Malice

17

While Ivgeny Karchovski was drowning a traitor in New York Harbor, V. T. Newbury's uncle led him down the hall, past the still smiling receptionist and through a pair of frosted glass doors. Now they were standing in a vestibule outside another elevator and a set of stainless steel doors that looked like the entrance to a bank vault.

His uncle noticed him look at the elevator and said, "VIP. Goes straight to a private area in the parking garage. Sometimes our clients are trying to avoid the intrusions by the overzealous press. They like their privacy, even those who otherwise must lead public lives, and we respect that."

Dean Newbury turned to the steel doors and paused. "As a matter of fact, I hope you will honor my request to keep the identities of my associates confidential. You may recognize some of them, but all are important men who have to be careful about how their lives are reported, as well as where they go from a security standpoint."

"You may count on it," V.T. promised. He saw no reason to want to discuss his uncle's cronies, and he had to admit that all the buildup was making him curious.

"Good lad, knew I could count on the old Newbury discretion," Dean said, smiling, and pressed the palm of his right hand against a pad next to the door. There was a slight click and the door slid open, revealing a large meeting room dominated by a round wooden table around which sat eleven men.

Most of the men rose when they entered, except for those who appeared too elderly to rise without assistance. They were all white and ranged in age, he guessed, from forties to nineties.

"Gentlemen, may I introduce you to my nephew, Vinson Talcott Newbury," Dean said. "The son of my late brother and the last male member of this line of Newburys."

Eleven pairs of eyes focused on V.T., who felt like a crown prince being presented at court for a throne he wanted no part of.

Dean walked V.T. around the table to introduce him to each man. As they moved from one to the next, V.T. was increasingly impressed by the credentials of this set of "cronies": a U.S. senator from Tennessee, a congressman from Utah, a general at the Pentagon, the assistant director of an unnamed intelligence agency, a commentator from a television network, two federal judges, two bank presidents, a wealthy entrepreneur, and another prominent attorney, who'd been a recent past president of the American Bar Association-and, of course, his uncle.

V.T. knew several of the men on sight, and a couple more by reputation. But it was safe to assume, as his uncle had pointed out, that this was a council of equals. He thought he recognized several of the older men from his grandfather's and Quilliam's funerals.

And now gathered here to meet little ol' me, V.T. thought. I don't know whether to be flattered or to try to make a run for it. Looking down at the table, he noted the symbol on Quilliam's ring-the tre cassyn-was also embossed in gold in the wooden top. He glanced around and noticed that all of the others were, indeed, wearing rings like the one he'd just been given. The thought suddenly made the ring seem very heavy and he longed to take it off, but didn't out of deference to his uncle.

The members took their seats and V.T.'s uncle continued with the introduction. "Gentlemen, I've taken the liberty of explaining that we are members of a sort of ancient fraternity with ties back to Old Europe," he said. "But I was just thinking that a more apt description might be a 'think tank' that meets from time to time to discuss, and perhaps take some action to deal with, issues that confront this country. You will never hear about us in the news, Vinson, but you might be surprised at what we have accomplished behind the scenes for a great many years. But we'll leave the discussion of history for another day. Am I right, gentlemen?"

The gentlemen nodded their assents, and he continued. "As you all know, I'm trying to persuade my nephew to return to the family fold and possibly take up the mantle of his family's law firm. I would like nothing better than knowing that when I pass from this world, the firm of Newbury, White amp; Newbury will be left in the good hands of someone who understands the great responsibility of this charge."

"Hear, hear," the others replied, though V.T. thought the "vote" was less than fully enthusiastic.

"To that end, I wanted him to meet you, my most trusted associates and advisors, and perhaps in the company of such an august group, he may also come to understand that there is much he could accomplish at the helm of this law firm and as part of this 'fraternity.'"

Another round of "Hear, hear"s ended the introduction, and the rest of the meeting was spent chatting while dinner was served. While this was less formal, with one-on-one and small-group conversations, V.T. got the impression that it was actually the more important phase of the "examination."

Most of the questions seemed aimed at finding out where he stood on the political spectrum. He considered himself somewhat conservative, though with definite liberal tendencies when it came to social issues.

He answered honestly, including what he thought of the Patriot Act, which was that in times of war, a country's government sometimes needed extraordinary powers. "Especially against such a difficult enemy as global terrorism," he said. "However, it's a balancing act between giving government enough tools to protect us from enemies without, and protecting us from the government overstep-ping its bounds in regard to intrusions into private lives."

After dinner, his uncle escorted him back out of the room and to the elevators that would take him to the lobby. "Well done," Dean said, shaking V.T.'s hand. "I think that went rather well for a start. Please remember what we agreed regarding our little meeting. Mum's the word."

"I promise," V.T. replied. "Not a peep. So the others are staying?"

Dean looked back toward the stainless steel doors. "Yes, we have a number of business items and housekeeping matters to attend to," he said. "A regular Rotary club meeting with minutes and reports. It's boring stuff and, unfortunately, likely to take up the rest of the night. Due to the distances involved, and busy schedules, we don't get the opportunity to meet face-to-face very often and have to seize the opportunity when it presents itself."

Placing a hand on V.T.'s arm, he looked his nephew in the eye. "This is an important trust you've been offered. Our aspirations for you go beyond this law firm, such as eventually a seat on the U.S. Supreme Court. And why not, there are kingmakers in this room who might be able to help."

V.T.'s mouth fell open. "You're telling me that this 'fraternity' or 'think tank' can arrange to have me appointed to the highest court in the country? I thought that was the prerogative of the president and confirmed by Congress?"

Dean Newbury spread his hands as if to say stranger things have happened. "I wouldn't say 'arrange,' or even guarantee that such a thing could be done. Of course, you would have to be qualified, perhaps by starting with an appointment to a federal bench for a bit of seasoning. But we do have a certain amount of influence in the political arena, as well as with the American Bar Association, which as you may know has for the past fifty years issued its evaluations of the credentials of nominees to the federal bench and particularly the Supreme Court."

"Yes, I know the ABA issues a report to Congress on whether they believe a candidate is 'well qualified,' 'qualified,' or 'not qualified.' But they have no official standing in the selection process," V.T. pointed out.

"Perhaps not, but a 'well qualified' usually leads to confirmation," his uncle replied. "Presidents and the Congress can't be expected to know the qualifications of every nominee. As in any other business, they rely on advisors, including the ABA."

V.T.'s mind was reeling. He'd promised his uncle that he would keep an open mind, but that was when he thought the job offer was going to be a senior partnership and eventual control of the family firm. He wasn't naive enough to think that such things as nominations to the U.S. Supreme Court were free of political maneuvering. Anybody who read a newspaper knew how rancorous and partisan the proceedings could be once the nominee got to the congressional hearings. But something that a few powerful men could arrange?

V.T. thought that the group was a little carried away with its self-importance and influence. Then again, he thought, I'm sure the demagogues of the Christian right sit around convincing themselves that they have more influence than they do. Just like the left-wing appeasers in the Democratic Party think the public will follow them like lemmings just because they rail nonstop against everything the incumbent Republicans try to do, particularly as it relates to counterterrorism. Which is, of course, why they keep getting disappointed in November.

"Well," he said, flustered. He cleared his throat to give himself a little more time to find the right words without insulting his uncle. "This is certainly unexpected, and I don't really even know how to respond without a great deal more thought. But I do appreciate the honor that you consider me worth the thought."

"Well, my boy, I have to admit there's a little ego involved," the old man said. "There's been a Newbury on that council for nearly two hundred years. We don't want to mess up that run now, do we?"

The elevator opened and V.T. stepped in. He turned around and nodded. "I'd hate to be the one to do that. I'll give it a fair hearing."

When the doors closed, Dean Newbury stood for a moment pondering his next move. He turned and reentered the meeting room and immediately addressed the others. "So, gentlemen, your thoughts?"

"Dangerous, this fire you're playing with," the television commentator said. "His father betrayed you…us…and your nephew works for the enemy, the Jew Karp."

"Well, I believe the old, overused saw is 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' But I am not sure that my nephew cannot be turned to a friend," Dean Newbury replied. "You better than most of us understand how easily opinions can be swayed with the right choice of words and enticement. And besides, haven't we always held that blood is thicker than water?"

"Blood of firstborn sons," the senator pointed out. "He was not brought up in the brotherhood."

Dean Newbury understood the argument. He'd heard it before. The seats around the table had been passed from firstborn son to firstborn son for more than two hundred years. Ever since their ancestors had first arrived, fleeing the reach of the British Navy. But the line of succession had not always been straight. Some of their predecessors had been childless or had not produced male heirs. Or the firstborn son had died, like Quilliam, and there'd even been several who rejected the cause, like Quilliam, and had to be watched carefully for any sign of disloyalty.

Therefore, sometimes the seats had been filled in other ways. Second sons had been indoctrinated and accepted into the brotherhood to replace their fathers, or, as would be V.T.'s case, a first son of a second son. But they usually started the process of "education" much younger than V.T., when the mind was easier to mold.

However, Dean Newbury had been forced into the present situation by several betrayals. The first was his own body, which had failed to produce any more male heirs, only two daughters, who themselves had only produced daughters. The second had been Quilliam, who'd recoiled from his rightful place and joined the marines.

The third betrayal, or actually a series of betrayals, he laid at the feet of his brother, Vincent. Their father had never trusted Dean's younger brother, who had not been given much more than a basic understanding of the family's history and did not know the true source and extent of their wealth.

It had been a struggle just to get him to go to law school so that he could at least help the firm's pantheon of rich and important clients. Then they'd had to wean him from the radical clique of do-good lawyers who met in Brooklyn at Julius Karp's house and spent their Saturday evenings prattling about a sacrosanct Constitution, when anybody with any intelligence knew that adjustments needed to be made to the document to reflect modern concerns.

However, Vincent had learned more than he should have about the family's business. Never the full story or the details, or the names of the other members of the council, but enough to be dangerous. Then he'd somehow made it past the state-of-the-art security system, gained access to Dean's office, and stole the old mustard-colored book that was kept on a shelf. He'd berated himself for keeping the book, or at least for keeping it where someone might see it. But then he hadn't expected to be betrayed by his own brother.

The reasons for keeping the book were uncharacteristic for Dean Newbury. Most copies of the self-published book had been destroyed before they could get out to the public. It had been written by another traitor in the late 1930s, who had met an untimely end sleeping off a bender inside a warehouse where he kept most copies of the book. The warehouse mysteriously caught fire, killing the author and destroying all other copies of the book and the printing plates that made them. However, several copies had been saved by the arsonist to present to members of the council, including Dean's father.

How long the book was missing before he noticed it was not in its place, Dean didn't know. He wasn't even sure at first who took it because the security camera tapes, which were recycled once a week, had already been wiped clean. It had remained a troubling mystery until a security guard saw his brother on one of the monitors enter the office and remove something from under his desk.

Nothing was found on a subsequent security sweep, but Dean suspected that his brother had removed a listening device. There'd been a moment of panic, when he recalled a recent conversation he'd had with Jamys Kellagh regarding "the project." But he calmed down when he thought about the fact that they'd been speaking in the ancient tongue, which few would know how to translate, and even if someone did, they'd spoken in code.

What had been done after that was necessary in regard to his brother's betrayal. Vincent's chef had been instructed to prepare a stew with a large amount of foxglove stem cut up in the mix. Foxglove was of course a natural source of digitalis-a useful medication for heart disease, but also fatal if taken in too great an amount. A cursory examination, however, would have led to the conclusion that Vincent was the victim of an accidental overdose. But even that wasn't a worry, as the Newbury family doctor had pronounced the death was due to a massive heart attack, and then the family's contact at the Medical Examiner's Office rubber-stamped the death certificate.

However, the book was not found in Vincent's office, his apartment in Soho, nor the beach house in Cape Cod. Dean had spent many sleepless nights and countless hours in the day second-guessing himself for not torturing his brother to find the book before he was killed.

Then luck turned their way. Kellagh traced the book to a store in the East Village. However, he also reported that the owner of the bookstore was a friend of Lucy Karp. Kellagh had then made a unilateral decision to destroy the book and kill the people who knew of its existence, a decision that worried the council, though nothing could be done about it at that point.

The book and Magee had perished in the fire, but the Karp girl survived-yet another example of the infernal luck surrounding that family. Dean considered having Kellagh kill her; he was certainly close enough to do it. But on reflection, he wasn't worried about what she might reveal now that the book was gone. It had been written in the 1930s, the names chosen for disguise were common, and even with the book it would have been difficult to trace them to their current descendants-and, in the case of those members who'd failed to produce male heirs, many of the family names were different. But murdering the daughter of the district attorney would have brought far too much unwanted attention, and his "fraternity" had done everything it could for two hundred years to avoid detection.

As Cian Magee had guessed, the small band of Manxmen smugglers with their families had created an empire more powerful and wealthy than many of the world's governments. They'd learned the art of deception from the past, and had the patience to await the right tides and fortuitous winds that would enable them to slip past British men-of-war.

Avoiding any publicity outside of their legitimate roles as successful businessmen, lawyers, politicians, and military officers, they'd slowly shifted the family business away from purely criminal enterprises to a balance between legal and illegal endeavors. However, they'd never abandoned their smuggling roots-from bootlegging liquor during Prohibition to providing arms to Fidel Castro during the Cuban revolution.

In the early 1960s, they'd recognized the enormous potential of the drug trade and arranged with the organized crime syndicates like the Mafia, and newcomers such as the Crips, to provide the transportation and border-crossing expertise. They'd been smart enough to be satisfied with their piece of the pie and never got into dealing drugs, which might have brought them into violent competition with their clients. But they could also be ruthless if someone tried to cross them or cut them out of the loop.

Drugs had been lucrative and remained so, as well as a way to control the mud people in their ghettos and barrios. But currently the greatest profits were in smuggling the second most traded commodity in the world behind oil. Weapons. Always a good money-maker, going back to the days of supplying American Indians and the Confederate army. World events in the last half of the twentieth century had made arms dealing more profitable than ever.

In fact, the end of the cold war had been a godsend. The fall of the Soviet Union had freed all those little states to buck Russian rule, and they needed guns for that. Dean Newbury and his associates had found high growth markets in the Balkans and Africa, and then a new surge with the rise of Islamic extremism. At times they'd even cooperated with governments, like the United States when it wanted to supply rebels in Afghanistan with the arms to fight the Soviets. Dean Newbury and his partners could have cared less who got hurt. If Slavs and Arabs and Jews wanted to kill each other, more power to them-as long as they had the money to buy weapons.

The families' worldview had evolved with their fortune and time. Dealing in slaves had taught them that the Negro was an inferior species, hardly human. And Arabs could boast all they wanted about being the originators of algebra or ancient civilizations, but this was a "what have you done lately" world. And the answer was: little more than breed like vermin and remain ignorant slaves to a seventh-century dogma.

The Sons of Man had bigger plans…plans Hitler and Stalin had failed to realize, but that were possible and headed in the right direction. The first major step would be the control of the U.S. government and the American public. There had been some among them who prior to World War Two thought that the time was near for taking over in the United States. Hitler had been on the rise in Germany, a man who truly understood that Jews and subhumans would someday overrun the world and drain the resources if there wasn't a "Final Solution." And the council had energetically supported the American Nazi Party and, ironically, the isolationist and peace groups who wanted to keep the United States out of the war in Europe. The hope was that a United States government controlled by the Sons of Man could join hands with Nazi Germany and rule the world. But the dream was ruined when the damned monkey-men in Japan attacked Pearl Harbor and brought the United States into the war on the other side.

The next opportunity had been the rise of Senator Joseph McCarthy, a demagogue whose anticommunist fear mongering had convinced the American public that the communists and lefties were at the door. They'd spent a lot of money wooing the senator and tried to influence him, with some success, but that moment, too, had passed when the senator flamed out.

After President Dwight Eisenhower warned the American public about the growth of the "military-industrial complex," there were those on the council who felt he was hitting too close to home and wanted him assassinated. We are the fucking military-industrial complex, one of the older men had snarled. But cooler heads had prevailed by pointing out that there'd be hell to pay for a popular president's murder.

Now there were new opportunities to cement their power. White America was growing paranoid about unchecked illegal immigration and the growing numbers of mud people. And they were frightened of terrorism perpetuated by Islamic extremists. Using the bogeymen of the public's fears, the Sons of Man had seized on the moment to push the populace of the United States into easing the grip on their precious rights in exchange for the safety of an all-powerful, all-knowing government. A government influenced covertly by the council.

The current strategy was to use the terrorists until the Sons of Man could consolidate their power, and then with their friends in Russia, who had similar designs on controlling that part of the world, they'd crush the Muslims along with any other troublesome people in the world. And they'd do it with nuclear bombs and other WMDs if necessary. After all, who could stop them-moral arguments against such necessary slaughter were for the weak.

However, the terrorists weren't always easy to control. The council received the warning that the World Trade Center was about to be attacked with barely enough time to sell off stocks that would be negatively affected and buy into companies whose stock would rise. But those are the breaks when dealing with sand niggers, Dean Newbury reminded himself.

The road to ultimate power was not a smooth one. A case in point was the continued existence, and even interference, from the Jew Karp and his family and friends. Somehow they kept escaping the best attempts to eliminate them, and they'd managed to foil what should have been major steps forward in the plan.

However, the latest failure could be chalked up to one of those firstborn sons who some of his fellow council members were arguing were so important. "Have you forgotten that Andrew Kane was a firstborn son of a firstborn son?" he asked the others.

"An abomination," the general snarled. "The bastard kid of the father fucking his whore daughter. Kane should have never been allowed to inherit his father's seat."

"My point exactly," Newbury said. "A useful tool, and if he'd pulled it off, we might be singing a different tune. But my point is that from time to time we've realized that we should not be iron-bound to the canon of first sons if the candidate is defective or untrustworthy. We seem to be forgetting that until Kane's personality disorders got the best of him, he was our golden boy-the next mayor of New York City, and a strong candidate for a run at the White House."

"Well, at least he was brought up in our ways," one of the bankers said. "Your nephew is fiftysomething and a lifelong 'public servant' known for his fundamentalist views on the Constitution. And then there's his friendship with Karp. I don't see how it can work."

Dean shrugged. "Granted, it may be a difficult sell," he said. "Unless he can be convinced that it's for the good of his country."

"Brainwashing?" the congressman scoffed.

"A version, perhaps," Dean replied. "But gentlemen, I'm not suggesting that he be initiated straight into the council. We can bring him along slowly and see what sort of candidate he makes. Perhaps blood will tell. If not, there is a spot next to his father in the Newbury plot."

"And what will you do for an heir if this experiment fails?" the senator asked.

"The daughter of one of my sisters has a ten-year-old son who seems bright enough. The family might prevail upon his parents to let him live under my wing, where he can be provided with all of life's best advantages." And maybe persuade them to allow me to adopt the boy so that the Newbury name is not lost, he thought.

"A wiser choice, I think," the television commentator said.

"Perhaps if I had the time to raise another boy," Dean replied. "But I want the wheels set in motion for our great triumph before I die."

With that said, Dean moved to put the debate over his heir aside for the time being. They had a more pressing matter to attend to: Senator Tom McCullum. Bad enough that he was questioning the legitimacy of the Patriot Act; the council had supported the act as a small step forward toward a government they'd control. But now he was also calling for a full-out congressional probe into the attack at St. Patrick's Cathedral, the involvement of the Russians, and allegations-all true-that the "act of terrorism" had been arranged to turn world opinion against Chechen nationalists. McCullum had gone so far as to hint that he believed that certain factions in both governments were using Islamic extremists for their own ends. And that was really hitting close to home.

McCullum was one of the most persuasive speakers on the Hill. He had a way of uniting both liberal and conservative factions, especially as a champion of the Constitution. After much debate, and going back and forth-after all, assassinating a U.S. senator was not to be taken lightly-the council had decided that it could not risk the potential that a congressional hearing might lead Senator McCullum to them.

The council's plan had been set in motion by Newbury's conversation in Manx with Jamys Kellagh. The Sons of Man would march with the Sons of Ireland to silence the critic for the good of all.

Kellagh was next on the evening agenda. Dean pressed a button beneath the table and spoke so that the receptionist could hear. "Miss Rauch, would you let Mr. Kellagh know that we are ready to see him."

A minute later, Jamys Kellagh entered the room. It was not his real name, but he had not used that since he was a teenager and it had been determined what career path he would take. He was the son of a male family member but not a first son, and groomed to be a second-level operative like his father.

Kellagh remained standing while the others questioned him about his mission in the East Village that December.

"Do we know for certain that the book perished with the bookkeeper?" the old general asked.

"I was there when the girl climbed out of the window," he said. "She did not have the book, and the place was gutted."

"Good," the general said. "But are we confident that what she was told does not compromise the bigger mission?"

Kellagh shook his head. He hated reporting failures to this group, both because he believed in the cause and because it could be dangerous. Too many things had already gone wrong. It started with the mess at St. Patrick's because of Kane. But it continued when the man he'd sent to murder the reporter in her apartment had tumbled off the roof. The man's name wasn't Don Porterhouse, a piece-of-shit rapist who'd been killed and his identity switched with Kellagh's man, one of his best assassins and a former colleague at the agency, years earlier. Then the bitch had survived another attempt to kill her at the cafe in Brooklyn, though that he could blame on Nadya Malovo.

"I don't think there's a problem," he said in answer to the general's question about Lucy Karp. "She heard a story about some odd group from history about which there's never been anything more up to date than the book. They were able to translate a message in the old tongue between Mr. Newbury and myself, but they had no clue what it means. I think we are safe to go forward as planned."

"What about Butch Karp?" a banker asked.

"He's supposed to be taking it easy, doctor's orders, and is occupying himself with a civil case in Idaho of all places," Kellagh replied. "Right now, he's still here in New York, but he doesn't go to the office and about the only other activity he seems to have is breakfast with a bunch of retired old duffers who sit around arguing about the Constitution. To be honest, I wonder if the latest attempt on his life didn't take some of the fire out of him."

"And your counterpart with our Russian friends?" one of the retired judges asked.

"She is taking care of the reporter and the gangster herself," Kellagh said. He looked at his watch. "In fact, I would say they are no longer an issue."

"I wonder if we should concentrate more on removing these impediments, Karp and his associates," the other lawyer said.

Kellagh shook his head. "I wouldn't recommend that," he replied. "For one thing, these missions have put them on a heightened alert, and we cannot account for all of their friends. The Indian and the Vietnamese gangster have disappeared, and of course, tracking David Grale is impossible. My advice is to wait while we concentrate on accomplishing the main mission. We can deal with these issues later."

When Kellagh left the room, the retired general turned to Newbury. "There seem to be a lot of excuses for failure these days from Mr. Kellagh."

"He's your nephew, what would you have us do? Up until now he has performed well."

"Yes, but any more failures and we may have to rethink his position," the general said. "Too much hinges on him and we can't afford weak links that fail us. Keep that in mind with your own nephew, Mr. Newbury."

"I will do that," Newbury agreed icily. "Now, if there's nothing else that anyone needs to discuss, I call an end to this Tynwald… Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh!"

"Myr shegin dy ve, bee eh!" the others replied.