Chapter 1
“Words. Our words matter. We must be deliberate about what we say tonight. Our words will mean the difference between our commitment to Country First and the crime of High Treason.”
In the weighty silence that followed, Wendell Greene’s eyes fell on the masked faces of what appeared to be two men and a woman seated at one end of the long conference table in the spacious boardroom. A third masked man, former governor Hugh Gordon, sat with his head bowed, breathing to calm his thoughts, focusing to maintain resolve. Greene cleared his throat and continued from his place at the head of the table.
“You, Governor,” he continued, “You are destined to be remembered most in all this. History will cast your lot with that of either Thomas Jefferson or Benedict Arnold. Make no mistake, your presence tonight and your involvement will help provide legitimacy for this necessary deed. You have our profound respect and admiration.”
It was a scripted, secretive meeting, convened one minute after midnight in a dim boardroom, twenty stories above the steady, shimmering black flow of the Potomac River in the Rosslyn submarket of Arlington. The tower was mostly dark and the night was silent. A full-moon shone high above the city, bathing the darkened room in the tickly twilight of Selene. At the conference table, Governor Gordon writhed in his seat, uneasy, uncomfortable and increasingly unresolved.
Associate Supreme Court Justice Wendell Greene was a large man who wheezed when he breathed and always seemed to be out of breath. His large stomach, usually concealed under judicial black, rose above the table when he inhaled. His limp white hair, visible above his mask, was combed straight back, recently ruffled with splayed fingers. He spoke slowly, with a throaty, raspy voice.
“We are the last hope for America, brave patriots and understandably, reluctant conspirators. We know what must be done and derive no personal joy or gratification in doing what only we can do. The wheels at last are in motion. We will be heroes or martyrs.”
He motioned toward a masked aide by the door, who in response, bowed her head and exited.
“Words, my friends. Let us not be betrayed by our words, now and in future discussions. While it is natural to be curious, it would be best to let me question our guests without interruption. The less any of you say, the better you’ll fare in all this. I’m an old man. If we are discovered, I’ll take the blame and I’ll be the first to fall on my sword.”
The aide reentered, followed by two men in suits, billionaire technology stock trader Helmut Wolf and Dr. Benjamin Rosecrans, founder of Genengine, a private genetic research company. The aide then exited, so that only the men she brought in and the group at the table remained. The doctor seemed nervous, but Wolf walked to a place before the group, standing in the shadows.
“Brave gentlemen and gentlewoman,” he announced with an air of pride, “I appreciate the invitation to this impossible event. We have a great work to do, evidenced by the fact this meeting is even taking place. As no doubt our chair has informed you, what we speak tonight must never leave this room, and when it is accomplished, we must all be prepared to die to conceal what we have done.
“Let me introduce the brain behind this endeavor,” Wolf continued as he motioned toward the door. “Our good doctor here has spent the last ten years perfecting a process we financed, a one-billion-dollar experiment very near its application phase. It’s very narrow purpose: covert political assassination, on the global scale, reserved for the narrow and extraordinary aims of our enterprise, the invisible hand.”
The governor squinted, trying to get a glimpse of the doctor’s masked aspect through the murky gloom. Wolf paused to make sure his words had resonated.
“Our targets will die from natural causes, and no investigation initiated in the United States or elsewhere by any government or agency will implicate the process or the individuals involved. Through genetics, we have achieved perfect murder, which can be repeated over and over again as necessary, of course for the greater good. The question is not, who is going to let us?—rather it is, who is going to stop us? Thank you, Doctor. ”
The doctor gone and doors shut behind him, Greene nodded and cleared his throat.
“And at what point will your process reach its application phase, Mr. X?”
“Forty-five days. Beyond that, assassinations will, how shall we say, they will be final in no more than sixty days after we launch the vector.”
“And you’re sure you can gain access to our target?” the Justice continued.
“We already have what we need there. What we’ll require from you is cover, and of course, compensation. I have confirmation half the money was wired this afternoon, with the balance due when the target is neutralized.”
Governor Gordon, against Greene’s advice, against his own good judgment, raised his face, staring in disbelief, blurting out the words before he even realized what he was saying.
“White House target?” he gasped. “So you’re telling us you’re going to murder the most powerful man on the planet and get away with it?”
Wolf was uncomfortable with the question. He glared toward the Justice, who had assured him in advance there would be no unscripted questions. Greene shut his eyes as he exhaled and glanced over at the governor.
“As Mr. X indicated earlier, he and the doctor are merely in the experimental stage of an experimental process,” he sighed. “No one has indicated a specific target. Words, Governor.”
Gordon sat back, discomfited.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Greene smiled to reassure his old friend.
“Don’t worry, Governor. The die is cast.”