The Plot (19 page)

The P.M.'s wife smirked.
"No one pays attention to the royals anymore."

"And the Vice President?"
he interrupted, turning toward Uncle Hamilton.

"She's so power hungry, she'd sell her own mother down the river,"
Uncle Hamilton replied.

"That is what concerns me,"
the diminutive man responded, frowning.

"Does anyone else have anything to report?"
asked Otis, resuming control of the discussion.
"James?"

A thin, bespectacled man with black hair and skin as white as the walls leaned forward, his arms on the table.
"Speaking of the Vice President, not everything is going as smooth as we would like,"
he said, knitting his brow. “
Despite the way the media is spinning it, the truth is that the Vice President still commands only thirty-seven percent in the polls. If this continues, well ... ‘the best laid plans of mice and men’ ... “
He paused and looked at the others seated around the table.

No one spoke for a long moment. The First Lady finally broke the heavy silence.
"I see no cause for concern. Our plan is foolproof. The Vice President will occupy the Oval Office. Preparations are almost complete for the President's final..."

The rest of her sentence was lost as J. Harold Otis’ hand suddenly slithered beneath the table's edge, and the monitor went black. Cassie took a deep breath and stared at the blank screen. What was the First Lady about to say that made the old man suddenly turn off the camera? Curiouser and curiouser. She squared her shoulders against whatever existed on the remaining unlabeled disk and inserted it into the port. Her heartbeat quickened. It was the missing manuscript.

Beneath the splendor of centuries old, moss-laden oaks, nestled among ancient hills where Native Americans fought and died, where slaves toiled toward freedom, and southern charm oozes from every pore lurks a secret as dark as the meandering waters of the Apalachicola River beside whose banks it was born. For decades, it has been nurtured, funded, and protected by a small, elite group of people who have paved the way for a new world order that spells the death of America's grand democratic experiment.

No, they're not the Trilateral Commission, the Council on Foreign Relations, nor the Fabian Society, although their ties with them are strong and their influence upon them great. Millionaires all, they are publishers and politicians, leaders in business and industry, and their reach extends far beyond anyone's comprehension. They consider themselves altruists, model citizens, patriots, repositories of all that is good and right and honorable in humankind, and their goal is not to harm but to heal. They are ‘Penseur.'

I first discovered the group in the late 1960's while I attended Yale University. I was even a member, thinking-with the idealism of youth amid the turmoil and horror of the Vietnam War-that we could change the world, eliminate war forever from the human experience. It was a small group, deliberately kept thus by what I then thought was a need for a certain purity, not of race but of purpose. By little more than an accident of birth, most of us were from wealthy or near-wealthy backgrounds. We studied the great and not-so-great philosophers-Marx and Kant, Jefferson and Madison, Ghandi, Hitler, even Jesus and the Bible, and we studied war, itself. Every war known to man, including those small skirmishes that are little more than a footnote in history. And we debated endlessly about their causes, their effects, and what could have prevented them.

Eventually, we discovered the answer we so ardently sought. It was elegant in its simplicity. But the price of achieving it was high. Too high for me, and I abandoned the group. I believed the group had also disbanded, tossed aside like so many youthful fantasies that cannot withstand the harsh light of reality.

I was wrong. Penseur has remained viable and has laid the trap so masterfully that, once sprung, there will be no escape. Not for America. Not for Asia. Not for Europe. Not for anyone.

Perhaps, it is already too late, but I am compelled to try to stop the impending tyranny I helped plan so many years ago-in the name of peace.

Here then, in its entirety, is the manifesto of Penseur and the chronicle of its implementation throughout the world and now in the United States of America.

A well-educated, independent-thinking populace, familiar with the teachings of its ancestors and strongly grounded in moral absolutes, poses the greatest threat to our endeavor.

Cassie jumped at the sound of a faint knock on her motel room door. Quickly switching the computer off and closing its lid, she crossed the room and peered through the small peephole. A short, blond-haired man held up a small sign toward her-"Max sent me.” She'd forgotten all about him. Leaving the chain in place, she opened the door just a few inches.

"Good girl,” he said, smiling around his softly spoken words. “Can't be too careful these days.” He handed her a Wendy's Hamburgers bag. “Old fashioned goodness,” he said, then turned his back and disappeared into the darkness.

She re-bolted the door, then reached into the bag and drew out a gleaming black Glock Model 26, 9 mm. pistol. It was the compact model, perfect for her small hands, but the eleven rounds of ammunition it held-and the loaded spare magazine—were sufficient to handily defend herself.

She tested its weight, remembered the trigger safety, and checked the magazine, then, with her finger outside the trigger guard, pointed the weapon expertly at her image in the mirror above the dresser. It felt as familiar as an old friend. Knowing she had it gave her a sense of security and independence she hadn't felt since they'd changed the law and she, along with millions of other good citizens, lost her concealed weapons permit. Slipping the pistol back into the innocent-looking bag, she set it beside the bed and returned to the computer. She had much to learn before she decided her next move.

Cassie awoke in the morning to a stiff neck and the sound of raindrops beating against the window. “Oh, lord,” she muttered, rolling over and sitting up on the edge of the not-very-firm bed. “I hate traveling. Don't know how people do it.”
Of course, most people are willing to spend a little extra for their motel rooms
. The clock on the night table read “8:15.” She rubbed her neck and stood, stretching to get the knots out of her muscles, and went into the bathroom.
Thank heaven they at least provide a coffeepot.
She flicked the switch and listened to the coffee maker gurgle while she brushed her teeth and examined her reflection in the mirror.

"I look like something the cat dragged in,” she said, noticing the crease in her right cheek from the pillowcase and the dark circles under her eyes. “Oh, well. It's not like Prince Charming is awaiting my presence. Or Max."

She splashed cold water on her face, toweled it dry, and poured coffee into the styrofoam cup. Sipping it gratefully, she went to the door, where the morning newspaper lay folded outside on the walkway.
Life just keeps getting better all the time.
She picked up the newspaper and carried it with her to the imitation-leather chair by the window. “Why, it's practically like being at home,” she murmured, smiling.

She set her coffee on the lamp table and opened the not-very-thick issue of the
Tallahassee Democrat.
Her eyes widened at the sight of the headline.

One Dead, Two Injured in Bloody Bank Robbery

Two gunmen armed with a sawed-off shotgun and a .38 caliber handgun stormed into the Independence Bank of Tallahassee yesterday afternoon, demanding admittance to the safe deposit boxes. When Bank Manager Hank Charles refused, he was forced to the floor and shot once through the head. Security guard, Russell Davis, was also shot, and a female, whose identity has not been released, was wounded by a stray bullet. Both Davis and the woman are listed in serious but stable condition at Tallahassee Memorial Regional Medical Center.

Stunned, Cassie recognized herself in the photograph taken from the bank's surveillance camera.
Me? Why me?
The memory of Max's words flooded her mind. “
You might be getting into something a lot bigger than you or I initially believed."
Calming herself, she studied the picture. Fortunately, it was not very clear. Certainly not clear enough for a stranger to positively identify her. And no one in Tallahassee knew her. Except Max's friend, but he wouldn't betray her. Who else? Hank Charles’ secretary. But, if she was going to say anything, she already would have. Unless she was the unnamed woman who had been shot in the holdup.

Suddenly, she thought of the girl at the motel desk who had studied her so closely. Chances were good that someone else would be on duty this morning, but Cassie wasn't about to gamble. Within minutes, she'd dressed, loaded her belongings into the trunk of the rental car, and was driving west on I-10 toward Quincy and her meeting with the “tour guide."

The rain had stopped, and the sun shone brightly as Cassie drove slowly around the town square. It looked like a Norman Rockwell painting-the imposing yellow brick courthouse; green park benches scattered along the white ribbon of sidewalk; small clusters of casually dressed people standing or sitting in the shade of the huge moss-draped live oaks. Cars of all hues and models rested beside old-fashioned meters. Mom-and-pop stores surrounded it all. Cassie found an empty parking place and pulled in to wait for whatever happened next.

While she fumbled in her purse to find change for the meter, someone tapped on her window. She looked up to see a hulking figure staring at her. Her hand closed around the pistol she'd hidden in her purse. The man tapped again, insistently. He was a giant of a man-at least six-and-a-half feet tall and almost as broad. His round face was devoid of wrinkles-no doubt because of the fat that bulged within-and was scarred, most likely from a bad case of youthful acne. Thinning, close-cropped gray hair accented the almost colorless blue eyes that peered in at her, and his full lips were drawn into a slight frown. Gripping the pistol securely, her finger against the trigger guard, Cassie opened the window a mere inch. He smiled.

"Excuse me, but are you Cassandra Hart?” he asked in a thick, cracker drawl. His breath smelled of stale coffee and tobacco, with maybe a hint of
Certs
thrown into the mix.

"Who are you?"

"Name's Joshua,” he answered softly, holding his hand out politely to shake hers. She didn't take it.

He shook his massive head slightly, frowned again, and reached into his hip pocket. Her fingers tightened on the pistol. “Maybe this will help,” he suggested, handing her a piece of paper folded around a small photo.

Cassie took it from his hairy, stubby fingers and rolled up the window. It wasn't much of a barrier between them, but it was all she had. The note was written on a piece of lined paper torn from a spiral-bound notebook, and she recognized the handwriting immediately.

Querida,

I have sent this with Joshua so you will know he is who he says. Follow his instructions and don't be afraid.

Selena

The old photograph of herself showing off her newly earned driver's license with Selena standing proudly beside her had been taken on her sixteenth birthday and was as familiar as the handwriting. No one but Selena had a copy of it. She relaxed her grip on the pistol and rolled the window halfway down.

"Where is she?” Cassie asked, still uncomfortable in the presence of the homely giant.

"Not far. My truck is just over there,” he replied, pointing to an old, blue Ford parked in front of the Rexall drug store on the corner. “Follow me. There's a small airfield just a few miles outside o’ town where ya can leave yer car. Nobody'll notice it, but if they do, they'll just think ya rented a plane. I'll take ya the rest o’ the way.” He seemed to study her closely as he spoke.

Cassie shifted in the seat, not thrilled with the idea of riding with a virtual stranger, but she had no choice.

Joshua suddenly stood up straight and turned toward the sound of booted footsteps on the sidewalk in front of the car. “Howdy, Crandall,” he said, giving a small salute to the uniformed police officer striding toward them.

"Junior,” the officer answered, looking curiously toward Cassie. “What's up?"

"Nothin'. Lady needed some directions,” Joshua replied, smirking. “Just another lost Yankee..."

Crandall smirked, too, and nodded. “How ‘bout a cuppa? I'm ‘bout due fer a break..."

"Sorry, buddy. Can't. Gotta git back t’ the farm. Wife's back is actin’ up agin. Jus’ came t’ town t’ pick up some medicine for ‘er..."

Cassie pushed the pistol deep into her purse, hiding it beneath her wallet, while she listened to the exchange between the two men. Funny, she thought, how they never seem to finish their sentences. They just left them dangling in the humid air.

"Well, maybe next time,” the officer answered. “Give Aggie mah regards. Hope she gits t’ feelin’ better."

"Thanks. I'll tell ‘er...” Joshua replied, then turning back to Cassie, said loudly enough for the policeman to hear, “Jus’ follow me, Miss. I'll git ya t’ the crossroads."

"Thanks,” Cassie replied, also loud enough for the officer's ears. “I appreciate your help.” Her clipped northern accent sounded foreign even to her.

Joshua turned, gave a brief wave to Officer Crandall, and jaywalked across the broad street to his truck, his gait amazingly graceful for so large a man.