Destiny

THIRTY-TWO

The building sat alone. It was a Georgian-style mansion with the look of a quaint embassy on R Street in the heart of Washington, D.C. Poplar trees nearly obscured the building from the street. An ornate wrought iron fence encircled the property. Cameras were mounted inconspicuously around the exterior of the building. Satellite dishes sprouted on the roof in positions not visible from the street.

An underground garage, manned by armed guards and electronic surveillance, offered secure entrance and exits for men who were arriving in bomb-proof, chauffeur-driven luxury cars. The building was wired with a sound-masking system, emitting a blanket of white noise throughout the structure. The 20,000 square-foot mansion was renovated and secured with meticulous attention to security and subtle extravagance. It had thirteen opulent, executive offices with adjoining bedrooms and bathrooms.

In a secluded and secure conference room, they met. They were the most exclusive group in the world — the nexus of a club so secretive that the outer circle did not know the inner circle even existed.

They were thirteen disciples of global commerce, power and government — the brotherhood of the billionaires. All men. All in positions of great influence in international business and political positioning. They were the heads of multinational banks, worldwide private equity groups, insurance corporations, governments — the regulators who controlled the ebb and flow of money and power.

Most of the men had graduated from colleges and universities where their great, great grandfathers attended. The inherited acceptance and tuition, long since funded by bloodlines and trust fund cornerstones, was set as soon as the ivy-covered campus buildings bore their surnames like brands. Their contributions to these Ivy League schools also helped ensure the public’s perception of family dynasties as benefactors to hallowed institutions of higher learning and research.

They entered the room wearing suits of armor — charcoal greys and blacks, hand tailored and woven from the world’s finest fabrics. “Good morning, gentlemen,” said Alexander Van Airedale. “Please, be seated.”

The walls of the conference room were the hue of dark honey burled walnut, thick cut and polished. A four-by-six-foot plasma screen was built into one of the walls. A world map displayed on the screen, small amber lights marked capitals, such as Paris, Washington, London, Rome and Tel Aviv.

Alexander Van Airedale, early seventies, neatly parted silvery hair, took his seat at the head of the table. The other men, most of them older than fifty, sat around a conference table made from rare African Blackwood.

Van Airedale sat erect, icy blue eyes locked beneath his thick silver eyebrows. “Let’s move to our immediate concerns, gentlemen. Please turn to the agenda on the first page.”

Each man opened his folder in silence, the soft whisper of air blowing through a vent. Van Airedale put his glasses on and said, “Turkey is in need of pruning. Its branches are getting a little too unwieldy. We’re sensing some unpleasant developments that might have roots going back to the damn Ottoman days, at least before the Ottoman Stock Exchange was established in the seventeenth century. What is the market capitalization of listed Turkish companies, Jonathon?”

Jonathon Carlson was the youngest in the group, fifty-three, short dark hair combed straight back. Face tanned from a long weekend on his 212-foot yacht, SOVEREIGNTY, lying in Bermuda. He said, “Market cap is just shy of one hundred fifty trillion.”

Van Airedale nodded. “Russia’s commonwealth states, its CIS, are pumping billions into Turkey. Now the country’s first nuclear power plant will be built by Russia on Turkey’s southern coast. How will this shape our interests there?”

A man with cotton white hair spoke. “We can expect to lose money, unless we secure a percentage in the proposed oil and gas line.”

“How will this impact our interest in Tupras?” asked Van Airedale.

“It won’t, at least until the power plant is built. Then we could see a drop in revenue.”

Van Airedale adjusted the folder in front of him. “It seems as if part of the deal is now more than an economic partnership; it’s becoming a political partnership as well. Moscow is sending more people into Syria and Gaza to meet with Hamas. The bankrolling of ISIS is cutting into our energy-based revenues.”

Carlson flashed a marauder’s smile. Bone-white, perfect teeth against a deep tan. “Our interests in the Middle East may become threatened if there’s more interference in Israel, particularly the Palestinian issue.”

“If—” Van Airedale said, his wiry eyebrows arching, nostrils flaring, “if Russia has been making money supplying weapons to Syria and Iran, then we have a capital infusion going on, and that would be huge. If the bear decides it’s in the best interest of the motherland to build a nuke plant in Iran, then we will have to make some drastic arrangements. We’ll involve China.”

Carlson said, “They’re already involved since they hold a trillion in U.S. Treasury securities making it the biggest lien holder of American debt.”

Another man at the table said, “In these intelligence notes, the Russian president is quoted as saying that Gaza is facing a human tragedy and Hamas cannot be ignored.”

A man at the far end of the table, the oldest in the room, a touch of cataract forming in his left eye, stirred his black coffee with a silver spoon. He leaned forward and cleared his throat, sagging flesh hanging from his neck quivering, tiny blue veins under his alabaster skin. “A lot of this garbage is fueled by the constant stream of information on the damn Internet. A mobile phone beaming video, a Facebook or Twitter campaign, can change world opinion. Israel doesn’t get it or won’t accept it. Stubborn.”

Van Airedale nodded. “Order is achieved from chaos. Look at Syria.” He half smiled. “Darwin said it best when he wrote that it’s not the strongest of the species to survive. It’s not the most intelligent. It’s the one who can foresee change and adapt to it. As our forefathers knew, change brings order. World order generates productivity, stability and drives the global economies.”

A man with thin, pale lips and thick glasses said, “Since we’re on the issue of Israel, let’s segue down to the last agenda item, if we can. I’ve been curious about this since I received the update list last night.”

“What’s your curiosity, Nathaniel?” Van Airedale asked.

“The agency indicates an American, not just any American citizen, but one that’s up for the Nobel Prize for medicine, Paul Marcus, is in Jerusalem. Marcus also worked for more than nine years in the National Security Agency. He’s reported to be working in some closed-door capacity at the university and with one of its top mathematicians, Jacob Kogen, also known to have direct ties within the Mossad. What I want to know is this: What’s a former U.S. cryptographer, a top code breaker, doing there? Who the hell’s he working for, and what are they trying to achieve in the Middle East?”

“He’s said to be working for the Hebrew University on a biblical research project, something to do with deciphering notes from Isaac Newton as it relates to the Bible.”

“That sounds like pure bullshit,” Carlson said, his eyes darting around the room.

Van Airedale nodded. “Whether there’s any truth to the university research story or not, we do know he’s been inquiring about the assassination of Abdul Hannan in Syria. That’s one of the reasons his name is listed here for discussion.”

“Inquiring to whom?”

“Secretary of State Hanover, for one.”

“What was his line of questioning?” asked Carlson.

“We’re told he asked her if she knew who was behind the elimination of Hannan.”

A dead silence fell over the room.

“Did she reveal this information?” asked Carlson.

Van Airedale shook his head. “No. The conversation was secretly recorded. We’ve long since planted listening devices in Madame Secretary’s office.” His grin melted, and he said, “But on a much more urgent matter, we have word that Paul Marcus has uncovered some information in his research indicating that JFK Junior’s accident wasn’t an accident.”

The men mumbled and exchanged glances as the oldest member asked, “What kind of information?”

Van Airedale deeply inhaled and leaned forward. “Something to the effect of Kennedy’s plane exploding before its unfortunate dive into the sea.”

The table of men all seemed to grumble at once, some of them shifting weight in their European-crafted chairs. “Finally, gentlemen, Marcus seems to have knowledge about a planned attack on the Israeli prime minister’s life.”

“There must me a breach somewhere!” shouted Carlson. “We have to find and eliminate it.”

“Agreed,” said Van Airedale. “We’ll see exactly what our Nobel winner knows before he accepts what may be his final prize on earth.”