Journey Into the Flame (26 page)

My friend Dario,

Most everything is in place. We are just about ready to execute the removal of the United States dollar as the world’s reserve currency and replace it with four others. You will have until late October of this year to divest yourself of your U.S. $ holdings. After the change, our global investments should increase in value three times over.

Catherine’s family will handle all of the money exchanges for the members. She has spoken to the chairman of the Federal Reserve. All is set.

Give my love to Maria and the children.

FH

P.S. We are also monitoring the activities of this newly formed Crowd Twelve. We will handle if required.

“I wonder who Dario and Catherine are,” Logan said.

“And whether they’re still around,” Valerie added. She skimmed through more of the e-mails, finding nothing significant. “I have a feeling they are.”

“Ready for dessert?” Piera suddenly arrived with a cart full of fruit and pastries. It was almost as if nothing was wrong.

28

Pass your values on to your children, but do not be afraid to let your traditions go.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA. 7:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

3 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

Black SUVs lined the circular driveway of an old Federal-style home on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., in the city of Alexandria, Virginia. After the Great Disruption, the National Trust had sold the historic Woodlawn Plantation to a holding company owned by Fendral Hitchlords in order to help finance regional rebuilding efforts. While Fendral, Andrea, and Fendral’s son, Simon, had maintained official residences in the center of Washington during their time on the Council of Satraya, the plantation always remained their secret retreat. After the splintering of the Council and the trio’s departure from the North American Federation, the Hitchlords family retained ownership of the plantation; but over the years, the property itself had fallen into disrepair.

No one in the area had taken much notice when restoration work began on the plantation’s house and grounds eight years ago. The lawns and shrubbery were remanicured, the house was repainted, and the roof was replaced. The 126 acres of woodlands, streams, and meadows that
surrounded the house provided a certain amount of privacy. Now the plantation served as Simon and Andrea’s base of operations whenever their work necessitated a visit to the NAF’s east coast.

Inside the early-nineteenth-century plantation house, which was guarded by armed men wearing black pants and fitted white shirts, Andrea sat in a parlor behind a rosewood desk and spoke to Simon via her PCD. “How are your travels going?” she asked.

“I find India to be hot, overcrowded, and most uninviting,” Simon said. “Deya’s son was of modest help. I will be commencing my search for the books tomorrow.”

“Why the urgency to collect the books now?” Andrea asked, annoyed. “Can’t that wait until our plans with Era have been executed?”

“The books must be located now, I assure you,” Simon said matter-of-factly. “But speaking of our plans, shouldn’t you be out of the NAF by now? I am certain the authorities will want to speak to anyone related to the tragedy that befell the Council.”

“Yes,” Andrea said, “but we have learned that the son of Camden and Cassandra Ford has come forward. After all these years, Camden still haunts us.” Andrea saw a flicker of surprise on the image of Simon’s face. “Did you not see the press conference?”

“I’ve been occupied with more important matters. Send me the video,” he ordered.

“I shall. Logan Ford has taken his father’s place on the Council. They are talking about a renewed vigor and commitment to their work.” Andrea paused, not exactly sure how to phrase her next question. “Did you know that Camden and Cassandra were murdered two years ago? At their home in New Chicago, where they had lived since they disappeared from Washington thirty-two years ago?”

Simon was silent for a moment, then said with obvious exasperation, “Why concern yourself with them, let alone their son? What matters is that the Council will be going into retirement soon, whether they like it or not. Freedom Day is almost upon us.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Andrea said pointedly.

Simon waved his hand dismissively. “I am not inclined to walk down memory lane.”

Andrea knew it wasn’t wise to press Simon further, so, merely taking note, she moved on to more practical matters. “At the urging of Camden’s son, the Council is considering delaying—or even canceling—the Freedom Day celebration this year in support of their fallen comrades.”

“Of what consequence is that?” Simon snapped impatiently. “If they decide to cancel the celebration, we will still execute our plan as scheduled.”

“The doctor does not think that is advisable. He told me rather emphatically that Freedom Day celebrations must take place in order for the Purging to be most effective. When people are focused on their freedom, their brain chemistry is heightened and more receptive to our solution,” Andrea explained. “We would achieve an extermination rate of only fifty percent if the celebrations are canceled. Ninety-five percent if they go on as planned.”

“You mean, we’d be leaving the job half done,” Simon observed. Andrea nodded. “Well, that is most disappointing. But we have too much invested to delay our plans now.”

“It seems that Camden’s son has more information than we would like,” Andrea continued. “He reportedly helped the authorities discover the secret tunnel. And they have somehow connected our operative to the murders. The WCF is looking for her as we speak.” Simon did not respond. Andrea knew what he was considering. “We can trust her,” she said.

“Can we?” Simon asked doubtfully.

“Yes. And if she gives me reason to change my mind, we will deal with it at that time,” Andrea said. “Remember we have quite a bit of leverage with her.”

“Hmm,” Simon murmured. “It may be time to call in a few political favors. And perhaps making a few large donations to the Council of Satraya during these tough times might persuade them to continue their scheduled celebrations. My understanding is that their coffers could use a bit of a boost.”

“There is one more item, Simon,” Andrea said. “In his interview, Camden’s son spoke of the
Creation of Adam
painting.”

“He did
what
?” Simon shouted. “In what
way
did he speak of it?”

“It seems that he is an artist of sorts,” Andrea explained. “While he did not provide any direct insight into the painting, the mere mention of it concerned me. I fear Camden told him too much about the past.”

Simon stayed silent for a moment. “That would be most unfortunate,” he said. “We must find out what the Ford boy knows. It seems that Hitchlords and Ford are destined to meet again.”

“Agreed,” Andrea said before Simon disconnected the call.

Just then, there was a knock on the parlor door. “Ah, come in, my dear,” Andrea said, as the door slowly opened. Monique Sato, Cynthia Brown’s former assistant, entered. “Come, sit. I am told the authorities are looking for you.”

“They have nothing concrete that ties me to the Council murders,” Monique said quickly. Gone was the bubbly demeanor she had displayed when she worked for Cynthia. Now Monique spoke in a cold, hard manner. “They’re grasping at straws. I’m going to be leaving the NAF anyway.”

“I see. And how are you planning to travel unnoticed?”

“I have a friend in the state of Quebec who has arranged for safe transportation to Japan.”

“That’s good to hear, dear.” Andrea wrote something on a piece of notepaper. “But before you leave the Federation, make your way to this address. Lucius is waiting for you with some instructions.”

“Lucius? Why?” Monique looked alarmed.

“Please, dear, he needs your assistance with one more task.”

Monique took the piece of paper from Andrea and quickly left the parlor.

29

Everyone has a story. The greatest libraries in your lands could never compare to the library that holds the individual epics of everyone who has ever lived.

—THE CHRONICLES OF SATRAYA

WASHINGTON, D.C., 9:00 P.M. LOCAL TIME,

3 DAYS UNTIL FREEDOM DAY

“This certainly looks like the bench my father described in his journal entries,” Logan said, as he and Valerie walked around Compass Park after dinner. “In fact, I know it is.”

“How can you be so certain?” Valerie asked.

“Because of this.” Logan slid his fingers across an etching that someone had carved into the back of the bench.

“This is the same symbol that my father doodled in the upper corner of his journal pages.”

Valerie’s attention was drawn to the large stone monument in the middle of a fountain pool across from the bench. It had been erected in honor of the twelve original Council members, whose names were
chiseled into the large rectangular block of black granite. Logan joined Valerie at the monument.

Camden Ford

Cassandra Ford

Robert Tilbo

Fendral Hitchlords

Andrea Montavon

Simon Hitchlords

Deya Sarin

Babu Sarin

Joyti Dehuri

Madu Shata

Shai Shata

Nadine Shata

“I’ve walked past that thing a hundred times,” Valerie remarked, “but now, seeing our parents’ names . . . What do you do when everything you’ve believed about your life is suddenly flipped on its head?”

“I don’t think it takes anything away from us,” Logan answered. “In fact, it adds more dimension to our existence. It’s like waking up into the life of a stranger. More than a few times in the past, I wished I could have done just that.”

“Spoken like a true artist.” She dipped her hand into the fountain that surrounded the monument. “It still makes me wonder, though.”

“Wonder about what?” he asked.

She hesitated to answer, running her hand back and forth through the water. “Just about my mother,” she finally confided. “She died when I was born. I wonder if she was a part of all this.”

He nodded, not knowing what to say. But it occurred to him that he couldn’t recall his parents ever talking about Valerie’s mother.

They strolled back to the bench and sat down. It was a warm night, and, aside from an occasional blast of loud music from cars passing
along 17th Street or the sound of slamming doors as taxis picked up or dropped off passengers, all was quiet. A few people were strolling through the park and walking dogs. A young couple with their arms around each other were tossing coins into the fountain.

“It’s pleasant here,” Valerie said. “I can see why your father chose this place.”

An arched brick entranceway and a neatly trimmed three-foot-high hedge separated the park from the four streets bordering it. Wide brick pathways connected the eight distinct sections of the park grounds. Each section was named after a distinguished person or group who had contributed to the rebuilding effort after the Great Disruption. The granite monument and the infinity pool were the centerpieces of this particular section, which was dedicated to the Council of Satraya.

Logan sat silently and looked around, trying to take in the moment, trying to see the park through his father’s eyes. “Do you ever wonder what life was like back then?” he asked. “You know, the days right after the Great Disruption?”

“Those were scary, interesting times,” Valerie said. “But I think we also live in interesting times. Maybe one day, our kids will wonder what life was like in 2069.”

Logan laughed.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“You don’t really come across as someone who wants to have kids,” he said. “Your job and all, round ’em up and bang ’em up.”

She laughed, too. “Yes, my job. I suppose that’s true.”

“But life has a way of presenting itself,” he said, attempting to soften his statement. “Change happens quickly, usually when you need it the most. You would make a great parent.”

The two of them sat still, enjoying the cool evening breeze. He looked again at the couple by the fountain, who were throwing more coins, and at the names on the granite block at its center.

“Wait a minute!” he exclaimed, and he reached into his backpack
and sorted through the pages of his father’s journal until he found what he was looking for. “Read this section right here,” he said, handing the page to Valerie.

Sit where you may mind your enemy,

Remember forever their names as if etched into stone.