Before the evening was over, while drinking the finest cognac money could buy, the mogul, the judge, and the muscle had formed an alliance. They agreed, among other things, that any case involving potential ‘Silent Conflict’ issues must be buried, that certain matters involving Chesterfield’s insurance groups deserved special consideration in courtrooms, and that Chesterfield’s empire would provide a new source of regular funding for the judge’s critical work. They also agreed, over a last drink, that networking like theirs was absolutely crucial to their shared vision for the future of America.
Later that evening, His Eminence was back at home, sitting in the Great Parlor with Hess. Each held another glass of brandy. His Eminence lifted his and smiled. “Chesterfield and his money are the last piece of the puzzle. No more holding back. You tell me a dozen soldiers are almost in place and that selling students will bring in even more money in the future. And thanks to that new list of judges you acquired from Censky, we could soon have more than twenty jurists in the Society—from trial judges to appellate justices. Across the country. And I know we can get others. We’ll finally be able to force real change.”
“And there’s more good news,” Hess said, the hint of a smug smile playing across his lips.
“What?”
“Our ties to the National Socialist Group are about to pay off—big time.”
“What do neo-Nazis have for us?” His Eminence asked.
“I’ve been coordinating with them in anticipation of Sunday’s Summit at the Camp. The NSG has agreed to give us access to the Marburg virus—in the form of a new biological weapon. It’s not ready yet, but soon.”
The judge shifted in his seat. Seemed uncomfortable. He had told Hess his groin still had teeth marks from the bitch. Now his tongue was flicking out to touch the tiny scab where the other whore had bit him. But, largely ignoring the pain, he stared at the reflection of the fire dancing on his glass, and said, “Go on.”
“The Marburg virus? Cousin to the Ebola virus. Google it.”
The judge couldn’t help the edge in his voice. “I don’t want to Google it.”
Hess cleared his throat. “Discovered in Marburg, Germany. 1960s. And studied extensively by the Soviets. A fatality rate of up to 90%. And during the Cold War, the Soviets actually built an aerosol weapon to deploy it. But when the Soviet Union dissolved in ’91, the technology got sold to highest bidders.”
The judge pinned Hess with a dark stare. “We don’t want to destroy the world, just remake it.”
“Right, but recently, using genetic engineering, the NSG—with five other groups worldwide—sponsored ground-breaking research. They’re now close to modifying the virus for use in a personal bioweapon.”
The judge downed half his brandy and cleared his throat. “Explain.”
“The re-engineered virus will have accelerated potency, a half-life of only five minutes, and will attack only the heart muscle. They’re experimenting now with an injection pen. Leaves an almost imperceptible hole when injected into the superior vena cava—the large vein in the arm that leads directly to the heart.”
“So, it’ll cause heart failure with minimal chance of the virus spreading?”
“That’s it exactly,” said Hess. “A perfect weapon for what we have to do. Traces of the virus will be almost impossible to detect after death.”
“And we’ll have access to it?”
Hess allowed himself a smile. “Absolutely.”
His Eminence tilted his brandy glass toward Hess. “Be careful.”
Hess stood and clicked the judge’s glass with his own. “Of course. Here’s to a memorable day.”
“A memorable day, indeed,” said His Eminence. “When I became a judge, I thought the rush of power—control over life and death—would be the greatest feeling I could ever have. Now, it’s pedestrian. Peanuts. Now I see the way to a better America. And all because we have a perfect formula.” He held up one finger. “First, exploit others’ flaws.” Another finger. “If that doesn’t work, put the fear of God in them.” Another finger. “If that still doesn’t work, eliminate them.”
“My God, yes,” said Hess. “Control the people, control the process. But can we do it with judges alone?”
“If judges can appoint presidents, like George W in 2000, judges can dethrone them. And once we get the right autocratic president in power, we’re in.”
“What about Congress?”
The judge smirked. “Congress? They’ll fall all over themselves, deferring to us and raking in the special-interest money we’ll funnel their way. In fact, we’ll create wealth beyond dreams—even my dreams. And as for the little people, the ordinary folks—we can’t get greedy. Trickle down works. Keeps them in line. And if not, well, that’s why we have prisons. Why we have soldiers, wars, even executions—for the greater good. After the Summit, it’ll all fall in place. The path is clear.”
At that, Hess, still standing, raised his glass. “To success.”
The judge nodded. Then his brows drew together as he stared up at Hess. “But what about that damn lawyer? Ridge. Are he and his people still stirring things up? Snooping around?”
Hess grimaced. “He’s already had two warnings—on the boat and in his plane. He doesn’t seem to get it.”
“You always say, three strikes and they’re out, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Make it like Flynn and Sayor.”
“Don’t worry,” Hess said. “I plan to.”
CHAPTER 55
It was midnight. Halfway between Tuesday and Wednesday. Ridge still couldn’t sleep. With pills and whiskey, he had hoped to get some shut-eye, but all he did was toss and turn. Thoughts of Lake and Miles wouldn’t go away. So he took another half a sleeping pill. And just before dozing off, he sensed his feet getting warmer and warmer, and his mind moved to Laos.
CIA officer Hal Thomas, in the Ops Center deep below ground at Ubon Air Base in Thailand, finished up at the podium. Ridge, in his early twenties, was excited. He had been plucked from his Air Force Special Operations Wing in Vietnam only a week before to fly CIA missions into Laos and Cambodia. This was Mission One.
Later that evening, sitting at the big table in the Ops Center, Hal turned to Ridge. “This particular sortie is photo reconnaissance. We believe Pathet Lao are holding POWs near Paksong Laos. There’s a large wooden building on the eastern outskirts of town. A red cross painted on its metal roof. But that’s bullshit. A ruse. We need photos all around—before launching a rescue attempt tomorrow night.”
Sharon Nelson, an African American CIA officer in her mid-twenties, spoke next. “I’ll be flying your right seat, Eric, with the camera mount and high-speed film. Getting on target around 11 a.m. would be best for photos.”
