The Eye of Moloch

Chapter 44

Noah had pledged to Ira Gershon that if he ever got a chance to leave that Denver compound he’d take his two coworkers along with him. At that time he hadn’t believed there would ever be such an opportunity, and yet here they were—a promise is a promise. So when he’d been granted a travel pass to attend his father’s memorial service, Noah had insisted that both Ira and Lana be allowed to accompany him, for moral support from his only friends in captivity.

Apparently even the most callous of deskbound bureaucrats has a hard time ignoring the wishes of the bereaved, especially when the request is delivered through the renowned attorney of a powerful family.

Formerly powerful, that is; the death of Arthur Gardner marked the end of the line for his brief dynasty, and with all due respect, Noah thought, good riddance to it all.

And so the flight to northern California found the four of them seated in the executive cabin of a small private jet—Noah, Ira Gershon, Lana Somin, and old friend Ellen Davenport—with four security guards buckled in behind them. Except for the crew, the rest of the plane was empty and so it had been a very quiet ride.

Toward the end, as the fasten-seat-belt light came on, Ira leaned to him and spoke in a hushed voice.

“Thank you for this, again,” Ira said. “Not so much for me, but for her.” He looked toward young Lana as he said this. She was in the far window seat, earbuds in her ears and her music playing loud enough that its muffled beats could be heard across the aisle. Her hand was to the glass and her gaze was intent and distant and directed outside. She looked as though perhaps she’d never seen her home planet from this altitude before.

“It might seem like a little temporary freedom but let’s not get carried away,” Noah said. “It’s just a few hours, and then we’re turning around and going right back to the grind again.”

“You never know what’s in store.” Ira looked at him. “And I realize your upbringing couldn’t have been ideal, I do. But still, you’ve lost your father, and I’m sorry about that.”

“Thanks.” That was one way to put it, that his upbringing hadn’t been ideal. In similar terms the last voyage of the Hindenburg hadn’t been without its hiccups. But though Noah was surprised to admit it, there was a trace of sorrow in him. His father did have his moments, and despite everything else those moments are what you remember when you finally realize there’ll never be another.

Even before he’d stumbled into his star-crossed involvement with Molly Ross last year, Noah was certain that he’d been a disappointment in many ways. The biggest of these had probably been his complete lack of ambition in the field his father had once hoped he’d pursue. It wasn’t public relations, it was politics that Dad had pushed him toward, and Noah had never felt any interest in that hard life whatsoever.

This thought brought to mind that wacky note that Ira had given him the night before, the one that had contained that bizarre r reagan nonsense. He’d destroyed the note, of course; its contents could be incriminating for both of them. He hadn’t forgotten it, though.

“You know, Reagan was far from a perfect man,” Ira said, as if he’d been sitting there reading Noah’s mind like an in-flight magazine. “Even his admirers admit to that. He didn’t have the background most men in government have, he wasted a lot of years in what some would call a frivolous profession, he was a liberal Democrat for a while, he was a big fan of FDR and the New Deal even when he was old enough to know better.

“But flaws and all, he had a gift that his country needed, and he was brave enough to use it. He was good with people, he had those skills just like his father, but he got his heart and his vision from his mother. And it was a simple thing that he did, really. It didn’t take a genius, just the right ideas and the right man at the right time. When a lot of us had lost our faith in America, he found a way to lead us to see the dream again.”

“But that isn’t me,” Noah said.

“And how do you know that?”

“I’m not a politician—”

“Neither was he, at your age. You’ve got time. Hell, when he was twelve years older than you he was still best known as the star of Bedtime for Bonzo.”

“Look, thank you for those videos of my mom, that meant a lot to me. And I see what you’re saying, I do, even though it’s more than a little crazy. But believe me, you’re trying to pin your hopes on the wrong guy. That business in your note, with the letters in my name? I’m sorry, but it’s meaningless. You know that guy Reince Priebus, the front man for the Republican National Committee? If you take all the vowels out of his name it spells out ‘RNC PR BS.’ Get it? I know it would be fun to believe that’s some hidden message, but it’s just a coincidence.”

“Think what you like,” Ira said. “As I said, you’ve got time. All I hope is that if you ever get another chance to make a real difference, you’ll find the courage to take it.”

• • •

From the point where the limo let them off there was still quite a walk through the wilderness to reach the site where Arthur Gardner’s memorial service was to be held. The rocky path wound through thickets of brush and stands of soaring redwoods to a timber-beam bridge that seemed to mark the end of the journey toward a place called Gaia Point. These were the secluded meeting grounds of the only club his dad had ever joined, the Ordo Seclorum.

That name they’d chosen means the order of the ages, so yeah, the membership had quite a high opinion of themselves.

Noah had been there once before at some father-son retreat back in his early teens, and he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. It wasn’t a funeral then, but a sort of after-party to the club’s regular annual summer meeting. Once a year they all traveled here for a secretive gathering of the supposed cream of the crop from the intertwined worlds of politics, media, entertainment, commerce, old money, and the military-industrial complex.

The motto of the club was “Weaving Spiders Come Not Here.” This was a warning that crass networking and shop talk were strictly prohibited lest the violators spoil everyone’s fun. These titans were here to relax among their own, to smoke fine pre-embargo Cubans, to get roaring drunk and carouse, to occasionally run around buck naked, and to take a leak at the base of a two-thousand-year-old tree if they felt the urge. They came here to be themselves, in other words, with no fear of judgment from the lower classes.

Despite the posted ban on talking business this was nevertheless one of the places where the really big deals got done. The Manhattan Project had been planned in the central clubhouse, as had the wholesale cooperative thievery that led to the current worldwide financial crisis. Presidents were groomed and anointed here, scams hatched, cartels and monopolies formed, allies and enemies chosen, and wars approved. Once those decisions were made it often fell to men like Arthur Gardner to go forth to beat the drums and make the magic happen. That’s why his memorial was being held in this place; it was one of the few environments on earth where his greatest accomplishments could be openly discussed and appreciated.

As they walked they passed into a clearing, into full view of a crystal lake with the four-story, moss-covered statue of a giant watchful owl enshrined behind a stone altar on the other shore.

“I always thought this place was just a myth,” Ellen said.

“I really wish it was,” Noah replied.