virtuosinovel

[virtuosinovel]

Expat Island

Remember, remember, the Fifth of November. But not because it’s Guy Fawkes day. Because I will finally be publishing by debut novel on Amazon! Coincidence? Uh, have you read the blog?

I have made a few changes since I posted the book here on Tumblr, chapter by chapter, oh so long ago. The story itself has not changed much, if at all, so if you were a fan of the original plot, themes, and characters, fear not. But as I went through the final round of edits, collected feedback from beta readers, and worked with my marketing and social media consultant (my wife, who does that sort of thing for a living), I made some tweaks that should enhance the overall readability, marketability, and hopefully enjoyability of the book.

The first big change was the title and sub-title. The original branding was “Virtuosi: The Evolution of Revolution” and I really liked it. But I decided to change it to “Expat Island: A Virtuosi Novel” for a couple of reasons.

I love the idea of a group called Virtuosi. A group made up of extraordinary members, uniquely skilled in their areas of expertise, banding together to create something new and worthwhile. I envision it as a mash-up of “A League of Extraordinary Gentlemen” and a benevolent version of the Illuminati. The group is still an integral part of the book and as you can see by the subtitle, I have not abandoned it completely. But even I mispronounce it half the time, pronouncing it with an “ah-see” at the end instead of the correct “oh-see.” It’s not a good sign when the title doesn’t roll off the tongue, especially when that tongue belongs to the author himself.

Using Virtuosi as the name of the series instead of the book accomplishes a couple of things.  First,  it sets the foundation for several more books under the same branding. That might sound obvious, but notice that I am not calling this “Virtuosi Book 1.” By using the term “a Virtuosi novel” I give myself some future flexibility. The later books could be sequels in the sense that they continue this story line (the second one, already in progress, will do that).  Additional books could also be prequels, side stories, or a host of other things and still be considered a “Virtuosi novel.”  As long as the group members play key roles in the story, it is fair game. Second, using the term as the series instead of the title downplays the whole pronunciation problem and puts familiar words as the larger, more prominent title.

I also really like the turn of phrase “Evolution of Revolution” and I am keeping that in the back of my mind for a future project. When the phrase popped into my head a few years ago, I thought it was so cool someone else MUST have already used it. I looked on Amazon and a few other places. I found Evolution Revolution (fiction) and the Evolution of a Revolution (non-fiction), but nobody using that exact phrase the way I wanted to use it, meaning a new and improved way to revolt. I’m actually glad the blog version has that subtitle. That pretty much proves I used it/thought of it before anyone else and acts as my somewhat informal copyright while I figure out how to use it.

The new title, “Expat Island” is solid too, and even  more marketable. Since my last post, I have purchased an e-book cover that I am very excited about and it has, surprise, an island on it. The setting of the book is a newly formed island nation. Islands are great visuals. Everybody loves islands. They are great settings for everything from slasher flicks like “I Know What You Did Last Summer 2” to uplifting, sun-in-the-sky stories like “Cool Runnings.” You can’t go wrong with the term “island” in your title.

And the term Expat always drums up images of Americans traveling or moving abroad and all the mystery and worldliness that entails. Baccarat. Fast cars. Exotic peoples and landscapes. Adventure and intrigue. Virtuosi are, in fact, expats who now run an island. I am not forcing any irrelevant word here. It is also not lost on me that both words in the new title start with a vowel, are two syllables, and seem to fit nicely together on a book cover.

Speaking of the setting of the book, the island has been rebranded from Christmas Island (a real island territory of Australia) to Cydonia (the same island renamed by the characters in the book). Cydonia was an ancient Greek city-state. Cydonia is also the area on the surface of Mars that is home to the famous “Face on Mars,” which proves there was intelligent life there at some point in the past, at least according to some. So there’s old world wisdom, mythology and mysticism, and tin-foil hats all embodied in a single word. When I discovered all of this, changing the name of the island from the  original name was a no-brainer. Truth be told, I never loved the real-life name of the island anyway. It’s a Christianity-related name and the fictional island in the book has no prevalent organized religion, rather they are dabblers and truth seekers. Also, Cydonia is way easier to say and read dozens of times throughout the book than Christmas Island.

I made a few other tiny tweaks, like renaming a character and cleaning up some confusing dialogue, and here we are, almost ready to roll. Break the ceremonial bottle of champagne over the bow of the Expat Island ship. Our journey is underway! Stay tuned over the next couple of weeks for more information as we approach launch day, and thanks to all who have been reading along so far.

[virtuosinovel]

Afterword: Revolution Article

The following article appeared in the May, 2030 issue of Revolution Magazine. Dudley wrote the article and sent it to Xavier Pratt as an olive branch, hoping to give the public a deeper look into Virtuosi. A couple weeks later, he hopped the Virtuosi jet to Greenland to start his assignment as Security Chief of the new territory.

 What I Didn’t Find on Christmas Island

By Sid Snodgrass

 First of all, let’s clear the air of false pretensions. Despite what you see in the by-line, this article was not written by Sid Snodgrass. That person doesn’t exist. It was a cover identity that I, former special agent Benjamin Dudley, used to infiltrate Virtuosi and Christmas Island. The cover was created by my former employer, the Freedom Keepers, an off-the-books intelligence and special ops unit of the United States Government. This magazine was forced to corroborate my story based on stolen e-mails used to blackmail the Editor-in-Chief, Xavier Pratt. I would like to take a moment to offer my sincerest apologies to Mr. Pratt. I would also like to apologize to Natalie Chen, who had the unenviable task of being my contact person despite her friendship with many Virtuosi members.

It turned out the blackmail material was a series of e-mails between Mr. Pratt and his psychiatrist revealing Mr. Pratt was suffering from, and seeking help for, bipolar disorder, chronic paranoia, and possible schizophrenia. I’m happy to report now that this information is public, Mr. Pratt continues to both get the help he needs and run this publication. It turns out he underestimated his readership. Business is booming. Evidently, his readers are fine with a paranoid schizophrenic running the show. It makes sense, if you think about the content and reputation of this magazine. Full speed ahead Mr. Pratt.

Now that we have done some housekeeping, let’s move on to my visit to the island. Many of you read the memos my superiors and I exchanged while I was on the island. If you haven’t read them yet, come out from under your rock, get on this new thing called the inter-web, and go to a website. Any site will do. These memos lay out the basics of the situation, but formal correspondence between agent and agency does not an exposé make.

I’m not here to rehash the memos. I’m here to give a more unfiltered version of my time with this remarkable organization. It turns out public opinion is like a battleship; once it gets going in one direction, it’s a very long and gradual process to turn it around. We all now know the Next World/Tea Party scheme was planned from the beginning by the CABAL and their elected co-conspirators. Yet there are still many out there who feel apprehension, fear, or even disdain when the word Virtuosi is uttered. It has been ingrained in us that they are potential enemies and one botched frame job isn’t enough to get them off the hook in the eyes of many. Allow me to take my turn at guiding this ship in a new direction.

 ###

 After coordinating with my office and Revolution headquarters, I hopped a plane to Jakarta and then to Christmas Island. They say you never get a second chance to make a first impression, but even if Virtuosi had a second chance they wouldn’t need to exercise the option. Their Manager of First Impressions, Julian “Dodger” Wells, was just what this weary traveler needed after two days on the go. Dodger is an ex-Chicago gang member and getaway driver who went clean years ago when he went to work for his childhood friend, Victor Freeman. Despite his admittedly checkered past, I have never felt more comfortable with anyone I just met. He was the perfect mix of hospitality, excitement, and knowledge, giving me a couple of island tidbits without totally overwhelming me.

When I arrived at, well, I don’t really know how to describe it. They call it the Hive, so let’s just go with Hive. If I call it their headquarters, their governor’s mansion, their playground, or simply Victor’s house, it would paint an incomplete picture. It is all of these things and more. When I arrived, the Hive House Manager, Winston, was a perfect English gentleman, making me feel at home immediately and throughout my stay.

To the Christmas Island novice, it appears I just recounted my interactions with the chauffeur and the butler of a bunch of rich elitists. Nothing could be further from the truth. They don’t have these fancy titles, Manager of First Impressions and House Manager, in a tongue-in-cheek way, like dishwashers are sometimes called hydro-engineers. They earn these titles and are highly valued for their skill sets and contributions to the group. Winston is a Master Sommelier and an experienced gourmet kitchen manager. Dodger can drive everything from dune buggies to jet skis to ostriches. Yes, ostriches. I saw the trophy he won to prove it.

The next person I met was Victor Freeman. Read the last sentence again and try to put it in perspective. I met Dodger, then Winston, and then the Head of State, which they call the Facilitator. This would not happen anywhere else on Earth. If it sounds ridiculous, it won’t once you understand Victor’s personality. He’s a dreamer of the highest order. Some of his schemes make Willy Wonka’s golden ticket master plan look like something scrawled on the back of a drunkard’s napkin. Einstein couldn’t be bothered to learn how to drive or catch the bus. Victor can’t be bothered with layers of security, a shielding entourage, or a bunch of pomp and circumstance. He was bird-watching in his garden when I met him. The next morning, he was meditating alone in his backyard when I walked out to the deck for our interview. Take everything you think you know about how a national leader should think or act. Got it? Good, throw it out the window. Now we can proceed.

Not only was I given unprecedented access to the leader of a country, but I was given carte blanche to talk to anyone I damned-well pleased while I was there. Victor did not keep me close by, monitoring what I saw or did and trying to sway my opinion. He didn’t assign any babysitters either. I was as free as Mowgli in Jungle Book and indeed could have run through the rain forest naked had I so desired. Now I’m really going to blow your mind. Are you sitting down? He didn’t do this for a journalist. HE ALREADY KNEW I WAS A SPY! AND HE DIDN’T TELL ANYONE ELSE!

Oh, you’re here to spy on me? You work for the country I was chased out of? Okay, as you were.

If that doesn’t prove they have nothing to hide here, I don’t know what does.

Now, maybe you’re thinking Victor must just be the lunatic fringe, front man for Virtuosi. What about everyone else? Let’s move on down the line to the Chief of Staff Megan Myers. Victor might get upset when he reads this, but sorry pal. I call them like I see them. Out of all the people I met, Megan is the most impressive overall. There, I said it.

Seriously, they had a fountain of Minerva in front of the Hive. You could remove Minerva, put up a statue of Megan, and you would have the same amount of courage, wisdom, and beauty emanating through the front yard. This chick is a bad-ass. She manages major projects and operations as easily as if she is rearranging doilies on a coffee table. She counterbalances Victor’s flightiness and then some. And she isn’t afraid to strap on a stun gun and play shockerball with the boys. No big deal for someone who grew up dodging gang crossfire walking to school.

Still not impressed? Secretary of State Greta Mills spreads more global goodwill than the Harlem Globetrotters. Secretary of Defense Wilbur Carson, his wife Eve, and the Hive Protection Network make the Swiss Guard look unorganized and inefficient. The collection of talent in the ExComm (legislative branch) would give the 1927 New York Yankees a fight for the title of “greatest team ever assembled.”

In fact, even the “support” staff I spent time with could be C-suite execs anywhere else. Emily Conrad and Celeste Johnston could guess your death date, within one standard deviation, if you weren’t afraid to ask them for it. Victor’s personal assistant Katalin knew my schedule, as well as every name, phone number, and address I needed, off the top of her head. Oh yeah, she is also training for the Olympics.

What about Victor’s family? His twin nieces, Jordan and Payton, are perfectly normal and well-adapted teenagers, except for the fact they have about a dozen black belts between the two of them. While on my mission, I was given the orders to eliminate Victor. When I tried, the twins descended on me like a pair of honey badgers. They had me poisoned (not fatally thank God) with a knife to my throat before I could say “botched job.” But they only attacked me because I came into their house and threatened their “Shushu.” Until then, they treated me with genuine hospitality. Now I have some work to do to gain some of their trust back.

 ###

 I won’t keep boring you and/or making you jealous. There is a point to all this gushing. These are not America’s rejects who couldn’t hack it in the big leagues so bought their own island with the hopes of one day striking back at their oppressors. They are world class in everything they do and deliberately left, not to cause America harm, but to prove to everyone there’s a better way. They’re even proving it to themselves. Most people here refer to this new society as an experiment. But it is an experiment they are confident will yield the results they expect.

Trust me when I tell you, they are extremely busy for all the right reasons. They’re working on local projects which if successful, will have positive global implications; things like curing world hunger and saving the planet, nothing major. To think Christmas Island would divert their attention, for even a short time, to try to do America or anyone else harm is frankly egotistical on the part of the would-be victim.

So, if you’re one of those people who is still skeptical of Virtuosi, know that I was sent here to uncover ill intention and was unable to do so. As far as I saw, there was none to uncover. They have too much going on right now. In fact, I’ve gotta run. As a new Christmas Island citizen, I have some major pressing projects of my own about to get underway. Stay tuned.

 Yours truly,

Benjamin Dudley

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Ch 48 - Expansion

“Welcome back Benjamin. It’s good to see you again and know this time we’re on the same team. Please sit down,” Victor said as he motioned to the chair in front of his desk.

“Thanks, it’s great to be back. So where do we go from here? You guys don’t exactly have a need for an international spy, do you?” Benjamin asked.

“Well, it’s not like we don’t do any intelligence whatsoever. We do quite a bit, but it’s mostly high tech and mostly counter-intelligence to make sure we don’t get blind-sided. We don’t go into other countries to conduct operations,” explained Victor.

“Great. I’m a dinosaur here. Depressing,” said Dudley.

“Don’t feel bad. So am I,” Victor laughed. “But I may have just the spot for you, at least for a while until you find your own niche.”

“Great, what do you have in mind?” asked Dudley, sitting forward in his seat.

“Well, I usually wouldn’t trust a newcomer with the information I’m about to give you. But hell, you already blew the whistle on the world’s biggest superpower so I guess that’s good enough for me. Come over here for a minute,” requested Victor. He waved Dudley over to his side of the desk so they could both see Victor’s screen. Victor hit a few buttons and the screen started dialing an international number for a video chat.

The call was answered from the other side. All Dudley and Victor could see were several people wrapped from head-to-toe in arctic outerwear: heavy coats with fur-lined hoods, snowboard masks, goggles, and gloves. The one who answered held up a finger to the camera as if to say “hold on a second” and then pointed at a steel building a few yards away, indicating they were going inside to answer the call.

The camera on the other computer spun around and led the person into the steel structure. The computer was set down on a table and the screen shot stabilized. The receiver came around to the other side and pulled down the fur-lined hood. Black, curly ringlets of hair emerged with some snow on the ends. It was a female evidently. She continued removing her mask and goggles. Her cheeks were rosy from the outdoor elements even though she’d been bundled up.

“Hey baby,” Victor said cautiously. He apparently didn’t expect to catch the woman in this state. And who was he calling baby? This wasn’t like calling his nieces “someone special to him” or “sweetie.” This was clearly a romantic interest.

“Yeah, save it. Do you have any idea how cold it is here?” the woman retorted with her face frozen in incredulity.

“Well, I’ve read the weather reports, but if you are asking me to get a point across then no, I have no idea and I feel really bad about it. But hey, Copenhagen is nice, right? You haven’t spent all of your time up there in the tundra, have you?” Victor asked, frowning.

“Copenhagen is charming, but that doesn’t help me at this very moment now does it?” she continued, pouring herself a warm drink out of a thermos, still slightly shivering.

“Honey, this is Benjamin. Benjamin, this is my wife and the best sport in the world, Lira Freeman.”

Lira Freeman? She’s alive? What the hell?

“Nice to finally meet you Benjamin. I’m glad you didn’t succeed in killing my husband,” she said. Like the others, she was very nonchalant when discussing Dudley’s aborted mission. It was as if nobody thought he could’ve pulled it off even if he had tried.

Benjamin finally managed a “Nice to meet you too, I thought…..”

“Oh, you thought I was dead? Yeah, well you can’t believe everything you read on the internet Benjamin. Although I’m not sure my current circumstances are much better than floating lifeless in the South China Sea,” she said, glaring at Victor.

“I’m sorry baby, but who else was I going to send? I owe you one or ten or…..���

“You can’t count that high so don’t bother,” she interrupted, seemingly in a better mood after warming up a bit.

“How were the Danes? Any final word?” Victor prodded.

“The Danes are absolute peaches. The negotiations went just like I planned. It helped a great deal the yugi-kroner exchange rate kept skyrocketing as we discussed all the details. By the end, they were so glad to get rid of this piece of ice they almost threw me a ticker tape parade.”

“Oh, excellent news!” Victor said. He was genuinely pleased about his new acquisition, whatever it was.

“Great, I’m glad you’re happy. What you’re going to do with this place is beyond me. Now can I come home please?” she asked, going from sarcastic to almost pleading now. “I miss the island.”

“Sure baby. The jet will be there tomorrow morning. Only one more night away from home.”

“Thank God! See you when I get there. You can start thinking of ways to make this up to me. Farvel, min elskede,” she said in her newly acquired Danish as she blew Victor a kiss and signed off.

Victor closed the computer and looked at Dudley, whose head was cocked in contemplation.

“So, that’s my wife. You know, the one who fell overboard on a cruise ship and was never heard from again?” Victor started.

“Yeah, so about that,” Dudley said, fumbling for words.

“Well, first of all, the footage was doctored. Lira never jumped or fell overboard, she stayed in Macau when we were in port and flew to Copenhagen from there.” Victor explained.

“Okay, I’m following the story so far. But why fake her death?”

“To keep our negotiations with Denmark a secret of course. Lots of people freaked out when they heard we were buying this island from Australia. They wanted to stop the deal but couldn’t. It was too late. But if they got involved earlier they may have succeeded. We needed a head start, so we had to make people believe Lira was dead. Once we convinced the world of that, she was free to conduct negotiations without too much hassle or publicity. The Danes also agreed to keep it secret. They didn’t want to piss anyone off until the time was right.

“I’m still lost,” said Dudley. “Negotiations for what?

“Greenland,” Victor said straight-faced.

“What? Why? Greenland?”

“Lots of reasons. First of all, it’s the biggest country we thought might be for sale if we asked nicely. I use the words “for sale” very loosely here. It’s a lot more complicated than just buying Christmas Island and moving here, since the Danes and the Greenlanders have a complex set-up. But Greenland has an enormous amount of natural resources and there’s more livable space than people think, especially with global temperatures rising.”

“Are you planning on moving your operations to Greenland?” Dudley asked. “Why would you leave the island? Didn’t you see the footage? It’s freezing there.”

“No, not moving, just expanding. This island had a population of about 1,000 people when we got here. Greenland has between 50 and 60 thousand. We can make a real impact. Start another society based on our ideals. And there’s also something to be said about not putting all your eggs in one basket. We may be doing great here so far, but one tsunami or cyclone and we’d be hurting. We need another place to call home, or at least be able to call home if we need to. Incidentally, the southern part of Greenland is beautiful a good part of the year. We just happened to catch Lira when she was scouting up north a bit.”

“I don’t know. Seems silly to me. Couldn’t you just buy another island?”

“Yeah, but another island wouldn’t have the sheer potential of Greenland. Few places do. We’re talking hydrocarbon galore, hydro-electric power, iron, uranium, platinum, copper, titanium, rubies. The place is a gold mine, literally and figuratively, but the locals have never had the technology or the financial resources to do anything about it. They’ve sold most of their mineral rights and other valuable assets to foreign companies or countries and are now getting screwed out of hundreds of billions. We outlined a way to stop the bleeding by making a paper purchase of the country. Unlike Christmas Island, we won’t assume control of the government there. Instead, we’ll be there in more of a consulting capacity. But we’ll have enough power to start playing hardball with some of the people taking advantage of the place,” said Victor, getting into his dreamer groove.

“A little white knight action with plenty of benefits to Virtuosi?” asked Dudley.

“Yes. Most of us will still have Christmas Island as our permanent address and just travel there as our skills are needed. We’ll offer jobs to Greenland’s current citizens if they’re qualified or can be trained. Then, the market will bring people from all over: Russia, Scandinavia, Eastern Europe, and Canada.

“That’s the great thing about a market economy. We’ll make it worth their while to come, and they’ll come. No need for me or any of my top managers to go there and run things. Some might go on short details, like Lira did for the negotiations, but new leaders will be created there by necessity and convenience. Of course, Wilbur and Eve will need a deputy to go there and oversee the initial security of the place for a while,” explained Victor, staring at Dudley.

“Me?” asked Dudley.

“I know it’s cold but hey, you should be in jail for the rest of your life, right? What’s a little cold?” returned Victor.

“Is this your version of banishing me to Siberia? What makes me qualified to go there and manage things?” Dudley asked.

“Lots of your agent training is transferable. You’ll report straight to Wilber and he’ll give you guidance as needed. I think it’ll be good for you to see how this works from the ground up instead of coming in after a couple of years like you did here. Think of it Benjamin, this is like our gold rush. It’s literally the Wild West up there; or the Wild North if you prefer to be literal. It’s like a Jack London novel. You could be our trusty sheriff,” Victor said, getting more animated as he talked.

Dudley frowned and fidgeted in his chair. He wasn’t big on the idea, but it was hard to say no to Victor.

“What if we agree you split your time between there and the island? We’ll make Randall the co-sheriff and you guys can work out a schedule. Come on, it’ll be fun. We’ll make it a two-year assignment and then we’ll find something else for the two of you to do. Who knows, maybe one of you will want to stay there.”

Dudley had no choice. He was already getting a second chance most people didn’t get. He would get bored staying in one place for too long anyway, so why not take the job and make the best of it?

“Okay, it’s a deal,” Dudley relented. He and Victor shook hands. Victor reached into his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and two crystal glasses. He poured a double shot in each and handed one to Dudley.

“To new beginnings,” said Victor as he raised his glass.

“To new beginnings,” repeated Dudley. They tapped glasses and emptied the contents. The liquid warmed Dudley all over as he thought about his new mission. This one wouldn’t end with him trying to assassinate someone he respected. This time he had a good idea of what he was getting himself into. Or so he thought……

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 47 - Gentlemen’s Agreement

“Before I go on with my proposal, how do you feel about what you saw? I’m not trying to be sarcastic or condescending here Benjamin, I really want your opinion. Is it acceptable for a government to do what they think is in the country’s best interest, even if it’s this egregious?” asked Victor in a neutral tone, as if he weren’t vested a bit in Dudley’s answer.

“Is it acceptable? Hell no, it’s not acceptable? On what planet is it acceptable?” responded Dudley in an angry voice.

“You knew it wasn’t right to kill me, and you stopped yourself. I applaud you and again thank you. But you also knew your boss wanted to attack this island and did nothing to stop him. I understand that’s more of a passive non-action on your part, because you weren’t involved in the original attack, but let me ask you a hypothetical question. What’s the difference between the attack on this island and the Tea Party attacks? Think about all the innocent people who could’ve been killed here. You met these people: Grayskull, Jesse, Katie, Katalin. How are there lives any different than those people at CIA or NSA?” asked Victor.

”I guess they aren’t, but I didn’t know the orders were given to attack DC or Christmas Island,” replied Dudley dejectedly.

“Okay true, but I’m willing to bet a week ago, had you known about the attacks before we did, you would have let it happen. You knew Robles doctored the memo and you didn’t tell us then. Maybe you’re a different person after those videos, but I need to hear it out of your mouth. Do you believe your government was in the wrong here,” prodded Victor.

“Of course they were in the wrong!” exclaimed Dudley. What was Victor trying to prove? He already won.

“Are you willing to tell the world what happened? For your own freedom and more importantly, because it’s the right thing to do?”

Dudley thought about the question. It was true. He was disgusted with his government right now. They lied to him and the rest of the world, sent him on a suicide mission, and didn’t come to his aid now that he had failed.

“How would I do that? You already have my confession and Randall’s interview on tape,” said Dudley.

“Yeah, but you were both on drugs and in custody on my island. You could both deny everything; say it was all a lie or all coerced. I have something better planned.”

“What about Randall. Is he part of this plan or am I flying solo?”

“Well, it’s tricky. We’ve had some heated discussion about him the last couple of days. On one hand, he’s not as innocent as you. He has known about the cover-up the whole time.

On the other hand, he’s also just a pawn in this game. He knew about the cover-up the whole time, but he was not on the squad who carried out the attacks in Washington. I’m not sure if he’s any better than the ones who did, but there is an argument to give him the same deal we’re giving you. Like you, he’s a cog in a machine, maybe just willing follow orders to a different extreme. If I can forgive a cog in order to take down the hub, it might be worth it. Plus, two of you exposing this whole thing would be much more powerful than just one,” explained Victor.

“What are you thinking about? We’re going to be here on the island, even if we aren’t drugged. Nobody will believe us.”

“Well, after the failed attack and the ensuing fallout, I don’t know why people should doubt it. But we’ve already thought of that. Here’s the deal. There are several countries in the world which have non-extradition clauses with the United States. Many nations have the same clause with Christmas Island. Some of them overlap. In theory, if you two gentlemen were to somehow find yourselves on their property, you could pretty much do whatever you wanted without any coercion from either the United States or Christmas Island.”

“What are you, just going to ship us to a foreign country? What stops us from just hopping a plane home and thumbing our nose at you and your deal?”

“That’s the beauty of it Benjamin. Nothing at all stops you. Well, other than the fact I have you both on tape confessing everything. Like you said nobody will believe that.”

“You’re crazy,” said Dudley. He didn’t see why anyone would take a leap of faith so big.

“Why? Are you going to fuck me Benjamin?”

“No, but how can you trust me after all of this?”

“I don’t fully trust you, but it’s a calculated risk. If both or one of you run back to America, all I lose out on is keeping you here in prison for the rest of your lives. I get no joy whatsoever out of that. In my mind, you might as well be off my island. But, if you fulfill your end of the bargain, you’ll clear my name and show the American public they’ve been living a lie for decades. They can finally take back their country.”

“So basically, you want us to spark a revolution?”

“The revolution is already underway. I want you to justify it in front of the world.”

“Assume I go through with it. Then what?”

“Then you stay in the extradition country or you come back here. We would welcome you back and convert your sentences to time served. It’s that important for us to expose the truth.”

“You know Randall is much less likely to go along with this. Will it work if it’s just me?”

“Let us worry about Lt. Randall.”

###

Three days later, Dudley, Victor, and Jack Randall landed in the Virtuosi jet at a private airstrip in Dubai. In tow was a small contingent of HPN security guards and Christmas Island press. The United Arab Emirates was one of the overlapping countries with non-extradition clauses with both the United States and Christmas Island. On the tarmac, the cameras recorded the HPN and Victor releasing the two prisoners to the Dubai police.

Dudley and Randall were now free men. They could stay in Dubai forever and live in the plush expat section of the country which served alcohol and catered to other Western indiscretions. They could hop on the next plane to the United States and claim their missions failed and they had been drugged and abused into saying terrible things about their country. Or, they could complete their gentleman’s agreement with Victor Freeman and Virtuosi.

They were escorted to a medical facility where UAE doctors performed toxicology screens which came up clean. They were held there for two nights to ensure any untraceable drugs would have time to wear off. By day three, Victor and his entourage had left the country and UAE officials confirmed to the world both Dudley and Randall were of sound mind and body. They were both free men and immediately called a press conference of their own free will.

Then they exposed one of the biggest cover-ups in world history. They revealed everything: the engineered coup of Victor at Next World, the Tea Party attacks, the original intelligence mission, the doctored memo, the failed Christmas Island helicopter attacks, and the ordered assassination attempt on a peaceful Head of State. They produced documentation to back up all their claims.

The world listened with rapture and disbelief. Everyone remembered where they were and what they were doing when the news dropped, just like a high-profile assassination. Although this time, it was something much bigger than the death of one individual. It was the unraveling of the world’s largest ball of yarn. A yarn spun over a hundred years, from the World Wars to the Great Depression, from Vietnam to the Cold War, and from 9/11 to the Tea Party attacks.

The perception was everyday citizens were in control in a democratic society. They elected leaders and sanctioned institutions and those entities followed the will of the people. Reality hit the world over the head like an ACME safe dropped from 50,000 feet onto Wile E. Coyote. These institutions, once created, received orders from an elite group known as the CABAL. They had their own motivations and ambitions and served their own purposes, not the purposes of the voting public.

The fallout was swift. Everything already happening, like the sanctions, the market collapse, and the riots, accelerated rapidly. Nations still using the U.S. Dollar as their reserve currency abandoned it like trapeze artists releasing their bars before the net was in place.

Several of the exposed politicians were immediately removed from office and put on trial for treason, murder, and corruption. Two known CABAL members were dragged from their mansions and assassinated in the streets by angry mobs. Martial law was declared, but it was hard to enforce since the military was fighting for and against both sides.

Victor and Virtuosi were rebels but not anarchists. They didn’t wish for this to happen. But at the same time, it was something the world had to go through to pay for the missteps of the past. Sometimes you can’t tweak the system to fix it. Sometimes you have to wipe the slate clean and start over.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 46 - Revelations

At Victor’s request, the meeting was held in his hidden library office. This time Dudley was patted down before entering, which seemed superfluous since he had been escorted all the way from his cell to the Hive by armed guards watching his every move. As he entered the room, Victor waved from his desk chair; the same one he was sitting in last week when Dudley pointed a gun at him. Before taking his own seat, Dudley scanned the room for killer teenage ninja nieces. This time he and Victor were alone.

“Thanks for meeting with me Benjamin. It seems for the first time ever, we are utterly alone. No recorders on you. No control panel wristband on me. The cameras and audio have been disabled,” said Victor. For the first time since the tuxedo for opening ceremonies, Victor was dressed in typical business attire: a navy suit, a red power tie, and a serious demeanor.

“I guess I should thank you for meeting me considering your laws and the circumstances. I understand it can only get better for me as a result of this,” Dudley replied. He wasn’t so sure about the last statement, especially if the cameras weren’t rolling. Who would care if Victor just pulled a gun out of his desk and ended him right here? Maybe Victor would show some restraint since Dudley hadn’t fired any shots.

“Correct,” confirmed Victor. “Depending on how happy you are with your organization now and your moral compass, you stand to do quite a bit better than you are currently.”

“What do you propose?” Dudley asked. He wanted to get down to business. Why was he here?

“A lot has happened in the past week, much of it while you’ve been detained. Just so we start on a level playing field, why don’t I put a few of my cards on the table by catching you up. I wouldn’t want you to consider my proposal without proper context,” said Victor.

“Fair enough. I’d appreciate that,” answered Dudley.

“You know about the helicopter crash of course, but what you might not know is it was no accident. They ran into a force field which protects this island from exactly that type of belligerent act of aggression. Depending on your personal philosophy, you’ll find this either brilliant or abhorrent. Personally, I love it.

“In the United  States, if a burglar gets hurt on your property while trying to rob you, you could actually be held liable. Here, we don’t give a rat’s ass if you booby trap your whole fucking property. Anyone brazen enough to be trespassing without your permission deserves what they get,” exclaimed Victor. His calm demeanor had given away to righteous indignation.

Dudley thought back to the emergency drill on the airplane. That’s why Meena was on the phone immediately. They knew an attack was coming even before Dudley knew.

“After word of the crash leaked to the world press, there was a backlash on multiple fronts. The U.N. called an emergency session to discuss sanctions against the United  States. World stock markets had their biggest one day drop since Black Monday in 1987 and are still unstable. The underground movement in the U.S., which was a slight groundswell, has turned several of your major cities into free-for-all riot zones. The attack was the tipping point on a house of cards crashing down as we sit here,” Victor summarized.

Now everyone else’s role during the plane’s emergency drill became clear. Brandon was moving assets around to prepare for the crash, perhaps helping to partially cause it in the first place. Greta probably made diplomatic pre-warning calls. Donovan and Victor no doubt orchestrated it all. Victor continued.

“After you decided not to shoot, which I do appreciate regardless of the bulletproof force field, you were subdued by what is known as Angel’s Trumpet, or Columbian Devil’s Breath. It’s a fascinating plant and if properly manipulated, has some practical uses other than simply killing one’s enemies. One is you can exercise a certain type of mind control over the target. After you were hit with the dart, we could have sent you swimming to Australia and you would have gladly hopped in the ocean and started on your merry way, never questioning the sanity of the act. Instead, we told you where your cell was and you started walking.

“Along the way, you spilled all of your secrets at our request. We pretty much had the crux of the matter figured out, but we didn’t know exactly what agency you worked for, where your bugs were dropped, etcetera. You’re now an open book to us. Everything you thought, did, or were ordered to do, we know about and you’re on tape saying it all. I can’t say any of it was earth-shattering, but at any rate you should know you have no more secrets from us,” explained Victor.

Dudley sat quietly. There wasn’t much to say. Victor picked up a remote control and turned on a TV on one of the side walls. Dudley saw himself in the video, talking freely. He didn’t remember any of it, but everything he said in the video was true.

“I’ll fast forward through this if you don’t mind. I just figured you might want proof,” said Victor.

“Please do,” said Dudley, his cheeks flushed.

The next video started. Dudley recognized the person in the video. It was Lieutenant John “Jack” Randall of Freedom Keeper Special Forces; the sole survivor of the helicopter crash. A medic assisted Randall as he walked between two shoulder-height bars.

“I though the only survivor was paralyzed,” interjected Dudley.

“He is. He’s wearing an exoskeleton which helps people walk with paralysis,” said Victor quickly, making it clear that wasn’t the point of starting the video. Dudley was relieved that although 21 of his coworkers died in the crash, the doctors seemed to be treating the one survivor very well.

“Like I said Benjamin, there were no big surprises in your revelations. Now let’s contrast that with what Lt. Randall had to say,” Victor said as the video continued rolling.

The video cut away from Randall’s rehab efforts to him sitting up in bed. Someone off camera interviewed him. It sounded like Eve Carson.

“Please state your name and rank,” said the woman.

 “Lt. Jack Randall, Freedom Keeper Special Forces.”

 “Tell me about your unit Lieutenant.”

 “We are a covert special ops unit reporting straight to the President of the United States of America.”

 “Is the American public aware of this unit?”

 “No ma’am.”

  “What was your mission here on this island?”

Randall explained all of the specs of the mission in detail. All eight potential targets: four places and four people. He didn’t stutter or hesitate once.

“Why were you sent to attack those targets?”

“This island is capable of doing harm to the United  States with its technological and financial capabilities.”

“Who was your Alpha target?”

“Victor Freeman.”

“Does this have anything to do with Victor Freeman being a person-of-interest in an ongoing FBI case?”

“No ma’am. There is no ongoing FBI investigation. It was a mission to neutralize the island’s capabilities.”

Eve seemed to hesitate on the tape. Victor leaned forward like this was an Oscar-winning suspense movie he’d seen before and couldn’t wait to relive the ending. Eve continued the interview, obviously ad-libbing now that Randall had revealed an unexpected secret.

“There is no ongoing FBI investigation into the Sons of Liberty 2.0 naming Victor Freeman as a person of interest?”

“Only to the public. Privately the case is closed.”

“Why is it closed?”

“There is no such group as Sons of Liberty 2.0. The Freedom Keepers invented them.”

Eve was obviously as shocked as Dudley, but she knew this was an opening she had to jump through.

“Who conducted the Tea Party Anniversary Attacks if Sons of Liberty 2.0 doesn’t exist? Who bombed the CIA and the NSA buildings?”

“The Freedom Keepers conducted the attacks, ma’am, at the direction of the Director of National Intelligence and the President of the United States of America.”

Eve and a couple of other onlookers behind the cameras gasped. Dudley grabbed his seat handles like he was on a roller coaster. All the knowledge he thought he had was draining out of him and resetting him back to infancy, like an intellectual version of Benjamin Button.

“What?” Eve asked. It was an exclamation, not a question, but the Angel’s Trumpet worked on Randall just the same. He repeated what he said before.

“Why?”

“It was done to regain the balance of power. The public started valuing freedom over security. The attack was engineered to instill fear in the public again so they would stop pushing back against the government. It was also meant to discredit Victor Freeman and Next World because they were aiding and abetting the freedom movement.”

Victor stopped the tape, dropped the remote, and looked over to Dudley. Dudley was immediately traumatized, mouth agape, head and body shaking, staring distantly at the carpet trying to re-calibrate the last 20 years of his life. It had all been one big fucking lie. His career was a charade.

“I’m sorry you had to see that Benjamin,” said Victor, returning to his normal calm demeanor. Most people would have jumped on Dudley with an I-told-you-so barrage, but Victor knew he had already won. Like a parent who just told his child the truth about Santa Claus, Victor sat there for a moment.

After several minutes of silence, Dudley still didn’t speak. He sat there staring into space like an invalid. Victor must have figured the obligatory grace period of silence was over and started speaking.

“I must say, even I was stunned by that one. I’ve heard every conspiracy theory ever invented. It was my business. I believed some of them and disregarded others. Some were eventually proved and some eventually discredited, but this one lined up perfectly.

“A nobody entrepreneur forms a start-up company at just the right time in history, with just the right product mix. He’s not smarter than anyone else nor any richer; just incredibly lucky, incredibly intuitive or both. A passive disdain for the lack of privacy in America turns into action now as people see there is something they can do about it. The combination of privacy becoming accessible and constant bad behavior from people in power turns the tides on the watchers. The people don’t want to be watched anymore and they’re taking action. What’s worse? It’s not violent action, but passive resistance, so it can’t be met with violent counter measures. You can arrest and beat protestors in the street, but what can you do when they’re protesting from behind their computer screens; when you don’t know who they are?

“So instead of fighting the people, you fight the idea. You discredit the Founder of Next World by sending in a puppet CEO, getting the board to vote for an exclusive contract by waiving a pile of cash in their face, and forcing this young upstart out.

“Then, to put the icing on the cake, you stage an attack so people are scared shitless again, like they were in the good ole days after 9/11. And lo-and-behold, the anonymous ringleader of the attack just happened to be aided and abetted by guess who; the young upstart. You leak some information to his old mentor, which gets back to him, convincing even the young entrepreneur he is responsible. He buys an island and is out of your hair forever, afraid to return to his home country. Even that’s not good enough so you attack his new country. Am I missing anything?”

Dudley was silent during Victor’s recap. Maybe Randall was lying in the video. Maybe hallucinating from the drugs. But everything Dudley had said was true and everything else Randall said was true: the unit, the bugs, the mission specs, everything. It was futile to think this was all a lie.

“No, that about covers it,” said Dudley in a low voice.

“The first casualty of war is the truth,” said Victor.

“So, what now?” Dudley asked.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 45 - Decision Time

Dudley was re-deposited at the Hive at about 6:30 a.m. and was asked to meet Victor in the library at noon to go over the footage and photographs one more time. There was an ExComm meeting scheduled for Thursday afternoon and Victor wanted to have his story straight. The island would have to respond somehow to the botched attack.

Dudley couldn’t sleep after returning to the Hive. He lay in bed reliving the last week and thinking about the inevitable action his new order would lead to. He was also waiting for the extraction specs, which hadn’t come yet.

Dudley had received and carried out similar orders in the past and he was usually eager to comply. It was usually for good reason, taking out unambiguous enemies of the state. Victor wasn’t in that category. Under different circumstances, he could even see Victor as a potential friend. He shook his head, trying to detach himself from his feelings the best he could.

Dudley knew Victor was working in his hidden office behind one of the library bookshelves before their noon meeting, so he went downstairs 15 minutes early. This was as good a place as any to fulfill his obligation of eliminating Victor. He might not get a chance like this again. There would be plans in place to get him off the island soon enough.

Dudley walked from his bedroom, down the stairs, and to the library entrance. He looked back several times to make sure he wasn’t followed. He was probably caught on surveillance, but by the time they figured out what he was doing it would be too late. He walked over to the bookcase on his left and tried several books in the vicinity of the hidden lever. He finally pulled down Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan and the door to Victor’s office opened. Dudley drew his gun and walked through the passage.

As he walked in quietly, Victor sat in a low-backed leather chair looking out the one-way glass to the front porch with his back towards Dudley. Dudley wasn’t sure if Victor heard him or not. He raised his gun, hand shaking for the first time on any mission.

“Whatt’ya think Benjamin? Are you going to do it or not?” Victor asked casually.

Benjamin? Did Victor say Benjamin? How the hell did Victor know his real name? How long had he known? Did Victor also know about Dudley’s orders? If so, why didn’t he stay out in the open where it would have been harder for Dudley to get him?

Victor turned to face him, tossing a manila folder on the desk. Dudley’s picture and a few other documents slipped out. Victor seemed very serene, but not as friendly as usual.

“So, are you going to pull the trigger Mr. Dudley?”

“How did you find out who I was?”

Victor laughed with derision and sat back in his chair. For the first time, Dudley saw a trace of anger come to Victor’s face.

“After everything you’ve seen, are you really surprised I knew?” Victor asked.

“Xavier or Natalie told you I take it,” Dudley guessed.

“No Benjamin, they didn’t. They didn’t have to. They wouldn’t have been able to even if they tried. I assume your people are keeping a very close eye on them. Good guess though.”

“So how?” Dudley pressed, pushing the gun barrel towards Victor. He was doing everything he could to stall. He didn’t want to shoot Victor, but he had his orders.

“I know Xavier very well; better than you guys thought. He’s a close friend, but he’s also a known cheapskate of the highest order. He would never send a journalist here for two weeks with all expenses paid to interview me. He would’ve just called me and done the interview himself to save the money.”

“That alone couldn’t have given me away?” Dudley replied.

“Of course not, but it was enough to make me start thinking and digging. You’re obviously not capable of imagining the level of digging I can do. I have the smartest, most highly-skilled, highly-trained people in the world on this island with me. All I had to do is say I was suspicious and bang, just like that, a swarm of bees on your ass. Fact-checking your prior articles, researching from every angle we could. You can’t hide anything from us,” Victor said in an escalating voice.

“How long have you known?” Dudley asked, still pointing the gun.

“The whole time you asshole! From the second you landed and Dodger picked you up I knew who you were,” yelled Victor. He had finally lost his cool.

Was Victor exaggerating? If it was true, the ramifications were startling. Dudley had been here over a week, interviewed dozens of people, met Victor’s nieces, spent time with Megan, and travelled with Greta. Did they all know? If they did, they sure as hell didn’t show it. They were all very hospitable and accommodating.

“Let me guess, now you’re wondering if everyone else knew and if they did, how you didn’t pick up on it,” Victor continued, reading Dudley’s mind.

“Yeah, you’re right. I was thinking that,” admitted Dudley.

“Nobody knows except me and the IT personnel who figured it out. I wanted everyone else to act natural and be open with you. I wanted to show you we had nothing to hide. Evidently, your superiors in Washington don’t agree.”

“You’ve got the capability of making biological weapons. You have a quantum computer capable of doing anything from stealing billions to falsely firing missiles to rigging elections,” Dudley started. Could he convince himself to do the inevitable?

“You’re right Benjamin. We have all those capabilities. So does the United States. So do several other countries. Since when do we go to war with other countries over capabilities instead of intentions or actions? Make no mistake. If you complete your mission, it will be considered an act of war. There’s already been one act of war from your country but luckily, they fell out of the sky without causing any damage. But now you’re talking about murdering a Head of State in cold blood,” Victor said.

He was not begging for his life or trying to talk Dudley out of his job. Simply making it clear even the Freedom Keepers wouldn’t be able to cover this up based on the information Virtuosi already had.

“I’m not at liberty to change my orders on my own,” said Dudley.

“Liberty-that’s a funny word huh? You’re not at liberty to do anything Benjamin. You’ve given your individuality to a machine which considers you merely a cog. I bet you don’t even have extraction plans yet, do you? Because they’re not coming. You’re expendable. Now that we know who you are, you’re as good as dead anyway.” Somehow that statement from Victor jarred Dudley a bit. It was the only threatening thing Victor had ever said.

“If I’m dead anyway, I might as well complete my mission.” Dudley couldn’t wait any longer. Victor was right; Dudley was screwed no matter what. This was a suicide mission from the beginning. Dudley held the gun steady at Victor’s head, just in case he was wearing a vest.

But he couldn’t pull the trigger. He knew he had to, but he couldn’t. His conscience was winning the war against his sense of duty. It just wasn’t right. He put the gun back down by his side.

“What happens if I don’t do it? You already know I’m a spy. I’m already in deep shit here,” said Dudley. Realistically, what were his options?

“We’ll talk about it later, but thank you for making the right decision. Ladies you may escort Benjamin to his new temporary home,” Victor said, looking off to Dudley’s right.

Dudley felt a nick in the side of his neck. He dropped his gun and instinctively grabbed his neck, pulling out a small projectile. As he turned to find the source of the attack, he saw a blur behind him. Before he knew it, a wavy Kris knife was at his throat. Payton had hit him with a blowgun dart as she sat in lotus position on the top of her uncle’s filing cabinet. Jordan was holding a knife to his throat while the Columbian Devil’s Breath from the dart kicked in, making Dudley a free-willed slave.

“I believe you’ve met my bodyguards,” Victor smiled.

Victor walked around to the same side of the desk as Dudley, picked up the gun, and fired towards his own empty seat on the other side of the desk. There was a loud bang and then a sound like a thud with a reverberation. The bullet fell to the floor in front of the desk, not hitting anything on the other side. It had been stopped in mid-flight somehow.

“Good thing security outfitted this room with a bullet proof divider; transparent of course. I wasn’t sure if you’d come to your senses or not.”

So, the choppers didn’t crash into each other after all. It was the last thing Dudley remembered from the encounter.

 ###

 Dudley woke up in a cell with no bars. He had trouble keeping his eyes open and his stomach growled with hunger. How long had he been out? A few people were out in the common area, tapping away at keyboards. It was more like a science lab than a jail. He stood up and tried to walk out of his non-cell to ask the workers a question or two when he slammed into an invisible barrier face first. The thud startled several of the workers, one of whom picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“Yeah Wilber, he’s awake.” The worker hung up and continued his work, not further acknowledging Dudley.

A few seconds later a side door slid open. Two figures emerged and started walking towards Dudley’s cell. He recognized both at once and weighed the ramifications. Wilber, 6’4, 300 pounds, had a neutral, business-like expression and carried a leather pad folio. He wore a black pinstriped suit and high-polished shoes.

At his side, and a foot lower, was Jordan Freeman. She wore a hooded Venum sweatshirt which came down to mid-thigh. The hood was up and she glared at Dudley like she would happily add him to her teardrop collection if it weren’t for Wilber and the invisible barrier. Given a choice, Dudley would have tussled with Wilber over Jordan any day, especially today.

Jordan spat at Dudley, but this time the barrier protected him. He was suddenly very grateful for the barrier, and not because he was worried about the saliva. Wilber held out his arm as if to subdue Jordan. She scowled and took a half-step back.

“Mr. Benjamin Dudley, you are hereby charged with espionage and threatening the life of the Facilitator,” Wilbur started. He read Dudley a version of the Miranda rights which sounded very close to the ones he was familiar with.

“Your trial will be in one week and will be delayed at your request for up to two months while you prepare your defense.”

“What defense?” Jordan yelled, “I was there. I saw everything. And the cameras have it all on tape. Let’s take him out for Christ’s sake,” she pleaded with Wilber. She was obviously not thrilled with Dudley, even though he hadn’t actually shot at Victor.

Then she glared straight at Dudley. ”I should have slit your throat when I had the chance.” A chill ran down Dudley’s spine.

“Jordan, Victor wouldn’t want you to talk to our guest that way. Can you please step outside and leave me and Mr. Dudley alone for a minute,” Wilber requested.

She obviously had great respect for Wilber and finally relented. She gave Dudley one last death stare and walked out the door.

“Kids,” Wilber said. Wilber was incredibly calm considering Dudley almost attempted to kill his friend. Maybe because he knew Victor wasn’t ever in any real danger.

“Mr. Dudley, we’ve been in contact with your employer; your real employer. We didn’t tell them you changed your mind. We told them you made the attempt and were thwarted by our security forces. Negotiations are taking place right now for your return, but I must be honest, they aren’t playing ball. While that happens, we need to follow all standard criminal protocols by reading you your rights, setting a trial date, and providing you an opportunity to get a defense together. But let’s be honest with each other. You’re collateral damage to your organization. They’re not going to make the concessions we’re demanding. You’ll go to trial and should you be found guilty, the penalty for your crimes is life in prison here on the island.”

Somehow, Dudley was relieved. Most countries would execute him without a second thought.

“You should feel lucky,” continued Wilber. “If you had gone through with your mission and somehow succeeded in killing Victor, the family of the victim would get to help decide the punishment. Jordan and Payton are the only family Victor has here so you can use your imagination there. Payton might have relented, but she wouldn’t have been able to sway her sister to leniency. Jordan probably would’ve opted to dole out part of the punishment herself. We don’t allow the death penalty put you might have ended up begging for it,” laughed Wilbur.

Dudley smiled with fake relief.

“Since Victor is still alive and well, he may choose to weigh-in. But that’s better for you, even after everything that’s happened. Now, back to your employer’s stone-walling,” Wilber continued. “I’m not sure if it’d be helpful, but you have the right to make phone calls and we don’t specify it has to be to your lawyer. You’re welcome to contact your supervisors directly and encourage them to cooperate.”

“I don’t think it’ll do any good. We have very strict protocols. Technically they’re supposed to deny my existence, even if it means me getting punished. They won’t negotiate for me. They won’t even provide me a lawyer through back channels. I’m on my own now that I’ve been caught,” Dudley explained.

Wilber showed a flash of concern and then stared into the distance, like he was thinking. He obviously had a compassionate side, even as the highest-ranking law enforcement officer on the island. He seemed upset Dudley was being hung out to dry.

“Well, the offer is on the table. The technicians here have the authority to give you a telephone or a computer if you need it,” he said, as he turned to leave.

 ###

 Dudley was kept confined for the next week in his cell. He was allowed out several times a day for exercise and fresh air and was fed three home-cooked meals a day. He was an enemy of the state, but he was treated like a white-collar criminal at a minimum-security prison. It didn’t really matter if they kept him under close watch. If he did happen to escape what was he going to do? Jump in the Indian Ocean and swim to Sri Lanka? During that week, he didn’t see Victor, Wilber, or any other familiar faces again. There was also no word from the United States or Virtuosi on a possible deal.

When his trial date finally came, Dudley saw no reason to exercise his right to delay the proceedings. It would be a speedy trial. The videotape showed it all and he didn’t deny anything. He just kept his mouth shut, resigned to his fate of life imprisonment here on the island. Dudley had known his entire life this day might come.

After listening to the facts of the case and viewing the video, the judge went into deliberation. He came out fifteen minutes later, hardly enough time for a bathroom break. The verdict had been reached; guilty as charged.

“Mr. Dudley,” the judge started. “You have been informed of the possible penalty for your offense?”

“Yes, your honor,” Dudley responded, staring down at the floor.

“Good. It has been requested sentencing be suspended pending a meeting between you and Victor Freeman.”

What? Since when does the victim get to meet with a criminal before sentencing? What if he didn’t want to meet with Victor?

“Perhaps a little context would help here,” started the judge, evidently reading concern on Dudley’s face.

“In our country, the sentencing can, and usually does, take place without the victim’s input. However, the recommendations of the victim may be considered, provided they are no more severe than the court allows. In other words, Mr. Dudley, I suggest you meet with Mr. Freeman as he is the only one who might be able to convince me to reduce your sentence. This has nothing to do with him being the Facilitator. These rules apply to all criminal cases.”

Dudley was going to have one more meeting with Victor after all.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 44 - Zero Dark Debacle

The buzzing of a million bees emanated throughout the Hive and Dudley was jarred awake. He swung his arms around out of instinct. He had to rub his eyes and gather his bearings before he realized he wasn’t being attacked by a swarming pestilence. He took a deep breath and checked his bedside clock. It read 4:15, early Thursday morning or late Wednesday night depending on your point of view. Judging by his mild hangover, it was early Thursday morning for Dudley. For the crowd just getting out of the Ubermorgen concert, it was still Wednesday night.

Two minutes later, there was a knock on his bedroom door. He threw on some sweatpants and a t-shirt and opened the door. Eve Carson, Wilber’s wife and the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Hive Protection Network, stood at attention. She was in full uniform with her black hair slicked back into a tight pony-tail. She was not as jovial as her husband and right now she was all business.

 “Mr. Stevens, grab your camera and follow me.” It was a command, not a request. She turned and started walking down the hall without another word. Dudley’s mind raced with questions. What did the alarm mean? Where were they going? The only thing calming his mind was she used his cover name, Mr. Stevens, and she told him to bring a camera. The alarm wasn’t ringing because they had discovered a spy in their midst.

He grabbed his camera bag and headed down the hall, catching up with Eve. She skipped the elevator and went straight down the stairs, down the hall, past the kitchen, and into the motor court. Dudley hurried to keep up, pulling on a sweatshirt as they walked.

When they got to the motor court, Dudley saw a dark green Dodge Charger already running. Wilbur sat behind the wheel and Victor was in the passenger seat on a cell phone.

“Get in behind Wilber and start the camera,” directed Eve. Dudley complied, fumbling around with disorientation. Eve jumped in the car behind Victor. She started checking her two side arms in the back seat as they pulled out. Victor ended his call saying something unintelligible into the phone; probably some more of the mystery language from the plane the other day.

Victor turned around in the seat and looked at Dudley. The camera was rolling. “If I’ve ever needed an unbiased, foreign journalist, this is the time Sid. We’ve just had a report of two aircrafts crashing just off our shores. We don’t know what’s going on, but we have no record of any authorized aircraft in the area. It’s not ours and whoever it was shouldn’t have been there. We have people on the scene now investigating and we’re on our way. I want you near me and I want the camera rolling the whole time, no matter what we find. Got it?” Victor had never been this formal in any of his previous dealings with Dudley. He was obviously reeling from being pulled out of Quinquatria fantasyland to deal with an emergency in the middle of the night.

During the brief drive, Wilber, Eve, and Victor all talked into phones in their island mystery language. Dudley recorded all of it, both on the camera and with his hidden pocket recorder. His team back home hadn’t been able to decipher anything from the plane yet, but they had determined it wasn’t a current living language. Nobody at his headquarters had any knowledge of the language and they were now analyzing it using several databases. If it was a dead language, like Latin, or even a known constructed language, like Klingon or Elvish, they would figure it out. Even if they had invented it from scratch, every language had to have patterns and therefore was breakable.

Ten minutes later, the group pulled into Flying Fish Cove, the ex-capital and current fishing and manufacturing hub of the island. Several spotlights, both on the ground from cranes and in the water on fishing boats, cut through the otherwise pitch blackness. The group passed some docks and walked down to a small beach where a group of fishermen, medical personnel, and HPN security guards were working. A group of boats and a small helicopter were gathered out in the water, about a half mile offshore.

“What’s up?” Eve asked her officer on the scene.

“We don’t have all of the details yet, but it appears two choppers crashed,” replied the young male officer reading from a tablet. “They’re sending me updates from the boats.”

“And the infrared readings? Any survivors?” As Eve continued her line of questioning, the young officer’s tablet dinged with an update.

“Looks like there is only one survivor. Not sure how many were in the two vehicles total.”

Another ding on the tablet.

“I think you better see this,” said the officer, handing the tablet to Eve with a look of terror across his face. A look of outrage and indignation came over hers.

“Those mother fuckers!” she yelled as she shoved the tablet into her husband’s chest and walked closer to the water.

Victor and Wilbur saw a picture of part of the wreckage on the tablet.

“What the hell?” Wilber exclaimed. “What does this mean?”

“It means I need my journalist now,” said Victor matter-of-factly. He was visibly seething but trying to keep his cool for the camera.

Dudley looked through the camera and pointed it at the tablet. His chest tightened and his stomach dropped when he saw the picture he was recording. It was part of one of the wrecked helicopters pulled from the water. It had a U.S. flag painted on it and one of the two Freedom Keepers’ tail numbers.

Dudley guessed the other one was at the bottom of the Indian Ocean.

If all of this was true, and there was only one survivor, he had 21 dead colleagues out there in the water.

The most elite and covert American Special Forces unit used to be known as JSOC, pronounced Jay-Sock, for the Joint Special Operations Command. It was the only unit which reported directly to the President and for years, this unit carried out assassinations and other sensitive assignments all over the world. It eventually became the American military’s worst-kept secret, as whistleblowers and foreign civilians proved JSOC was operating in countries illegally. They were deployed in scores of countries around the world, many of which were U.S allies, not enemies. They killed plenty of enemy combatants. Unfortunately, they also killed plenty of journalists, innocent civilians, women, children, and anyone else who happened to get in their way, breaking dozens of international laws in the process, including hiring local warlords to do their dirty work.

Finally, after a couple of high-level blunders and subsequent cover-ups were exposed, the unit was outlawed and disbanded. But like the NSA, it was only disbanded on paper. Instead of having a thousand or so members, it was reduced to a couple of hundred and put under the Freedom Keepers banner.

Common sense and knowledge of Freedom Keeper protocol made it clear to Dudley what happened in the past couple of days. He sent his memo to Robles, clearing Virtuosi of any ill-intention. Robles doctored the memo and sent it to the Secretary, making it seem like Virtuosi was instead extremely dangerous. The Secretary bought Robles’s story hook, line, and sinker and for whatever reason, acted on it immediately. It could have been Robles’s sales pitch, the Secretary’s own ambitions, a war-happy President, or all of the above. One thing was for sure. If the Freedom Keeper Special Forces were here, the President of the United States of America had authorized it.

As Dudley continued rolling footage and piecing the rest of the puzzle together, a small motorboat with a security guard and three medics pulled up to shore. The four jumped out in the shallow water, pulled the boat up to the shore, and lifted a stretcher with a body.

“This is the live one. We need some help over here,” yelled one of the medics to some other emergency personnel on shore. They responded, working on the patient while loading him into an ambulance. Dudley had to resist the urge to run over and see who it was on the stretcher.

Dudley heard the boat medics say something about the survivor being unable to move his legs, but he didn’t hear much else. The ambulance tore out of the parking lot with sirens blaring.

Meanwhile, two fishermen approached Wilber and Victor. They explained they had been preparing their boats for their morning departure and heard the helicopters approaching from a couple miles out. One of them pulled out a smart phone and filmed their approach. They showed the footage to Victor, Wilbur, and Dudley. In the video, two choppers approached the shore and suddenly, it was like they had crashed into an invisible barrier. But that was impossible. They must have crashed into each other and the video just didn’t catch the point of impact. There was no other possible explanation, because the video clearly showed they were not shot out of the air or otherwise interfered with from the shore or by any other aircraft.

Then he remembered the tennis ball experiment from Meena’s Menlo  Park video.

No way, not possible. A two helicopter crash for sure. Twenty-one dead and they found out a moment later via electronic updates, the one survivor in the hospital was paralyzed from the waist down.

As Victor, Wilber, and Eve continued to survey the situation and make phone calls, Dudley snuck off to the side to check his phone for texts or e-mails from the Natalie Chen address. He had a message from Robles:

 “Birds are in the air for a strike tonight. All targets a go. Be out of the Hive by 5:00 a.m. and get to safety. Should this mission not go according to plan, you have the order to eliminate Alpha target. Extraction plan will follow.”

Anxiety pulsed through Dudley like an electrical current. How was this happening? How did someone up or down the chain-of-command not realize this was criminal and kill the plan? Now Plan A had failed spectacularly in a fiery blaze. And Dudley was Plan B.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 43 - Shockerball and Ubermorgen

“Hey P.F., here you go,” said Megan to Victor, as she came into the cabin and threw him a jersey similar to the one she and the rest of the ladies wore.

“What’s P.F.?” asked Dudley.

Victor unrolled his jersey and showed Dudley the back. It said “Powerless Figurehead” where the name should go.

“I think that pretty much sums it up, right?” Victor said with a laugh.

Victor took off his floral button-up shirt to change and Dudley finally got a look at some of his ink and markings. Like Megan, he had his share of scars from the old neighborhood. Neither one of them had technically joined a gang, like Victor’s brother and many of their friends, but even if you weren’t official you were likely to get caught in the crossfire every now and then.

A nasty fraternity brand and a Christmas Island flag tattoo covered his two upper arms. Across his stomach was the word “Virtuosi” inked in block graffiti letters. His back was covered with a written tattoo Dudley didn’t have time to read, but caught the title and looked it up on his smart phone later. It was verse 75 from the Tao Te Ching, an ancient Chinese Taoist text:

 When the government taxes are too high, people will go hungry.

When the government invades the lives of the people, the people will lose their spirit.

Therefore, act in the best interest of the people.

Trust them and leave them alone.

 Not something a power-hungry dictator would tattoo on themselves.

“So, what are the jerseys for?” asked Dudley.

“Co-ed shockerball. The one time of the year the people can use a stun gun on members of their executive branch and not get thrown in jail. It’s unbelievably popular considering we aren’t exactly tyrannical leaders,” answered Victor.

“You mean you guys play that barbaric game?” asked Dudley with wide eyes.

“We invented it. We love it,” replied Megan. She cocked her forearm like it was a shotgun, revealing a retractable stun gun attached to her wrist. Katalin walked out of the bedroom similarly equipped, with a look on her face which displayed not a care in the world.

“And you approve of this activity Katalin? You’re training for the Olympics. What if you get hurt?” asked Dudley, trying to find someone to back him up.

“Oh, I’m not vorried. Dey veel not touch me vit dees leetle shockers, I assure you dat.”

“Because you’re so sweet and innocent?” asked Dudley.

“Hell no, because she’s too fast and nimble,” interjected Victor. “They’d just as soon light her up as any of us.”

Dudley looked around and the cabin was pretty empty now other than the group he was conversing with.

Donovan was in the door and waved him outside. Dudley obliged and went out to join a growing crowd, leaving Victor, Katalin, Greta and Megan inside. As Dudley exited, Dodger, Katie, and Wilber went inside to join Victor and company. Must be the rest of the team. Dudley peeked back to see Wilbur’s nickname. It said “Wrong Guy” and Dudley couldn’t help to mentally fill in the rest of the joke. Wrong guy to fuck with? Wrong guy to stun? All of the above?

“Come on Sid, the pep rally’s starting,” explained Donovan.

“How did the ExComm get out of this?” asked Dudley. Was this really about to happen? The entire executive branch including the Head of State running around stunning and getting stunned?

“Because we’re not idiots. Plus, people would much rather stun their national leader and his staff than a bunch of bureaucrats.”

“And they’ve done this before?”

“Yeah, they came in second last year. Some of them are slightly out of their prime, but they were all great athletes in either high school or college. Katie is just their manager and trainer, but she was on the swimming and diving team at the University of Hawaii.

“All of them? I knew Greta fenced and Katalin was a gymnast, but I didn’t know about the others,” replied Dudley.

“Victor played rugby at Northwestern. Wilbur was all-state in three sports in high school and a gold glove boxer in the Army. Julian was all-state in basketball and baseball in high school. Megan had a soccer scholarship and ran track at Penn. They’re actually pretty good out there. Of course, it isn’t about winning or losing, it’s about how many times you get the shit shocked out of you. The crowd couldn’t care less who wins,” explained Donovan.

The crowd, which numbered about 20-30 people by now, started clapping in unison: Clap clap……..clap……….clap clap………….clap………clap clap…………clap.

The shockerball team members came out of the cabin one at a time, starting with Katie and continuing with the others. Each one was greeted with loud cheers and the continual clapping. Each player was escorted to three stations as part of a rowdy pre-game ritual. The first station was the Minerva ice chute, where each member took a lemon drop super-shot. The second station was a keg, where the participants were inverted for a 30-second keg stand. It was interesting to see the difference between two people lifting Katalin so fast she almost flipped over and six people barely getting Wilber up for his turn.

The crowd yelled encouragement and kept clapping to the beat: Clap clap……..clap……….clap clap………….clap………clap clap…………clap.

The final station was the tiki bar, where each player took a tequila shot and then loaded their choice of pre-game pills into Pez dispensers; no doubt leaning more towards the red amphetamines and yellow painkillers and steering clear of the green laughers and the blue downers. Those might get dipped into later.

###

Once the team rounded the vice-ridden base path and was half-buzzed, dizzy, and numb, they were loaded into a large flatbed truck. The pseudo-parade float pulled slowly away from the cabin and towards the arena, playing Rush’s Tom Sawyer, driving slow enough to keep the walking entourage in tow, and gathering strength like an avalanche as they approached the stadium in the back. By the time the truck pulled onto the sidelines, there were several hundred revelers following, cheering and waving flags. The arena seats overflowed with fans anxious to see Victor and company either prevail or get shocked into oblivion. It sounded and looked as if everyone in the stands had gone around as many pregame bases as the players.

The Virtuosi team put mouthpieces in, no doubt to avoid biting their tongues when shocked. Then they pulled green bandanas over their faces and hopped out of the truck. They looked like a band of Wild West train robbers as they ran onto the field for warm-ups.

The tourney was round-robin style, with quick 20-minute games divided into two 10-minute halves. The number of people willing to participate in this event was amazing. They came from all walks of island life: fisherman, merchants, a Grayskull/Menlo Park combo team, HPN representatives, a team made up of Nostalgia employees, and two teams from Pollard University. The executive branch rounded out the 8-team field.

Once Dudley got past the initial shock, pun intended, it was excellent entertainment. The actual sport component was fast-paced and high scoring, with two teams either throwing balls into a goal for one point or kicking them in for three points. The stun guns added a violent and thrilling layer to an already exciting tournament.

True to her word, Katalin never got touched and Greta, with her fencing agility, only suffered a grazing or two. These two also alternated the goalie position, which inherently received less punishment.

The other four weren’t as lucky. They also weren’t half as careful. Dodger and Megan had good speed, but their urge to attack opposing players subjected them to their fair share of shocks. In fact, Dudley was sure he saw Megan shock her own team members a couple of times in her haste to get a play going in the right direction.

Victor and Wilber didn’t have as much speed, but they were both fearless, running into piles for balls or to generally wreak havoc on a group of opposing players. They got the worst of it by far but dished out plenty of pain as well.

The shocks resulted in everything from slight exclamations of pain, to fumbles, to people ending up on the ground, depending on the length of the shock and where it landed. There didn’t appear to be any major injuries, but the crowd went wild every time someone landed a shock or scored a great goal.

Donovan hadn’t overstated Team Virtuosi’s athletic ability or tenacity. But he failed to mention the theatrics they would sprinkle in. Victor and Wilbur scored goals by sheer brute force, shaking off shocks as they rumbled down the field, doing the two-person Kid ‘n Play dance after one particularly remarkable goal. Katalin snuck in for a score and performed an amazing tumble sequence back down the field.

Megan spiced things up by hitting multiple drop-kick goals from long distance, using her soccer prowess to the team’s advantage. After each one, she played to the crowd by throwing up four-fingered Virtuosi and three-fingered “shocker” hand signals and performing a shuffle-step dance. During breaks, Katie administered special balm on electric burns and provided vitamin infused water, herbal energy drinks, and other party favors as needed.

Victor and crew finished in third place out of the eight teams; a good enough showing to win red stun gun charms while at the same time providing entertainment to the festival’s patrons. It was probably better they didn’t win first place. What fun would that be for everyone else? Third place was a plenty good enough reason for the group to return to the cabins and continue the party. It was about midday now and dozens of other events would occur throughout the afternoon.

###

The after-party was even more unruly than the pre-party, lasting for a couple of hours before people dispersed to Nostalgia, the Blue Dragon, or other parts of the Fairgrounds for their next events. Dudley joined the convoy headed to the casino. Throughout the afternoon and early evening, he played admirably in two poker tournaments but as he expected, could not overcome the large field of Virtuosi and international card sharps assembled to compete. He took his two silver participant charms, attached them to his necklace, and hopped a ride back to the Fairgrounds.

Dudley and the casino group returned to the Virtuosi cabins to reconvene with the others. A couple people came back with new charm necklace hardware and others were sneaking catnaps in the cabin bedrooms, recuperating for the Quinquatria grand finale concert, Ubermorgen, meaning “the day after tomorrow” in German. It was a tribute to the giant electronic music festival held in Belgium every year, Tomorrowland. It also took most people two days to recover from the drugs and alcohol consumed during the concert. Quinquatria would trickle into the next couple of days and fizzle out over the coming weekend, but this was the apex event.

The newly assembled entourage made its way through the midway of the Fairgrounds and back to the stadium. The crowd packed into the stadium seats and this time even covered the field. A large stage looked out over the crowd from the end below the Jumbotron. An all-star cast of international DJs played electronic dance music to the horde of attendees, who danced, shook giant glow sticks to the beat, and waved flags from dozens of countries from which they were visiting. Dudley didn’t care for the music. It was a little too stimulating for him, but the energy was phenomenal. It was like a giant, raving United Nations meeting on acid. Flags from nearby countries like Australia, New Zealand, and Indonesia hung beside those of far-flung countries like Brazil, Sweden, and South Africa. There were even a couple of United States flags in the crowd.

The giant screen played video montages, neon lights danced to the beat, and fog machines spewed mystique. During one set, Katalin hopped on stage in front of the DJs and performed a choreographed dance with glow-in-the-dark balls, ribbons, and hoops. She blended into the background with dark clothes. Her shoes and gloves glowed like the props, making it appear as if the invisible man was providing the entertainment.

The party was still going strong when Dudley left to return to the Hive a little after midnight. He collapsed into his bed and fell asleep within minutes. The hyper-stimulation of the day coupled with the moderate amount of alcohol he consumed to blend in put him in a deep slumber. Too bad it didn’t last very long.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 42 - Quinquatria

The next morning, everything seemed back to normal. Dudley was in his room getting dressed and just outside his door the Hive buzzed with activity. Unlike yesterday, the commotion was all upbeat and festive. People ran up and down the halls and talked in boisterous voices. He peaked outside his door and several people in face-paint and black outfits walked by. They must be participants or obstacles in the zombie run later today.

Dudley dressed casually: jeans, a light sweatshirt, and sneakers. He had entered a few card tournaments, but didn’t need a special outfit for any of his activities. He grabbed a duffel bag with extra clothes, not knowing what to expect later, and his messenger bag with his cameras, notebooks, and recorders. Victor requested between his events, Dudley take as many pictures and film as much footage as possible to augment the local journalists covering the festival. That worked out great. It would ease any suspicion of him trying to record anything and everything.

Dudley walked into the motor court, where shuttle busses and cars were leaving every few minutes to take loads of revelers to Nostalgia or the Fairgrounds. A couple dozen people were already milling around. Some of them wore costumes like they were going to Comic Con or Carnival; superheroes, pop culture characters, masquerade masks, beads, and feathery boas. Others wore jerseys for upcoming events like Segway polo, Quidditch or shockerball. The latter was a sadistic version of team handball and soccer played with live stun guns. Low strength ones of course; but still bad enough to cause fumbles and stumbles. Was this exciting, appalling, or both? Either way he couldn’t wait to watch it.

“Hey Sid, where are you heading?” asked a familiar voice. It was Megan, who was off to the side of one of the garages with three friends Dudley recognized: Greta, Katalin, and Katie.

“Trying to hitch a ride to the Fairgrounds,” answered Dudley hopefully.

“Come on and ride with us,” said Megan.

Dudley walked over to the group. They were filling coolers and passing out soccer jerseys with the ornate V on the front and nicknames on the back: “Flowers” for Katie, “Mouthpiece” for Greta, “Tumble4Ya” for Katalin, and “Queenpin” for Megan.

As Megan pulled her jersey over a mesh tank-top, Dudley noticed several tattoos and scars. These were evidence of a tough street life in Chicago, a side of Megan most people forgot about when she covered it with her executive suits and her genuine smile. Megan hit a few buttons on her key ring and the back of her black Range Rover Sport opened, revealing a fully stocked Bloody Mary and mimosa bar.

“Road sodas anyone?” she asked.

“I’ll make ‘em, I got a new spice I want to try out,” volunteered Katie.

 “Don’t tear my insides up Katie, we’re gonna be out in the woods all day,” warned Greta.

 “I got something for that too, don’t worry sweetie,” responded Katie.

With cocktails securely in to-go cups, the group piled into the car. Megan and Greta sat up front and Dudley rode in the back with Katie and Katalin. As they were pulling out, two figures in punk rocker clothes and fluorescent balaclava ski-masks jumped in front of the car. They chanted “Free Pussy Riot” a couple of times, pumping their fists and playing air guitar.

 “What the fuck?” Megan exclaimed, temporarily losing her calm executive fa��ade.

“It’s just dee twins. We give dem ride too?” asked Katalin.

“Sure, but you could’ve warned me about the Pussy Riot outfits,” said Megan, glaring back at Katalin. Katalin gave a sorry shrug as Megan opened the hatchback. The bar had tucked nicely back into its hidden compartment so the twins had room to pile in.

###

Range Rover arrived at the Fairgrounds, pulled down the makeshift side street, and parked in between two of the many cabins around the perimeter of the clearing. This area was the acting Virtuosi headquarters for the day’s events. This time they weren’t up in a secure sky box. They were down here, using the same cabins as everyone else. They still found a way to deck it out in style. The outdoor area alone would have made the most seasoned football tailgater jealous.

Two large tents, one in front of each cabin, covered numerous food tables and seating areas. Long card tables were set up with both local food and international fare inspired by the neighboring cultures of Australia and Asia: seafood, barbecued shrimp, dumplings, noodle dishes, curries, and scores of locally grown fruits and vegetable dishes. Pot brownies, peyote tea, and various dishes made with Katie’s mushroom cave residents occupied a side table, clearly marked to avoid unintended consequences.

The tiki bar was fully stocked and featured Sake, Australian and New Zealand wines, coconut cocktails, and frozen concoctions spinning in electronic dispensers. Large glass bowls on the bar held various pills and powders, color-coded for effect, sitting there as casually as if they were M&Ms or Skittles. A five-foot bong with a gas mask loomed ominously to one side.

The most impressive thing was a large ice block carved just like the Minerva fountain at the Hive. A hole was drilled through the middle so liquor could be poured into Minerva’s head, chilled on the way through her body, and shot out of her hoo-ha into an expectant mouth at the bottom. Should make for some interesting pictures.

Corn hole, beer pong, and other games were set up in the nearby lawns and in the background, the festival was fully underway. Wooden stands were filled with vendors selling everything from funnel cake, to beer, to souvenirs, to a chance at winning a great prize if you could just get this ball in the barrel. People on stilts towered over the crowd. Jugglers, acrobats, and magicians amazed small clusters of people and a DJ on the main stage kept the island party vibe going with reggae, calypso, and pop music.

 “Follow us,” said Katalin to Dudley, following Greta into one of the cabins. Katie and Megan carried a couple of coolers over to the tents to unload. The twins had disappeared into the festival flurry the second the car stopped.

Inside, Dudley heard screaming and yelling. It was coming from a group huddled around a large dining room table. The group included Emily, Celeste, Brandon, Donovan, Frank, Noah, Jesse, and Victor.

“Two two two two two,” yelled Brandon, holding up two fingers and flipping his palm in and out like he was on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. He jumped up and down to draw attention to himself.

Donovan was waving his hands around in a similar manner, with four fingers, instead of two. Instead of screaming his number, he scoured the table like a hawk, looking at other people’s hands and talking rapidly to one person at a time.

Most of the others were somewhere between these extremes, either screaming over everyone else or doing their best to hear the screaming of others. Whether they were yelling or not, all eight of them made wild hand gestures and occasionally reached across the table to exchange something with someone else.

Were they arguing or playing a game? While Katalin and Greta disappeared into one of the rooms to drop off their bags, Dudley walked over to get a closer look. They were indeed playing a card game, an oldie-but-goodie called Pit, in which players traded commodity cards until they got a full set and then…..

“Corner you cocksuckers! On platinum baby- 85 points!” exclaimed Emily, as she reached into the middle of the table and rang a bell. The profanity filtered through her Czech accent, sounding like “cowk-sackers.” She was more riled up now than she was at the poker table the other day, when she had told Frank and Brandon where they could shove it in a nice composed voice.  

“Fuck, I had seven cocoas-the only commodity that beats platinum. Why didn’t one of you assholes trade me one card?” complained Frank, throwing his cards in the air.

The others just threw their cards in the middle of the table and chugged their drinks. Emily reached into the middle and collected a pile $100 bills like she was collecting nickels from granny’s kitchen table, shoving them in her pants pockets and tucking some into her sun visor to taunt the others. Everyone around the table wore necklaces which hung down to their mid-chests. The necklaces held charms of different sizes, shapes, and colors.

“Hey Sid, what’s up?” said Victor, as the group broke up their game and exchanged greetings with Dudley and the other newcomers.

“Not much. I got your message you were coming out early so I hitched a ride with the girls. Your nieces rode with us but disappeared when we got here. Intense game you guys play there,” Dudley said, nodding to the table. 

“Oh yeah, it’s a riot. The best part is you got all these quants and professional stock traders sitting around playing a game that’s mostly luck, so they get way more fired up than they should. They insist on playing with paper money instead of yugi banks to add to the spectacle. The only time Emily cusses is when we play this game.”

“What’s with the necklaces?” asked Dudley.

“Those are the trophy necklaces. Each charm has a shape or symbol representing the event and it’s color-coded depending on how you place. If you don’t place, you get a little silver one just as a parting gift. Green is first, yellow is second, red is third, like a stop light,” Victor explained. There was an abundance of color on the necklaces in the cabin already.

“So, I have a couple of silver ones here just for showing up. I have this third-place red one for Omaha poker earlier this week,” said Victor, holding up a red jack of hearts charm, “and my only green so far is from the NCAA basketball gambling tourney,” he continued, holding up a green basketball charm.

“That should really be mine and Emily’s, but you know, we’ll let the boss keep it,” Celeste interrupted with a smile.

“You know there’s a lot of feel in gambling as well, not just your mathematical input,” replied Victor, defending his gambling prowess. “Celeste, show Sid your hardware so far,” he added to change the subject.

“Well, this one is from Scrabble,” she started, holding up a green charm with overlapping “Q” and “Z” Scrabble tiles, the two letters with the highest point totals.

“And this one is from blackjack. I got second and Emily got first,” she said, holding up a yellow blackjack charm.

“That’s not a blackjack trophy, it’s a card counting trophy,” quipped Victor, trying and failing to discredit one of Celeste’s accomplishments for revenge.

“And this green guy here,” she said, holding up a green Rubik’s Cube, “is from the manual puzzle competition.”

“She means turning a Rubik’s Cube and a couple other toys,” added Victor, trying playfully to get under her skin.

“You know you’re jealous. But just do what we said and you’ll be fine in the other poker tourneys later,” Celeste added, giving Victor a pat on the back and heading outside for an icy shot from Minerva.

“Over here is our team’s bulletin board and rankings,” said Victor, walking Dudley over to one wall where a large electronic bulletin board was flashing with updates. It looked like a mini version of the “Big Board” for sports gambling at Nostalgia.

Dudley noticed the group had already collected some serious hardware. Dodger was leading the way because most of the driving events had already wrapped-up: dune buggies, ATVs, dirt bikes, jet skis, and, what the……ostrich racing? He had placed in all of them, winning two, including the one with the ostrich.

Like Victor, both Noah and Frank had won poker trophies. Wilbur placed at the gun range in a couple of shooting competitions. Katalin won the memory championship by reciting the entire Christmas Island virtual phone book; business and residential. She also acted as the drummer for the first-place dragon boat team, guiding the rowers with drum beats, hand signals, and voice commands similar to a crew coxswain. Jesse had a horse-betting charm and he and Grayskull had cleaned up on geek-ware: vintage video games, MMORPGs, FPSs, and trading card games like Magic the Gathering, Pokémon, and Hearthstone.

Donovan, Brandon, Megan, and Greta had all won multiple board game charms. Brandon and Donovan in war-based games like Risk, Stratego, Warhammer, Blood Bowl, and Axis and Allies. Megan and Greta won in cooperation-based “Euro” games like Settlers of Cataan, Carcassone, and Tigris and Euphrates. And of course, Emily had won chess, as predicted, and backgammon.

Victor explained the liar’s poker event, which is a gut-based game using serial numbers from dollar bills, was cancelled. Someone finally realized last year that instead of playing the game old school Wall Street-style, with rudimentary reasoning and drunken bravado, Emily and Celeste had memorized the actuary tables for serial numbers on currency. Booze, drugs, and internal squabbles aside, this was an all-star team. As Dudley studied the board, he rethought entering any competitions against this group.

“Here you go, this is your goody bag,” said Victor as he handed Dudley a canvas tote bag with a “Quinquatria Five” logo. Dudley opened it up and saw a cornucopia of goodies. He pulled out his charm necklace first, which was empty with the exception of the press charm; a large blue camera. At least he got a unique color. The bag also contained a roll of carnival tickets, sunglasses shaped like two Qs, a Virtuosi number 22 team t-shirt, a Christmas Island mini-flag, a bunch of airplane bottles of booze, and a bag of herbal goodies. He was afraid to ask about the last item.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 41 - The Visionary

“I’m sure that was interesting for you,” Meena started, shaking her head. “But he has the right to celebrate. Today was a big deal for us and he nailed it. He’ll pass out after a few more drinks anyway,” she continued as she touched a few buttons on her tablet.

She swiped the tablet with a motion towards the wall. Her screen projected on the empty white wall of the cabin so they could both see.

“I want to start with our short promotional video. I’m sure Brandon told you we fund most of our projects internally, but we are trying to bring in more outside capital so we put this together. I just showed this at the South by Southwest conference in Austin, Texas last week,” she started.

“You were in the United States?” asked Dudley, voice raising an octave. He knew Virtuosi still had plenty of business dealings in the U.S., but he didn’t think any of their officers could even get through customs. They weren’t outlaws or anything, but they wouldn’t exactly be greeted with open arms to speak at conferences either.

“Good heavens no, I wasn’t physically there. It would be hard enough for some of the others to go back, but I was never even a U.S. citizen. Can you imagine? I’d be in Gitmo upon landing. I pulled an Eric Snowden and spoke virtually. Believe you me there were some rumblings, but I don’t give a damn. I need people to know about what we are working on here, not for personal fortune or fame, but because we are making some breakthroughs which could have profound global implications.”

Dudley saw the same passion in her he had seen from many of the Virtuosi officers. Could it be so simple? Wanting to share information as opposed to keeping it secrets? Building technology for global good and not local good or global evil?

“I’m looking forward to the video,” said Dudley.

Meena hit play. The camera showed the front façade of the Menlo  Park labs with a large archway leading inside. Above the archway, there was an inscription: “Lux et Veritas,” Latin for “Light and Truth.”

Meena and her lead scientist, Chad Rosario, narrated the video. As they spoke, their lab staff displayed some truly amazing technology. What appeared to be telekinesis was, in fact, small microchips embedded in objects around the room, moved by smart glasses or haptic gloves. Other objects disappeared not by magic, but through camouflage and light manipulation. The video discussed alternate energy and food sources, using everything from photovoltaic panels to photosynthesis to algae colonies. A simulation of a driverless transit system showed animated citizens zipping around the island. They demonstrated robotics, exoskeletons, and jet packs. 3-D printers churned out rudimentary cars and shelters. On and on.

In one scene, two lab assistants bounced a tennis ball back and forth to each other across a ping pong table. One of them hit a button on the side of the table and bounced the ball towards her partner. This time, instead of the ball going to the second assistant as before, it seemed to defy physics and bounce back to the thrower. Chad’s narrative voice explained the ball had hit a transparent force field made with a laser lattice, carbon nanotubes, and photo-chromatic materials and was sent back in the original direction.

The video explained some of these capabilities had existed for decades, but the stars never aligned for the technology to thrive. Either the components were never correctly assembled, or never funded fully, or never supported by whatever powers-that-be had to bestow their blessing.

The video ended with Virtuosi’s ornate V.

“So, that is a small sample of what we are doing at Menlo Park. Not bad huh?” asked Meena, beaming with pride.

“Yeah, amazing stuff,” said Dudley, mouth slightly ajar.

“The implications are huge you know. We don’t have the bandwidth to scale these things up to global proportions of course. But could you imagine just the possibility of ending world hunger using algae and plants? Or eradicating homelessness with 3-D printed houses? People have been talking and experimenting with these things for decades, but we are actually doing it.

“The whole island will be zero-pollution and zero-footprint very soon. Contrast that with other developed nations. The UAE has their green city, Madras, and we are using many of their ideas here. The U.S. has some individual cities doing some great things, like San Francisco, Seattle, and Portland, who are all about 90% waste-free. But an entire nation doing it was unheard of until now.”

“So once the island is completely self-sustainable and clean, what’s next? It seems like the ultimate achievement,” asked Dudley.

“Then, we’ll probably shift our focus towards partnering with other countries so they can follow suit. Also, Australia had already given permission to build a spaceport here before we bought the island, and the permit came with our purchase. We have a design team looking at locations and impact now so depending on their findings, we’ll move forward with…….”

As Meena was talking, her phone came to life with a ring tone which sounded like a submarine siren. From the front section of the plane, other phones rang with similar alerts. At this altitude, the fact every officer on the plane was receiving a message simultaneously was a little jarring to everyone, including Dudley. Greta came through the curtain wide-eyed, holding her phone at her side. It was going off with a loud “weeeeeeeeeeeeen weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen!”

Donovan yelled from the other room, where he and Brandon were also getting alerts. “Rele yuno. Rele yuno.”

Dudley didn’t understand a word Donovan said. It sounded like gibberish. But Meena and Greta seemed to understand. They stared at each other for a few seconds with befuddlement and hesitation, but quickly turned back into competent, quick-thinking executives.

“Sit tight for a few minutes Mr. Stevens,” commanded Meena, as she tapped quickly on her tablet. “This is just an emergency drill, we’re in no danger. Stay in your seat please.”

Meena’s words were the only English Dudley heard in the next couple of minutes.

Meena and Greta turned off their alarms and started making calls. Dudley could hear Brandon and Donovan in the front also on their phones. He heard all four of them talking to people on the other end of the phone and to each other, and didn’t understand a single word they were saying other than their names.

“Yama sa Meena. Rele yuno. Teso za fituwado lo nioputta,” said Meena into her phone. It appeared it was an order of some sort. She certainly wasn’t asking questions.

“Sa Brandon. Rele yuno. Suamla elmo donilu ut za ufmo dano, yo ivzora. Vi du sa pafe ep. Zise releni, sonumolu, ut evsa yugi,” said Brandon in a slow, controlled voice. He had sobered up in a hurry when the alert came through with the help of some narcotics he pulled out of his jacket pocket. Like Meena, he appeared to be giving instructions to someone on the other end.

“Sayo ag sa ipipno lo oygene. Vi udmo ay om tunuro ivziovme le.” Greta spoke quickly into her phone.

“Yama Vic, vi ay ma. Ga du otyo. Yama, im sa fi. Nivo wu suseta.” Donovan had a different demeanor than the others and seemed to be answering questions posed by someone on the other end of the line.  

For a second, Dudley thought he was having a stroke or an aneurism, maybe not understanding the English language, but everything other than their words was clear. He wasn’t dizzy and he could read the cabin signs fine. They must be speaking in a foreign language.

It wouldn’t be a big shock. Dudley had heard many of the island’s inhabitants speaking multiple languages while he was there. The island was as diverse as any big international city and with the various backgrounds of the natives, it was almost mandatory someone living there know at least two or three dialects.

But this was different. Dudley himself was fluent in several languages and was familiar with the tone and cadence of dozens of others. It was part of his Freedom Keeper training to be able to recognize most types of communications. But he didn’t recognize this language at all. It was like they had made it up or something.

After several more minutes of unintelligible blabber, things calmed down a bit and everyone was off their phones and almost back to normal. But there was an air of quiet concern for the rest of the flight and the interviews were over for now. The four execs each crawled into their own digital world, sending and receiving e-mails, checking news websites and blogs, and quietly staring out the window. The drinks had ceased as well. The pre-party had evidently been cancelled. Something was going on and it didn’t appear anyone was going to fill Dudley in.

Was this just a coincidence or did this have something to do with Dudley and the memos back and forth with Robles? He knew his communications with Robles were well encrypted and not only that, Christmas Island, unlike many other nations, didn’t eavesdrop on e-mails or calls unless they had just cause. At least that’s what they claimed.

Is it possible Robles’s doctored memo caught the attention of the Secretary and he was acting on it? If so, how the hell did Virtuosi know any of this? Did someone leak or did they have someone inside the CIA or the State Department? He had so many questions and no good way to get answers at 40,000 feet surrounded by “the enemy.” He discreetly got on his encrypted smart phone and sent a text to his headquarters.

In the air with four of them now. They just had a security drill and seem spooked.

Upon landing, the group was driven back to the Hive. The executive branch and the ExComm had a joint meeting for the rest of the evening and this time, Dudley was not invited.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 40 - The Money Man

Two minutes later, Brandon emerged from behind the curtain with a tablet in one hand and a glass of bourbon in the other. He had two cell phones clipped to his belt, a Bluetooth in his ear, and still looked spruce even after losing the suit jacket and loosening the tie.

“Mr. Stevens. How goes it?” exclaimed Brandon, like he and Dudley were old friends. “You’ll have to excuse me. We just closed a huge investment deal with the Sultan and I’m in celebration mode already. But this is only my third drink so it should work out for you. I’m a good combination of loose but still coherent. You caught me in the sweet spot buddy.”

Perfect. As CFO, Brandon should be able to shed some light on a couple of concerns Washington had with Christmas Island, in particular their use of the yugi, an underground, unregulated currency, as their official state currency. But better start with some small talk.

“Excellent. Congratulations. What’s he investing in?” started Dudley.

“Some infrastructure projects on the island. I promised him a pretty high return and I’m confident we can deliver it.”

“Great, so I’m going to start the recorder now and ask a few questions about your role as CFO,” Dudley said. He started the recorder and went through his introductions. Then he started with his interview questions.

“Is finding and securing investors for the island a big part of your job?” asked Dudley.

“It’s becoming more important for us as we improve the island. We have a handful of billionaires and dozens of multi-millionaires on the island, but it’s always good to use other people’s money if you can. We can borrow money at pretty low rates because we have a good track record of making money for investors,” answered Brandon.

“And what type of projects are those?” probed Dudley.

“The energy and infrastructure projects take up a huge amount of capital. At least while we get them off the ground. I’ll let Meena explain some of those. IT takes a large amount of funding as well. We need top notch IT because we’re so isolated. We do a lot of micro-financing both at home and abroad. We have logistical projects, like upgrading our port to move goods in and out more efficiently. All of this keeps my team and I extremely busy.”

“Judging by Christmas Island’s climb up the world GDP rankings, I take it many of these projects are successful,” ventured Dudley.

“Yes, GDP is an important indicator for the rest of the world. Personally, I think GDP is outdated and a bit skewed. Did you know the Exxon Valdez spill, the growing prison population, and the war in Iraq all increased American GDP?”

“No I didn’t.”

“If someone cares for their elderly parents at home, it’s no help to GDP. If they stick them in a home, GDP goes up. See what I mean about GDP being flawed? I’m lobbying for us to adopt Bhutan’s metric instead: Gross National Happiness.”

It was the fluffiest idea Dudley had ever heard out of a seemingly typical WASP big-swinging-dick CFO. Maybe it was the bourbon talking.

“So what functions fall under you aside from the investment activities?”

“My staff and I manage the Virtuosi portfolio. We’re paranoid by nature so we tend to be heavy in gold and other precious metals, commodities, and real estate. But we try to keep it balanced. We need growth too.

“I also purchase our insurance policies, oversee our accounting team, and act as a liaison to external parties, like auditors, who verify our activities for membership in organizations like the IMF, World Bank, or ASEAN,” said Brandon.  

“Greta had some pointed opinions on a couple of those outfits,” said Dudley. Did Brandon share Greta’s opinions of these organizations?

“Yeah, she’s a firecracker. I love Greta and she’s great at her job. But she views it from a diplomatic and dare I say moral perspective. I tend to view it from a strictly utilitarian point-of-view. Right now, it benefits us greatly to play nicely with those guys. I might not agree with everything they do, but not participating isn’t the answer. The answer is to get in there and change it from the inside. Besides, with the power of the dollar as a reserve currency declining, those institutions are going to face an identity crisis soon enough without us rocking the boat,” explained Brandon.

This was his opening.

“I’ve heard one of the points of contention between you and these organizations is your use of the yugi as your official currency. Are you worried about your country using a completely virtual currency; one sometimes used for nefarious purposes like drugs, arms dealing, and fraud?”

“Good question. I did a ton of research on the yugi. I won’t bore you with all of the ins and outs, but once I looked at it from all angles, I decided it worked for us. As far as it being nefarious, that doesn’t bother me a bit. People have been using gold, dollars, Euros, and even loaves of bread as currency for illegal activities for millennia. That’s like saying we aren’t going to produce guns, or cars, or cargo ships, because sometimes they’re used by criminals.”

“Couldn’t an electronic currency collapse?”

“It’s possible, but any currency system can collapse. We’ve seen firsthand with the U.S. Dollar. I mean Bretton Woods was the first mistake, but Nixon really started the ball rolling in 1971 when he took the U.S. off the gold standard completely. If it were up to me, we’d go back to a hard currency system, but the genie is out of the bottle and it’s not going back in.

“Now, instead of the money supply being backed by a hard commodity, the Federal Reserve, another abomination of an institution, has the power to control the flow of currency; so-called fiat money. But every time they print a dollar and send it down the street to the Federal Government, it comes with a built-in interest rate. How? Where does the money come? I don’t want to go on a bourbon-induced rant here but bear with me for a second,” said Brandon as he finished his drink and caught his breath.

“Remember, bankers created the Federal Reserve and still currently run it. It isn’t a state institution. Some think the banking moguls deliberately caused the Great Depression so they would be allowed to create the Fed. It makes sense. They can now literally print money under the guise of seemingly good ideas: QE2, QE3, QE Infinity and Beyond.

“But it’s a Ponzi scheme. For every dollar we print, existing dollars lose some value. It might be beneficial for Americans selling goods abroad, but it’s detrimental for countries selling to the United States. The rest of the world went along with it for a while but in 2018, they finally said ‘enough is enough,’ several countries dropped the U.S. Dollar as a reserve currency, and switched to IMF Special Drawing Rights, or SPDRs. The rest is history. The worst financial disaster since the Great Depression ensued, making 2008 look like a minor technical correction, and the downfall of the only remaining superpower is underway. Ding dong the witch is dead! Holy shit I have a buzz!”

Brandon had summed up the last 90 years of fiscal and monetary policy in five minutes, while he finished one drink and started another. He seemed to sense Dudley’s befuddlement so he continued.

“But you don’t care about all that for your interview, Sid. It’s just some background for you. The real answer to your question is any system can fail and of course the yugi is a bit precarious. But we spread our money around, we have plenty of hard assets, and we don’t try to manipulate our currency either overtly, like China, or covertly, like America. You know why? Because we don’t have the power to do it. The yugi has no central bank to control it and that helps me sleep at night.”

As he finished his diatribe, Meena came through the curtain with a faux stern expression on her face.

“What’s going on back here? Brandon, stop rambling and let the man move on with his work?”

“You mean get my ass outta here so you can do your interview and have a second martini?”

“Exactly,” she admitted with a grin. “One is my limit if I’m talking about my projects. I wouldn’t want to misrepresent anything, unlike my lush of a CFO back here spouting off his conspiracy theories.”

“Okay, you heard the lady Sid, we’re done for now,” Brandon said good-naturedly, grabbing his highball glass and staggering his way through the curtain.

“Cheers you fuckers! We just bagged a Sultan!” he shouted to Greta, Donovan, and the unfortunate flight attendant who happened to be bringing them another round.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 39 - The Chairman

During Greta’s story, the plane landed in Brunei, deposited Donovan and Brandon, and continued on to Manila. Greta and Meena met with the Philippine representatives all Monday afternoon and evening, leaving Dudley at the hotel to relax and catch up on work. They all reconvened the next morning, caught the plane back, and picked up Donovan and Brandon. According to the group, all the meetings were fruitful. But everyone was ready to get back for the rest of Quinquatria. Dudley now had a captive and less-stressed audience for the ride home and he was going to pump them for as much information as possible.

Dudley set up a small table in the back of the plane for his interviews. The others set up an office in the front to tie up loose ends from their meetings. Once the work was done, they were planning on throwing a mid-air Quinquatria pre-party.

With Brandon moving some money around based on their meeting with the Sultan and Meena running some flood simulations, Donovan volunteered to go first. He said he didn’t want to be stuck in an interview when the booze started flowing anyway. He sat down at Dudley’s table and Dudley started the recorder rolling.

“I’m here with Donovan Stokes, Chairman of the Christmas Island Executive Committee and long-time friend of Victor Freeman. Donovan, before you came to the island, you were running a major commodities trading firm. Now you’re the Chairman of the ExComm, which has been described as a hybrid Speaker of the House and Chairman of the Board position. How has the transition been for you?” asked Dudley.

“Well, most people assume they are completely different jobs. Commodity trading is extremely fast-paced and bureaucratic committee work moves at a snail’s pace. But because we run our country like a company, there are more similarities than differences. I still have to manage and organize the efforts of a group of people. In many cases, those people are as high-ranking as me and more talented than me in their area of expertise. I’m not sure which group has more ego, the ExComm or my old group of traders. It’s close.”

“Interesting,” started Dudley. “Speaking of which, some of the higher-ranking Virtuosi members are ex CEO’s, Presidents, or Founders of their respective companies: You, Victor, Frank, Meena, Jesse. Was there ever any discussion of anyone other than Victor being the Facilitator? You haven’t held your first elections so how did you all decide who would take what job in the beginning?” asked Dudley. It could be educational to find out exactly how Victor came to power.

“There was never any doubt in our minds Victor would be the Facilitator for a couple of reasons. For starters, he engineered the purchase of the island and put up the largest percentage of the money. But more importantly, Victor’s the dreamer of the group. He likes big ideas and he likes being involved in the start-up phase. But once things get rolling, he passes the reigns to the subject-matter experts and gets out of the way. He doesn’t want to be involved in the details of implementing or monitoring a project. He wants to get a project started and move on to the next one.

“This works well for us. Victor’s a renaissance soul. He’s not a specialist in any one field. His interests are wide-ranging and he takes in an extreme amount of information from all sources: books, news, movies, TV, magazines, colleagues, co-workers, blogs, twitterati. Unlike most people, he can take all this information and distill it into meaningful trends. He combines ideas in ways most people can’t see. But he doesn’t have enough expertise in any one area to bring his ideas to fruition. That’s where everyone else comes in.”

“Can you give me some examples?” asked Dudley.

“Sure, let’s take Next World for starters. The premise was Victor’s idea. He saw the tide turning from people wanting security at all costs to people demanding their privacy back. He knew there was a market for privacy products, but without Grayskull to build the projects and Megan to build an operations framework, he was building a castle in the sky.

“Buying the island was the same thing. It was his idea and he was the only one with the connections and the balls enough to go through with it. But without his negotiators and lawyers, it would’ve never happened. The yugi was his idea, but without Brandon it was a pipe dream. Sustainability and close-to-zero waste? All of those were Victor’s dreams and Meena and Timbo made them reality. It goes on and on. That’s why we’re so successful; a good mix of ideas and implementation.”

“So the Facilitator position needs to be a dreamer?”

“I think at first, yes. If you view the island as a start-up venture, which we do, you need a dreamer in the highest office. If we had too much of a realist there, they would kill too many good ideas. Once we get established, things might change.”

“So could we possibly see a Donovan Stokes or a Megan Myers as Facilitator after Victor’s term?” Dudley asked. How long did Donovan think Victor would be in charge?

“Could be,” Donovan answered with a shrug of the shoulders. “I think I’m somewhere in between the two of them on the idealist-realist spectrum. If they needed me to bridge the gap, I might consider it. But I think Megan would be outstanding once we get things off the ground. Plus, how cool would it be if our second national leader was female? That’d show the rest of the world all this talk about diversity isn’t just lip service. Maybe it would spur some other countries to get out of the dark ages.”

“Let’s go back to roles and responsibilities for a moment. I think I have a good idea of how Victor’s position relates to the others. But one thing I’m unclear on is Frank’s role. The other officers have a specialty, like law, finance, IT, or engineering, but with a Facilitator and a Chairman of the ExComm, not to mention Megan, is it necessary to have a CEO as well?” asked Dudley.

“We don’t like traditional job descriptions, but we found it a necessary evil to appear legitimate. These titles are much more important to the outside world than to us. We consider titles and job descriptions constrictive. But we came up with a structure which would have enough figureheads to handle all our work. Victor is the Head of State and Megan is his second-in-charge as far as the ‘executive branch’ is concerned,” explained Donovan. His quotes around “executive” indicated to Dudley he didn’t necessarily take the idea of checks and balances seriously.

“In turn, Frank and I are the two leaders of the ‘legislative branch’. We have complementary styles, much like Victor and Megan. I tend to handle more internal and committee business whereas Frank tends to handle more external situations, either on the island or internationally. That being said, I’m the one on a plane coming back from Brunei so you can see we don’t take these titles too seriously. The titles simply indicate we are high-ranking and can speak for the country. The Sultan didn’t ask where our CEO was. He was satisfied to meet with our Chairman of the Board and CFO.”

“Your quotes around the different branches of government hint you don’t view the distinctions between the branches as very important. What about checks and balances?” asked Dudley. Working across departments was fine and dandy for a corporation, but this was a government. The same rules didn’t apply.

“You make a valid point. Sorry if it came across that way. I view these distinctions as vital to government once a nation is established, but we’re still a work-in-progress. Do you think the Founding Fathers started with checks and balances on day one? No, they had to work across functions to get things in order. And believe me, there are plenty of checks and balances behind the scenes. Nothing gets rubber stamped, even if it comes from Victor.”

“You all seem to always be on the same page. Yet you say there are plenty of egos involved and plenty of checks and balances going on behind closed doors. Can you give me an example?”

“I’m glad to hear we seem like a cohesive unit,” Donovan said with a laugh. “I would say at the end of the day, we’re all on the same team. We all share underlying values and principles and we’ve been working together for a long time. But even elite teams have lively debates behind closed doors. That’s what makes them elite. They don’t have blinders on. They can have a candid, open discussion about a topic, argue it out, and come to a decision in an intelligent way. But here’s the key Sid,” said Donovan as he leaned towards Dudley.

“The great teams come out of a heated discussion with looks of confidence and no matter what, once a decision is reached, all team members present a united front and get behind it. It shouldn’t be obvious to the outside world who was for an idea and who was against it. It’s full steam ahead. That’s what makes great teams great.”

“Without naming names, what is a topic you have argued about internally?” ventured Dudley.

“We try to debate all sides of all issues, but we’ve agreed on a particular framework for our nation and some decisions are made for us. Prohibition of any kind as far as what you can put in your own body? None. Gay marriage and rights? That’s a no-brainer; a citizen is a citizen is a citizen. And we have citizens’ rights for everyone. What the hell do I care what people do in their bedrooms?

“On the other hand, there are some tough ones. We had some good back and forth on education. We’ve had some all-nighters over immigration. The hardest topic so far has been roads and transportation believe it or not. In our perfect world, the government wouldn’t be in the transportation business. But the logistics are more complicated. If all the roads, not to mention the one railway on the island, were privately owned, wouldn’t it be a monopoly? We have limited space here so competitors can’t just build new roads or railways next to the old ones to keep the incumbent honest. We’re still working a solution,” explained Donovan.

“One last question: Any advice for executives out there who have to keep a group of egos in check?”

“Get a round table for your board room. It keeps everyone on an even playing field and avoids the head-of-the-table, foot-of-the-table status indicators.”

“Great. Thank you very much. That was Donovan Stokes, Chairman of the ExComm,” Dudley said, switching off the recorder.

“I’ll go up front and send Brandon back. I think it’s about time to start the festivities. Can I make you a drink?” asked Donovan.

“I’ll wait. Don’t want to slur into the microphone or anything,” replied Dudley. He wanted to be coherent when he talked to the man who handled the group’s finances.

“Suit yourself. I’ll send back the money man.”

Donovan walked through the curtain and towards the front of the plane.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 38 - Greta’s Island Debut

Greta sat back in her chair with a full stomach of semur and chicken sate. They ordered food to the plane when it landed in Jakarta. It was 6 a.m. local time and it was hard to get real food for people whose bodies said it was 6 p.m. the day before. Victor explained it was actually a challenge to get Indonesian food at Jakarta Airport any time of day. KFC, A&W, Haagen Dazs, and Baskin Robbins littered the terminal. He’d gone through this frustration on other trips and had the number of a local off-airport 24-hour dive he dialed as soon as they landed.

The world was flat nowadays, but most of the influence went from the U.S. to the rest of the world. You had to fight hard to make it flow in the other direction.

“Now remember the discussion we had about you trusting me? Keep it in mind in the next couple of minutes,” Victor said.

Greta was too tired to argue. They had been on the plane for 24 hours minus a quick de-board and stretch in Dubai. Being on a plane so long alone with anyone will really test a relationship. And it did nothing but reinforce her opinion of Victor. He was a good mentor and friend, passionate about his business, and seemed to have everyone’s best interest in mind at all times. He was not your prototypical rich executive.

“I’m too tired to fight back. I’ll remember and I still trust you. I have to. I’m literally half a world away from my job, my apartment, and my friends.” She looked at him with comedic affection, grabbed his arm, and said “you are my world now Mr. Freeman.”

“Ew, don’t call me that. Come on, our luggage is being loaded into the next vehicle now,” said Victor. He let her walk down the exit stairs first and quickly overtook her by a step or two on the ground. He clearly wanted to lead the way.

“Hold on, I need to rethink what I just said. You just said ‘vehicle’ not ‘car’ and you just jumped ahead of me when you usually walk with me. I call shenanigans,” she said.

“Just come with me.” He grabbed her hand and started walking towards a limousine, which had another small plane behind it.

Greta’s suspicion proved true. Victor walked past the limo and onto the other plane.

“Your chariot awaits my lady,” he waved Greta on board.

“So here’s where the plan starts to unravel and you have to tell me what’s going on. I love it,” she replied.

Greta was hesitant to get on another plane, but the excitement of the plan finally being revealed was too much to resist. She bounded up the stairs and onto the plane. This plane was much smaller than the one they flew over on.

“Judging by the size of this thing, we aren’t going far,” she pointed out.

“You’re very observant, part of the reason you’re so good at what you do,” said Victor.

The difference between this plane and the last one was more than just size. This one was utilitarian. It had just a few seats in the back and was not furnished at all. Just metal walls and a small storage bin.

“So, I take it you didn’t decorate this one,” she said with a smirk.

“No, this isn’t my plane. This flight isn’t official. As far as the rest of the world knows, we are in Jakarta and staying in Jakarta. But this plane is going to Perth, Australia.

“Ooh, exciting,” Greta said, raising her eyebrows up and down in mock excitement; always the skeptic with the patented English dry humor.

“You don’t know what exciting is yet,” answered Victor. What did he mean by that?

The plane took off and Greta looked down into the blue Indian Ocean. Indonesia was an archipelago with over 18,000 islands but as they flew further out, the islands became fewer and farther between.

Greta was dozing slightly when something heavy yet soft fell in her lap, jarring her awake. She opened her eyes and saw Victor zipping up a sky-diving jumpsuit. She panicked and was wide awake the next second, grabbing the suit from her lap, scurrying out of her seat and looking at him in shock.

“What’s going on? Is there something wrong with the plane?”

Victor waved his hand up and down as if to calm her.  

“Relax. Everything is fine with the plane. Like I said before, the plane is going to Perth. We, on the other hand, are getting off in about ten minutes.”

“What? What are you talking about?” She went white and started trembling.

“We aren’t going to Perth,” he repeated matter-of-factly.

She stared at him in disbelief and then started laughing slightly in a “you gotta be kidding me” way. “What are we just going to jump into the bloody Indian Ocean? Are you out of your mind?”

“You already know I’m out of my mind. But you also know everything I do is for a reason.” He finished suiting up and motioned to her to do the same.

“How do you know I know how to skydive? Not just anyone can jump out of a plane. This is crazy!” she grabbed his arm for stability and to try to bring him back to reality.

“The officer’s team building trip back in the day. Remember the one where everyone went to jump school and got certified? Turns out you can’t go to our new headquarters any other way. Not yet anyway,” said Victor.

Greta realized she wasn’t going to win this argument and started suiting up. The door opened and they edged towards it. Victor consulted his watch and pushed his Bluetooth a little further into his ear, evidently receiving instruction from either the pilot or someone on the ground.

Greta could see an island in the distance. It looked like an unbalanced dog bone with multiple peninsulas jutting out into the ocean. That must be the landing spot. But why on earth here?

Yes, she had a sky diving license and had a couple of jumps under her belt, but it wasn’t something she could just do on the spur of the moment. She’d been terrified during the team-building exercise and had to muster all her willpower to go along with it. She was acting brave to prove she could hack it as a female English expat at the top of an American firm. She had to mentally prepare and visualize the jumps to gather her courage. This time it was completely unexpected. She was still shaking as she edged towards the opening.

Victor looked at her. He must have noticed she was white as a ghost. He grabbed both her hands and nodded twice-one straight up and down to again say “trust me” and another sideways nod to say “let’s go.”

She closed her eyes and fell to the side, out of the plane, releasing Victor’s hands. The weightlessness and terror were simultaneous and immediate. She positioned herself far enough away from Victor for safety but close enough to feel they were falling together.

A couple seconds later, they both pulled the ripcords and released their chutes. They were heading towards a large clearing in the middle of the island, surrounded by tropical flora but big enough for a safe landing even in the case of slight drifts or miscalculations. As soon as she was on the ground, tears filled Greta’s eyes and she gasped for air. Victor was over to her in a couple of minutes, after taking off his own pack, to help her up and calm her down.

“You’re such as asshole!” she yelled, hitting him on the arm a few times. She barely stopped herself from aiming the punches at his face.

“I can’t believe you made me jump out of a fucking plane!”

After a couple minutes apologizing and assuring her there would be no more surprises quite as physically jarring, she calmed down a bit. Victor looked at his watch and then at the entrance of a path which opened out from between the dense wall of trees. About fifteen seconds later, an open-topped black and dark green Jeep came tearing out of the opening and into the clearing. The driver was a barrel-chested man with an open Tommy Bahama shirt. A big grin on his face indicated he could barely contain his laughter.

Greta recognized the other man in the passenger seat. Julian “Dodger” Wells, a longtime friend of Victor’s from Chicago. During his misspent youth, he worked as a getaway driver for several West Side gangs, but Victor had put his skills to more legitimate use as his personal driver. Dodger was holding the bar above the glove compartment for all he was worth and hit his imaginary break the same time the big man driving hit the real brake.

“Holy shit man! What’s wrong with you? You almost put us into a tree back there,” Dodger yelled at the man driving. The driver just laughed and slapped Dodger on the back.

Dodger hopped out of the front seat, sporting khakis, loafers, and a dark green button-up shirt. He wore a green LA Dodgers St. Patty’s Day hat to emphasize the nickname, one he earned by dodging police officers, rival gangs, and traffic jams. Now he was keeping it dodging coconut palms.

He embraced Victor with a half-handshake, half-hug. “I knew it was a mistake to teach this guy how to drive,” he said.

“Hey Greta. He finally talked you into visiting huh?” Dodger asked, turning to Greta.

“Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in two years,” Greta said as she hugged him.

“Yeah, I was asked to relocate to a tropical island so, you know, what am I gonna do? Say no?”

“Yeah, a real inconvenience I bet,” Greta said.

“All right, come on guys. I don’t want you two talking too much or I won’t have any good surprises later,” Victor interjected.

“Victor, Greta, this is Tito,” Dodger said, introducing the big man who was driving.

“Pleasure,” Tito replied, and from the accent it might well be the only bit of English he knew. Dodger told Tito to move to the passenger seat and got in the driver seat. He was all for teaching the locals how to drive like him, but he was at work right now and had precious cargo to move. Victor and Greta hopped in the back seat.

“Here you go Vic. I figured you guys might need something to take the edge off after the jump,” Dodger said, handing Victor a half-gallon milk jug of creamy white liquid and a couple of Dixie cups.

“Awesome. I’ve been craving some more of this. Greta, this is a wine they make from the coconut trees here. We’ll just have a little nip now because we have business to attend to in a few minutes.” He poured two cups about half full and handed one to Greta. They clinked plastic and Dodger commenced the trip back through the jungle.  

After about ten minutes driving through the forest, it seemed they would never get to civilization. What had Greta gotten herself into? What could possibly be on this island that had Victor so excited? Had he started an off-shore poker website or something? Her questions were partially answered as they reached another opening. In the background, she could see the ocean. In between her and the ocean stood one of the most amazing estates she’d ever laid eyes on. The word “mansion” wouldn’t quite do it justice, but it looked more like a private home than an office building.

There was a main central section, flanked by two wings, and a couple of other smaller buildings dotted the landscape. It was like a super-sized version of an old Garden District house in New Orleans or Hemingway’s House in Key West.

“Wow, nice place. Whose is it?” Greta asked.

“It’s ours,” Victor replied.

“This is yours?”

“No not mine, ours.”

“I’m not following. This is a house. Who lives here?”

“Well, several people reside here but it isn’t really a house. It’s more like an all-purpose campus for running the world from a tropical island. You’ll see.”

He wasn’t kidding as far as Greta could tell, and she could usually tell.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 37 - Mile High Musings

After cruising out of the city and down the Dulles toll road, Greta’s hired Town Car, pulled through the gates at the airport’s private terminal and up to Victor’s jet. She could get used to this treatment. Sure, she had been an officer at Next World and was an officer at her current company. She racked up some impressive domestic mileage numbers and mixed in a few international flights here and there, enough to qualify for American Airlines Concierge Key exclusive club. But private jets were a whole different level of class. If her new position allowed for this treatment, maybe she would be open to considering a job switch after all.  

She walked up the staircase and onto the plane with her carry-on and her briefcase. The driver brought her other bags onboard and left with a nice tip from Victor, who was already seated with an afternoon cocktail.

“Hey there. Nice ride huh?” he said.

“Yeah, I guess you have to be higher than a VP to get a seat on this thing,” she said. She tried to act perturbed she’d never been on the plane before, but couldn’t quite hide her awe. The inside of the plane was more like a CEO’s office than a plane’s cabin. Leather seats, big screen TVs, and a fully stocked bar in the background. Further back was a small hallway which led to the bathroom and the bedroom. It was not your average private jet. This thing belonged to a guy who knew how to travel in style.

“What are you drinking?” he asked.

“Oh, just tea for me please,” she said as she got comfortable in the seat facing Victor and stashed her carry-on in the seat next to her. “After all, this is an interview and you’re my potential employer.”

“Nonsense,” said Victor, as he pushed an overhead button. Out of seemingly nowhere, a flight attendant in a black and green uniform appeared. The uniform had a cursive V on it. It must be the logo for the plane’s leasing company or something.

“Penny, would you please bring Greta a gin and tonic, extra lime, and a refill for me please.”

“Sure thing Victor; one gin and tonic, extra lime, and one Old-Fashioned. Be right back.” Penny walked back to the bar and began mixing cocktails.

Greta watched all of this with wide eyes.

“You have a flight attendant for, what, twelve passengers?” she asked, counting the seats and estimating how many people could fit on the oversized couch off to the side.

“No, we have a flight attendant for two passengers, you and me. In fact, if you count the two pilots there are more people working this flight than riding,” he replied.

“So you’re taking a jet on a 24-hour flight just to give me a job interview.”

“It’s a 48-hour flight actually. It had to get here to pick you up,” he said. “But yes, more or less. That should prove to you how important this position is. And stop with all the interview talk. We’re just two friends taking a trip. I have no hiring decision to make because I’m already offering you the position. You just have to learn about it and make a decision. The interview’s over.”

“Here you go guys,” Penny said, placing a tray with the drinks and some snacks on the table between Victor and Greta.

Once the wheels were off the ground, the plane was at cruising altitude, and Penny had returned to her post out of earshot, Greta went back into debate mode and tried to work on Victor for some more information.

“So, any more hints for me? Can you at least tell me if we’re really flying all the way to Jakarta?”

“Yes, we are going to be in the general vicinity and yes, this is a very long flight,” answered Victor.

Greta fidgeted in her seat and looked distractedly out the window. She hadn’t touched her drink.

“Okay, I want this flight to be relaxing and I want you to enjoy yourself,” Victor started. “I can tell you’ll be miserable unless I give you something so I’ll make you a deal. I can’t give you all the details until we get there because, well frankly, it’s just too much fun to do it my way. However, I’ll be happy to give you a very high level, like 50,000 feet, job description if you promise to relax and drink your cocktail. I know you want to because it’s your favorite drink and you’ve been watching the sweat roll off the glass between staring at me and out the window.”

“It’s a deal,” she said. She raised her glass, tipped it towards Victor, slipped off her shoes, and leaned back in the leather chair as if to say “I’m relaxed, now spill it.”

Victor returned the salutation by tipping his glass towards her and taking a healthy swig. “Well, it’s similar to your current position in some ways. You’ll still be an officer and one of the faces of the organization. You’ll still use your debating and public speaking skills and you’ll still be on the front lines advocating for your organization.”

Greta leaned forward with her glass and stared at Victor, mesmerized as he spoke. She wanted to catch every bit of info she could while he was willing to talk.

Victor continued. “In other ways, it’s more robust and demanding. It’ll require you to exhibit some elements you don’t always use in your current day-to-day life: diplomacy, understanding, I dare say even patience.” He smiled as he said the last one.

“So if it takes some skills I don’t have, why do you want me?” she asked.

“I didn’t say you lack those skills. I said you don’t exhibit them every day. In some ways, those qualities would’ve hurt you at Next World. I paid you to be a steamroller because that’s what I needed at the time. This is a little different.”

“So what makes you think I can just turn those skills on when I want? What if I can’t? What if I don’t want to?”

Victor leaned towards her. He was rarely serious, even as the Founder of Next World and a person with great responsibility and standing, but he had a serious expression on his face.

“I can’t think of anything you can’t do. As far as not wanting to, that’s up to you. But remember, we wouldn’t be making this trip if I had one doubt you were the best person for this job. Plus, not to put any pressure on you, but you’re the only person I trust to fill the role. I’m not sure what I’ll do if you say no. I’ll jump off that bridge when I get to it. So no more self-doubt got it?” said Victor.

“Okay,” she replied. She leaned back in her chair and sipped her drink. It was all the information she would get for now.

“Enough shop talk for now. I’m going to catch up on some e-mails, but remember you’re not working today so relax for a while and we’ll meet back here in a bit for gin rummy and happy hour. Maybe we can put on CNN or CNBC and make fun of the world like old times. If you need a nap, the bedroom is yours for this trip. I’m on the hide-a-bed over there,” said Victor.

He went over to the leather couch, plopped down with his drink and his laptop, and started clicking away. Greta pulled her headphones on and got back to the Sex Pistols song from earlier. What a different world it was now compared to when this song started this morning.

After a few hours of Victor working and Greta relaxing, they came back to their original seats as agreed. Greta shuffled a deck of cards and Victor turned on CNN. He and Greta often watched the news together, not because they were news junkies per se, but because they had many similar political and personal views and found watching the news a good springboard to other discussions.

Greta dealt the first hand of gin as the CNN lead story started at the top of the hour.

“Anti-government sentiment in the U.S. is increasing once again, this time as a backlash to the expanded scope of the revised Patriot Act. Now, the government doesn’t even need probable cause to read your e-mails, tap your phones, or spy on you with drones. They can do all this at their own discretion, even to U.S. citizens. Protesters on the Mall demonstrated against the updated law today,” said the female anchor. Clips of the protestors followed her lead-in.

“This is ridiculous man! How far we gonna go with this? Now you can watch me in my bathtub through my window using drones? Hell, if the window is open, the damned thing can fly on in!” one protested lamented into the camera.

“It is nothing but a blatant abuse of power. There is no legal basis for this level of wide-ranging power. It is a sad day for America,” added another protester.

Victor shook his head and looked at Greta. “You’re a debate champion so please, just play devil’s advocate and tell me why they think this is fair?”

“Well, considering my position that’s a tall order. But I guess it’ll be good practice for me to get to know the other side better. So in the spirit of debate, the new law is just fine with me. I mean, if you aren’t doing anything illegal, what do you have to hide? Why do you care what the government sees or hears?” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“I care because something doesn’t have to be illegal for it to be embarrassing or otherwise detrimental to me in some way. What if someone has an abnormally small penis? What if a couple engages in dominatrix fantasies and gets caught on tape? What if a political candidate seeks psychological treatment for a legitimate reason and it’s used as spin by his opponents to claim he’s unfit for office? As an American, can’t I expect a certain level of privacy?

“Clearly not. And the government doesn’t care what kinky shit you’re into. They’re only looking for evidence of illegal activity. Think about how many crimes it’ll prevent.”

“Yes, two arguments I can address separately. Sure, the government as a whole doesn’t have any interest in my kinky or embarrassing behavior, but individuals inside the government might. Individuals have their own motivations and agendas. They sometimes steal material, leave their state jobs, and use the material for personal gain. Or worse yet they stay in their position and use it to gain power.”

“Does that really ever happen?” asked Greta, twisting her mouth in doubt.

“Ah, ever heard of Richard Nixon, J. Edgar Hoover, or the Kennedys? Yeah, it happens plenty. And those are examples from before we had all this technology. Think about how much easier it is now for someone to abuse this information.

“As to the second argument, if stopping crime was the only priority, and it wasn’t balanced with freedom, how does it make us any different from an authoritarian state? Why not put microchips in all of us and can track our whereabouts at all times? Why not put us all in prison camps and keep us under watch? Where does it end? I mean the NSA themselves admit they have foiled only a handful of minor plots since 9/11. Other law enforcement agencies don’t even take NSA leads seriously anymore. Traditional methods are still much more effective. You know, gaining real evidence, following real leads,” ranted Victor. He clearly had a small buzz and this was his biggest hot button. The reason he started Next World.

“Most people don’t need to be monitored against their will, they freely post their whole lives on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Google knows every search you’ve conducted. Microsoft and Apple know every mouse click and keystroke you’ve ever performed. Unless, of course, you were a Next World client,” said Greta.

“Don’t forget about the post office snapping pics of all your mail, credit agencies collecting and selling your employment and salary history, the MPAA spying on your social media posts to make sure you’re not pirating digital content, oh, and the Air Force. Did you know when they launch drones from the U.S. to spy on other countries they hit the record button when they launch it? So whatever they happen to catch on the way over there is fair game. Why throw it away right?” added Victor.

“But the bottom line is we still elect our officials and whether we like it or not, the majority of the people out there don’t care about being monitored. They do it freely themselves and vote for these idiots via their own free will,” Greta said.

“Yeah, we haven’t even talked Fourth Amendment yet. I mean are you really being forced to incriminate yourself if you’re putting information out there freely into the world. Even I say no to that. If it’s public knowledge, it can be used against you. But, when I send you an e-mail or call you on the phone, then what? Can’t I have reasonable assurance it isn’t used against me for any law enforcement reasons?” asked Victor.

“I wouldn’t make that assumption. It’s better to be safe than sorry. But there is certainly a danger in thinking that way. Eventually, all our dissenting opinions and ideas will get buried in our subconscious. Isn’t the whole idea of freedom of speech and assembly about being able to question everything? How many great ideas are we not going to hear or discuss now because they happen to conflict with the powers that be?” asked Greta.

“So I see you’re not the devil’s advocate anymore but seriously, is it me or is it getting ridiculous now?”

“Oh, it’s been ridiculous. That’s why Next World was so successful.”

“Yeah, those were the last bastions of personal freedom in the United  States. Not to sound too self-important, but Next World was the public’s last hope and now they’re gone,” said Victor.

“Yeah, other than starting a criminal enterprise or moving to another country, what can you do? Gin by the way,” said Greta, laying her cards on the table.

Victor laughed, threw down his cards and said, “You might have a future job as a psychic. I mean if you don’t like your current job or your upcoming offer.”

“What, are you going rogue on us?” asked Greta.

“You’ll see soon enough,” said Victor as he shuffled another hand and quickly changed the subject.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 36 - The Opportunity

Greta was a little over halfway through her daily jogging track around the National Mall. Her track consisted of part pavement and part gravel, an inexplicable feature of the grounds of the Mall, but other than the occasional rock in her running shoes she couldn’t complain. She doubted many people got to take in sights of this magnitude during their morning workout. Over a dozen of the most famous monuments and museums in the country called the Mall and the surrounding areas home and even as a British ex-patriot, Greta couldn’t help but draw inspiration and motivation from this path every day.      

She started right before dawn from her apartment in the Capitol Hill area, a very convenient location for her as the Vice President of Public Relations and Advocacy for a non-profit organization in the city. The Sex Pistols piped into her ears from her iPod. She loved this short-lived punk band from her native land for their cultural defiance and anti-royal sentiments. They once blasted these sentiments from a boat going down the Thames River within earshot of the Queen’s coronation ceremony.

What was with her country’s fascination with the Royal Family? Weren’t they trying to follow the ideology of democracy and capitalism? Baffling dichotomy. Many of Greta’s beliefs were influenced by her father, a Cambridge political science professor who had passed away several years ago. Her father single-handedly raised her after her mother left them after she was born.

She was devastated by the loss of her father and coped with it by diving into her work at Next World, eventually getting promoted from the London field office to the big leagues here in the United States. She moved to Chicago to be close to Next World headquarters, but spent a good amount of time in D.C. as the company’s spokesperson.

After Victor had been forced to resign from Next World, Greta had dealt with Charles Cross through the Tea Party attacks and then she followed suit and resigned. She landed here in D.C. and was enjoying her new position very much. She still talked to Victor on occasion, but communication was sparse. Victor had gone off-the-grid and was very careful with his communications.

As she turned the far corner of the Mall and passed the American History Museum, the Sex Pistols were rudely interrupted by the phone’s ringer. She couldn’t think who would possibly be calling at this hour. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath. The caller ID was no help. Either a telemarketer or a scrambled cell phone, and no telemarketer would dare call this early.

“Hello,” she answered, still panting.

“Pick up the phone,” was all she heard. She recognized the voice immediately but knew better than to blurt it out.

“I just did,” she answered. Was the fatigue going to her head?

“The other phone.” Click.

Suddenly, a ringing sound came from a recycle bin next to a snack kiosk. At least it wasn’t coming from the trash can next to it. She reached into the blue receptacle and pulled out a large zip-lock back which contained a ringing phone.

“Hello?”

“Hey it’s Victor,” her ex-boss replied.

“Hey Victor! What the hell is going on? Why didn’t we just talk on the other phone?”  Greta answered. This was weird, even for Victor.

“I needed a secure connection,” Victor answered.

“I know you’re already using an untraceable cell phone, what gives?” she answered. Greta had been the best debater at Cambridge since her father and was the only female to ever become president of The Union, Cambridge’s debate club, a position not even her father held. Her instincts were kicking in now and ex-boss or not, she was going to get to the bottom of this cloak and dagger routine so she could finish her run and get to work.

“I mean a really secure line,” Victor said with a laugh. “Go two doors down to the National Gallery of Art, West Building, bottom floor. They’re closed now, but the 7th street entrance will be open. There’s a Salvador Dali exhibit in the temporary gallery to your right as you enter. Go to the back room and make eye-contact with the security guard. He’ll know what to do. By the way, I understand you’re completely confused right now but trust me, this’ll be worth your while.”

She started to ask a follow-up question to gather more information, a classic debate stalling technique, but before she could, she heard another click. Victor was right. She was thoroughly confused. What could be so important he had to call her at the crack of dawn and send her to a hidden location? Whatever it was, couldn’t they just discuss it on this secure line she dug out of the recycle bin? This was getting ridiculous.

But Victor had never led her astray. She had worked for his company for four years, reporting directly to him for the last two. He was a mentor and she dared say even though he was her boss, a friend. She dumped some gravel out of her shoe and jogged past the Natural History Museum, through the sculpture garden, and up to the 7th street side entrance to the National Gallery of Art’s West Building. She was willing to play along through the Dali exhibit, but she had better get some answers soon.

After making her way through the door, down the hall, and to the back of the exhibit, she saw only one guard in the room. She made eye contact as she casually walked closer to him, pretending to study one of Dali’s surrealist masterpieces.

“Right this way Ms. Mills,” the guard said, as he opened a security door meant for staff only.

Feeling like Alice chasing the White Rabbit, she entered. What was in here? Maybe another phone, a television or computer with a message, or just a dead-end to a practical joke? She did not expect what she saw, which was Victor sitting at a card table with two Starbucks coffee cups and a plain manila envelope.

“Good morning sunshine,” said Victor with a big grin.

“Victor! What are you doing here?” exclaimed Greta, as she ran around the table to give him a hug. She hadn’t seen him in almost two years.

“London Fog right?” he said as he handed her a cup and indicated the seat across from him. Victor had an uncanny ability to remember details about his employees, like what their favorite drink was two years after they parted ways.

“They don’t make London Fog at Starbucks,” she retorted skeptically, having not been able to find the traditional Earl Grey, steamed milk, and vanilla syrup concoction since she left England.

“They do if you ask nicely,” Victor said, sliding the envelope over in front of the second chair, which was still empty.

Greta took a sip and was flooded with childhood memories of sitting in the dusty halls of Cambridge on rainy days, cuddled up with a stack of books as her father worked. She sat down and started to open the envelope as Victor began talking.

“Again, sorry for all of the James Bond stuff, but this is a very secret matter. To get right to the point, I’ve asked you here to offer you a job, but it’s top secret, hence all the hijinks this morning.”

Greta listened as she pulled out what appeared to be an itinerary for the next couple of days.

“I don’t understand,” she answered, furrowing her brow and tilting her head. “You don’t own a company anymore do you? And I already have a job I really enjoy, which by the way I need to be at in about 45 minutes,” said Greta.

“I promise this’ll all make sense in the next couple of days. I do own my own company again, but it’s much more than that. Let’s just say this position isn’t exactly being advertised yet. Very few people even know it exists. In fact, you’d be the first person to fill it.”

“What are you talking about? What company? I haven’t even seen you in two years,” said Greta. The feelings running through her were too numerous to count. She looked away from Victor into space for a second while she gathered her thoughts. She used to see Victor every day and now she only talked to him once every couple of months. And here he was, swooping back into her life with some crazy job offer he wouldn’t explain. What the hell? She considered walking out but let him continue. He deserved that much.

Victor must have noticed her agitated state and continued. “Greta, you were one of my best employees and I always felt like you were a little sister to me. I know you only came to America because you lost your father and felt like you had nothing left over there, but I’ve always felt like since I brought you over to the States, it was somehow my job to look after you,” he said.

“I know you like your job now and you haven’t seen me in two years, but I wouldn’t play you. This position is perfect for you. This is such a serious offer I’ve taken the liberty of talking to your boss about it already,” continued Victor.

“You did what?” yelled Greta, standing up. This had to be stopped now.

“Listen Victor, it’s great to see you. It really is. But you can’t just come waltzing back after abandoning me and turn my life upside down. I’m happy where I am. Why would you rock the boat over there for me?” she asked, holding back tears. She never meant to tell him she felt abandoned.

Victor seemed a little hurt. She shouldn’t have been so blunt with him. It wasn’t like he abandoned her on purpose. He was forced to resign from Next World, chased by the FBI and DOD, forced to go underground and live on a farm, and was now reaching back out to someone he thought was his friend. But he clearly wasn’t going to let his hurt feelings dissuaded him from his pursuit.

“I promise I didn’t ruin anything for you. I said I wanted to borrow you for a week, pay your salary plus all expenses, and would return you afterwards. If you decide to turn me down, you’ll be back to work in no time. No harm, no foul. If you accept my offer, your company will get a month’s notice from you. They agreed and were actually intrigued by my plans. All I’m asking for is a chance to explain it to you.”

Greta face softened a bit as she sat there silently. Should she check it out? What could it hurt as long as she could be back in a week and get back to work?

“Two more things before you decide,” said Victor. “Number one, the trip will be very educational from an economic research standpoint. So even if you say no to my offer, your organization should know about this project. It’ll be like field work for you.

“And second?” asked Greta.

“Second, I commit to being a better friend from now on no matter what happens. I’ve been in a dicey situation for a while. It’s kept me from talking to my friends as much as I wanted to for fear of my safety and possibly theirs. But no longer. Soon I’ll be free to communicate to anyone I want, anytime, and my top priority is to rebuild some relationships. You’re at the top of the list.”

It must have been tough on Victor to be underground. He wasn’t the most dynamic, extroverted leader in the world, but living in isolation with only a dozen or so people to talk to must have been difficult. Was she being too hard on him?

“Say I agree to hear you out. What are the next steps? I see this itinerary doesn’t exactly have me staying local,” Greta probed.

“True, to show you the duties of this position we need to go to Indonesia. We fly out of Dulles today at 6 p.m., go through Dubai, and then to Jakarta. It takes about 24 hours. I’ll explain what I can on the way and what I can’t explain, you’ll see with your own eyes once we get there,” replied Victor.

Greta was now bouncing with curiosity. Here was the person she trusted maybe more than anyone in the world, who understood her personality and skills more than anyone, and he was dead convinced if she took this trip with him he could persuade her to switch jobs. Maybe he knew something she didn’t. She had to go.

“Okay, worst case scenario, I get a long trip on a private jet and reconnect with my friend. But I have to warn you, I can’t imagine seeing anything that’ll convince me to leave my current job.”

“Leave that to me. We’ll pick you up at this afternoon. Oh, and don’t bother going to the office. You’re out sick today and your boss has explained you are indisposed and nobody is to try to contact you.” He smiled and motioned to the door. It was all the information she was going to get right now.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 35 - Greta’s Exodus

After a few days stuck in D.C, Greta was informed her meeting with the House Intelligence Committee was cancelled indefinitely. Even in the molasses-paced world of Capitol Hill, the word “indefinitely” carried ominous undertones for anyone hoping to get a major contract signed. Greta flew back to Chicago and took a few days off, weighing her next move.

After the fallout with Grayskull, Charles Cross had personally took over negotiations with DOD. But the writing was on the wall. With all of their top computer scientists gone, Next World looked less and less like a good investment for the government. Without Victor and Grayskull, the threat had been neutralized without an exclusive contract. The goal of making Next World ineffective had already been achieved.

The only factor in the contract’s favor was the attack last week. Not knowing what Victor knew, that Next World may have unintentionally aided the attack, Cross and the board drew up new contract proposal paperwork which emphasized the government needed the contract now more than ever.

Either way, Greta’s position of Vice President of Communications was obsolete. Next World didn’t need public relations because they weren’t scouting for new clients. They didn’t need government relations because Washington wasn’t returning their calls. It was the icing on a cake already frosted. Greta had to leave.

After her time off, she headed back work with her letter of resignation in hand. She was convinced she was doing the right thing, but the fact this would be her last day at Next World brought an unexpected chill to her body. What was she going to do with herself now?  

As she crossed the glass enclosed lobby, she noticed the receptionist appeared very concerned. A man in a black suit and a Bluetooth headset stood at the front desk and the girl working the desk quickly nodded and typed. She appeared to be giving him some information he needed in a hurry. All of the sudden, a team of men entered the lobby and quickly started heading up the staircase, some in suits and some in FBI field jackets. They hadn’t blocked off the doors or the elevator banks and besides their jackets, looked as if they didn’t want to make a big scene. Greta felt her stomach drop. This building was owned by Next World and they occupied about half the office space in the building. Odds were good they were there to talk to someone from her company. Then a slight wave of relief eased her nerves as she got in the elevator and headed upstairs. At least she wouldn’t be the one explaining all of this to the press.

When the door to the executive floor opened, sure enough FBI agents were all over the place. Two were in with Cross. She couldn’t hear what was happening on the other side of the glass walls, but based on Cross’s expression and his nervous activities, it wasn’t good news. Cross glanced out the glass, saw Greta, and walked over to the office door.

“Greta, get in here please,” he yelled across the room. The “please” was not a nicety, more of a “get your ass over her and do some explaining” please. She walked over on slightly shaky legs, through the glass door, and sat down in an empty chair.

“Do you know who these people are?” he asked, as if he didn’t know where to start.

Greta stared at the men, one of them wearing an FBI jacket as clear as day, and let out an involuntary chuckle.

“Well, not the IRS,” she started, feigning intellectual strain at the question. She was usually not one to test the authority, but what did she care? She’d be gone in a few minutes anyway.

“Ms. Mills,” one of the agents started. “We’re here because there’s evidence, or should we say a complete lack of evidence, the person behind the attacks in D.C. had some dealings with this company. Even though several people have verbally acknowledged knowing this man in the past, there is no electronic trace he ever existed. Now I’m not sure of many ways that’s possible, but I know of one.”

“Wow, you’re making my head hurt a little but,” Greta said, still punchier than normal. She would normally be terrified right now, but her adrenaline was pumping and honestly, she relished in the fact Cross was going to have to deal with this and not her.

“So what is it you’re asking me?” she asked.

Cross became very impatient. “Goddammit Greta, let me spell this out for you since they won’t or can’t. What they’re saying is somebody who’s been erased by this company is the person behind the attacks.”

The agents didn’t make any positive or negative acknowledgement, but based on their body language, Cross had pretty well summed it up.

“Ms. Mills, we’re here on good faith right now,” said one of the agents. “We have no hard proof to back up our suspicions because this company exists to wipe that sort of data out of existence. We’re working on getting a warrant to search the computer files and a subpoena for the information we need, but we were hoping it wouldn’t come to that.”

“Seems like a very circular argument. If someone doesn’t exist, how could they be behind anything?” Greta was enjoying being a smart ass too much to stop now and besides, there were principles involved. When a client was erased, they never existed; end of story.

“Ms. Mills, perhaps you don’t understand the gravity of the situation here,” one of the agents started.

Greta interrupted him in mid-sentence, “I beg your pardon sir, but I was in D.C. less than a mile from the IRS building when it blew up and it was horrifying. I saw people crying, hugging, and running around the Mall confused. You don’t have to tell me about the gravity of the situation,” she said in an escalating voice.

“Listen to me. You know as the CEO I have nothing to do with any of this,” Cross said to Greta. The snake was starting to wiggle his way out of the conversation.

“Victor was the founder of this company, the crazy group downstairs made the products work, and they’re all gone. Now, you’re friends with Victor. Where is he? Can’t you call him and ask him for the information these hard-working agents need?”

Greta’s hair tingled and her temperature rose. “I don’t know where Victor is. I’m not his keeper. And Victor doesn’t erase people, Next World does, a corporate entity. You’re the CEO of the corporate entity so it looks like you’ll have to answer the questions around here. At least until they get a subpoena or a warrant for Victor.”

“You’re right,” yelled Cross, “and the VP of Communications will stand right next to me and answer them as well,” he said, clearly proud of himself.

“Well then you better hire one,” she shoved her resignation letter into the front pocket of his tailored Italian suit and stormed out of the office. It was the most liberating thing she’d ever done, but for some reason she cried on the way down to the lobby. It was a mixture of relief and sadness; relief to get away from Cross and the current incarnation of Next World and sadness because she was going to miss the old days, with Victor and the real Next World.

The FBI and DOD eventually got a warrant to search all Next World property, but they found nothing helpful. They tracked down what members of Grayskull they could find, but they were no help, pleading either ignorance or confirming the files never existed. Nobody would issue a warrant for Victor, but he’d been labeled a “person of interest.” The FBI tried to get him to meet with them by hook or crook, alternating between pleas for him to help out of the goodness of his heart and threatening him with legal action they knew they could never take. Victor was smart enough to never meet them in person.

Instead, Victor released several public statements through his attorney, saying he believed it was possible the attacker was a Next World client. But he never confirmed it as fact. He couldn’t because there was no proof. The proof was erased with the client.

With Greta’s background and experience, she was quickly hired into a similar Vice President role by an economic research foundation; one which agreed with most of Next World’s philosophies. It was a good fit for a while, until an old friend and mentor came back to recruit her.

[virtuosinovel]

Ch 34 - Global Goodwill

Monday morning, Mike the driver took Dudley out to the airport to meet Greta. Today was Dudley’s day to interview the Secretary of State, but it was with the understanding the interview might take place in the air if Greta had to travel. It turned out she was being dispatched to Manila to discuss anti-flooding technology Virtuosi had developed. The Philippines had suffered some catastrophic floods in the last couple of years, one just last month, and they were interested in any help, pro bono or paid for, they could get.

Mike drove across the tarmac and pulled up to the Virtuosi jet, a Gulfstream G550 painted like the Christmas Island flag. Dudley saw Greta walking towards the plane with a duffel bag and a briefcase.

Another woman walked with Greta. She was a little older than Greta, maybe late-thirties, with a stylish navy jacket and skirt combo, jet black hair, and a confident gait. Dudley assumed this was Meena Jain, the Chief Visionary Officer. Dudley heard about Meena and her engineering prowess from Victor, but this was the first time he’d seen her. She had managed several high-profile projects on various continents, from record-breaking skyscrapers to alternative energy grids to man-made islands. She was a confirmed workaholic who spent most of her time at Menlo Park with her team of geniuses.

It didn’t surprise Dudley that Meena was accompanying Greta, considering Greta was going to Manila to discuss flood mitigation strategies. It was also a stroke of great luck for Dudley. Meena was the only ExComm member he hadn’t met yet and her importance to the group was indisputable. In addition, Meena was conspicuously missing from Dudley’s itinerary, so this might be the only chance he would have to pick her brain and find out about Menlo Park.

At the same time, Dudley felt a little nausea creeping up in his stomach. Meena was one of the targets on Robles’s hit list, the first time he had seen one since he read the memo. Why would a brilliant woman like this, who was about to board a plane to help a foreign country plan for natural disasters, possibly want to do anything to harm the United States? She wasn’t even a disgruntled expat like some of the others. She was born and raised in Mumbai. Maybe Robles’s memo got lost in the bureaucratic Washington shuffle.

A metallic silver and blue Bugatti Veyron sedan flew down the tarmac and came to a screeching halt near the jet. Donovan Stokes hopped out of the driver side and Brandon Sellers emerged from the passenger side, the Chairman of the ExComm and the CFO respectively. Judging by their suits and harried demeanor, they were heading somewhere important and were trying to hitch a ride.

Donavan threw the Bugatti keys to a worker on the tarmac and hurried over to Greta and Meena as Dudley approached.

“Oh good, you’re still here. You guys gotta drop us off in Brunei. We finally booked a meeting with the Sultan,” said Donovan as he caught his breath.

“Like hell. We’re in a hurry,” Greta fired back. Obviously, she wasn’t planning on making any stops on the way and wasn’t impressed with the name dropping.

Brandon Sellers was on the phone buying and selling stocks for the group’s portfolio. He walked over calmly and handed Greta some paperwork, not breaking from his call. Greta read the first page, flipped it over and looked up with extreme agitation. It was an invitation to a meeting in Brunei with a letter from Victor (or more likely Katalin) asking nicely for the plane to make a quick detour and drop these two off. It was a set of government travel orders, Victor Freeman style.

“Bloody hell. Okay, get your asses on the plane. We gotta get wheels up now that the circus is in town,” Greta groaned, waving her arms to corral Dudley, Donovan, and Brandon up the stairs. Meena had already boarded, buckled up, and fired up her laptop to continue working.

By the time they were at cruising altitude and the flight attendant had brought the first round of caffeine-laden drinks, Greta had settled down. Greta, Meena, and Dudley had created a makeshift office at one of the tables in the front section of the plane. Donovan and Brandon went to the back to set up shop and strategize for their meeting.

Greta asked Dudley to sit tight for the first hour of the flight so she and Meena could finalize some talking points. Then she would be Dudley’s for the remainder of the flight for her interview. Dudley also managed to book some time with Meena, Donovan, and Brandon on the return trip tomorrow. Right now, everyone was preparing for their meetings, but they assured Dudley they would all be in relaxation mode tomorrow on the way home and would have plenty of time for interviews then.

Over the next hour, Meena explained the pros and cons of several anti-flood technologies to Greta, including floating houses and buildings, removable flood walls, rooftop gardens, and coastal man-made forests. Dudley jotted some notes just to pass the time. Meena definitely knew her stuff. The most high-tech thing Dudley had seen to stop flooding was filling thousands of sandbags, one-by-one.

After a quick trip to the back to update the guys on their ETA, Greta returned and joined Dudley for her interview. Meena stayed close to them but was in her own world doing something on the computer.

“Okay Dudley, sorry about that. Where do you want to start?” Greta asked.

“Well, I’d like to get back to your return trip to Chicago after the attacks in Washington. But before we do, I’d like to ask some general questions about your work on the island.”

“Fire away.”

“I haven’t seen you or any of your employees at the Hive. Where is the State Department located on the island?”

“In my hat sir,” Greta smiled, as she lifted her pink wool bucket hat. “And the archives in my coat pocket,” she continued, pulling a thumb drive from her inside jacket pocket.

Dudley laughed. He thought he recalled the reference. During the Civil War, someone asked the newly minted Secretary of State for the Confederacy, Robert Toombs, the same question and he had responded in kind, stressing the small, upstart status of his job and his department at the time.

“Very clever,” said Dudley, “I didn’t know you were an American Civil War buff.”

“Oh, I’m not really. But when I accepted this job, I researched the position and its history in America and other countries. I always loved that quote because it got to the heart of the matter. You don’t need a giant bureaucracy to build relationships with other countries, just a representative who is willing to go out, work hard, and be honest with other people.”

“Very profound. Judging by the success you were having when I talked to you in Hong Kong, you fill the role rather nicely,” said Dudley.

“I do my best. It’s all marketing and public relations. In a way, it’s easier than my old job at Next World. The policies of our country make it easy to build good relationships with our international partners. Most people like me before I even walk into a meeting. That’s a testament to Victor, the ExComm, and the underlying principles of the island,” Greta explained.

“Could you elaborate,” asked Dudley.

“Sure. For instance, we don’t have any tariffs or quotas. We don’t build false barriers to stop our citizens from dealing with international companies. If they can get something cheaper abroad than they can at home, more power to ‘em.”

“So you’re not fans of protectionist policy? Doesn’t that have a negative effect on local vendors? You don’t have any equivalencies of ‘Buy American’ or anything?”

“Not a bit. We wouldn’t dream of it. Why force people to do business with each other if it will cost them more money? If another country can grow bananas better than us, or make cheaper widgets, or even provide cheaper labor, why wouldn’t we take advantage? Then we can spend our time doing what we do best instead of wasting our time with inefficient activities. It’s Economics 101,” said Greta. She was very animated and obviously passionate about her positions.

“I see,” said Dudley. He wasn’t an economist, but it had to be better to buy something from your own country and help your neighbors out. Buying abroad just because it was a bit cheaper seemed unpatriotic. The cheaper thing was usually cheaper for a reason.

“What else?” he asked.

“Well, our tax system is reasonable and easy to understand. We don’t have much, if any, organized labor. I mean anything a country could do to ease international trade, we’ve done it. Like I said my job is very easy.”

“Did you outlaw unions?” asked Dudley. This topic hit home for him. He was the first person in his family to be an agent, but other members of his family had worked for other parts of the government and were all in unions. Unions were important to help protect the little guys and make sure nobody got taken advantage of.

“No, we didn’t outlaw them altogether but they’re prohibited for state employees,” said Greta. Dudley tensed a bit. “The idea of paying unionized employees with other people’s tax dollars is appalling to us,” Greta said.

“As far as other unions,” she continued, “they’re free to form if they want, but they have no legal protection from the government whatsoever. If they want to organize and push their agenda, they’re free to do so. But if their company says no, fires them, and hires someone else, we don’t intervene. Unions are bad for business because they falsely drive up the cost of labor,” she said.

Dudley flashed a fake smile to mask his agitation. He was supposed to be a journalist from a magazine that agreed with all this hooey. He needed to change the subject before he gave his true feelings away.  

“I’ve read your presence isn’t welcome at all international events. The IMF and World Bank for instance?” asked Dudley cautiously, hoping to get a small reaction but not Mount Vesuvius. It was not a well-kept secret Greta and Christmas Island didn’t see eye–to-eye with these two institutions.

“Well, let’s call those two what they are, U.S-led consortiums which masquerade as benevolent international organizations. I could go on the rest of the flight about them so for the record I will just say this. The premises aren’t horrible and I’m sure there are many hard-working people at both places who believe they’re doing good work, but these organizations are just glorified loan-sharks for developed countries. They loan developing countries money at usurious rates and when those countries can’t pay the loans back, their land and resources are confiscated as payment. I’m not an expert on this, but all you have to do is read a few John Perkins books. Start with Confessions of an Economic Hitman and Hoodwinked and then we’ll talk some more.” Greta said all this with a smile on her face, but it was obvious she had high disdain for some of these activities.

“Bottom line is they don’t kick us out of those groups because our economy is too good, the yugi is too strong, and we have immense technical capabilities. But I sit at the kiddie table when I go. Or the hotel bar,” she continued. Dudley decided not to push her anymore.

“So, why don’t we go back to D.C. and Chicago? I think we left off at the part where you had decided to quit when you got back and you were going to tell me how you handled Charles Cross.”

“Ah yes, I think you’ll get a kick out of this one Sid,” she said as she readjusted in her chair. “Then, I’ll tell you how Victor and I reconnected.”