The Olympus Device: Book Three (20 page)

Banks weren’t lending money. Car showrooms were empty. Appliances gathered dust on warehouse shelves.

After the attack on Fort Knox, a series of behind the scenes conversations had been initiated. When news arrived of Andy’s kidnapping, the discussions became much less reserved. The world’s economy was declining at an unprecedented rate, and government seemed to be at a loss to halt the slide.

It was against this backdrop that private jets began filing flight plans for San Francisco, and the city’s premier hotels suddenly found themselves with a shortage of luxury suites.

They came from all corners of the planet, sporting titles that often included “Chief,” “President,” and “Chairman.”

Virtually every industry was represented, from banking and insurance to the internet and software giants. Fierce competitors sat side by side, Japanese automobile manufacturers elbow to elbow with their Detroit and European counterparts.

It was unprecedented, but not unexpected. Their livelihoods were shriveling to dust, and something had to be done.

Not all of the attendees were international billionaires or corporate titans. One such example was a man named Evan Tomkins.

Younger than many of his peers, Evan’s reputation carried significant weight among the throng of distinguished men and women. At first glance, the middle-aged man’s blonde hair and athletic physique would have appeared more at home on a sandy beach while carrying a surfboard. 

While his always immaculate, custom tailored suit and matching Gucci shoes worked to offset that initial impression, it was the man’s intellect and political acumen that eventually brought even the most skeptical executive to a point of respect and appreciation.

Always at his side was a young lady, introduced only as Miss Kingsley. With perfect skin, hourglass figure and spindly legs, it was easy for the average person to assume the 40-something woman was Evan’s assistant, or lover, or both. Neither rumor was accurate.

Despite only appearing with her hair in a neat bun and brandishing the latest Antonio Melani business attire, Miss Kingsley still came across as ornamental at best, arm-candy at worst.

It wasn’t until she joined in the conversation that her actual value and role was exposed. Miss Kingsley was one of the few people on the planet who possessed a true photographic memory. She was a walking encyclopedia, with an unmatched mental database of very specialized knowledge.

Evan and Miss Kingsley were Washington lobbyists.

With a small office just outside the Beltway, the firm of Tomkins and Associates was tiny compared to other such organizations that plied, influenced, and manipulated the hallowed halls of the American federal government.

With only a handful of employees and always demanding a confidential relationship with their clients, Evan and his team were known to only a select group of the world’s most influential people. But that was enough.

Evan didn’t bother with mere senators or Congressmen, nor did he represent just any old clientele. No, when Tomkins and Associates took on a job, it was only to hold sway over the most monumental of issues. They charged millions for their services, and by all accounts, they were worth every penny.

Many Washington insiders had spent considerable time trying to figure out the young “beach bum’s” formula for success. Few knew much if anything about the man’s history or background. Miss Kingsley was even more mysterious.

Despite his foggy resume, the Speaker of the House knew Evan’s birthday, the date marked on his personal calendar. The Senate Majority Leader was well aware of Mr. Tomkins’ favorite brand of scotch. Those who chaired important committees never denied the lobbyist an appointment… or a lunch. The officials who controlled the federal government knew Evan Tomkins well. Most liked the man; all respected him.

“There’s no secret sauce,” he once informed a curious friend. “I present the facts and back them up with the stark, often dark reality. I don’t pussyfoot around when it comes to letting elected officials know the consequences of their actions. Sometimes, my words may come across as a threat. Most times, it’s only a promise. The key is in the delivery of both.”

In reality, Evan’s secret was an uncanny ability to recognize opportunities, and then broker compromise. Able to read the most complex of individual human traits, he would assess strengths and weaknesses with a deft skill. Once he’d identified the fears and hopes of the opposing sides, he was a master of exploiting both ends against the middle and arriving at an acceptable solution.

When combined with Miss Kingsley’s unquestionable grasp of the facts, they were an extremely effective team.

To many attending the secret conference in San Francisco, seeing Evan’s face amongst the corporate elite was no surprise. Most of the executives believed the U.S. government was to blame for the pending economic apocalypse they all faced. It only made sense that the man with a solid reputation of bridging the gap between business and elected officials would be at the Four Seasons.

The ad hoc gathering had no agenda or schedule. There weren’t any invitations or speakers of note. The world was collapsing, and word spread quickly that the Four Seasons was the place where the movers and shakers were huddling to see if there was anything that could be done.

Evan and Miss Kingsley arrived to find most of the jet set gathered in small gaggles and haphazard clusters in the main ballroom. As he made the rounds, the lobbyist mostly listened and digested, trying to get a feel for what the executive elite were thinking. He attempted to gauge their resolve, commitment, and willingness to act.

“These people are as worthless as the politicians in Washington,” he informed Miss Kingsley after making the rounds. “They are unorganized, suspicious of each other’s motivations, and most likely will accomplish nothing. I think we just flew across the country for nothing.”

“I agree,” came her response. “Nothing is going to get done here. There’s no direction, leadership, or common agenda. A complete waste of time.”

The duo was about to leave when a voice called over the din. “Evan! Miss Kingsley! I’m so glad you made it.”

Evan looked up to see a familiar face approaching. He recognized the man as the chief legal counsel for the world’s wealthiest industrialist, at least according to Forbes.

“Hello, Rosenberg. How’s business?”

“Very funny, Evan. The boss was just asking about you. What are you doing down here?”

Scanning the room, the lobbyist answered, “I thought this is where the meeting was being held?”

The old lawyer followed Evan’s gaze and then grunted. “This? Down here? No, this is just the minor leagues. The big boys are upstairs in the Presidential Suite. You better get your ass up there.”

Miss Kingsley took it all in, peering across the room and seeing no fewer than seven CEOs of the Fortune 50. “Did you just call this the minor leagues, sir?”

“Yes,” grinned Rosenberg, “The honchos have them cooling their heels down here in case they are needed, and so they’ll feel like they were part of the action. The real stroke is upstairs. Now you two get going, before my boss’s mood goes utterly foul.”

Reaching for a piece of hotel stationary, Rosenberg wrote down a couple of words. “Here, show this to the security people. You won’t get in without it.”

As they walked through the plush, carpeted hall on their way to the private elevators, Evan showed Miss Kingsley the password. “Goliath down?” she chuckled, exchanging an approving glance with her partner. “Now that’s the first thing that’s made sense out of this whole affair.”

It was easy to spot the special elevators. Two large men, neither of whom appeared to have any neck, stood on either side of the reserved opening. When the closest mountain of muscle saw Evan approaching, he immediately moved to intercept.

“Sir, this is a restricted….”

Evan didn’t respond at first. Instead he held out the paper for the colossus to inspect. “Mr. Rosenberg said to give this to you.”

Frowning, the security man still wasn’t convinced. “Your name, sir?”

“Evan Tomkins… and this is Miss Kingsley. I believe we’re expected.”

A hastily executed phone call later, and the duo from Washington were in the elevator and rising skyward. “I feel like this is such a boy’s club,” Kingsley teased. “Guards, a treehouse, secret passwords… it’s all so… so… like young boys playing spy games or something.”

“I’ll let you explain that to those two gentlemen we just met on the way down,” Evan grinned back.

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I’ll pass.”

The door opened into a small foyer, most of the space occupied by an even larger specimen of corporate security. “Good evening, Mr. Tomkins, Miss Kingsley. Right this way, please.”

They were led into the main salon, the floor-to-ceiling windows providing a breathtaking view of the bay. Scattered around the room were the players, an international representation of the largest corporations and wealthiest individuals.

They were all there, the Greek shipping magnet, bookended by two Chinese industrialists, holding court with the king of Latin American telecom. At the bar were the British and Swiss bankers, who just two days ago were at each other’s virtual throats, battling over a trillion dollars in bullion futures.

There were at least 20 people present, including a prince from the Saudi Royal Family. Not a single attendee was worth less than ten billion U.S. dollars.

“Looks like a pretty exclusive club to me,” Evan whispered to Kingsley.

Across the expansive room, lounging on a couch, clad in blue jeans, athletic shoes, and a shirt that was one size too big, they spotted the man who seemed to be coordinating the entire effort.

“Hello, Evan. Welcome to Desperation, Incorporated,” greeted Bill, standing to take the lobbyist’s extended hand.

“Thank you for inviting us, sir. This is quite the shindig.”

“And that from a man who sees his share of shindigs,” Bill answered, pushing his black rim glasses back up his nose.

Bill had made his money in software, later expanding into hardware, and then buying anything and everything he wanted. The multi-billionaire, king of the hill, top dog, didn’t waste any time.

“The White House and Capitol Hill are operating inside a bubble,” he began. “The enclosure that surrounds them is constructed out of ego, pride, and fear. We all know how impenetrable such a wall can be. Somehow, someone has to breach that fortress of vanity, and provide a dose of reality before it’s too late.”

“Now I know becoming involved in politics is something we capitalists all try and avoid. It seems like every time the corporate world ventures into that arena, we’re accused of everything from manipulating elections, to illegally influencing public officials. No matter how carefully crafted, any association with Washington alienates one side of the political spectrum or the other, and that reduces our customer base. Most of us end up contributing to both parties, just to remain neutral, and keep everyone happy.”

Pausing, Bill scanned the new arrivals, making sure they were following his words. A quick nod from Evan and Miss Kingsley signaled he should continue.

“But it’s only logical… what I’ve been telling all of my guests… if the entire planet crashes into an economic depression, having half of your customers will look pretty good. Half is a lot better than nothing.”

Again, Bill made eye contact with the listeners, reading their expressions of understanding.

“So here is what we propose to fix this mess,” Bill said, his voice rising in volume while lowering in pitch. “Washington has a problem by the name of Durham Weathers and his Olympus Device. We, the economic backbone of the planet, have put aside our petty differences and can solve this issue before it’s too late. With our combined resources and neutral political posture, we can fix this.”

The lobbyist smiled, already knowing why he’d been summoned from Washington.