floor.
“We have the Senator coming out of the coach. Ellen Morris is there as well,” Marcus said. “Ladies and gentlemen, all things considered, I think that I am looking at our future President and First Lady.”
Screen One showed Didier walking into the main room, a tray with champagne glasses in his right hand. He was in a pool of dignitaries, ambassadors, politicians, local and foreign alike, all indulging in champagne, barely acknowledging him, when the frame caught Daniel Clarkson in the dista
nce, standing right in the middle, his right hand grasping that of Senator Morris and his left resting on the man’s forearm. They were both smiling, their bodies reflecting their joy and content. Then the Senator took his place to the left of Daniel and faced the entrance.
As if in some directed play, all the invitees approached the two men in the middle of the room and shook their hands, firmly and respectfully. Two Arab gentlemen bowed slightly to the two men, and they returned the favor. Once more, as if in an orchestrated event, other Arab gentlemen followed the first two, creating a complete picture for Marcus; the Company was friendly with all the key players in the Middle East, those who owned petroleum companies, airlines, those whose wealth cannot be calculated as they themselves do not know how wealthy they are.
Didier had to go back to the kitchen for more champagne, but the evening carried on uninterrupted for the gentlemen for whom the entire gala was organized. In the background, the music shifted from jazz to Mozart as the orchestra settled in; Symphony No. 40 filled the tall room wall to wall, dancing in everyone’s ears, inviting sinister notions and raw emotions. Every attendee was there for one reason—world domination. Individually, they were powerful, but together, they controlled it all. They had access to every single detail about every single person on Earth, all at their fingerprints. And we gave it to them, Marcus thought. Our cellphones, laptops, our desire for convenience. They don’t even have to spy on us. He sighed.
As Didier returned to the main room, the time for pharmaceutical, software, and social media giants to shake the hands of those they followed had come. Never in the history of any reception of a Senator had there been so many owners and founders of influential and controlling companies of the world. They were doing it out in the open, showing Marcus that the gala tonight was indeed far more than just a party for the wealthy. And it was something more than just donors supporting a new president. No self-respecting businessman would ever dare shake a politicians hand out in the open. More importantly, no politician would ever allow his hand to be shaken by those the public loathes the most.
All the Company Men: Marcus Grimshaw #2 (The Secret State) Page 6
